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147 pages, Hardcover
First published February 13, 2024
I had the unpleasant feeling that I was riding straight down a giant throat.--------------------------------------
…the woods of Gallacia are as deep and dark as God’s sorrow.T. Kingfisher, nom de plume of Ursula Vernon, introduced Alex Easton, the Sworn Soldier of the series title, in her 2022 novella, What Moves the Dead. Easton is a native of the fictional nation of Gallacia, a place with its own language, nasty weather, and plenty of reasons to stay away. Alex travels with Angus, erstwhile batman from military days, and overall assistant these days. It is the late 19th century. The pair managed to survive the creepy challenges offered in the first book in the series, a particularly original and alarming take on Poes’s, The Fall of the House of Usher. They are looking forward to a holiday at Easton’s hunting lodge. But they do have a penchant for finding the unusual and unpleasant.
…I recognized the smell of livrit, our beloved national paint thinner, made from lichen, cloudberries, and spite. No Gallacian soldier would be without a bottle, in case we ever need to remember what we’re fighting for. (Mostly the opportunity to be somewhere that has better liquor.)--------------------------------------
The greatest city in Gallacia is fine, I suppose, but I didn’t feel the need to linger. Imagine if an architect wanted to re-create Budapest, but on a shoestring budget and without any of the convenient flat bits. While fighting wolves.And Potter butchering the local patois is quite fun.
The silence didn’t feel peaceful. It felt thick. Like a layer of fuzz on your tongue after a hard night of drinking, which you can’t see or touch but you can damn well taste. There weren’t even any birds singing.
Mushrooms grew from the central floor, their thin flesh-colored stalks clotted with wet earth. I shuddered. Fleshy stems, thin white threads growing through the staring eye of a hare.
I sighed. Perhaps it was easier when you were a mycologist and saw the whole world in shades of fungi, and could easily differentiate between those that went into an omelet and those that consumed dead women's brains.
Angus leaned down and pulled a small amber bottle out of his pack. He didn't even need to open it before I recognized the smell of livrit, our beloved national paint thinner, made from lichen, cloudberries, and spite. No Gallacian soldier would be without a bottle, in case we ever need to remember what we're fighting for. (Mostly the opportunity to be somewhere that has better liquor.)
If you have ever dealt with the possessions of the dead, you probably know what I mean. You take things away and leave behind emptiness, and everything you remove - every sheet and pillowcase, every lost sock and old razor - erases a little bit of the dead person's footprint in the world. You picture your own home being carted away, piece by piece, hopefully by loved ones and not by strangers.
[...] the two groups who will always spot the details are the gun people and the textile people, and while I fear the textile people somewhat more, I like to stay on the right side of both of them.