I really loved Wither. Fever, though, was a massive disappointment.
This book was all over the place; I couldn't believe it at all. So much of it is dreams and nostalgia for other times and places and people - so much of it internal, wistful monologuing - that I found myself completely detached from the here and now, which, given that it's written in first person immediate, is no mean feat. The structure is uneven: nothing really seems to happen for the first hundred pages, then the vast bulk of the book is spent in directionless running from one place to another while living off a seemingly endless supply of chips and cola, then Rhine gets sick, and then finally Vaughn comes and takes her back home and does terrible things to her anyway. Given that pretty much nothing of any critical plot importance has happened in the interim - the Maddie/Lilac thread is entirely self-contained, affecting nothing in the bigger arc, as impactless as every other person Rhine and Gabriel meet on their journey - the question becomes: what was the point of it? Even Rhine and Gabriel's relationship remains stunted. Gabriel barely features in the story expect as someone to run with; all their exchanges seem to center on one or the other of them being sick and needing to be healed, with maybe a small dash of 'we should/shouldn't go there' and 'let me tell you about my hallucinatory dreams' thrown in.
I didn't buy the section at the carnival with Madame; it felt completely unreal that she'd keep Gabriel alive for Rhine's sake, that she'd then make Rhine into anything other than a prostitute, that she'd expend considerable effort making the two of them into an attraction and then, after what felt like as little as a week - the time-blurring made it hard to tell - try and sell Rhine to a Gatherer. I mean, either she's so special that she'll bring heaps of income as an illusion-attraction, in which case keep her, or else she's just someone else to be sold, in which case why not sell her? It didn't seem to make any sense, and given that we never come back to that place or those characters, ultimately unnecessary. I didn't buy that Vaughn had a tracker in Rhine's leg - if that were so, he ought to have found her straight away, not months later. I didn't buy that Rowan burned down the house and everything in it, but that the papers places *where the fire had started* were still in tact enough to be read. I didn't buy that Rhine and Gabriel could spend a night with Annabelle so soon after they'd escaped without getting caught, or that they managed to get away on foot at all with nobody looking for them, or that nobody even *was* looking for them at that point. I didn't buy the Great Cliffhanger Revelation that Rowan is now in the pro-naturalist camp, on account of how it seems to go against everything their family stood for.
And then there was the pacing: time-skips at Madame's, a middle full of as-it-happens running in which nothing really happens, more time-skips at Claire's, and then the revelation when Rhine wakes up at Vaughn's that she's been there for a MONTH. A MONTH, disappeared in a paragraph! Wither held together so well because the secondary characters and all their relationships were explored in good time, realistically and with feeling; time jumped there, yes, but in such a way that it didn't feel like things were being glossed over or eroded. But here, there were barely any new characters we spent time with for more than a chapter or two before flitting onwards; no secondary structure to hold the story together, so that the onrush of returning characters at the end - and the horrific circumstances under which they're reintroduced - feels rushed and cramped and shocking. A bad contrast note, like, 'Why didn't we just stay here the whole time, and understand all of this better?' So far as I can see, extremely little was gained - both narratively and actually - by Rhine and Gabriel's prolonged escape, while a massive amount was lost by cramming everything that happens in the last few chapters into, well, the last few chapters.
It felt like filler; like a padded excuse to flesh a trilogy out, when a duology might have done better. And I am so, so disappointed, because Wither was so beautifully done, and Fever just seemed to take all the things I thought were successful and rip them into bits. Will I read the third one, then? Probably, if only for the catharsis. But I'll be apprehensive as hell.