I had a certain investment in this one even ahead of publication; at a Tales Of The Weird event a while back, I asked a question from the audience, which I rarely do, and it was: how do the volumes get chosen, such that niche themes like spooky tattoos come out years ahead of what you'd think would be more obvious ones like this? Having read it, though, it's not at all what I would have guessed. Only a handful of the pieces are drawn from the series' regular stomping grounds of eerie stories in the few decades either side of 1900; of those, only one, by Marjorie Bowen, has what you could really call a doomed romance, and that's between two lightly sketched side characters who become victims of the protagonist's vainglorious Faustian schemes. Ella D'Arcy's White Magic is even less menacing than the title suggests; Alice Perrin's Kipling-esque The Tiger Charm has a bad marriage, but that's a very different thing to a doomed romance, especially then. Running earlier, we have nearly a third of the volume taken up with Carmilla, definitely a worthy and relevant inclusion but also one easily had elsewhere; before even that, Mary Shelley's The Invisible Girl is very much Gothic by numbers, with none of the eerie spark that enlivens her hit. Wilkie Collins turns out to at least be pacier than many of his peers, but his haunted sailor and exotic island setting means here he can't help but feel like Conrad lite. And the best that can be said of Mary Elizabeth Braddon is that at least the 19th century's take on the Georgians, while tediously moralistic, isn't quite as narcissistic as the 21st's. Speaking of which, in the other direction, we have a brief pause at Angela Carter's peerless The Lady Of The House Of Love (why can nobody else do overripe this well?) before touching down in our own benighted millennium, where, yes, The Glass Bottle Trick is only my second favourite Nalo Hopkinson Bluebeard riff, but she did set a high bar. Kalaamu Ya Salaam's Could You Wear My Eyes?, on the other hand...look, one of the reasons I love genre fiction is the space it allows for reified metaphors. But it needs to be a delighted realisation, like seeing a conjuring trick come off before it dawns on you how it worked, not this dogged plod through a checklist of things a particularly oblivious man doesn't understand about how women see the world. It might have worked if the narrator were the widower who, in a misguided gesture of devotion, has his dead wife's eyes implanted – but with the story told by her ghost, who tells us exactly why he has each unexpected reaction as soon as he does, it's more exercise than art. Still, Tracy Fahey's I'll Be Your Mirror gets the closing stretch back on track, intimate, creepy, perfectly fitted to the theme. And V Castro's closing Dancehall Devil is a little programmatic, but brief and bloody enough not to pall. Not at all the book I expected it to be, but some good stuff here nonetheless.
(Netgalley ARC)