Source of book: NetGalley (thank you)
Relevant disclaimers: The author and I are social media moots and sometimes exchange bants.
Please note: This review may not be reproduced or quoted, in whole or in part, without explicit consent from the author.
And remember: I am not here to judge your drag, I mean your book. Books are art and art is subjective. These are just my personal thoughts. They are not meant to be taken as broader commentary on the general quality of the work. Believe me, I have not enjoyed many an excellent book, and my individual lack of enjoyment has not made any of those books less excellent or (more relevantly) less successful.
Further disclaimer: Readers, please stop accusing me of trying to take down “my competition” because I wrote a review you didn’t like. This is complete nonsense. Firstly, writing isn’t a competitive sport. Secondly, I only publish reviews of books in the subgenre where I’m best known (queer romcom) if they’re glowing. And finally: taking time out of my life to read an entire book, then write a detailed review about it that some people on GR will look at would be a profoundly inefficient and ineffective way to damage the careers of other authors. If you can’t credit me with simply being a person who loves books and likes talking about them, at least credit me with enough common sense to be a better villain.
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This is a macabre, whimsical, unabashedly soft book. And I adored it.
I guess it’s technically what the industry might be trying to call “romantasy” which is to say a fantasy where the romantic elements are as significant as the fantastical stuff. And I actually thought the way the central relationship was woven around the more conventional plot-like elements (the mystery of Hart’s parentage, where the zombies are coming from, what’s going on with Cunningham, the dodgy owner of a chain of funeral parlours) was pretty damn masterful.
In any case, the basic setup here is … actually, it’s really hard to summarise. But essentially you have Hart, a lonely, zombie-fighter, demigod marshal, and Mercy, who works for her family’s funeral parlour: a mutual failure to understand the other has created an antagonistic dynamic between them that shows no sign of changing, until—each of them, in their own way desperate for emotional connection—they accidentally enter into an anonymous correspondence. Though, honestly, this is one of those attempts at a plot summary that barely touches on what the book is actually about … and that feels sort of right, because while Hart and Mercy is not explicitly a suspenseful read, unravelling its world-building is definitely one of its pleasures.
This may well turn out to be one of those “your mileage may vary” aspects of the story—those accustomed to more traditional fantasy fare, where everything is explained to you the moment it appears, might balk at being thrown into the action like a corpse from the back of an autoduck. For me, though, it really worked. You see, the more you, ahem, scrape the surface of the book, the more you realise that Hart and Mercy inhabit a deeply weird and specific world (the best description I can manage is, a bit wild west, a bit Waterworld, a bit Six Feet Under) but it is also very much their world, one they take for granted as much as we take our own. And there’s a particular sort of immersiveness that comes from only having the details of a setting become relevant to the reader at the point they become relevant to the characters—for example, we learn about the zombies (drudges) and Hart’s work in containing them when he’s mentoring a new apprentice, and the history of the world, with its old and new gods, is only fully explored when Mercy goes to church to pray.
In any case, as much as I came to the love the world-building, and how the book approached it, the true heart (heh) of Hart and Mercy is the characters, particularly Hart and Mercy themselves. I adored both of them, although I did end up feeling that Hart was the character with the greatest emotional depth and greatest emotional journey to, y’know, undertake. Mercy is quirky and charming (and enjoys reading romance novels in the bath—what’s not to love?) but the majority of her problems are external: her family’s funeral home is in crisis, her ex-boyfriend is a dick, etc. Hart, by contrast, has a lot of work to do in terms of understanding himself and his place in the world, and learning how to be open to both loving and living. There’s a lot about him that’s painfully relatable, I suspect even to people who aren’t, cough, profoundly damaged themselves. In fairness, though, I do also think that if both characters had equal degrees of the same sort of baggage to deal with it would have unbalanced the book in a different way and, while it was hard for me personally not to feel more connected to Hart than to Mercy, I deeply appreciated what the book was doing with its themes of love, trust and emotional vulnerability, and the way these are inevitably shaped by gender and gendered expectations.
“Woman help man learn to emotion, man help women find self-agency” is kind of the unquestioned bedrock of a lot of m/f romance dynamics, and I’m certainly not challenging its value. But something I loved about Hart and Mercy is that the characters catalyse these journeys for each other but, ultimately, they sort their own shit out. Mercy does not need Hart to fix her family’s business—the family fix their own business by talking to each other openly about what they all want and need—and Mercy is never expected to perform emotional labour for Hart. Through the act of loving each other they essentially free themselves and that is a beautiful, beautiful thing to watch unfold.
The other thing I found incredibly touching about their relationship is the degree to which communication plays such a significant role. Although, to be honest, there are a very few problems in this book that can’t be solved by a good faith attempt to communicate with someone else—which, again, I found kind of lovely. In any case, it is miscommunication that originally puts Hart and Mercy on the path to mutual hostility, letter-writing that brings them together, a lack of honesty on Hart’s part (he knows his anonymous correspondent is Mercy before she realises he is hers) that brings about their third act reversal, and honesty that brings them together again. Knowing Hart is … not lying exactly … to Mercy is a little difficult read, but it also feels true to where he is, emotionally speaking, at that point in the book. Something I had less patience for personally, though, was when Mercy told Hart she never wanted to see him again and then later complained that he didn’t love her enough to … I don’t even know what? Disregard her? Disrespect her wishes? Compromise her agency? This sudden requirement that Hart be telepathic was an odd note for me in a book that is so otherwise committed to the notion that love, whether it’s love of family, work, strangers, partners, is something you build deliberately and specifically in words and deeds, not something that just happens magically.
I’ve spent most of this rambling excuse for a review talking about Hart and Mercy, but I should also mention how much I enjoyed the side-characters too. From Mercy’s rambunctiously loving if not always entirely helpful family to the extremely camp magic owl who delivers the mail. Hart’s assistant, Penrose Duckers, is also a goofy delight although I wish his relationship with Mercy’s baked-good loving brother had been more fleshed out. Queerness is a very comfortable part of Mercy and Hart’s world, which I appreciated, but Duckers and Zedde basically take one look at each other and are then boyfriends? Obviously, they’re secondary characters (and mostly comedic secondary characters) so it makes sense their relationship wouldn’t / couldn’t have the depth of Hart and Mercy’s but it felt jarringly shallow. Especially, as discussed above, in the context of all the other complicated, messy loving relationships within the book. Of course, it’s totally fine for relationships to be shallow and I can see a reading of Duckers and Penrose as a celebration of connections that are nothing but banging and baked goods … except I also got the sense that I was being asked to take them seriously as long-term romantic partners. Which felt, honestly, unearned. I do half-wonder if they got stuck in a sort of “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” twilight zone, in that if they’d been allowed to be young daft horny fuckbuddies (which is probably a more accurate reflection of their one-page connection—I mean, Zedde picks Duckers up with the line “well hello” like he’s Kenneth Williams or something) it might have looked like the book was implying queer relationships, or mlm relationships, were physically driven and superficial compared to non-queer ones. Although there is a happily married lesbian couple in the book so who knows?
Minor gripes aside, Hart and Mercy really is the most loving book, and its understanding of love so expansive and resilient that I teared up at about the 14% mark and later escalated to bawling on public transport. Given that it’s partially set in a funeral parlour and that Hart kills zombies for a living, death is also a major theme—but even death, in the context of this book, is a soft and loving thing, one that offers continuance, and opportunities for kindness, rather than merely the inevitability of ending. Emotions, in general, are handled with such tenderness here—especially, the unglamorous ones, like fear and, most significantly, loneliness. Not everything is easy in the world of Hart and Mercy, not everything is easy for Hart and Mercy either, but their story still felt like a safe space somehow. Somewhere that I myself could be a little vulnerable the way Hart learns to be. And that is such a gift of a thing for a book to give you.
PS - it’s also a genuinely funny book. I should have found a way to work that in earlier, but I was too deep in my feelings. But the levity is the perfect complement to the sweetness and some of the more wrenching moments. For example the phrase “horny illogic” has definitely made its into my personal idiolect.