In Central Park, the bone trees were speaking. Each tree told its own story, each in its own voice, the sound of who the tree had been in life. Some simply wept, sorrow given root and growth. Others spoke their names over and over, as if that one thing was all they had left to cling to. Some spoke longer - bits and pieces of lives, and of deaths. They spoke even when no one was there to listen, like the telling itself was the key to a ritual. Their voices filled the park like fog, haunting everyone who passed within its bounds.
This is Kat Howard, so regardless of how much I enjoyed it there is a standard of writing that means, bare minimum, it'll be gorgeous. But despite having loved book one, this just didn't hit the same.
It's hard with books like this, where I liked it, but it was simultaneously too much and not enough. There were parts of this that could have been added to the first in the series, but on its own it didn't feel like it trod enough new ground. Again, we're watching the system that preys on the young and non-established being dismantled by those with too much conscience to stand by and let history continue to repeat (and that allegory isn't particularly subtle, but until something happens I'm starting to believe things need to be a little less hint-y so no dings for that). A message I can get behind, but not enough change to feel distinct from the first book; Sydney's disadvantages felt like hobbles added to keep her from being too accomplished and ending the book in a couple of places by being too good at magic.
But - there's just some gorgeous writing. And it's an excuse to get more of this really intriguing world and Kat Howard's particularly beautifully described magical homes that want to wrap you up in their cozy, personalised rooms. It may not have been everything I wanted from the sequel, but it was very much worth the time.