I bought Ami McKay’s The Witches of New York for my sister-in-law, K., when she requested a ‘magic’ book about ‘witches’ for her birthday (both a specific request and an excellent one)*. The jacket promised great things: 19th century New York, three strong, independent women as protagonists, magic and ghosts and self-declared witches. I was so excited when I got it for K. that I requested it for myself at the library.
Category Archives: Mystery
I finally used one of the little neighbourhood ‘libraries’ that have cropped up all over the place. I’ve walked passed dozens of them (one on my way home from the bus stop) and each time I think I ought to stop, but don’t, because another part of me assumes that these must be ‘garbage’ books – the sort that someone read and don’t want to keep and can’t be bothered to give away. But there’s one of these little libraries on my neighbour’s front yard, so I hardly had to detour and it felt impolite to not at least flip through, so I dropped off Nick Mason and picked up Emma Healey’s Elizabeth is Missing: a fantastic choice to finish my summer of reading literary thrillers. Continue reading
The hunt for the great literary thriller of my summer 2017 continues. This one was gifted to me by K. (thanks, K.) and held great promise: well reviewed by all the right people, and delivered. I had more substantive things to say about it when I was reading it, but I read it at the cottage and now things are a bit of a blur of campfires, wine and games of hearts. (It’s a sign of my changing life that I read this one at the cottage and 419 and that was it. Such is the life of an auntie with four nephews under three. I don’t suppose any of you will hold it against me. Continue reading
Trapped in a hotel room for a week while at a work function, I couldn’t bring myself to read anything requiring focus or thought (I’ll admit I was also distracted by the availability of cable news: an opportune time to have access to CNN as the world collectively watches the meltdown of American political life). Instead I picked up a copy of P.D. James’ Death Comes to Pemberley from the local used bookstore. Continue reading