This is the most comforting novel I have ever read about state-sanctioned cruelty. Klune builds his fantasy inside a filing system. Linus Baker works for the Department in Charge of Magical Youth, writes reports on orphanages, and follows the Rules and Regulations so faithfully that he can recite them. Magic in this world comes with paperwork attached. A child who turns into a Pomeranian gets a case number and a folder. For the first fifty pages that is the joke, and then it stops being a joke, because the folder is how the government decides which children count as dangerous.
Then Linus is sent to Marsyas Island and the book opens like a window. Six children live there: a gnome, a wyvern, a forest sprite, an amorphous green blob named Chauncey whose whole ambition is to become a bellhop, a boy who might be a were-Pomeranian, and Lucy, six years old and cheerfully the son of Satan. What gets me is how Klune cashes out the world's rules in specific, small costs. Talia guards her garden with a shovel because that plot of dirt is the only ground anyone has ever let her keep. Chauncey practices carrying luggage in front of a mirror because no hotel on the mainland would hire him. Sal writes, and barely speaks, and has been moved through more homes than anyone in the house will say out loud. None of that is worldbuilding for its own sake. Magic here turns a child into a case number, and every kid on that island has already learned what the number costs.
Arthur Parnassus runs the orphanage with a warmth that Linus finds professionally suspicious, and the love story between them is unhurried almost to the point of chastity. Tea. Careful sentences. An evening of music that neither man calls a date. It works because Klune has drawn Linus so lonely that ordinary attention lands like an event. The complaint people make about this book is that it is too soft, that the villains are broad and the ending hands out more grace than the setup earned. That is fair. The bigots are cartoons, and no bureaucracy in history has ever relented the way this one does. I read it during a bad stretch and did not want a harder book.
Why you should read
- Found-family stories where nobody is disposable
- Cozy fantasy with a real political spine
- Slow-burn queer romance, very low heat
- Wanting to close a book feeling better than you opened it
What to expect
- Gentle pacing; the plot arrives late and lightly
- Comedy from the children, weight from the adults
- Broad villains and a generous resolution
- 393 pages that read a good deal faster
What keeps the whole thing from collapsing into a greeting card is the anger running under it. Klune wrote about children registered and classified by a government that calls the registry protection, and he refused to make that machinery absurd. He made it plausible, and staffed it with reasonable people doing their jobs. So the comfort has to fight for every inch of ground it takes, and Linus's slow understanding that his own tidy reports have consequences for actual children carries far more weight than the fantasy trappings would suggest. Also, there is a blob who wants to be a bellhop, and he is magnificent. I have no critical framework for how much that delighted me.