If The Gilded Wolves was a gentleman pickpocket slipping through the luxurious aristocratic parties of Paris, The Silvered Serpents is an anguisheIf The Gilded Wolves was a gentleman pickpocket slipping through the luxurious aristocratic parties of Paris, The Silvered Serpents is an anguished ghost dreaming of godhood, haunting the corridors of a palace of ice, hunting myths.
“I wish my love was more beautiful.”
Sometimes you read books for page-turner, grand action and fast-paced, epic twists and turns, yes, but sometimes, you read them for carefully plotted brilliance and mystical mysteries; sometimes you pick them up for delicate sleights of hand, secret recluses, and immersive writing that unveils the need in your heart. Sometimes, you seek a book that is more adverb than action—as Roshani Chokshi puts it.
This series is of the latter kind.
“Sometimes ghost stories are all that is left of history,” he said. “History is full of ghosts because it’s full of myth, all of it woven together depending on who survived to do the telling.”
With this second installment, Roshani takes a step further than science and magic forged as art, history and fiction entwined in puzzles. With The Silvered Serpents, she walks beyond history and into myth—the truths covered in cobwebs whispered and twisted and hidden behind forgotten doors, the truths that horrify and intrigue—embracing stories of all corners of the world, from Greek goddesses to Middle Eastern origins of Rapunzel. And more than myths, Roshani tells the tale of humanity, of belonging and being scorned, of murdered girls and stolen women, denied motherhood and gripped power, of malice cultivated between girls who were not allowed to dream, and of dead girls forced to guard treasure in invisible palaces.
The Silvered Serpents is in many ways the opposite of its predecessor; where TGW was light, TSS is gloomy, grief and guilt and transfixing agony bordering its edges. So it can also be said that this is a tale of pain, unflinching in its foray into darkness, of found families falling apart and loss tearing bonds into pieces, of love that does not always wear the face you seek, love that is not beautiful and peaceful and easy, love that wounds with its cruel, silent face in its desire to protect and save. This is a tale that plays with your heartstrings.
Maybe for girls made of snow, love was worth the melt. But she was made of stolen bones and sleek fur, grave dirt and strange blood—her heart wasn’t even hers to give. Her soul was all she had, and no love was worth losing it.
So put your shields up around your heart, because goodbyes are in order. For now, there is one more acquisition and five people headed their own ways who come back, each for different reasons, to complete one last treasure hunt. But “In debating the merits of pursuing hidden treasure, one must weigh the risk of whether it was never meant to be found and if so, why?” Because someone...someone wants to play god.
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❆ First, Let’s Get the Criticism Out of the Way ❆
“I saw what I wanted to see,” he said, hoarse. “Only a desperate man trusts a mirage in the desert.”
In the spirit of honesty and even though I hate complaining, I will have to admit that, while I loved TSS, the writer and critic in me can’t stop thinking of all the ways this gem of anguished longing and impossible dreams could have been more than just a fave—it could have been an all-time fave! Sigh, me and my obsession with books being the best versions of themselves will one day kill me but, for now, on the matter of equally cutting the book into three to rate and proceeding to address the elephant in the room:
First ⅓ ⤑ ★★★★✯ Second ⅓ ⤑ ★★★☆☆ Third ⅓ ⤑ ★★★★✯
Here’s the thing: one reason why The Gilded Wolves had me enchanted from page one to page I-don’t-remember-how-many-pages-it-was-and-I’m-too-lazy-to-check-just-assume-I-wrote-the-number-of-the-last-page, was the lush and aristocratic, atmospheric setting which caught and trapped me in 1889 Paris so thoroughly I all but became a willing prisoner and fell in love with my captive (Stockholm syndrome right there)—the setting and the wonder and artistry of L’Eden that The Silvered Serpents does not have.
What he felt now was a different kind of incredulity. The kind where one has released a dream into the world, only to rediscover it on the ground, trampled and stained.
Don’t me wrong, Roshani’s writing is still breathtakingly immersive and I walked every path alongside my tragic gang of mischiefs, absorbed every landscape, breathed in every smell. And even as I was aware that the Parisian atmosphere would be missing in this sequel, I expected it to be replaced with a chillingly Russian one. It was not—well, it was, but for only a few chapters. What’s more, the characters spent a long time wandering around an abandoned ice palace trying to solve mysteries and taking too long to figure out what’s right in front of them. I am not saying the puzzles and clues were not clever, they always are with Roshani, what I’m saying is that so are the characters.
Knowledge was coy. It liked to hide beneath the shroud of myth, place its heart in a fairy tale, as if it were a prize at the end of the quest. Perhaps whatever knowledge was here was similar. Perhaps it wished to be wooed and coaxed forth.
What I’d have loved is for the plotting to have been entirely different, with plot points moved earlier/later in the book to bring out the full potential of this tale. What I’d have loved is for the Winter Conclave to have been a weeks-long event and for the cast to take residence in Russia (letting me drown in my requested setting vibes) and attempt to crack the mystery even as they have to navigate the politics of European Houses and soak in intrigue because oh the lost opportunity for politicking, world expansion, and dive into the dirty laundry of the greedy, imperialist Order! What I’d have loved is for the gang to then slip away with their supporters to the discovered location, the other Houses on their tail, and explore the haunted palace faster with less unnecessary procrastination. What I’d have loved is a confrontation upon the Order’s arrival and then everything that happened at the end.
I did not get what I’d have loved. I loved what I got (mostly) but while everyone declared book one to be confusing in plot (I did not) I found book two to be too simple in plot (no one else did).
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❆ Now Allow Me to Fall Apart for the Characters ❆
“We need to separate Vasiliev from his bodyguards,” said Séverin. “Something that can pull men apart—” “Money?” asked Enrique. “Love!” said Hypnos. “Magnets,” said Zofia. Laila, Enrique, and Hypnos turned to stare at her. “Powerful magnets,” Zofia amended.
✦ Séverin: Séverin Montagnet-Alarie, Paris’s most influential investor and owner of the grandest hotel in France, is an idiot. My emotions swung between wanting to hug him, punch him, kiss him, scream at him, and do more confusing things to him—I settled for Laila making him squirm.
“You always see so clearly into the darkness of men’s hearts, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie,” she said, before adding in a softer voice, “But I remember when you used to see wonder.” Séverin reached for his water goblet. “And now I see truth.”
This stubborn, irrational, beautiful boy filled with so much longing, this commanding, imaginative, observant boy who once saw wonder where he now sees pain, lets his grief and self hate drown him in the skeletons in Tristan’s closets and the demons beneath his bed, and refuses everyone’s hand, shunning his closest friends who have to step back lest the drowning man take them down as well. I can relate to his fear of being powerless, shutting himself away at the first sign of vulnerability. But what he does to escape his pain is seeking to escape humanity, practicing the cold, cruel tyranny of indifference because, “for the sake of what he needed to do, he had to be apart, not a part,” for the sake of gaining invincibility, he looks to leave mortality behind. “Ah, Majnun. The madman who lost himself to an impossible dream.”
He was like a cursed prince, trapped in the worst version of himself. And nothing she possessed—not her kiss freely given, nor her heart shyly offered—could break the thrall that held him because he had done it to himself.
✦ Laila: I was going to write a ballad for this empowering Indian gem of existence who would not let her death be in service to another’s character, her pain what he’d feed on to find his strength, this utter queen without a crown who reminds me of Nina Zenik after her glorious character development...but I’m too lazy so watch me pluck sentences out of the book and put them together because, truly, Roshani says it better than I ever could. “Laila was like a fairy tale plucked from the pages of a book—a girl with a curse woven into her heartbeat. A mirage glimpsed through smoke. A temptation in the desert that lulls the soul into thinking of false promises. The essence of her was walking into a room, and all eyes pinned to her, as if she were the performance of a lifetime. The essence of her was a smile full of forgiveness, the warmth in her hands, sugar in her hair.”
Laila was salvaged bones, and the snow maiden was only gathered snow. Love didn’t deserve to thaw their wits and turn their hearts to dust.
✦ Zofia: There are not many people who make me proud of my Gryffindor side, yet Zofia with her sympathies for a broken machine is one of them. She is my dangerously flammable Phoenix and favourite of the cast (next to Laila) not because of her autism (which is perfectly portrayed in her different way of processing the world, such as when the subtleties of language and art are lost on her) but because she strives to be brave even with fear of the unknown, to be independent and helpful even as she feels like a burden and knows that she needs others’ help. Zofia is a unique type of empowering female character and I relished seeing her shine in this sequel.
“If there were stairs to hell, would you venture down those?” “It depends on what was inside hell, and if I needed it.”
✦ Enrique: This charming, adorable, biracial boy is longing incarnate. He is the longing for a home to call your own and a place to belong when both sides of who you are shun you. He is the longing to be heard and and seen for all you have done and can do when no one holds you worthy for your truth. He is longing, and how can one not relate to him, not feel for him?
“When a man cannot see a person as a person, then the devil has slipped into him and is peering out of his eyes.”
✦ Hypnos: You know that friend who wants to help but does more unintentional harm than good because he is so clueless and lonely and has no idea how to have friends? Yes, this is him. The reason him and Enrique bonded so easily was because Hypnos, too, is a biracial vision of reaching hands, wanting to belong and prove his worth. But the difference is that, in many things, Hypnos is more casual and fun-seeking and, to be honest, I cannot stop thinking of how great a drag queen he could have been. My heart bled in glee every time he contributed to the group and was recognised.
“Why isn’t he going in?” muttered Hypnos. “Fear of dismemberment,” said Zofia. “If I were designing thief-catching mechanisms, I would have a device rigged to attack the first three people who entered.” Hypnos stepped behind Zofia. “Ladies first.”
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❆ And Then There Is the Curse That is the Relationships ❆
That was how friendship felt to her, an illumination too vast for her senses to capture. Yet she did not doubt its presence. And she held that light close to her as step by step, she ventured down the stairs.
The relationships in TSS were probably the best part for me. Because what this book gave me was layered friendships falling apart at the seams and being stitched back together. What it gave me was lovers parting peacefully with mutual understanding soaked in pain, and bonds blooming in opposites, two halves of a whole, completing one another and showing each other the side they could not see on their own. Oh what it gave me was two hearts drenched in rage-filled anguish (which I’ve found to be my fave emotion) playing at cat and mouse.
He first glimpsed her through the mirror, like a fairy tale where the hero crept upon the monster, risking only a glance at her reflection lest she turn his heart to stone. Only this was its inversion. Now the monster glanced upon the maiden, risking only a glimpse of her reflection lest she turn his stone to heart.
I ask you, is this not the most beautiful declaration of love you’ve ever read? “Perhaps, all goddesses are just beliefs draped on the scaffolding of ideas. I can’t touch what’s not real. But I can worship it all the same.” Yup, I died too. Until my next session of gushing, goodbye and try not to die.
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Thank you to my superhero for providing me with an eARC through Edelweiss!
Books in series: ⤳ The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1) ★★★★✯ ⤳ The Silvered Serpents (The Gilded Wolves, #2) ★★★★☆ ⤳ The Bronzed Beasts (The Gilded Wolves, #3) ☆☆☆☆☆...more
I’ll now be serving you a royally pissed off review sprinkled with a formidable amount of swearing and depictions of violence and mutilation so...procI’ll now be serving you a royally pissed off review sprinkled with a formidable amount of swearing and depictions of violence and mutilation so...proceed at your own risk.
“No human is better than another. I’ve cut up enough of ’em, and we all look more or less the same on the inside. We all rot when we’re dead.”
You’d probably find this review harsh. Hell, tomorrow-me would probably find this review harsh. But you know what? I don’t give a shit. This is my review, my thoughts about all that this book made me feel, my outlet for anger to be able to move past this wreck, and I put the warning right at the top. You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. I am not going to ask for forgiveness for my criticism of something so problematic, however unforgiving its deliverance.
Let us begin:
For someone who has a weird obsession with the steampunk genre, there’s no higher pain in the multiverse’s arse than when a book pulls you in, makes you so emotionally engaged, and has you falling in love with its immersively-written Victorian era and noir atmosphere so deeply that you don’t care that the mystery could’ve been better unraveled because it’s all about the characters—the two complicated and miserable characters and their warped dynamic and it could be the best thing ever and it’s got you spending 70% of the book thinking why aren’t there higher ratings on GR and of course I’ll be giving this intriguing, preciously slow, and character-driven steampunk a 4.5 rounded up and shelving it as my new fave...and then proceeds to ruin it all in the last 30% with the character and relationship development’s path (or lack thereof) and its approving seal on Sibet’s selfish, self-absorbed, self-righteous crap.
The most highlighted sentiment I feel upon finishing this I-hope-I‘d-never-read-it book is this: Fuck you Sibet. (I should probably warn you that this is where the real shady business starts)
If you’re a Sibet, I suggest you pull your shit together before I come hunt you down and meticulously skin you top to bottom and move on to cut off your fingers. One. By. One. And then feed them to you. Wondering whether you should be watching your back, front, sides, above, and bellow? Allow me to demonstrate for you what arsebadger of creature a Sibet is.
A Sibet is an at-first-glance-admirable person who bewitches you with their strength of character, will, devotion, and unrestrained quality, splendidly resisting chains and making you fall in love with them and adore them and root for them, only to reveal themselves to be in reality a selfish shitbag blinded by their privilege and luxury, thinking themselves a suffered and wronged, poor creature, and thus humiliating and blaming a penniless fellow human for having turned bitter from grovelling, thieving, and scraping-by to just make it to another day and somehow still be able to sneak medical lessons to follow his unreachable dream of becoming a doctor.
“Scrape me off your shoe with a stick, why don’t you.”
And that’s not even the worst of it. No, this Sibet has the audacity to, in her high-and-mighty and stick-up-her-arse attitude, believe she is above said human, using him and abusing him however she’s wished since they were children and he dare not give her the verbal lashing she deserves for treating him as she does and making him feel as he does for godforbid her self-righteous ego gets hurt. Nope, she’s always had the right to treat him as her slave, instilling the feeling of being powerless and worthless and small in him for all his life, without ever apologising or even internally acknowledging the injustice of her words and actions because, gasp, she can never make a mistake!
To all the Sibets in the world, I say: Go fuck yourselves with your fucking privileged lives.
And nope, I ain’t gonna apologise for dropping the levelheaded, understanding approach to pour out my fury about this utter crap and tainting your blessed eyes and ears with such sinful words. The Resurrectionist of Caligo perfectly paints this despicable creature, having her continue to exist in this stale mindset without the slightest of character developments, except for becoming more glorious in her oh-I-have-suffered-more-than-all-of-you-and-am-worth-all-you-worthless-things-put-together.
“We all serve our masters, whether they be of mind or heart. And isn’t she yours either way?”
And, if you’re a Roger, I want to tell you that you’re not worthless, or useless, or powerless, or small, or a fool (this last one you might be though, considering you continue to bite back your words and let that twatwaflle of a cumdumpster strengthen her poison in your body and mind). Do you hear me?
Roger, this brilliant, caring blighter with the worst luck in the world, this tragic soul who’s endured so much, lost so much, lost everything, stole my heart and bled it dry. And the authors literally spat on him and all like him in the world with his reverse character development, changing from that unyielding rebel who saw how he’d been used as a toy, to this cowed servant who won’t blink to fall to his knees and beg for the favour of his abuser.
Every time I think about it, I want to punch something. Scratch that, I have punched something. In fact, I’ve punched many things while writing these words to the point where my knuckles are actually sore. I mean, I have a very serious question: what the actual fuck?
To the Rogers of the world, I say: Put down whatever you’re doing and walk up to that son of a gun and give them the metaphorical slap in the face they’re begging for (it would be good if it weren’t only metaphorical but, small steps). And if you think you’re gonna loose your nerves when face to face and think it's all futile anyway (which it’s not—those people need to have their pride handed to them), then pick up your phone, record your anger-smeared words of truth, and send it to them before you can change your mind. Remove their festering poison from your life and cut off the leech before it drains you.
“If I know anything about wounds, your highness, it’s that they scar, even as they heal.”
Now that all that is out, I will say that (if you put aside the path Roger and Sibet’s dynamic takes in the last 30%) I extremely enjoyed this book. No, that's an understatement, I adored it, I lived for it.
The characters who jumped out of the page to drag me down into their pain and love, the complicated and real love-hate relationships and family bonds, the fierce unforgettable Ghostofmary who comfortably nestled in my heart, the brazen and creative storytelling, the perfect noir/steampunk atmosphere building, the sobering tragic ending with a taste of grim reality...all would’ve made this a worthy read; but the fact that the focus of the book was not the mystery and the centre stage was given to characters and their relationships, resulted in my dislike of the book as there was nothing else to make up for the nonexistence of internal developments.
I get that the authors wanted to write unlikeable, miserable characters and a warped dynamic and do it all while they stayed true to their love of tragedies, truly, I do. I just live for books that have all these three elements. The issue? There is no direction, no development, no message to take away. If you want to explore such a relationship, then fantastic—twisted relationships in books are my lifeblood. But where are you taking this? What do you want to say about it? Because what I got from this book was that either the authors don’t know the first thing about how you need to give direction to your elements and just wrote the relationship without development like stale water going nowhere, or they actually meant to say they approve of it which, well, excuse me while I hunt you down.
“In the old days, they used to blame disasters on heresy. Now it’s science. Any scapegoat’ll do.”
Do I regret reading this book? Not really, if only because I do not regret anything. There is always something to gain from all experiences, however unpleasant or conflicting. Do I want to forget reading this book? Well, parts of it. All of it. Sigh, yes I do. I’ll remember the outcome and what I learned, I just don’t believe thinking back on the process of learning it would do me any good, other than riling me up all over again for no reason.
Long sigh. I just want to reimagine the ending as Roger walking with Ghostofmary into the sunset while the whole world burns and turns to ash behind them. That would be tragic ending alright, except it would have development as in Roger not seeing the abusive Sibet as a goddess.
“No society’s laws are perfect, nor is any leader’s will.”
I received an ARC through NetGalley for an honest review. Many thanks to the publisher, Angry Robot!
Companions
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