Musings From My TBR Pile: Winter’s Orbit by Everina Maxwell

Critical Death Theory, first draft: 29,800 words.

The problem with going to book festivals is that you buy books.  Books that then get added to your TBR pile and sit there mutely demanding to be read.  The Cymera festival was no exception.  Worse yet, I attended a panel with three authors entirely unknown to me.  They were so funny and engaging, I had to buy their books.  Had to!

Anyway, by admittedly taking liberties with other books in my TBR pile, here is my take on the first of them: Winter’s Orbit, by Everina Maxwell.

To call Winter’s Orbit Bridgerton in space is a lazy shorthand that does justice to neither the TV show nor Maxwell’s excellent novel.  Nonetheless, as laziness is a major specialism of mine, Bridgerton in space is what you’re going to get.  Winter’s Orbit is an engaging romance with just enough space opera in it to allow it to sit on an SF bookshelf without blushing.

The premise that launches the book is an arranged (for arranged read forced) marriage between Prince Kiem, a minor royal of the Iskat Empire, a grandly titled but minor galactic power, and Count Jainan, a noble from one of the Empire’s vassal planets, following the sudden death of Jainan’s previous husband.  The marriage is a prerequisite for the renewal of a treaty with a shadowy organization known as the Resolution, which has a monopoly on interstellar navigation.  It is the Resolution that prevents more powerful empires from traveling to Iskat and swallowing it up, as will surely happen if the treaty is not renewed.

There are, however, a couple of flies in the ointment.  It turns out that Jainan’s former husband might very well have been murdered, and that the marriage certificate on its own will not be enough to renew the treaty: the relationship has to be genuine.  High jinks of a mostly romantic nature, albeit with a side helping of thriller, then ensue.

Romantically, this is a story of contrasting personalities who are hilariously unaware that the attraction each feels for the other is, in fact, mutual.  To say that Maxwell has a dry wit is rather like describing the Sahara as not very rainy.  It is deployed frequently and to good effect throughout the novel as miscommunications and misunderstandings pile one on top of the other to the point where you begin to wonder if these two will ever find a way through.  Spoiler alert: they do, and it is beautiful.  What I most liked about the dynamic between Kiem and Jainan is that they are both wonderful, talented individuals with low self-esteem.  Each needs the other to hold up a mirror to their true worth.

On the SF side, the novel is somewhat weaker.  I concede that I am out of step with a lot of people these days in that I like to see some science in my science fiction, so take my grumbling on that point with a large grain of salt.  I do not, however, feel the need to issue a health warning when it comes to my only other nit: both of these highly intelligent characters are sometimes uncharacteristically thick.  If you know that someone on your list of suspects is sabotaging aircars but you don’t know who, why would you then take an aircar to which the list of suspects has access and let said suspects know about it?  Predictable consequences followed — but it was extremely romantic!

Winter’s Orbit is a sweet, funny, deftly written book that I had trouble putting down.  If Bridgerton-style romance is your thing and you are at least SF-curious, this could be the perfect book for you.

Reasons to Be Cheerful – Part 2

A Quiet Teacher at the Shetland Noir bookstore. It sold out!

Critical Death Theory: first draft, 15,400 words

Shetland, to which I recently traveled for the Shetland Noir crime writers’ event, was something else. I wouldn’t call it beautiful, exactly. Bronze age sheep denuded the islands of trees, leaving behind an ancient landscape of close-cropped, rolling hills that end abruptly in spectacular rocky shorelines: either the North Sea or the Atlantic, depending on which side you’re on. Stone Age boundary markers rise suddenly out of the thin soil, and the wind blows across everything. The overall effect is stark: handsome, rather than pretty. Austere instead of lush.

With the cleanest air I’ve ever breathed in my life.

And the hospitality was amazing. I always feel like a bit of an impostor as a crime writer. I didn’t set out to become one, it just happened. I woke up with Greg Abimbola in my head one day and he wouldn’t go away. A Quiet Teacher was born and now, here I am, working on its sequel, Critical Death Theory. But no one treated me as an impostor. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The Mareel. Home to possibly the strongest cappuccino on earth.

The whole atmosphere at Shetland Noir was like a big, not dysfunctional family. Even though some of the giants of the genre were there – Ann Cleeves, Val McDermid, Shari Lapena, among others – there was no sense of hierarchy. Everyone just mingled and chatted and it was quite impossible to tell who was who just by looking at how they were treated. And the Mareel, the center where all the activities took place, turned out to be the perfect venue, with amazing coffee, a suitably broad selection of alcoholic beverages, and stunning home baked cakes, courtesy of the islanders. All with a sea view!

Highlights for me included meeting some fellow Nigerians, pygmy goats, on a coach tour of the Mainland, emceed by local author Marsali Taylor, a wonderful writer and a driving force behind the whole Shetland Noir enterprise. At the gathering itself, I had forced myself to sign up for something they called speed dating. You paired up with another author, in my case the delightful Shari Lapena, and spent a couple of minutes each pitching your book to a table full of readers before moving on to the next table, and the next, and the next . . . To be honest, I’d been rather dreading it, but it turned out to be an absolute blast. Everyone was very receptive, the questions they asked were really interesting, and there were plenty of laughs. Plus, all my books sold out at the bookstore!

A long way from home. Nigerian pygmy goats in Shetland.

On the last day, I attended a workshop on how to write a crime novel (better late than never) and found myself sitting next to Dea Parkin, who is not only the coordinator for the Crime Writers’ Association and an editor but also, it turns out, someone I was at college with. Small world! I paired up with Dea on the workshop’s sole exercise: tell the story of Goldilocks in twelve sentences of no more than eight words each. I babbled some words, Dea edited them into coherence, and we knocked it out of the park. “Join the CWA,” she said. “We’d love to have you.”

So I did.