Alex O'Donnell and the 40 Cyber Thieves: A Review of Regina Doman's Most Recent Fairy Tale Novel, Pt. 1

Sometimes it is a painful thing to write a review.  In general, I think the blogging convention is to follow the old advice that begins,  "If you don't have anything nice to say. . ."  In fact, that is a general guideline for all writers of reviews.  So I want to begin by saying that I do have nice things to say about the book.  I think that Doman is an excellent storyteller.  With the proper editorial support, I believe that her books would be as good as anything that J. K. Rowling has produced.  The last 1/3 of Alex O'Donnell and the 40 Cyber Thieves, in fact, had me on the edge of my seat.  I "accidentally" stayed up until almost 3 A.M. finishing the book because I simply never found a stopping-point.  The action sequences were gripping, and even though I did figure out who the "bad guy" was--it will be obvious for most by the time it is important--I still wanted to see how everything would unfold.  I had so much adrenaline pumping when I finished that it was a while before I got to sleep, and I did not sleep restfully.  This is not a typical response for me, but it does justify my comparison to J. K. Rowling.  Though Rowling does not make the adrenaline pump, her books are definitely page-turners, and it can be difficult to sleep because my mind is stimulated by the action of the story.

I can also point to Doman's skill with characterization--by the end of the novel, a character who annoyed me--whom I simply did not want to like--gained a hold on my interest in spite of the fact that I didn't know how a reader was supposed to perceive this character.  In fact, I am rather frustrated on behalf of the character because there are some things that I would like to see better conceptualized.  I have a high opinion of Regina Doman's talent, and I can't wait until she really distinguishes herself as a novelist and gains a significant readership and critical attention.  In my last review of Doman's work, I expressed my eagerness "to read more in the series to see how Doman has developed as a writer across multiple books, and how she has developed her characters."  This book isn't there yet.

Others might be, however.  By Doman's description on her web page, Alex O'Donnell and the 40 Cyber Thieves is "campy."  While other of her novels deal with "more serious themes," this is a lighter book.  I would not agree with that assessment, though it definitely explains the title.  My next disclaimer is that I have not read the books that she wrote between The Shadow of the Bear and Alex O'Donnell and the 40 Cyber Thieves.

And, finally, I want to explain my motivation for writing a critical review--that is, a review that criticizes.  I believe that every author is entitled to the highest level of criticism available.  I approach every book I read with the same critical eye.  I believe that it shows the highest respect for a novelist and her work to treat it as I would a work that I teach in my college courses.  I further believe that by providing criticism--negative criticism, if you will--we stand to expand the dialogue on the novel and the author's works more generally.  The purpose, ultimately, is to inspire, not to tear down.  I believe that Doman has talent, and that her project--writing Catholic fiction for teens--is an admirable one.  Ideally, I would like to see her succeed on a greater scale.  Hopefully, my piece of criticism will contribute in some way to that goal.

With such a lengthy disclaimer, my reader must at this point expect a brutal review.  Let me further contextualize, then, and say for any who do not already know that I am an academic by training.  My perspective is different from a fan's perspective.  My question from the outset is, "What might prevent this book from becoming a classic of children's literature?"  And it is from that point that I begin my critique.

My first complaint about the book is something that I noted in The Shadow of the Bear, too--the tendency to set up an easy dichotomy to explain evil behavior.  In both novels, the bad guy is a flaming atheist.  This, to my mind, is a bit too easy.  It was far-fetched (and sketched in a much more detailed way) in The Shadow of the Bear, but in Alex O'Donnell, the motif is repeated in an offhanded way that sends the reader the message that bad guys are conscious atheists out to belittle and undermine Christian belief.  It isn't enough that the bad guys are trying to KILL the protagonists, they have to try to destroy their worldview, too.  And it sets up a persecution complex--everyone bad is trying to destroy my beliefs.  In both cases, you have a figure who is like the demon un-man from C. S. Lewis's Perelandra--consciously doing evil in order to fly in the face of God and belief--but without the demonic possession that justifies that character.

As a remedy, I would like to see a "Catholic gone bad" "bad guy" (which, in The Shadow of the Bear, he kind of was--on an exaggerated level) or an atheist/agnostic "good guy":  not someone who is held up as an example of belief, but simply someone helpful who does not share the same beliefs as the protagonist(s), and yet enters into dialogue with the protagonists about belief.  Someone for whom the protagonists could say a passing prayer for understanding--hers or theirs.  In a similar vein, I would rather like to see an evil character, who, like Gollum, gives us the shadow of the possibility of redemption.  We are Catholic.  We believe that the possibilities of Redemption and God's grace exist for every human being.  Many of us resist the death penalty for this reason--perhaps we need to remember this in our fiction.

Like my concern about dichotomies, my next critique is strongly informed by my academic training--and it renders the books unacceptable in mainstream circles, though it pains me to say so.  The concern is culture.  The novel is based on a story from 1001 Arabian Nights--a Persian work of literature--one that may have been a fake.  Frankly, I expected a Middle Eastern protagonist.  I may have been relieved to learn that this was not the case, but I was waiting for when the Middle Eastern subtext would become apparent.  It never did.  And again--perhaps this is good.  It might have been playing into--or against--a trend.  But by choosing to use "Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves" as the fairy tale, the author makes the choice to evoke either near-eastern/Middle Eastern culture (if the story is actually Persian) or European orientalism, which exoticises that region.

The cultural confusion is only enhanced by the characters of the novel.  First there is Alex, an Irish Catholic boy whose family is obsessed with aspects of Asian (mainly Japanese) culture (mainly martial arts) but remains ignorant of most other aspects of that culture.  Then there is Kateri, a Polish-Vietnamese girl whose name nevertheless evokes a Native American Saint.  There is a moment in the text in which the narrator notes that Kateri is often presumed to be Native American, but sadly, there is no follow-up to this compelling revelation.  Kateri has a chip on her shoulder because non-Asian Americans lump all Asians together--an accusation that, rather than being dis-proven by, is epitomized by her boyfriend Alex.

So the novel starts with two competing cultural sub-texts--the Persian (Oriental) and the Japanese/Vietnamese (Oriental), both of which are objectified by Westerners. Referring to the Near East and Far East as Oriental was an error committed in different time periods, but the only way to reconcile the Persian story with the Asian and Asian-loving characters is to conflate both into Oriental, which would lead the reader into a significant cultural error or a simplistic cultural analogy.

Like the passing Native American reference, the Irish Catholic identity of the O'Donnells has unexplored potential, though their relative poverty and untidiness border on stereotype.

The novel thus provides the reader with a huge melting pot mess that can not be sorted out.  If Doman's point is to stress the continuity between cultures, particularly given that both families are members of the Universal Church, or if the cultural conflict and correspondence are meant to seem quintessentially American, these are points that are not made in the novel; the reader has to reach for what s/he knows of Catholicism and America, and piece things together for herself.  Every evocation of culture makes a point.  The professional writer who seeks an audience for her ideas must articulate very clearly what point her novel makes about culture.

More to come. . .

Theoretical Musing on Rossetti's Goblin Market

I'm looking at a book I have about Marian theology and imagery being used for feminist purposes in the Victorian period, and it underscores a fear I have--I don't exactly want to say that this is a feminist move by Rossetti. In fact, I want to say that it's quite a traditionalist move, and unlike the author I'm reading, I don't particularly think that this is an example of religious traditionalism being used in the service of the Victorian women's movement.  I do not think that Rossetti has any kind of positive regard for Laura's sexual "energy," but neither do I think that Lizzie is being submissive. I rather want to say that this is, in a way, a Christian allegory reworked for the express purpose of leading women to Christ through the intercession of Mary--or other women.  This is not, in itself, a feminist move because it lacks the socio-political implications.  The only social implications are the part of the allegory that deals with RESISTING the sexual advances of men, who are grotesque in their pursuits of pure women.  Not a feminist statement.

Is Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market a Marian Poem? - pt. 1

I have taught Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market several times-mostly in the context of my Introduction to Literature course focused on fantasy, but most recently in my Survey of British Lit II. Through teaching the poem, and including selections from C. Rossetti when I teach Children's Lit, I have come to an appreciation of her as an author that I otherwise would not possess. Goblin Market in particular is a strange poem--one of the "long" poems that were popular among poets of the Victorian Period, sharing this designation with E. B. Browning's Aurora Leigh (another I have come to appreciate through teaching), Robert Browning's The Ring and the Book, In Memoriam and Idylls of the King by Tennyson. Unlike the others, which are about British, poetic, or personal identity, and unlike In Memoriam, which is about the conflict between religious belief and, well, just about every aspect of contemporary life in the event of a loved one's death, Goblin Market is about temptation, sin, and redemption. I am not at this point terribly well acquainted with what critics have said about this poem, as I like to teach literary works from an understanding of the author, time period, and navigate meaning via student responses and my own interpretive instincts rather than relying on what the standard opinion happens to be. When my students have written papers about Goblin Market, we have had difficulty locating sources on the poem. One interpretive difficulty, however, is the ending of the poem, and how to interpret the relationship between sisters Lizzie and Laura.

The poem tells the story of Laura and Lizzie, who are subjected to temptation by goblin men, who offer them choice fruits for their pleasure. While Lizzie takes a "see no evil, hear no evil" approach (l. 50-51), Laura succumbs to the temptation, buying the goblins' goods with a lock of hair, and begins to be consumed with desire for the forbidden fruits--a desire which causes her to waste away and lose interest in ordinary sustenance and "modest" activities and pleasures, and which can not be fulfilled because the goblin men are no longer visible or audible to her (l. 242-259). The eroticism of the poem is striking, and has been captured in many illustrations, including illustrations published in Playboy. When Laura buys the fruit, for example, for which she pays with her body-- "a precious golden lock" and "a tear more rare than pearl"--she "suck'd their fruit globes fair or red" ((l. 126-128). The description of the experience of eating the fruits and the fruit itself fairly oozes with sexuality (no pun intended):


Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow'd that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She suck'd and suck'd and suck'd the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She suck'd until her lips were sore. . . .

That the poem's subject is sexual temptation is very thinly veiled, and presents no interpretive difficulty.

However, the poem does the unexpected: it redeems the sinner. Laura's sister Lizzie opts to communicate with the goblin men in an attempt to save her sister--she offers to pay with money, but the goblins are unwilling to have her take the fruit rather than consuming it. The sexual allegory here may be seen to fail or to remain consistent, as sexual experience is not something that can be carried away, or taken for another, and certainly two sexual sins do not produce redemption. Lizzie does not, however, consume the fruit, though she is subjected to physical abuse and though the goblins smash the fruits on her lips in their attempts to make her eat. These juices, licked and sucked off of Lizzie, make Laura well.

The nature of the sisterly relationship and the nature of the redemption are points open for analysis, as both are provocative. Any Christian allegory would have to place Lizzie as a Christ figure who sacrifices herself--albeit only partially--to redeem her sister but it seems unlikely that Rossetti, a strict, traditional, and increasingly High Church Anglican, would have created a female allegory for Christ.A facile answer is that it is not meant to be strict allegory, but merely an allegorical tale of Christian self-sacrifice. Even accepting it as such, it is difficult to see how, in the Victorian period, a fallen woman could be redeemed, in spite of the prevalence of paintings that treat the theme of redemption after sexual sin. In the paintings, the woman is sometimes taken from the streets by a male relative or simply has her conscience awaken from within as she bestirs herself to leave the lover who "keeps"her. In Goblin Market, the fallen woman is redeemed by a woman in a scene that is almost as erotic as Laura's original sexual encounter with goblin fruits.

The redemption of woman by woman is not necessarily a surprise given Rossetti's own work with reforming prostitutes--testimony to her own belief in female solidarity in the face of men's sexual use and abuse.The poem's moral focuses on the nature of sisterhood rather than sexual temptation, downgrading what has previously seemed to be the focal point of the poem:

"For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands."

The final lines of the poem provide both a puzzle and a somehow unsatisfying resolution. "There is no friend like a sister" seems a weak close to a poem that seems to portray allegorically both male-female and female same-sex eroticism.The relationship between the sisters is described in sensual terms early in the poem, as

Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down in their curtain'd bed:

The sisters sleep entwined, "Cheek to cheek and breast to breast/Lock'd together in one nest" (197-198).When Lizzie returns with the juices, the sensual descriptions begin to seem sexually charged, as Lizzie tells Laura,

"Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeez'd from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.(467-474)

And Laura does:

She clung about her sister,
Kiss'd and kiss'd and kiss'd her:
Tears once again
Refresh'd her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kiss'd and kiss'd her with a hungry mouth.(485-492)

This seemingly sexually charged encounter with her sister causes Laura, in essence, to die to self and sexual desire, to suffer and emerge reborn.

Critics have discussed whether this is, indeed, a homoerotic encounter, thinly veiled by the invocation of biological sisterhood that is reinforced by the somewhat forced moral at the end. It seems that the relationship between the two women is either homoerotic, with "sisterhood" as a metaphor, or a literal "sisterly" relationship in which sensuality spills into sexual imagery. On the other hand, existing within the sisterly relationship (however defined) is a sub-text of woman-for-woman Christian self-sacrifice that can redeem (hetero)sexual sin. The nature of this Christian self-sacrifice is somewhat vague, as it can not be linked allegorically to what Tolkien would later call "the true myth" of Christianity, which means that this kind of redemption must only have personal and perhaps social significance rather than pointing, as Christian allegory is wont to do, to religious Truth--unless it points directly to the role of woman in the "true myth" of Christianity, and so reveals a religious Truth that directly impacts the sisterhood of all women. There is much in Goblin Market that points to Mary, the new Eve, as intercessor who reveals Christ to women, or leads women to Christ. In fact, Goblin Market might be said to recommend Mary as an intercessor to women whose experiences of men make them unable to accept God in the person of a man.

To Be Continued. . .

Musing: Author-Audience Engagement and "Issues"

This is a repost from a comment I made on a friend's Facebook status.  It started as a discussion of summer reading choices for high school students, but I found myself considering the choices and asking (again--as I did with The Giver) why assigned reading in middle and high school so clearly focuses on specific social and political topics:

I find that in middle school and high school, often the idea is to introduce the students to "issues" that someone or other feels that the students need to or will need to consider in their lives. So the works are front-loaded with sexuality, race, gender, abortion--you name it. That tends to bug me pedagogically and as a parent. And when I was in high school and college, I resented it as a cheap way of getting me to talk about politics! ;) The funny thing is that I don't dislike books about social concerns, but so often the "message" or "issue" dominates. It's like teaching from an anthology that divides the literary works into sections like "coming of age," "love & relationships," "death & dying," etc. The book announces too plainly what you're supposed to be considering while reading it, and for me, that eliminates the interest because there's nothing to engage me.

In another post, I considered how authors engage readers with matters of spirituality, and without rereading what I wrote then, I will assert that open-ended questioning, even if it tends toward one reading or another (as in Clarke's "The Star") is more effective than something like Lewis's allegorical treatment of Christianity in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, for example, which answers the questions for the reader rather than encouraging further consideration of the relevant questions.  This is something that Lewis improved upon as he developed as a writer.


In the case of The Power and the Glory, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, or "The Star," it is clear enough what the author wants the reader to be considering.  In a book that dramatizes a woman's consideration of abortion, it is equally clear.  Or is it more so?  Initially, considering just why those big social issues bothered me, I wrote the above, that the books are limiting my ability to interpret what the narrative is "about," if you will, and also the following:


I like books that give me enough complexity that I can insert myself into the dilemma, and enough flexibility that if I'm not particularly interested in thinking about one question, I can engage with something else.

I'm not sure this statement applies to why I'm drawn to The Power and the Glory, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and "The Star," or even Fahrenheit 451.  It is pretty clear that the former deal with questions of spirituality and the truth of religious belief, and the latter deals pretty explicitly with questions of literacy.  But they don't make me feel constrained to think in a certain way.  The difference could be in the level of analysis in the novel--how closely the reader experiences the dilemma, or how closely the character experiences the dilemma--the complexity/theoretical nature of the issue--why this is important, whether its importance is situational, and how broadly applicable the questions are--and perhaps how mundane the issue is--is it a daily life issue, or is it something that applies to Life?  This last question flies in the face of feminist theory, among others, which sees the particular as having the importance ("the personal is political," after all. . .) and while I wouldn't argue, I would ask what importance one finds in the particulars that are presented, and whether it is possible to broaden out that importance to connect other particulars.  When I read about someone's relationship foibles, what exactly am I supposed to get from that?  When I read D. H. Lawrence, E. M. Forster, and Virginia Woolf, those relationship foibles are supposed to tell me quite a lot about power structures, personal interactions, and the possibility of closeness.  The particulars broaden out.  When I read about someone's decision whether or not to have an abortion, what am I supposed to do with that?  If I already know my own conviction on the subject, is dramatizing someone else's dilemma going to tell me anything beyond the reasons why someone considers this particular action?  Am I supposed to reexamine my conviction?  From the novelist's point, likely.  From the teacher's perspective, why else tech it but to introduce and hash through the topic/"issue"?  But I'm not sure that this is what makes a truly engaging literary text.  Is this what readers want to get from a text?  Some readers, sometimes, sure.  But this is not, perhaps, the most sophisticated use of literature.  Do Uncle Tom's Cabin and To Kill a Mockingbird cause us to consider the bases on which we judge other human beings?  Most likely.  But other abolitionist novels might only lead us to consider whether slavery should be legal, or if we should own the slaves that we have.  These questions are no longer relevant, and so the novels' temporary importance is now historical evidence.

To be continued. . .

The Shadow of the Bear: A Review of Regina Doman's Fairy Tale Novel for Teens

On Friday afternoon, I received The Shadow of the Bear by Regina Doman.  On Friday, before going to bed, I finished The Shadow of the Bear by Regina Doman.  I had already read Ch. 1 online, which you can find here.  At 221 pages, the book is a quick and engaging read.  I have been interested in Doman's novels for a while, having seen them reviewed by Sarah Reinhard, and mentioned elsewhere, and having an interest (professional and otherwise) in fairy tale retellings (the course I'm teaching this semester focuses on retellings/revisions, and includes quite a few fairy tales).  Beyond that, however, I wanted to see what a Catholic adolescent novel looked like, and whether it could be done well.

That last sentence reveals me as the skeptic I am.  I have read contemporary Christian fiction for teens before, of the Protestant variety, as a pre- to early-teen, and found the "troubled-teen-finding-Christ-and-a-boyfriend" motif, well, boring.  Far-fetched.  Trite.  But then, I was one of those (along with Neil Gaiman) who felt rather betrayed when she realized that the Chronicles of Narnia were really about Christianity, and not just good stories.  I got over it.  Fairy tales, Narnia, and Christian fiction notwithstanding, I have an interest in children's literature that is both professional and personal.  Fantasy is my preference, but I am interested in what makes quality children's literature--a term that is both disputed and controversial.  This is my disclaimer of sorts, a prelude to the review.

I enjoyed the book very much.  I found it compelling to the point that I realized that in order to get anything else done over the weekend, I would have to read it on Friday--hence, the rush.  It was a quick read, and elements of suspense propelled it along.  The first chapter raised enough questions to entice the reader, though the necessary exposition in chapters two and three slows things down a bit.  In these chapters, I experienced certain doubts about the book.  It seemed too self-consciously what it was, namely--a Catholic novel for literary-minded high school students, from the reference to "sheltering the stranger and tending the sick" in Ch. 1, to the overt Frost reference in Ch. 2, and the brief discourse on art, beauty, and truth in Ch. 3 with its allusion to Keats.  The last reference in particular made me groan a little, especially since it was a follow-up to a discussion of form, content, and Truth in the previous chapter that peaked my curiosity, but which was not truly developed and instead evolved into the idea that sacred objects should be treated appropriately and added to  the characterization of the "good guy" and the "bad guy."  My literary sensibilities cringe a little for similar reasons when the character Bear takes to calling Blanche "Snow White."

The novel has an interesting typographical feature, in which a white or shaded rose at the beginning of the paragraph designates whose consciousness is narrated in that section--that of Blanche or her sister Rose.  I discovered this device when a narrative ambiguity led me to question which sister's "voice" was represented in a passage.  It was in one of the "Blanche" sections, at the end of Ch. 4, that I detected a shift from the background material and discovered how evocative  a writer Dolman could be.  The passage describes a subway ride that is full of uncertainty because the character's trust in the mysterious "Bear" is not complete.  There is a tension between the reticence of one sister and the excitement of the other, and the shadows and reflections in the subway car enhance the tensions and doubt that colors the scene.  I was significantly impressed.

One of the novel's great strengths is characterization.  I was immediately drawn to the hesitant, doubting, outcast Blanche.  For me, she is like a Catholic version of MTV's Daria.  Her sister Rose, while likable, was not as accessible to me, though I am uncertain whether this is because of my own personality or narrative bias.  Bear, while vague, contradictory, and inaccessible, is immensely attractive, and Fish, while not really fleshed out, reminds me of Christian Slater's role as Robin Hood's brother in the Kevin Costner "Prince of Thieves" film--sarcastic and likable.  Doman evokes character depth without working too hard on the psychological portrait.  In so doing, she strikes a balance between a flat fairy tale character and the round characters we expect from contemporary novels.  The supporting characters are a bit less satisfying, falling too easily into types.  I was rather disappointed in the villain, as having a murderous atheist aesthete sketched with broadly homosexual overtones as the evil character in a Catholic novel was kind of facile--stacking the decks a bit.  And his association with post-Vatican II habit-less, possibly lesbian nuns was another moment in the early chapters that seemed a bit overdone.

The greatest surprise for me was the novel's treatment of chastity.  Beyond one more of those early exposition moments, which left me singing, "Come out Virginia, don't let me wait. You Catholic girls start much too late. . . .", I was impressed by the handling of the theme.  The most striking thing is that the novel assumes the moral standard.  It is not a matter for negotiation within the action of the novel.  The reader does not enter into a tormented discourse on the pressures of teen sexual urges.  Rather, you enter into the worldview of the characters, which holds chastity as an acknowledged good.  Though Blanche and Rose are not necessarily in line with their peers when it comes to their high regard for sexual morality and unwillingness to compromise, this fact does not cause the sisters any mental anguish--just the usual cruelty inflicted by teenagers on their classmates. In some circles this might be regarded as naive.  Decades ago Judy Blume set the standard by presupposing compromised morality as a natural feature of adolescent and pre-adolescent hormones and social scenes.  This novel is not so prescriptive.  The effect is not to deny that adolescents are confused about this topic.  But this is fiction, and as fiction, it takes as its prerogative the ability to select the worldview it represents.  So if the tormented adolescent enters a novel in which the characters are not confused about chastity, and uphold this value, perhaps s/he will emerge with a new consideration of why chastity might be a value to uphold.  On the other hand, if a self-assured adolescent enters the novel, s/he will not be subjected to the kind of moral relativism that generally accompanies portrayals of adolescent sexuality.


In reading The Shadow of the Bear, I asked myself if I would feel comfortable giving it to my 13-year-old son.  It is a challenge to find books written for a teen or pre-teen audience, especially for a child who reads above his/her grade/age level, that do not address overly-mature themes.  It is a challenge to find fiction for this same age range that assumes that boys will be an interested audience!  Speculating on reading habits of boys vs. girls, I believe that this execution of the fairy-tale novel, cast as it is within the school-story genre with a Nancy Drew twist, is more likely to interest female readers, in part because of the female protagonist(s).  Thinking about situations that arise in the book, there is one that I consider too mature for my 13-year-old, involving as it does an incredibly awkward, potentially exploitative situation at an after-prom party.  The situation was very realistic and believable, and tastefully executed, but it centers around a senior prom, an experienced teen boy, alcohol, and unchaperoned movie-watching.  I would not feel betrayed if he was given the book by a kindly librarian and read the scene, but as a parent, I'm not sure he's ready for an introduction to that kind of situation.  But I know my son, and this is not a general rule for every 13-year-old.  The odd thing is, I didn't have the same reservations about the casual "snogging" in Harry Potter, but there was never the suggestion in HP, as there was here, that the "snogging" might end in sex--consensual or non-consensual.


The Shadow of the Bear interested me, entertained me, and finally, impressed me, and I am eager to read more in the series to see how Doman has developed as a writer across multiple books, and how she has developed her characters.