If you aren’t familiar with Tamora Pierce’s work, this is not the series to start with, and even if you are familiar with the world of Tortall and didn’t read the first book in the series, I’m not sure I’d recommend reading this one without first tackling Terrier. It’s a complex story set several hundred years before the “modern” world of Tortall that we’ve grown familiar with from previous series, and the differences take some getting used to. On top of the time difference, this book is written in a first-person journal format, a fairly significant change from Pierce’s previous third-person narratives. To further establish the time and place, both volumes in this series are full of the dialect of Beka’s Tortall, and it took me some time before I stopped flipping to the glossary.

So before the rest of you leave feeling disenfranchised and I start talking about Bloodhound, I do highly recommend the other books in the realm of Tortall. My favourites, by a huge margin, is the Protector of the Small series, but they are made more satisfying by familiarity with the previous books as characters from the earlier series pop up throughout later books. Start with the Alanna books if you want to read chronologically, but I think her writing improves drastically over the years, so if you don’t love Alanna but really like the world she’s created, try Kel. I may get lynched for this opinion since I know how beloved a character Alanna is, but I read all of the Alanna books, Daine books, and the first two Kel books all within about three weeks of each other back in 2001, as an adult, so I don’t have the lengthy association with Alanna or the childhood memories of reading that series, and I found Kel a much better-written character.

However, although I could talk about Tortall all day (why yes, I am a big nerd, thanks for noticing), I should actually be talking about Bloodhound. In the first Beka Cooper book, we are eased into the time frame and style of the book with a prologue from George Cooper’s mother. Beka Cooper, the main character and narrator of the series, is an ancestor of George, who will grow up to be Alanna’s husband. The George we hear about in the first book is a young George, and he is the bane of his mother’s existence. She despairs of what her son will grow up to be given the path he is on, and wonders what his ancestor, a famous and well-respected police officer in her time, would think of George the thief.

We are then thrust into Beka’s world, from the perspective of her diary. I got used to the first person much faster with Bloodhound, having had all of Terrier to make the mental shift. Because Beka is a fairly tight-lipped character, the diary format allows for more insight into the character than would naturally evolve in a different voice, and it helps give Beka more of the personality that Pierce’s characters are so well known for.

After Terrier, the story of Beka’s time as an apprentice police officer, known as a Puppy, Bloodhound finds Beka a full-fledged police officer, known as a Dog. After some initial struggles finding a partner, she is sent to Port Caynn with Goodwin, one of her former trainers, to investigate the sudden appearance of counterfeit silver. She quickly finds herself embroiled in the drama and danger surrounding Pearl, the Rogue of Port Caynn, and with her recently-rescued scent hound, Achoo (so named for the sneezing whenever Achoo has a scent to follow), Beka is soon waist deep in the corruption of the city.

Because the action and the story are moved to Port Caynn in this installment, many of the characters from the first book are not major players in this book. It take some time for the new characters to settle in, and the lack of Pounce, Beka’s magical cat, is a significant loss, but Achoo, like almost all of Pierce’s animal characters, has a great deal of personality even without the ability to talk. In a pleasant development, this book is the first of Pierce’s Tortall books to feature openly gay characters, and the nonchalance with which Beka handles the situation is a nice touch.

 There are times when the slang and diary style become a bit much, and at 500 pages I found the story bogging down quite a bit in the middle, but overall, this is a solid companion to the first book in the series. Despite the first-person perspective, I was left feeling less familiar with Beka than with most of Pierce’s other main characters, and one of my favourite elements of Pierce’s other series, where minor characters from previous books suddenly become significant characters in later ones (best demonstrated by Raoul, of whom I had virtually no opinion in the Alanna books but then quickly became one my all-time favourites in the Kel books), is impossible in this series simply because of the time period it is set in. (You could argue that Pounce fulfills this role in these books, since he is reincarnated later as Alanna’s cat Faithful, but Pounce is absent from most of this story.)

However, despite all of that, a less-good Tamora Pierce book is like a less-good Pixar film – it is far better than most of the rest of what’s out there, and the Tortall books remain the only non-Harry Potter fantasy series that I will continue to buy exclusively in hardcover as soon as a new one is out. (Not coincidentally, I have a near-complete collection of Pixar movies on DVD.) Pierce fans will enjoy Bloodhound, and those not familiar with Pierce’s work have many excellent books to look forward to. Beka’s story will conclude in Mastiff next year, and I look forward to reading it. Until then, I will continue to nerd out about talking Tortall. Feel free to add your two cents on your preferred heroine, your favourite minor character who became significant later on, and try to convince me that the Darkings aren’t the cutest fantasy invention since Pigwidgeon the tiny owl. (Ok, technically they came before Pig. But he is the cutest character in fantasy that I could come up with. Come on, he’s a pocket-sized owl! What’s not to love?)

This willy-nilly wander through the stacks doesn’t always pay off – one of the other books I picked up that day is the worst thing I’ve read in at least two years.  But oh my stars, this book was wonderful.  My favourite things in a young adult book (or kids book, for that matter) are realistically portrayed friendships, witty banter, and believable characters, which is why Feeling Sorry for Celia is my favourite young adult book of all time and very close to the top of my favourite book of all time.  (I have a hard time committing to a single favourite book so I have several elaborate divisions by genre in my head.)  My Most Excellent Year is the closest I’ve come to finding another book as pitch-perfect as Celia.  It shares an unusual format with Celia; the book is written in the style of a school assignment for the three main characters – Anthony, aka T.C., Alejandra, and Augie – who are reflecting on their titular most excellent year.  As a result, it’s full of letters, emails, instant message conversations, vignettes, and the scathing theatre reviews that Augie’s mother writes.

None of them are having what you would call uneventful years.  Alejandra is dealing with a new school and attempting to fend off the advances of T.C., who is immediately smitten with Alé.  T.C. is trying to impress Alé while also helping his father with his attempts at wooing T.C.’s guidance counsellor.  Augie’s overwhelming crush on Andy Wexler has led him to the conclusion that he is gay, to the surprise of nobody but himself, and he throws himself into the school talent show in order to distract himself from the startling discoveries he is making both about himself and Andy.

The reaction to Augie’s sexuality, or perhaps I should say the non-reaction, is one of the most appealing things about this book.  The revelation is only surprising to Augie himself; all the other characters in the book figure it out long before Augie, and as a result, his coming out is a complete non-event.  The subsequent relationship between Augie and Andy is handled no differently than the heterosexual relationships in the book, and although the realities of being a gay teenager are perhaps oversimplified, they are certainly not ignored.

Although the romantic relationships are a central theme to the story, they are not the only type of relationship that the book explores.  The idea of chosen family, rather than merely biological connections, is also a key element of the story, and Augie and T.C.’s declaration at the age of six that they are brothers is immediately accepted by Augie’s parents and T.C.’s father.  The role that Augie played in helping T.C. accept the death of his mother is reflected in the character of Hucky, a young deaf orphan whom T.C., and subsequently Augie and Alé, befriend.  Although this plot line does strain credulity at times, it is not so sweet as to be unpleasant.

Overall, despite a few moments that ring false and a couple of plot developments that seem to teeter on the edge of total unbelievability, the immensely likeable characters are mostly able to overcome it.  The conclusion veers into near fantasy but is so satisfying that I couldn’t bring myself to be bothered by it.  And I totally cried.  I am not ashamed to admit it.  I also laughed a lot and kicked my feet and squealed several times while reading this book, which I always take as a good sign.  This book will make you feel good, and if you’re in the mood for that kind of book, you’d be hard pressed to do better than this one.

Order it from an independent bookseller!

It wasn’t until Lucy learned that her life was inexplicably tied to the song Scarborough Fair that I realised this wasn’t your normal foster care story. I was concerned, when I first heard about the song tie-in from the person in my young adult book group that suggested the book, that all it would mean was that I’d spend several days humming Scarborough Fair.  This book goes way beyond just getting a song stuck in your head – it leaves you haunted by it.  Lucy discovers that the women of her family have been cursed by an Elfin Knight, and before she can do anything to prevent it, the curse strikes her, leaving her pregnant thanks to the rape of her possessed prom date.  To break the curse and avoid the madness that the curse bestows upon all the Scarborough women once they have given birth, she must complete the three tasks set out in the song.

There are many versions of Scarborough Fair, which is thought to be derived from the ballad The Elfin Knight, and it dates back as far as 1670.  Like most people, I imagine, I was most familiar with the Simon and Garfunkel version of it, wherein they sing about a lost love.  The version that this book refers to, though similar, has a few notable changes, and the result is a foreboding song that threatens true love as a punishment rather than refers to a fond memory of it.  Where the Simon and Garfunkel version suggests that completing the strange tasks will allow the true loves to be together (”then she’ll be a true love of mine”), Impossible’s version is a threat; unless the three tasks can be completed, she will be forced to be the Elfin Knight’s true love against her will.  (”Else she’ll be a true love of mine.”)  That a single word change can so completely alter the meaning of the song is a totally fascinating look at the power of language and how the evolution of folk songs has led to what is now a fondly benign reminiscence about a past love instead of an ominous tale of forced love.

Impossible does not shy away from this darkness, and is a better book for it.  The man who is the modern day version of the Elfin Knight is positively horrifying, and as soon as Lucy is raped you know that this book isn’t going to be sanitized.  The mythic/fantastical elements of the story are woven into the otherwise modern reality very effectively, and the almost matter-of-fact acceptance of the main characters that the curse is real makes it easier for the reader to go along with what seems like a hard idea to swallow.

If I had any complaints, it would be that the tasks, allegedly near-impossible (hence the title), turned out to be a little too doable, but there wouldn’t be a story if that weren’t the case, so I can live with it.  (And never mind the fact that it seems as if all of Lucy’s problems could be easily solved with a trip to Planned Parenthood, but at least the subject was discussed; it always bothers me when teenagers in books don’t even mention the possibility of abortion.) There are moments when Lucy’s foster parents and childhood friend-turned-sweetheart Zach seem a little too accepting and resourceful in the face of such a bizarre situation, but they are given enough development that it doesn’t seem too much like a deus ex machina.

Although there are times when Impossible seems a little too convenient, overall it is an engrossing, enjoyable read.  It is part romance, part fairy tale, part fantasy, and though the conclusion is somewhat inevitable, the path to reach it is a satisfying one.  The balance of the ancient ballad (curses! magic! madness!) with the modern world (the morning after pill! the internet! duct tape!) is handled deftly, and it is Lucy’s ingenuity, and that of her family, that allow her to complete the tasks that seem, at first, impossible.  It was on many of the Best of 2008 lists, and they are well-deserved accolades.  Nancy Werlin has taken what seems on the surface to be just another predictable young adult novel and has given readers a compelling story of love, fate, and family.