Harrow’s situation is different from mine in a few ways though, the main one being that for a significant portion of the book, she doesn’t know she’s grieving. This is partly because of Tamsyn Muir’s skilled and immersive writing, and partly because I read Harrow in the thick of grieving my mother. At one point she stays awake for days to ward off assassination attempts by a fellow lyctor, and as she descends deeper into the well of fear and sleep deprivation, I’m riding the bucket down, too. For much of the book, Harrow is trudging lost through her own mind, and we’re right there with her. At times the dark, winding corridors we’re led down truly seem to be headed nowhere, a sensation that can be off-putting. The inside of Harrowhark Nonagesimus’s head is morose, macabre and confusing. I fell in love with her voice and character instantly. In Gideon the Ninth, Gideon Nav’s narration is boisterous, blunt and sprinkled with the kind of delightfully lewd profanity that would make even a cloistered nun of the Locked Tomb blush through her grease-paint. The Autostraddle Encyclopedia of Lesbian Cinema.LGBTQ Television Guide: What To Watch Now.
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