jacqueline carey | Eric Taveren

I want to start this review off with a disclaimer: I am in no way professing to be a Shakespeare expert. Am I smarter than the average bear regarding The Bard? Yes. Evidence: I subbed a high school English class a few months back and they were studying Romeo and Juliet. A couple of kids said they were shocked by the ending, and I was like, what? He literally told you it was going to happen. At the beginning. Like a bad movie trailer. Then I recited the prologue from memory.

While not an expert, after majoring in English and Theatre Arts, I’ve got a healthy bit of Shakespeare under my belt. And of all his plays, my favorite is The Tempest. I, for kicks and giggles, rewatched my Blu-ray copy of Helen Mirren’s Tempest a few weeks ago. I have a fairly detailed character work-up and world-building done for a Tempest retelling of my own I’d like to write. L. Jagi Lamplighter’s Prospero’s Daughter trilogy is on my shelf, patiently waiting its turn. So you can imagine my excitement when I heard about Jacqueline Carey’s Miranda and Caliban.

My first exposure to Jacqueline Carey came back in high school when Kushiel’s Dart was published. It’s an alternate history set in France, with fantasy elements. It was steamy. And BDSM-y. 2001 me definitely was not expecting what I’d stumbled across. Kushiel’s Dart was Romantasy before that was even a term. So when I picked up Miranda and Caliban and saw their physical closeness on the cover, you can imagine the expectations that bloomed in my mind.

Those expectations immediately ran into a brick wall. For those who haven’t read The Tempest, let me give you a very truncated version: Prospero, the rightful Duke of Milan, and his daughter Miranda are marooned on an island, having been nefariously exiled by his brother Antonio with the help of the King of Naples. On the island with them are Caliban, a monstrous-looking native, and Ariel, a powerful sprite, both of whom serve Prospero against their will.

With Ariel’s help, Prospero conjures a storm that shipwrecks his usurping brother, the King of Naples, and the King’s son Ferdinand. Prospero orchestrates events to lead Ferdinand to fall in love with Miranda. Meanwhile, he confronts the conspirators, leading them to repentance, avoids an assassination plot by Caliban, and ultimately forgives his enemies. He renounces his magical powers, frees Ariel, and prepares to return to Milan to reclaim his dukedom.

All’s well that ends well.

The problem I had at the get-go was this line from The Tempest:

Filth as thou art, with humane care, and lodged thee

In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate

The honor of my child.

Act 1, Scene 2, Lines 349-351

Basically, we learn that Caliban at one point tried to rape Miranda. And that he’s not sorry about it. So with this line in mind—with Miranda and Caliban being a love story—Ricky Ricardo started shouting in my head: “Carey, you got some ‘splainin’ to do!”

I never want to give spoilers, so I’ll just say what my expectation was for how this could work out. Prospero is the one who says Caliban tried to rape her, and Caliban (who is said to not have the greatest command of English) says he wishes it had happened. Miranda does not corroborate Prospero’s claim. The only way I could see this working was that they were in love and were just about to do the dirty, when Prospero walks in. He assumes it’s rape, when in actuality it was consensual.

That was my guess. I won’t say how it played out, except that Carey’s story makes sense regarding that line. There was another sticky part that I hadn’t thought about initially, though its problematic nature became very clear. Prospero and Miranda have been stranded on the island for twelve years. She was three when they arrived. That means she’s currently fifteen years old. Caliban was already there and living on his own, and he’s now nineteen years old. For them to have a relationship, especially a physical one… that’s a bit dicey.

With Carey’s retelling focusing on everything leading up to The Tempest, we’re able to see Miranda and Caliban’s relationship grow and bloom into something almost beautiful, contrasting well with the island and the demands of Prospero. What I enjoyed the most was the integration of magic into the story. In the play, Prospero does *hand wave* MAGIC. No explanation, nothing beyond the play telling us so. In this novel, we learn how the magic works, and what all the characters go through as a result of this magic.

It’s also fun to get internal monologues, character reactions, and thoughts to give deeper meaning to their relationships. Yes, actors can convey much on stage, but the text of Tempest, as with plays in general, is limiting. It’s the nature of the medium. But here, instead of actors conveying the story, Carey does so via the novel.

The only quibble I have with the novel is regarding the relationship logistics and my modern sensibilities. When they’re younger, we know there’s an age gap, but all their interactions are innocent. Friendly. As they get older, we learn the exact gap: four years. Of course, there can be the arguments of being historically accurate, or accurate based on the source material, but with adaptations, there’s always room for leeway. Creative liberties. Every reader’s sensibilities vary, but for me, the age gap might have been a good area to fudge.

And that brings us to the topic of the day: adaptations.

We’ve all seen direct adaptations of books: Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Gone Girl, etc. You’ve likely even seen direct adaptations of Shakespeare, like the Leonardo DiCaprio Romeo and Juliet, or the Keanu Reeves Much Ado about Nothing. I want to talk about adaptations that use the source material as a springboard as opposed to a script.

An interesting adaptation that comes to mind is Wicked. Gregory Maguire’s novel was adapted from the original Wizard of Oz novel. Specifically, the story of how Elphaba came to be the Wicked Witch of the West. Wicked was then adapted into a musical. That musical is now being adapted into film. But if we’re talking about Shakespeare, look at Lion King. Or 10 Things I Hate About You. Those are adaptations of Hamlet and Taming of the Shrew.

Or, if we want to look at novels, A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley is King Lear. Fool by Christopher Moore is also King Lear. Moore’s protagonist also headlines two more Shakespearean adaptations, A Serpent of Venice and Shakespeare for Squirrels, the first being a combination of Merchant of Venice and Othello, the other A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Then there’s Shylock is My Name by Howard Jacobson, very clearly Merchant of Venice. And those are just the ones off the top of my head.

But what’s the point of adaptations? Why do we have them? It’s hard to speak on the motivations for others, but for me, it’s about the love of the story and characters. I doubt Christopher Moore woke up one morning saying, “Man, I hate that King Lear garbage. I should do it better. And raunchier.” More likely, given the sequels, he has a love for Shakespeare and wanted to share that love with an audience that may not have been as open to The Bard.

That’s another reason right there. Audience. This can work two ways. First, it can tap into a fan base that already exists. Had I picked up A Thousand Acres and read about a dying farmer and the drama revolving around what’d happen to his farmland, I’d have chucked that across the room and not looked back. But when I was given it and told it was King Lear, I was all, “Ooooh, interesting…”

The flip side is introducing readers to Shakespeare who have zero interest in him. You wouldn’t believe how much groaning and complaining I hear during the Romeo and Juliet sections in high school classes. But If I gave the kids who like dick jokes a copy of Fool, and the ones interested in modern fiction Shylock is My Name, all of a sudden you’ve got people invested in the stories of Shakespeare.

What makes an adaptation though? In Miranda and Caliban, Carey created a whole narrative to give context to the relationship between the titular characters, something portrayed in the original text as him lusting after her. Moore’s Fool takes us through the events of King Lear, but through the eyes of Pocket, and takes great liberties with the fool’s relationship with the other characters. Smiley’s A Thousand Acres’ setting is completely separate from King Lear’s, but runs through the same plot and character concerns. Each is an adaptation, and each is done differently.

As someone who has plans to write a Shakespearean adaptation, I can say that my goal is to introduce new readers. There’s not a ton of overlap with sci-fi and Shakespeare, so that could be a fun demographic to tap into. Also, as I said at the beginning, The Tempest is my favorite of his plays, so a love of the source material goes a long way.

So, with this broad understanding of the purpose of adaptations, how does Miranda and Caliban hold up? How does it fare with the Author’s Arsenal?

For exceptional character development, giving new depth to established characters, I award The Seal. For world-building and setting, giving life to an island and magic almost entirely unspecified in the play, I award The Scroll.

For non-Tempest readers, Miranda and Caliban is an engaging introduction to the world of the Tempest. For Tempest fans, it adds much more depth to the characters, Prospero and Ariel included. Jacqueline Carey has done a fantastic job of creating a narrative that will satisfy those familiar and unfamiliar with Shakespeare alike.

That’s all for now. As always, let me know if you have a book I should review.

When I told one of my tenth graders I was reading this book, she was scandalized. We were on the topic of books because I saw her reading The Belgariad, which I was shocked by as I haven’t seen anyone reading that since I’d read it over twenty years ago. Apparently her dad’s making her read it. Good for him. And her, too.

Anyway, the idea that a dude, especially a grown-up dude, was reading that book was almost too much for her to take. I can only guess at her ideas as to why I was reading New Adult Romantasy (too sexually graphic for YA, IMO). Part of the reason was that I’d seen so much about the series across social media that I knew I’d have to give it a go at some point. Part was that Jacqueline Carey teed up the genre for me back in my Belgariad days. The third part of the equation was there were no holds on it in the Libby app. The stars aligned (and not just in the Rhysand sort of way).

Warning for book one (A Court of Thorns and Roses) spoilers. Obviously, in a book review for a sequel, there will be spoilers for book one. If you haven’t read it, stop here. If you have, here we go.

A Court of Mist and Fury picks up with Feyre and Tamlin, she newly fae and he once again fully empowered. They’re engaged, they’re in love, just what’d you’d expect following the ending of the first book.

But things are not as they seem. Feyre had made a deal with Rhysand to spend one week a month with him in the Night Court (sans John Larroquette), where she’ll learn exactly who Rhysand is, and what life is like for the fae when not under Amarantha’s thumb.

Feyre not only has to deal with that bargain, but also the fame that comes with being the one to stop Amarantha. Everyone knows, and everyone is very, very grateful. And I’m not just talking about her Summer Court subjects (she is engaged to Tamlin, after all), but the fae across all the courts.

I don’t want to get into spoilers, and because the narrative structure of this book is different than A Court of Thorns and Roses, it’s hard to say more than what I already have without giving away surprises. What I will do is offer comparisons between the two.

More magic? Yes. More of the hot and sticky? Yes. Higher and clearer stakes? Yes. More fun action? Yes. More Feyre acting illogical? No, thankfully. All around, it’s a better book than the predecessor.

I spent most of the first section afraid that it would be nothing but illogical Feyre, but as soon as it switched gears I was on board. Tons of fun character development, world building, and contextualizing moments from the first book that enriched the narrative and made me like the first book more than I initially did.

Some of the non-perspective character motivations were a little shaky at times, but with so many characters, it’s hard to make everything fit snuggly. It has been the most fun read of the year so far, but it’s not without its flaws.

Which brings me to the craft subject of the day: foreshadowing.

Foreshadowing is a fairly common concept, but also very broad. Simplistically, foreshadowing is a warning or indication of a future event. But that definition implies we recognize the foreshadowing. Sometimes that’s the point, to purposefully clue the reader into something. Concrete foreshadowing. When Romeo dreams of seeing Juliet dead, the audience knows that’s how he’s going to find her. When Chekhov overtly draws attention to the gun, we know it’s going to play a role.

Other times, we’re given hints that only make sense after the reveal. Prophecy foreshadowing. Like in Sixth Sense, when the kid says he sees dead people, and they don’t know they’re dead. When we find out Bruce Willis is dead, that line carries a lot more meaning. Or even in A Court of Thorns and Roses, when there’s the line about Tamlin’s stone heart, we think it’s a common metaphor about being cold, or callous. Then we find out it’s a literal stone heart which is the key to defeating Amarantha.

Flashbacks and flash-forwards are another common medium for foreshadowing. In Hunger Games, we get the flashback of Peeta giving Katniss bread, essentially feeding her when she’s in need. Later, when Peeta needs feeding, Katniss feeds him, balancing out that act of kindness.

Next up is abstract, or symbolic foreshadowing. This is often used with setting. It was a dark and stormy night, or, a fog settled over the town. It can also be used with objects that have cultural meanings/baggage. In American Beauty, there is the iconic scene of the young girl lying in a pile rose petals, with more falling on her. Roses are often a symbol of romance and lust. In the same movie, you see the main character’s wife methodically pruning the roses in her yard. This will give us expectations about his relationship with both those women.

Lastly, we have fallacy foreshadowing, or a red herring. This is similar to the concrete foreshadowing, except it is supposed to trick the reader, as opposed to give them insight. When Obi-Wan tells Luke that Vader killed Luke’s father, that sets up the surprise reveal that Vader is Luke’s father. In Game of Thrones, Littlefinger pits Arya and Sansa against each other, readying us for a sister vs sister showdown, but they join forces and turn on him.

Foreshadowing is effective in that we have learned how to interpret the various types, and when the reveal comes, we are pleased or satisfied. When foreshadowing doesn’t work is when it tries to be one type, and ends up falling flat, or turns into another type. When you set up a proper foreshadow, you essentially make a promise to the reader. If you don’t fulfill that promise, the moment falls flat, and you lose that reader’s trust.

As I mentioned earlier, Sarah J. Maas handles foreshadowing well in the first book, especially with that stone heart moment. There are good instances in A Court of Mist and Fury as well (the one that stick out involves her sisters), but also a mishandled one that, for me, kept me at arm’s length the rest of the story. I won’t give it away, I’ll just say it involves “merfolk”, so you know what I’m talking about when it happens.

So how does A Court of Mist and Fury fare with the Author’s Arsenal?

For world-building and setting, A Court of Mist and Fury earns The Scroll. We had a taste of the fae world in the first book, and we really delved deep and explored so many new locations and cultures, in addition to expanded on what we already knew.

And for character building, it earns The Seal. Many of the characters were presented in new light, and grew to be much more than they were before. The relationships between Feyre and her companions (and their relationships with each other) are was drive the narrative and suck the reader into this world Maas has created.

Unlike some other books I’ve read recently, I’m looking forward to the next installment. I’m just hoping Elain becomes more than just a pretty mannequin.

Side note: If I had the time and energy, I’d have tied The Belgariad into the review’s ending, a sort of foreshadowing. But it has been twenty-plus years since I’ve read them and it’s hard to remember specific details. Forgive me. 🙂