Blood, war, intrigue, politics, historical wars of fairy races, survival (and not) sex work, betrayal.
Happy holidays, everybody!
Beckan feels her own glitter as it falls to the ground and crunches beneath her feet. She's used to it. She's used to feeling the ground and the bottoms of shoes and the grout in the bathroom tiles with the bits of her that slough off and stay sentient. She never used to think about these wimpy bits of pain until Scrap's stupid books about fairy anatomy started showing up everywhere in the house, stacked on the floor just like their swept up glitter, and no, she does not want to know about the complex sensory capabilities of every speck of her--she spends her time welding things together and laughing at stupid jokes and feeling very, very whole, but now she thinks about losing parts....
A History of Glitter and Blood is the story that happens after the story, or between the stories, within and without a group of fairies holding out in a fairy city abandoned during war. What happens in those last days of occupation? How can one little political coupe fell them all? Whose rebellion is right, and whose is just easy? And who can you trust?
The book reminds me of some of the best of Cobwebs and The City, Not Long After--a gritty, glittering abandoned city, an underground economy based on the immortality of fairy bodies, and the trials of love and sex and fear among one group of resisting fairies, and the allies they make among gnomes and tightropers (sky-dwelling fae-adjacent folk). Unique to the story is the narrative conceit--its players vie for control of the story, and their interjections come across on the page (along with art and other ephemera, which are really awesome.) It's a moody, affecting, strange world to get lost in on a winter's night, and I'm more than eager to read more of Hannah Moskowitz's work.
Before the war, it was the city's secret: that it was loved, that it was beautiful, that it was their entire world and they were never unhappy with that. They liked that they knew who would eat them...most of all there was the odd, buzzing type of harmony that no one who was flighty would ever understand.
It made sense.
Hannah Moskowitz: Blog