A review by onthesamepage
What Moves the Dead by T. Kingfisher

dark mysterious medium-paced
  • Plot- or character-driven? A mix
  • Strong character development? No
  • Loveable characters? Yes
  • Diverse cast of characters? Yes
  • Flaws of characters a main focus? No

5.0

I really love T. Kingfisher as an author, but before reading this book, I didn't have much luck with her horror stories. I read two, enjoyed them well enough, but other than loving her writing and sense of humor, the plots and characters were fairly forgettable. I picked up What Moves the Dead as a sort of "last chance" for me with Kingfisher's horror, and I was kind of shocked by how much I loved it.

This has a lot to do with the main character. Alex Easton is just a delight to read about. By page 26, I knew exactly what kind of person they were. The snark and sarcasm were right up my alley—opinionated characters are so much fun, truly.

"But the war," said Denton. "Weren't you frightened?"
Sometimes it's hard to know if someone is insulting or just an American.

Denton lifted a hand in protest. "Barely that," he said. "I had one year of schooling and then the South took it in its head to secede, and I was shoved out the door with a bonesaw and a sheet of paper saying I knew how to use it."
"Were you frightened?" I asked, with gentle malice.

I also found it impressive how much Kingfisher managed to do in a scant 165 pages. There was enough room for character development, the story, and worldbuilding. The concept of sworn soldiers was really interesting, as is the way she used pronouns throughout the book. I'm not familiar with The Fall of the House of Usher, but I am curious to read it now and see what is different and what is the same. The horror elements were appropriately creepy, and the cover is both so stunning and so horrendous that, even as my brain was going "DO NOT WANT", I had to buy a copy anyway.

A few more quotes that I loved:

I am never sure what to think of Americans. Their brashness can be charming, but just when I decide that I rather like them, I meet one that I wish would go back to America, and then perhaps keep going off the far edge, into the sea.

A Frenchwoman once told me that I had no poetry in my souk. I recited a dirty limerick to her, and she threw a lemon at my head. Paris is a marvelous city.
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