A Court of Jealousy and Haters: ACOTAR chapter 18 or “”Go To Horny Jail And/Or A National Park, Sarah”

Just a heads up that sign-up for my new Patreon tier and my Ream page are live in advance of this Thursday’s premiere of The Ogre’s Fairytale Bride.

As promised, I’m importing the A Court of Thorns and Roses recaps here from Patreon. These were originally written beginning in August of 2020, so there will be references to upcoming or seasonal events that won’t fit with our current timeline. I am not a time traveler and you’ll never be able to prove that I am. I will also include editors notes like this every now and then as we go, mostly to amuse myself but to give re-read value to those who’ve already been on this awful, awful journey with me.

So, you know what I can’t figure out? Why did they redo the covers for these books and why are the covers so blech? It looks like they’re trying to Narnia this shit up for some reason, when the original covers were so striking. And while there were a lot of “copy cat” covers, nothing quite looked just like those original covers. I’m perplexed, from a marketing standpoint. ed.—I am still perplexed. The original cover was gorgeous. The new ones look like Hogwarts house themed merch.

Not that these books need any marketing. I think they just ship them out in the mail like penny savers.

They’re about as well-written, too.

The next day, the blood of the faerie had been cleaned up by the time I ate, washed, and dressed. I’d taken my time in the morning, and it was nearly noon as I stood atop the staircase, peering down at the entry hall below. Just to make sure it was gone.

Maas chooses the strangest angles. I just wanna break it down.

First of all, we can just assume she’s eaten food, bathed, and put clothes on. Every morning has started that way since she got to Prythian. That is not the strong point on which to center this opening.

Second, pointing out that the blood had been cleaned up is also weird. We’ve seen whole feasts cleaned up by magic. The reader assumes it has been cleaned up already.

Third: Feyre is making sure the entry hall is gone.

Feyre’s mission this morning is finding Tamlin and explaining how bad she feels about having killed Andras. Which was the big moment and entire point of the last chapter, but let’s undermine that moment by doing it again. Why not?

Oh, but then she sees the clouds outside and, like a chihuahua with a strong prey drive, she jumps to:

The water was still enough that the vibrant sky and fat, puffy clouds above were flawlessly reflected. Asking about them seemed vulgar after last night, but maybe—maybe once those paints and brushes did arrive, I could venture to the pool to capture it.

Yeah, I think it probably would be “vulgar” to be like, sorry again about killing your friend, has my Amazon package arrived yet?”

Tamlin and Lucien come in, but Lucien doesn’t talk to her and just goes straight out the door with a little wave.

I glanced around, hoping for any sign of those paints, but Tam pointed to the open front doors through which Lucien had exited. Beyond them, I could see both of our horses, already saddled and waiting. Lucien was already climbing into the saddle of a third horse.

So like…they have a trip or something planned but they didn’t tell her or come to get her. Is this a magic thing? Or just a happy coincidence? Were they just gonna wait out there until she noticed them?

Tamlin suggests that since he doesn’t have anything going on and the paint hasn’t arrived yet (postal service in decline, Tam? Tell me about it), he thought they could go for a killing-free ride. Like, he actually jokes about the ride being sans killing, which seems pretty callous considering everything that happened the night before.

A High Lord digging a grave for a stranger. I might not have believed it if I’d been told, might not have believed it if he hadn’t offered me sanctuary rather than death.

Idk, Feyre, sounds like you’ve believed everything anybody has ever told you about fairies and that’s how this whole damn book started.

There’s a section break and:

I couldn’t come up with any words when we arrived—and knew that even if I had been able to paint it, nothing would have done it justice.

Remember in the early chapters when I was like, oh, wow, I love the way she writes that the character has this interest and describes things using that interest? I RESCIND THAT COMMENT. I had no idea we’d be hearing about something is so gorgeous that not even Feyre could paint it quite this often.

We sat atop a grassy knoll, overlooking a glade of oaks so wide and high they could have been the pillars and spires of an ancient castle. Shimmering tufts of dandelion fluff drifted by, and the floor of the clearing was carpeted with swaying crocuses and snowdrops and bluebells. It was an hour or two past noon by the time we arrived, but the light was thick and golden.

Knoll: small, rounded hill or prominence

Clearing: open space in a forest

Glade: open space in a forest

I want you to keep the description of where they are in mind as we continue. Because I’m going to criticize it.

But you already knew that. 

I hugged my knees and drank in the glen.

Glen: a narrow valley

Jenny: doesn’t know where the fuck we are.

Because sitting on a small hill won’t put you up above towering trees. And if they’re in a clearing, they’re already in the forest, looking down on the forest that’s way far, far down in the glen…which holds a wide glade…full of trees.

I don’t expect fantasy authors to moonlight as geologists, okay? But at least know what the fuck the words you’re using mean. ed.—This particular aspect of the book only gets worse as more environmental features are introduced.

Tamlin and Lucien brought a blanket to rest on, but the grass is so exciting to Feyre that she chooses to sit on that, instead. Tamlin comes and sits next to her, and Feyre asks him where they are.

“Just a glen.”

So, not a knoll-clearing-glen-glade, then? Just a glen?

Well, guess what, Fucknardula, Prince of Contradictions: it can’t be a fucking hill if it’s a fucking valley!

The green of his eyes matched the grass between my fingers, and the amber flecks were like the shafts of sunlight that streamed through the trees.

WHAT TREES?! THE TREES IN THE CLEARING?! WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE?!

So, Tamlin asks her if she likes the place and she’s like, yes, and he’s like, oh, is that all, and she makes a comment about groveling to the High Lord. So, now Tamlin knows that she asked the Suriel about him. This is a pretty important plot point, right?

That smile of his sparked something bold in my chest. “He also said that you like being brushed, and if I’m a clever girl, I might train you with treats.” 

Tamlin tipped his head to the sky and roared with laughter. Despite myself, I let out a soft laugh. 

“I might die of surprise,” Lucien said behind me. “You made a joke, Feyre.” 

I turned to look at him with a cool smile. “You don’t want to know what the Suriel said about you.” I flicked my brows up, and Lucien lifted his hands in defeat.

Oh. Well. I guess that’s also a choice. That. One could make.

BANTER!

That is a word I hate so, so much, ever since the rise of Chick Lit in the 00’s. Since then, every single damn book in romance/ya had to have “clever banter” as a selling point. Which would be fine, you know? It was kind of annoying when you couldn’t find any books that weren’t trying to replicate the success of See Jane Date and Confessions of a Shopaholic. But things evened out and eventually you had your writers who were known for their banter and writers who actually wrote it well.

Yeah. That’s two different groups.

For some reason, Sarah J. Maas has been lauded by her fans as a master of “clever banter.” So has E.L. James, whose readers almost certainly also enjoy watching someone beat a dead horse.

And one might be tempted to think, well, some people have really ass senses of humor and for some reason they line up with ass literary preferences. But here’s the thing: if you cut off the “you made a joke” part and just left the part about brushing him? That would be cute. But it would also have to be in an entirely different place! Instead of addressing something that seems pretty damn important, something that could have become a substantial conversation, an opportunity to reveal crucial information…we got banter.

That is the curse of the banter. Not that people who aren’t funny are writing it. I mean, that’s one of the issues. But the biggest problem is when a writer prioritizes banter over the actual story. And that’s what happened here. It was more important to Maas to show her male characters reacting to the wit of her heroine than to develop an important piece of the relationship between them.

Tamlin points down the hill/clearing/ravine/space station/etc. and is like, I want to show you something.

I got to my feet, but Lucien remained sitting on the blanket and lifted the bottle of wine in salute. He took a slug from it as he sprawled on his back and gazed at the green canopy.

The green canopy. Over the clearing.

I no longer ask myself, “how did this get published?” I only lament that the authors I enjoy don’t write shittily enough to get traditional publishing contracts and the type of hype popular, shit-written books enjoy. ed.—I wrote these recaps before I got TikTok. Imagine my state of mind now.

Each of Tamlin’s movements was precise and efficient, his powerfully muscled legs eating up the earth as we wove between the towering trees, hopped over tiny brooks, and clambered up steep knolls. We stopped atop a mound, and my hands slackened at my sides. There, in a clearing surrounded by towering trees, lay a sparkling silver pool. Even from a distance, I could tell that it wasn’t water, but something more rare and infinitely more precious.

Are we sure it’s a clearing and not the dead-center of a fucking forest? Or under a highway overpass? Is it a viaduct, Feyre?

Also, the “hands slackened” confuses me because I don’t think any of us were wondering what her hands were doing and now I’m sure that at least 60% of us are imagining that Feyre was walking with her fists clenched angrily.

Anyway, on top of the muscles Feyre is checking out, we also hear about how rough his hands are when he touches her to lead her down to the water.

The silvery sparkling water that dribbled from his hand set ripples dancing across the pool, each glimmering with various colors, and—“That looks like starlight,” I breathed. 

He huffed a laugh, filling and emptying his hand again. I gaped at the glittering water. “It is starlight.”

Wait…is this actually a fantastical element? In this fantasy book?!

Of course, it really says something about me as a human being that I don’t find fairies fantastical. Maybe the worldbuilding thing is more my fault than Maas’s. On account of me being a woo-woo new age ding-dong.

“This is Prythian. According to your legends, nothing is impossible.”

Well, that’s what I’ve been saying. I just want to know why it hasn’t applied to like, any other part of Prythian. For example, their mail delivery speed. Feyre’s gonna need those paint brushes if she’s gonna capture this.

“How?” I asked, unable to take my eyes from the pool—the silver, but also the blue and red and pink and yellow glinting beneath, the lightness of it …

and violet and gold and chocolate and mauve and cream and crimson and silver and rose and azure and lemon and russet and grey and purple and white and pink and orange and blue.

Yes, I am aware of how often I use that joke. But if people wrote better, I wouldn’t fucking have to. Don’t blame me. Blame the author of the book and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

I’m just glad we didn’t hear how her amazing artistry couldn’t capture the beauty or whatever.

So, anyway, to answer Feyre’s question:

“I don’t know—I never asked, and no one ever explained.”

That’s convenient, isn’t it?

I don’t mind skipping long explanations, but this could have been so much better. For example, “wait, what? They don’t have liquid starlight where you’re from?” This is just like, a lazy improv sketch.

Tamlin starts taking off his clothes and is like, get in.

A swim—unclothed, alone. With a High Lord. I shook my head, falling back a step. His fingers paused at the second button from his collar.

He never tells her to take her clothes off. He just says “jump in.”

“Don’t you want to know what it’s like?” 

I didn’t know what he meant: swimming in starlight, or swimming with him. “I—no.” 

“All right.” He left his tunic unbuttoned. There was only bare, muscled, golden skin beneath.

What was supposed to be under there? A toaster? Six tickets to Wrestlemania Live? A puppy?

Also, we’re meant to believe that Feyre, who is so brave and who also has zero hangups about meaningless sex in a barn and who fucking loves art, is going to pass up the chance to swim in a pool of colors because she’s afraid of being undressed with someone.

Feyre asks Tamlin why he brought her there and he’s like, this was one of my favorite places when I was a kid. She’s like, when was that and he’s just like, a long time ago. Feyre asks Tamlin if Lucien is better after the stuff the night before  because “He…didn’t react well.”

Tamlin shrugged, but his words were soft as he said, “Lucien … Lucien has endured things that make times like last night … difficult. Not just the scar and the eye—though I bet last night brought back memories of that, too.”

I’m not sure how Feyre expects someone to react to the sight of someone with limbs ripped off, bleeding and screaming everywhere. How do you react “well” in that situation? There’s really no good way to react, is there? But whatever, it’s too bad Lucien wasn’t brave enough to react like Feyre did.

Next comes, I shit you not, a page-and-a-half long block paragraph info dump in which Tamlin just tells Feyre Lucien’s entire backstory. I honestly don’t think my Kindle app will let me copy and paste the whole thing because of how much text I would have to select. It’s that unbearably long and painfully unbroken. But here’s what we learn, all in dialogue delivered by Tamlin in his little speech:

• Lucien is the youngest son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court 
• He’s the youngest of seven brothers
• They’re all competitive
• Inheritance of the High Lord title goes to the strongest, not birth order
• Every court in Prythian works that way
• Lucien didn’t care about being a High Lord, anyway
• So he was a total fuckboy
• but he fell in love with a lower-class fairy
• there’s something called a “mating bond” (that isn’t explained)
• his father had the girlfriend fairy executed in front of Lucien and made him watch.

All of that information I just relayed is in ONE. PARAGRAPH. Tamlin just vomits all that out like, here, reader, you’re all caught up.

Gosh, wouldn’t it have been great if this conversation had happened…between Feyre and Lucien, maybe? Since he’s the one involved in the whole thing? Since it’s his pain, and revealing it would be a bond of trust between him and Feyre? And then his inevitable betrayal of her would be way worse?

Because I’m thinking that at the end of this book we’re going to find out that Lucien is actually evil or something. Either Lucien or Tamlin. One of them is gonna be evil.

Just because the paragraph is over, don’t think we’re suddenly safe from the info dump. Tamlin goes on to add that:

• Lucien ran away from home
• his brothers came to try to kill him
• Tamlin and Lucien killed two of them
• Tamlin brought Lucien onto his team to protect him
• but also for his people skills
• now the remaining brothers are afraid of Tamlin
• Lucien’s father isn’t sorry
• and Lucien is still haunted by the whole watching his true love murdered thing

Again, imagine how cool all of this would be if it weren’t just slapped in our eyes like a dead herring.

I feel like Maas has a difficult time making her characters communicate and relay important information in natural ways. Why isn’t Lucien involved in telling his own story? And why did the mystery of his past have to be solved all at once like that, in the clumsiest way possible?

It didn’t quite excuse everything Lucien had said and done to me, but … I understood now.

What has Lucien “done” to you? I mean, we know he tricked you with the Suriel thing and almost got you killed, but you didn’t seem that pissed off about it. Like, you mentioned it and moved right on past it. And why does it take a long, harrowing tale of personal tragedy to make Feyre understand why Lucien has been occasionally rude to her and tried to get her killed? Isn’t, IDK, skinning his friend a good enough reason?

Feyre is like, whoa, that story is bummer, I wanna change the subject, so she asks what will happen if she drinks the starlight. Tamlin says it would make her happy “until your last breath,” which sounds like some fairy trap bullshit to me because it doesn’t state specifically when that last breath is gonna happen. If I huff brake fluid I might be happy until my last breath, but that last breath is probably gonna be around fifteen minutes after I do it.

It’s okay, though, because Feyre has to wrestle the sad stick away from Lucien for a second:

“I don’t think that entire pool would be enough for me,” I said, and he laughed. 

“Two jokes in one day—a miracle sent from the Cauldron,” he said.

She’s not joking, Tamlin. She really thinks she has it worse than anybody else in the land. Take it from us, the readers. We’ve been in her self-pitying, selfish little head the whole time.

Tamlin asks what would make Feyre happy.

I blushed from my neck to the top of my head.

How do you know this, Feyre? Are you looking in a mirror?

“I—I don’t know.” It was true—I’d never given that sort of thing any thought beyond getting my sisters safely married off and having enough food for me and my father, and time to learn to paint.

Time to learn to paint? You already know how to paint. We keep hearing all about it.

But also, what do you mean, you don’t think about what would make you happy? It’s literally right there, and you’ve mentioned it a bunch of times throughout this book so far.

“Hmm,” he said, not stepping away. “What about the ringing of bluebells? Or a ribbon of sunshine? Or a garland of moonlight?” He grinned wickedly. 

High Lord of Prythian indeed. High Lord of Foolery was more like it. And he knew—he knew I’d say no, that I’d squirm a bit from merely being alone with him.

Sometimes, I honestly don’t know how to criticize this book. This is one of those times. I’m so stuck here. We’ve had zero indication so far that Tamlin enjoys making her uncomfortable, so why is she assuming that he’s trying to do that, now? Other than to force some sexual tension that we apparently aren’t smart enough to pick up from the constant updates on Tamlin’s skin being under his shirt.

Seriously, at this point I’m wondering where else he’s supposed to be keeping it.

No. I wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of embarrassing me. I’d had enough of that lately, enough of … of that girl encased in ice and bitterness.

That’s gonna be the title of my memoir: A Girl of Ice and Bitterness.

Actually, an Enby of Ice and Bitterness, but it ruins the joke if I don’t misgender myself and that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

But yeah, Feyre? We’ve all had enough of you at this point, too.

Based on Feyre’s projection of her feelings onto Tamlin, she decides to go swimming after all. So he won’t win or something.

My undergarments were modest enough that I wasn’t showing much, but I still looked straight at him as I stood on the grassy bank.

Wait…are you trying to not see yourself naked?

Slowly, so slowly, his eyes roved down, then up. As if he were studying every inch, every curve of me. And even though I wore my ivory underthings, that gaze alone stripped me bare.

I know she means the color ivory but I cannot help myself. I have to imagine that she’s wearing a bra and panties made out of elephant tusks. Because it’s funnier that way. And I need something, anything, to wash the cliche out of my eyes after reading that.

“As if” he were studying every inch, every curve. No, jackass, it’s literally the thing he is doing. Plus, since when is Feyre curvy? I thought she was sickly thin. Maybe she just has curves “in all the right places.”

His eyes met mine and he gave me a lazy smile before removing his clothes. Button by button. I could have sworn the gleam in his eyes turned hungry and feral—enough so that I had to look anywhere but at his face.

Wait, didn’t she think they were going to eat her “or worse” at one point? Why drop your guard when he looks “hungry and feral” and you’re naked and defenseless?

I let myself indulge in the glimpse of a broad chest, arms corded with muscle, and long, strong legs before I walked right into that pool. He wasn’t built like Isaac, whose body had very much still been in that gangly place between boy and man. No—Tamlin’s glorious body was honed by centuries of fighting and brutality.

Just look at his dick and tell us how big it is, okay? There’s no way you got from the chest to the legs without the dick getting involved. Sack up and stop the “tee-hee nakey.” Your readers want the D, and I know that because BookTok says it’s “spicy”.

The liquid was delightfully warm, and I strode in until it was deep enough to swim out a few strokes and casually tread in place. Not water, but something smoother, thicker. Not oil, but something purer, thinner. Like being wrapped in warm silk.

It’s water soluble lube.

I also appreciate the way Maas just repeated the same sentence twice there. Awesome.

Tamlin asks Feyre who taught her how to swim. I will give you a multiple choice, okay?

A) Feyre
B) Feyre
C) Feyre
D) All of the above

“When I was twelve, I watched the village children swimming at a pond and figured it out myself.”

Because, and I cannot stress this enough, Feyre cannot possibly have ever learned anything by being taught. She is such a Strong, Kick-Ass Heroine that she’s only ever gained skills by watching someone else do them and then she’s just magically good at them.

I bet you were thinking, wow, this is a nice change, the characters are doing something rather than just spouting exposition at us. Well, great. Your vile thoughts have damned us all like Ray thinking of summer camp at the end of Ghostbusters.

But instead of Stay-Puft, we get Stay-Sad as Feyre tells Tamlin the story of how her father used to be rich, but then he wasn’t anymore because the generational wealth he’d enjoyed ran the fuck out.

We were just a good name that masked three generations of bad debts.

I know it’s not word-for-word copying, but the second I read that line I was like the meme of Leo DiCaprio pointing from his armchair. Because I have watched Titanic obsessively since it first came out and I know every single line. So when Feyre said that? What I heard was, “Your father left us nothing but a legacy of bad debts hidden by a good name.”

Anyway, to sum up yet another page of pure exposition dump. the whole story is that her father put all their eggs in one basket by sending all of their wealth on three ships and sending them to someplace called Bharat for “spices and cloth” so I’m guessing that Bharat is the Middle Eastern portion of this fantasy world. He had the ships take a shortcut that resulted in their sinking and that made them poor.

Someone help me out here, because that is absolutely the backstory from something but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not original. It’s from something and it’s driving me up a wall that I can’t remember what it was. ed.—It’s one of the versions of Beauty and the Beast.

My father … he just stopped trying after that.” I couldn’t bring myself to mention that final, ugly moment when that other creditor had come with his cronies to wreck my father’s leg.

Oh, you couldn’t bring yourself to mention that your father didn’t “stop trying” because he lost his ships, but because he became physically disabled? And that despite his disability he did, indeed, try to provide for his daughters?

If I ever run into Maas, I’m going to corner her in a bathroom like Sinema and demand to know what the fuck her problem is with people like me. Because I’m getting like, personally insulted by the ableism in this book and how much the author seems to think that ableism is justifiable if it gives her heroine a sad.

“And here you are. What else did you figure out for yourself?”

Everything, Tamlin. She can do everything and she doesn’t need help from anyone else because she’s a Strong Kick-Ass Heroine.

That’s what makes her so likeable.

This section ends Feyre saying that she told him all about “those years in the woods” so who the fuck knows what she tells him besides the hunting part. After a section break, they ride back to the house. Feyre keeps looking at Lucien until finally he’s like, what? And Feyre decides not to bring up his painful past.

I waited until Tamlin was far enough ahead that even his High Fae hearing might not pick up on my words. “I never got to thank you for your advice with the Suriel.” 

Lucien tensed. “Oh?” 

I looked ahead at the easy way Tamlin rode, the horse utterly unbothered by his mighty rider. “If you still want me dead,” I said, “you might have to try a bit harder.”

I’m not sure any line in something we’ve read in a recap has made me laugh as hard as “the horse utterly unbothered by his mighty rider.”

Lucien loosed a breath. “That’s not what I intended.” I gave him a long look. “I wouldn’t shed any tears,” he amended. I knew it was true. “But what happened to you—” 

“I was joking,” I said, and gave him a little smile.

“You can’t possibly forgive me that easily for sending you into danger.”

Nah, you’re hot, she’ll forgive you and probably you’ll end up having a three-way with her and Tamlin or something.

But Feyre is surprisingly pragmatic about it. She’s like, you know, I get it, I killed your friend and now you have to live with me, so some hard feelings but not like, a bunch of hard feelings. Lucien tells her that Tamlin said she saved the Suriel before trying to save herself, and she’s like, it was the right thing to do.

The look he gave me was more contemplative than any he’d given me before. “I know far too many High Fae and lesser faeries who wouldn’t have seen it that way—or bothered.” He reached for something at his side and tossed it to me. I had to fight to stay in the saddle as I fumbled for it—a jeweled hunting knife.

LOL, let me just throw a knife at you as a sign of good faith.

But this conversation here is a great turning point in their relationship. I wish we could have gotten the same kind of moment over like…all the shit Tamlin just rattled off in a dialogue clump.

“I heard you scream,” he said as I examined the blade in my hands. I’d never held one so finely crafted, so perfectly balanced. “And I hesitated. Not long, but I hesitated before I came running. Even though Tam got there in time, I still broke my word in those seconds I waited.” He jerked his chin at the knife. “It’s yours. Don’t bury it in my back, please.”

Note to Feyre: this is an apology. This is how a person apologizes.

And with that chapter hook, I’m firmly on Team Lucien.