At the 1901 Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, N.Y., Calamity Jane recounts her exploits to a diverse crowd of spectators. The crowd audibly gasps as the former Pony Express rider—known to friends by her birth name, Martha—describes how she bested a desperado armed only with a meat cleaver. Buffalo Bill Cody, his Cowboy Band, and mighty warriors of the Lakota tribe all converge on the stage for a “rousing climactic performance.” On her break, Jane takes trespassing young waifs under her wing, offering them food from her tent alongside a more personal version of her life story. Ultimately, Jane leaves and goes west. Van Sciver’s successful graphic nonfiction formula sends another tall tale packing. An author’s note preempts the narrative with essential historical context on harmful stereotypes and caricatures of Lakota people. Backmatter from contemporary Indigenous scholar and professor Dr. Susana Geliga (Sicangu Lakota and Boriken Taino) expands this context even further to truly center Indigenous perspectives against the mythic “Wild American West.” Sepia tones and crosshatching call to mind classic Western comics; the color palette also effectively delineates flashbacks from the story’s present. Photographs add authenticity to the lore, while Jane’s unreliability as a narrator and figure is brought into question and deliciously muddies the truth.

Filmmaker and poet Snow uses birds as a metaphor for immigration in this story of a family—who have apparently journeyed to a new country—returning to China for a visit. Nervous to fly, the child wants to go home, but Mama gestures to the cranes flying alongside the plane (“They are your aunties”) and explains that “our family expands across borders. We belong in the sky.” She adds, “Long ago, when we were birds, we soared across the seas.” Snow’s illustrations are as grand as the book’s language: “The skies were our highways; the stars were our street signs.” Migrating birds holding the shape of people within their bodies fly amid a deep blue cosmos of stars. Mama notes that when the birds became people, flying down to Earth with the stars within them, those unfamiliar with the skies “built steel walls” that patrolled and surveilled, “splitting families in two.” Little Snow and Mama descend on the back of a giant bird and then have dinner with Grandma and her family. The juxtaposition of magical metaphor and the psychedelic colors of everyday life at Grandma’s house feel surreal but perfectly convey the feeling of mystery and wonder at this world in which souls can soar. Young readers will understand Snow’s message viscerally, while adults will appreciate the political implications.

In this second installment of the author’s fantasy series, teenager Timothy Brennan continues to deal with the recent discovery that he is not a human; rather, he is an elf with some talents of the sídhe, or fairies. In the previous entry, Timothy learned of the existence of elves and his place in their society—he is the seventh son of a seventh son in the lineage of Tuathla (Timothy’s grandmother), the recently deceased ruler of the elves. In addition to his grandmother, Timothy has also lost Aenya, the sídhe who helped him adapt to Sídhlin, the elf world, in the previous book. Aenya was apparently killed by Cadwaladr, an elf who is attempting to take over Sídhlin and was in cahoots with Timothy’s now dead uncle. Cadwaladr enlists the help of a sinister sídhe, Siofra, who infiltrates Sídhlin to assassinate Timothy and any elf elders who stand in his way. But unbeknownst to anyone, Aenya survived in Slaíne, which in human legends was referred to as Eden. The author succeeds at catching readers up with the story so far without resorting to excessive exposition dumps; not everything referenced is explained in detail, but he provides enough information to prevent readers from getting lost. Nilsen writes with a gritty sense of realism and excels at conveying fast-paced action in descriptions of battles and in other set pieces throughout the novel. Timothy is an amusing protagonist; despite his sad backstory, he keeps a sense of humor, often teasing his elf friends by using phrases (like “What up?”) that they do not understand. Still, he has a lot of characteristics stereotypical of a protagonist in a male power fantasy: Before he knew he was an elf, he was “a video game playing, high school geek,” yet he secretly has great power and manages to woo a beautiful sídhe. Still, fans of action-oriented fantasy will find the prose and plot compelling.

England, 1349. Sir Hugh de Grey, known as the Pale Knight, has just arrived home from his battles in France. He left behind a continent ravaged not only by war, but by plague, and he’s disheartened to find that the deadly pestilence has reached England ahead of his ship. At his estate, he finds his young son, John, dying of the disease and knows he’s being punished by God for the atrocities he has committed in France. He prays to God to spare his boy—but it’s not God that answers. Rather, Death himself appears, a shrouded skeleton with his massive scythe, to present Sir Hugh with an offer: If Hugh will enter Death’s service and kill the valiant knight Gilbert the Pure, Death will spare young John. With his acerbic squire, Crispin, Sir Hugh sets off to kill the good knight—a much better man than himself—through a landscape rapidly descending into madness. Hugh is not the only one with a moral test before him: The Jewish refugee Aaron of Albi enjoys the protection of the evil Sir Maurice Beauchamp, but only because Sir Maurice believes his Jewish magic will protect his household from the plague. Maurice’s daughter, Joan, wants Aaron to kill her father so they can run away together, but will his attempt to wield the plague for his own purposes backfire? Milligan renders 14th-century England as a disease-ravaged wasteland, brought to phantasmagoric life by the striking full-color artwork of artist Val Rodrigues. Sir Hugh and Crispin must contend with zombie-like plague victims, flagellants driven mad with zealotry, and vigilante mobs happy to burn as a witch any woman who crosses their path. Readers will find some ominous echoes of the Covid-19 pandemic, but mostly, the book serves as a wonderful piece of historical escapism, presenting the Middle Ages in all its barbarous, bubonic glory.

Gilbert, a bald, mint-green goblin, is far too busy for Valentine’s Day. From bird-watching to goat yoga, his schedule is full. Besides, “Valentine’s Day is all about love and flowers and all that other mushy malarkey”—Gilbert doesn’t need it! He isn’t interested in those heart-shaped boxes of candy with their gross coconut surprises, and he’s not a fan of the so-called stars of Valentine’s Day: cupids with their gorgeous hair and love arrows. But the cupid squad doesn’t give up on Gilbert and sends him zigging and zagging to avoid their arrows. Believing he’s been hit (in fact he unwittingly backed up into a cactus), Gilbert finds himself falling in love with love and eagerly accepting his friends’ valentines. Humor certain to please readers young and old is woven throughout Gilbert’s sassy narration and the candy-colored illustrations, which trace the goblin’s metamorphosis from sourpuss to lovebug. The reasons for Gilbert’s true change of heart—and why he was so loath to celebrate to begin with—are left unspoken, but readers may enjoy coming up with their own ideas. Front endpapers featuring candy hearts festooned with “meh” and “nope” capture the anti-Valentine vibe, while supportive cards from Gilbert’s friends can be found on the back endpapers.