Irene Sartori sells foreclosed houses—from a palazzo in smoldering Rome to an expensive property in sinking Venice—to wealthy foreigners impervious to the dystopian climate catastrophe befalling Europe. Renowned in her field, Irene gets a mysterious call beckoning her to help sell an “unsellable” property in her hometown of Milan. The enchanting yet haunting spot, known as Via Saterna, is defined by its central staircase, giving the building a circular interior that defies its ordinary square-shaped exterior: “The Via Saterna project is based on that deception, on the assurance of a certain presumption in the eye of an onlooker and the subsequent unmasking of preconception, the crumbling of logical deduction.” Most intriguing, however, is Via Saterna’s unlikely inhabitant, Lidia, whose mysterious relationship to the house quickly takes over Irene’s life. As Irene tries to piece together the intertwined history of Lidia and Via Saterna, another narrative unfolds: one that begins decades prior when, according to the narrator, Lidia had a fatal fall down the house’s stairwell. The two concentric narratives—one moving forward in time and the other moving backward—create a gripping yet dizzying story that forces the reader to question its every detail. Both narratives oscillate between themes of birth and death, balancing the puzzle of Lidia’s alleged death with Irene’s personal journey into motherhood, which emphasizes the circularity of the novel’s timeline. The plot, like the house, is dotted with circular and geometric imagery: “I had waited forty years for the circle to close,” says the house’s owner as the novel ends.

Some days Mom soars on the wind like a kite, and “no matter how hard I pull the string, I can’t bring her back down.” Other days, Mom’s boat takes on water and begins to sink. The child tries to help bail it out from her own buoyant vessel, but it’s not enough, and Mom spends those days in bed, while the child’s boat feels “cramped and heavy.” Mom takes the child to meet Grace, a therapist who tells her it’s not her responsibility to monitor her mother’s moods. On another “sinking day,” the child picks up crayons instead and draws. Later, Mom joins her and asks for a picture to hang where she can see it from her bed. The child wonders if she’ll encounter similar troubles when she’s an adult. No one knows, but nevertheless, the young protagonist feels ready to face whatever happens. Detlefsen has crafted a heartfelt meditation on the effects of mental illness on family members. Metaphors are woven in with more concrete events; both reinforce the story’s positive message. Importantly, Mom’s struggles are realistically depicted, but so is the loving parent-child relationship. Dion’s illustrations use negative space to great effect, and the gouache-style brushstrokes create a lovely, textured softness. Mother and child are tan-skinned; Grace is paler.

Little Gnouf and Mirabelle—two “Gnoufs,” who look like pale-skinned children with snouts and animallike ears—are thrilled to be visiting the ocean for the first time. The pals are marveling at their surroundings when Mirabelle hears with her “magical ears” a far-off cry for help: It’s a baby whale trapped in a fishing net on the shore. Once Little Gnouf and Mirabelle manage to get the whale into the water, the friends climb onto the creature’s back and offer words of encouragement, which ultimately helps the calf reunite with his mom. The duo’s improvised efforts to save the whale—they make ropes from the fishing net and get an assist from some seagulls—are compelling, though there’s a whiff of the cutesy about the story: “Little Gnouf and Mirabelle rushed to the baby whale because Gnoufs loved the earth and all its creatures.” “Mommy whale was so happy to have her baby safe, she sang a joyful song that sent shivers through the sea.” But the illustrations make up for it; Grimard has a light hand, creating willowy tableaux and hewing to a beachy palette except where sea life is concerned—then it’s open season on glorious color.

Iris Raines, a seasoned private investigator with a razor-sharp instinct for deception, is drawn into a volatile case involving a struggling restaurant chain and a string of escalating sabotage incidents at an over-the-top Texas ranch. What initially appears to be a corporate dispute quickly deepens into something far more unpredictable as Iris begins to question the evidence and the people behind it—especially the client whose desperation may be masking something far more complicated. From the outset, Iris frames her world with hard-earned clarity: “Don’t lie to your PI.” That guiding principle shapes her every move, informing how she reads people, evaluates risk, and navigates the blurred lines between loyalty and truth. Her voice carries the story with confidence—dry, observant, and often laced with humor—grounding even the most extreme situations in a sense of lived-in realism. As the investigation progresses, the tension builds steadily. Routine surveillance at the ranch leads to a life-threatening encounter, shifting the tone from methodical inquiry to urgent survival. The moments of action are tightly rendered, placing Iris in situations where instinct and experience are all that stand between her and disaster. The contrast between quiet investigative work and sudden violence keeps the pacing dynamic and engaging. Beyond the central mystery, Iris’ personal connections add depth. Her bond with her dog, Festus, provides both emotional resonance and a sense of stability amid chaos, while her interactions with her family and professional circle hint at a layered past that informs her resilience. These relationships enrich the narrative, offering glimpses into what drives the protagonist. The setting reinforces the themes of excess and illusion—the lavish ranch, with its extravagant and almost absurd details, serves as an ideal backdrop for a story rooted in greed, secrecy, and shifting allegiances. Appearances rarely align with reality, and Iris must constantly reassess what—and whom—to believe.

The world of Terra is populated by five human clans, known as the Tigers, Birds, Raccoons, Shadows, and Foxes. Long ago, the godlike Patrons gave each clan different magical powers, called “cannys.” Over time, the cannys disappeared—at least for most people. After Jasper, a 15-year-old Fox boy, secretly sets a dangerous shape-shifter free, it takes Jasper’s form and kills its original captors. The Tigers accuse Jasper of murder and take him into custody. DeBarco, the sinister head of the Tigers, persuades Harissa, a Tiger teenager and the only female trainee in the Chame-lion program, to bear false witness against Jasper. Harissa’s testimony is especially convincing because she has a canny that allows her to add thoughts and images to other people’s memories. After Jasper is found guilty, he’s taken to the coliseum to be hanged, but he escapes with the help of his father, Argus, and the shape-shifter, Gallium. In the process, he discovers his own canny—the rare ability to generate and cast a flaming substance called “chasma.” As Jasper journeys onward, he makes even more shocking discoveries about his world, his ancestry, and his fate. Meanwhile, Harissa uncovers troubling information about DeBarco and sets out on her own journey to reclaim her path. DiDesidero’s book is split between Jasper’s and Harissa’s close third-person perspectives, and both are equally engaging. Although some readers, particularly younger ones, may have some trouble keeping the lore and accompanying terms and concepts straight, the ideas themselves are compelling and unusual. DiDesidero supports the fine characterization and intriguing settings with expressive prose: “Harissa lay in a well of gravity so deep that time oozed by. Her limbs had no muscle. The dizzy world had her glued in place like a taxidermy person stuffed with cottony drugs.” It all results in an immersive, fast-paced reading experience.