Alex and his mother (both portrayed with pale skin), along with their dog, Nico, sometimes go on adventures together—but often, “Mommy…wants to play with us but her body can’t.” Over a week, Mom experiences a new symptom each day—her specific illness isn’t disclosed—which Alex then explains to Nico, using easy-to-understand similes: “Mama can’t hike with us: her body is stiff like a ROBOT.” Each explanation concludes with his knowledge that his mother cares about him: She can’t go to the movies, but “I know she loves us by the way she plays puzzles with us when we return.” Although the story acknowledges that Alex often feels sad—as many kids would—it ends with a firmly hopeful assertion that Mom is seeing doctors to get well, and “better days” are ahead. It’s a tough subject for a kids’ book, but the straightforward text is perfectly augmented by Rewerenda’s soft, pastellike illustrations, often featuring literal depictions of Mom’s described discomfort—inviting readers to imagine, for instance, how it would feel to carry an elephant. It’s an impressively compassionate story about how persistent illness can affect a family.

In 1926, a man named Robert Thomas and a male friend, both Black, had to fight off a white female usher, white manager, and six riot officers to be allowed to take the orchestra seats they had purchased rather than be banished to the balcony at Harlem’s Loew’s Victoria Theatre. This was just one of many incidents in the early 20th century in which Black New Yorkers, no strangers to racist treatment, endured discrimination and violence while trying to attend one of the city’s theaters. In this well-written work, Lopez “traces Black film culture in New York City from its origins in the early twentieth century to its firm establishment in the 1930s,” defining Black film culture as “Black New Yorkers’ interactions with cinema and surrounding institutions, not necessarily the cinematic output itself.” In illuminating chapters, she describes the alternative venues Black audiences had to locate when established theaters proved inhospitable; the “young Black girls’ and women’s moviegoing experiences” and the fear that their attendance led to “promiscuity, criminality, and incorrigibility”; the battles that Oscar Micheaux, “the most successful Black filmmaker in the first half of the twentieth century,” had to wage to get his “racially charged” films approved by censors; the attempts by film operators to unionize; and the pioneering reporting of Black journalists, particularly at the New York Age, to call attention to the “connections between racist cinema and its proprietors and the debilitating effects of racism on Black New Yorkers.” The writing is sometimes dry, but Lopez brings this sorry period to life by recounting memorable moments, as when she notes the 1930 incident of the projection booth at the Renaissance Theatre crashing down onto the patrons below, a tragedy that would have been worse if the projectionists hadn’t turned off the projector first and prevented a fire.

After fleeing an abusive husband, New Zealander Jessamine Sibley takes a new job at a library in a small town in Bent River County, Virginia. At first, she’s excited about her fresh start. She has a new career, new friends, and a new house that she inherited from a friend in her book club. But it soon becomes clear that not everything is what it seems in Bent River County, and the library seems to be right at the center of all the intrigue. First, there’s Jessamine’s rude and flaky coworker, Drusilla,who seems determined to keep Jessamine from doing her job. Her own house is being taken over by overgrown weeds, and it turns out to be hiding a secret of its own. Meanwhile, the town’s wealthiest man, who’s likely never heard the word noin his life, will do anything to make sure nothing in Bent River County ever changes. It turns out that the corruption in the town runs deep, and Jessamine will find herself caught up in it all—and even arrested for murder. For all of its small-town hijinks and crime-novel elements, Marry’s novel is, at its heart, a love letter to libraries and all that they represent to a small community: “We have a remarkable library….As library employees, we have given our best to our county.” Readers will find that Jessamine and the varied members of her found family are all easy to root for as they make the library their home away from home. Although the story takes some time to truly pick up speed, once the drama begins to unfurl, it pulls the reader in and refuses to let go.

“My mother has an invisible shield. I’ve tested it,” declares a floppy-haired child, who then proceeds to illustrate the many ways in which that hypothesis has been proven. This mom is ready for anything her child throws at her (sometimes literally), whether the youngster is attempting to filch some fruit or give her a scare. Throughout, a younger sibling looks on in curiosity. There’s no penetrating her force field, despite what appears to be extensive attempts and research. One thing, however, will always get through her defenses: A plaintive “Mama?” with outstretched arms removes barriers and results in a piggyback ride. Though the concept is cute and certainly relatable (parents having eyes in the back of their heads), this book misses the mark on several levels. It’s unclear what the child is hoping to achieve. Is the protagonist just playing or seeking deeper attention? The ending feels out of step with the other, more playful scenarios. The rhyme scheme is clunky both in tempo and in not-quite-there rhymes such as coming/something, resulting in an uneven read-aloud. The pictures are colorful and bright but don’t always match the words, causing confusion. Inconsistent details such as the family cat being both inside and outside the house within a single scene are distracting. Mama and the child have tan skin; the younger sibling has lighter skin.

With more than 200 color images and five essays, this sumptuous volume celebrates an iconic flower. Introduced by Kristine Paulus, collection development librarian at the New York Botanical Garden, essays include fashion historian Amy de La Haye’s overview of roses in clothing design; a piece by Victoria Gaiger, editor at Rakesprogress magazine, examining the use of roses in perfumes; and floral designer Shane Connolly’s consideration of the language of a flower long associated with goddesses of love. Rose, Gaiger discovered, the favorite scent of Marie Antoinette, later became a prominent note in Paul Poiret’s La Rose de Rosine and Chanel’s famous No. 5. Although the red rose has endured as a symbol of affection—notably, of course, on Valentine’s Day—Connolly reveals that roses of other hues send subtle messages, too. Michael Marriott, chairman of the Historic Roses Group, offers a glossary of rose types—damasks and floribundas, ramblers and rugosas, among many others. The blossom Sappho called “the queen of flowers” originated more than 30 million years ago and contains more than 150 wild species and tens of thousands of cultivars. Beloved by Greeks, Romans, and throughout the ancient world, the rose inspired festivals that still continue. Among the book’s images is a fragile gold and glass floral wreath dated to the third or second century B.C.E. Featured, as well, are delicate botanical drawings and paintings by a wide range of artists, including Vincent van Gogh, William Morris, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Gustav Klimt, Georgia O’Keeffe, and Salvador Dalí. Fashion plates display the creations of designers such as Christian Dior, Elsa Schiaparelli, Charles Worth, and Alexander McQueen. Not least, Ian Hamilton Finlay’s screenprint on tile takes as its motif Gertrude Stein’s famous line of poetry, “A rose is a rose is a rose.” Perhaps it’s all that needs saying.