The trick was to type them up before I forgot what he’d said. “Yes,” I said, crossing quickly to the desk and powering up the laptop. Three separate stories with shared characters and an over-arching back story.” “The book is composed of three novellas, two of them previously published. “It’s a triptych,” rumbled Olwen from deep within another armchair. “I’m only your critic,” Bartholomew said smugly, safe in the knowledge that he would never write anything of his own to be critiqued. “You’re the critic, why don’t you write the book review?” I said. “This will be good,” Bartholomew sniped, smoothing his comb-over down with an enspittled hand. “But I need to write something about the plot and the characters.”

“Great,” I said, taking the book back gently.

“The cover art brilliantly reflects the titular character’s shattered personality and she thumbed through the pages, “the Rorschach diagrams at each chapter heading are so…evocative.” “Ooh, shiny,” Sabine said as she picked up the book in turn, “shiny and smooth and, oh, the title is embossed with the author’s name.” She held the book at arm’s length, peering at it. He put it on the arm of the sofa and stalked back to his armchair. “I care,” Ruprecht said, slamming the book shut. “The readers don’t care about the font,” Sabine interrupted in her dreamy voice. “Hardback,” he muttered, “352 pages, published by TOR. Ruprecht levered himself from the old armchair in the corner and shuffled across the room to examine the volume. Bartholomew wasn’t real – none of the other people in the room were – but that didn’t stop him having an opinion. “Really?” Bartholomew sneered from his position by the window. “That was fantastically, amazingly brilliant,” I said as he closed the cover on ‘Legion: The Many Lives Of Stephen Leeds’ by Brandon Sanderson.

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