By: Duke Jenkins, President & Editor-in-Chief
The premise of The Familiar, Leigh Bardugo’s most recent, and only, stand-alone novel, immediately captured me. Released in April of 2024, I waited about 9 months to finally read the novel which promised secret magic and a historical setting—two of my favorite things to read. But, despite its interesting premise from one of my favorite authors, the reader’s journey through the Spanish Inquisition and magical trials was sadly not worth the destination.
The novel begins with Luzia, a simple maid serving in the estate of a struggling noble family. Luzia, an orphan, sleeps on her pantry floor and performs miniscule scraps of magic to ease certain inconveniences in her life. However, when her magic is revealed to her employer, Doña Valentina, Luzia’s life quickly changes; she is brought into the world of high nobility and expected to perform her magic for the favor of the king. Luzia’s aunt, Hualit (whose familial relation is unknown to all but her and Luzia), arranges for Luzia to have the patronage of the wealthy and influential Victor de Paredes, which puts Luzia in direct contact with the mysterious servant Santángel. Embroiled in the politics of Inquisition-era Spain, generational contracts of servitude, and debates of divine endowment or devilish charlatanism, Luzia’s life becomes no longer her own.
My largest critique for The Familiar is that the writing never seems to be infused with the same emotions its characters are allegedly feeling. While Bardugo is a talented writer, providing twists in previous works you would truly need to be clairvoyant to predict, this novel had none of that same energy. Her descriptions of characters and setting were clever, but excessive at times, and the meat of the story—the way plot was strung together—made for predictable and unenthused reading. No characters seemed to express real emotion when their fortunes turned or when new twists entered the narrative. My heart failed to race, and I never quite found myself at the edge of my seat. The plot itself was interesting enough that I should have been impassioned by what I was reading, but I just… wasn’t.
My second critique finds itself in the romantic heart of the piece: the relationship between Luzia and Santángel. Santángel was given powers of healing and strength at the cost of eternal servitude to the de Paredes family centuries ago, and he is essentially the immortal servant of his most recent master, Victor de Paredes. His pale and gaunt description immediately likens him to that of a vampire, which he essentially is, just without the need for blood, fear of sunlight, and allergy to wooden stakes. Bardguo describes him as having “a black cloak drawn tight around him though there was no chill in the air. His hair was so fair it gleaned white, and his eyes glittered in the gloom, silvery nacre. He looked less like a man than a statue, an icon made from shells and stone…” (47). In my head, I imagined Santángel as looking like Bill Skarsgård, but even paler—sadly, this idea led me to imagining Luzia being tutored and seduced by either Pennywise the Clown or Count Orlock at various times. Santángel may have been a bit more interesting if his exhaustion with immortality wasn’t so two-dimensional, or if he had been a more passionate love interest. However, this not vampire, kind of tutor, allegedly tortured immortal, and barely-a love interest never occupies a niche greater than primary male deuteragonist.
His servitude to the de Paredes family is bound by magic, which immediately draws him to the magical Luzia at an intrinsic level. Despite having no magical abilities like Luzia’s, he is placed in a role as her magical tutor and is somehow an effective one. Bardugo fans might find their dynamic feels familiar, and this may be because it somewhat resembled the early relationship of Alina and the Darkling from the Shadow and Bone series. They’re two respectively powerful individuals drawn to each other because of their power, which seems to be a trope Bardugo favors, but the chemistry of their relationship (or lack thereof) just adds Luzia to the ranks of Bella Swan and Feyre Archeron: women whose relationships with (extremely) older men may be canonically correct, but not emotionally gratifying.
Despite the flat affections between romantic interests and the unenthused writing, this story shines in its careful consideration of setting. Though the author admits to altering some dates for her narrative purposes, this fact can be easily overlooked because of the thoughtful arrangement of the world Luzia and the others live in. Set during the end of Philip II of Spain’s reign (around the 1590s), readers encounter the real fear of Sephardic Jews and Muslims living in Spain during the early years of the Spanish Inquisition. The author ensures thoughtful connections between the process of the inquisition, locations, and relevant figures to make a realistic terror for the characters to interact with. Bardugo’s acknowledgement at the end of the book mentions her ancestors having endured the expulsion and inquiry of Spanish Jews, giving the idea that she wrote the book as a loving consideration to the potential strength of her own lineage, writing a magic for her ancestors through their Ladino language that she wishes they (and maybe she, herself) possessed. However, that idea is pure conjecture.
While Bardguo’s personal connection to the setting and attempts at making a clever tale of escape and strength are redeeming to the story, they ultimately fail to save its lackluster composition. This novel might not appease seasoned readers or Bardugo die-hards, but anyone looking for a casual read of historical fiction or mysterious magic will likely be tepidly entertained by The Familiar.