I've finished The Prisoner of Heaven. The sadness and loss are still there. The anger and pain are still there. The longing and love for a Barcelona that will never come again is still there. The unshakable faith in the power of the written word is still there. Twisted plots and literary allusions are still there. Beloved characters finding a small measure of happiness is still there. I desperately enjoyed all of these things that were there.
What wasn't there was an ending. Sure, there's a stopping point and even an epilogue, but really that only serves to make the story feel unfinished. There's too much of this particular story left untold. Yes, I know that this means there will be another book, and yes, that makes my cold and black little heart leap for joy. But it also means I'll have to wait, and I'm not very good at that.
I'm currently reading Gina Damico's Croak, about a 16-year old wild child who finds out that her uncle is a Grim Reaper and wants her to join the family business. So far it's a snappy read. I'll let you know how it goes.
My Official Page Count is 278, or 5.56 books.