One time, after an incredibly nondescript restaurant meal, Chad looked at me and said, “Well, that . . . had calories.”
I finished Mastiff, the conclusion to Tamora Pierce’s Beka Cooper trilogy, and all I could think was, “Well, that . . . was a book.”
There’s nothing specifically wrong with it that I can put my finger on. But it didn’t provoke any particular feelings in me either, even when it should have.
Maybe it’s because it, like the second book, takes place in yet another location and thus the characters introduced in the first book were largely absent again, though I’d thought they would be important because of the frame story. Maybe it’s because I was badly disoriented when the book opened with the funeral of Beka’s betrothed and I had to go back to the last book and see if I’d forgotten something major. (I hadn’t; it happened between books.) Maybe I liked chase-the-kidnappers better in a different book by Pierce. Maybe it’s just too long. Really, I have no idea.
So, you know. It’s the last Beka Cooper book.