Every now and then, there's a book that's written to one like a letter. This book was one of those, addressed to me at the address I had when I was fifteen. I loved it from the second I opened it. I was a little afraid after the first chapter that there was no way it could live up to my hopes, but it did.The protagonist Mor is not a reader, rather she lives for and through and in books while also having an interesting real life. She's got some large and perplexing issues with which to deal while trying to recover from a horrible accident and its aftermath. Her worldview is very much shaped by her reading, and though she's a perspicacious fifteen-year-old, she is still a fifteen-year-old. Her voice rings true, and her reading list is very familiar indeed. I loved the litany of books. I loved meeting old friends, and I adored the quotes and allusions and in-jokes, some of which I missed due to lacunae in my own reading. (F'rinstance, I've never finished anything by Vonnegut but perhaps it's time to give him another chance.) When I saw that Walton had Mor reading Zenna Henderson, I cheered. I loved how much Le Guin and Tiptree and Asimov and Tey and Dodie Smith and of course Heinlein and Zelazny and Silverberg were woven through the text. And McCaffery and Ellison and Sturgeon and Plato and Shakespeare and Renault. It was so lovely to see so many well-thumbed names from my own back pages.I liked the storyline as well, though I never really grokked in fullness the evil mother or her motives. Didn't matter. Not a bit. There's a boarding school, a book club full of SF geeks, Narnia, several Good Librarians, magic, Susan Cooper, Spider Robinson, fairies, ghosts, Dutch Elm disease... aw, t'hell with it, I could go on listing and listing but I think I'll go re-read the book instead.Oh, yes, highly recommended. Especially for SF lovers who adolesced in the late 70s. And those of us who have the deepest relationships with fictional characters.