This book was soft and delightful. It felt like a hug. Not a fix-all-the-world’s-wrongs warm hug like a Rainbow Rowell, but I’ve never been too picky about my hugs. It’s hard to have a well-intentioned bad hug, and this book really has the best of intentions. It’s sweet – it’s just also kind of forgettable.
Our protagonist (I’d argue he doesn’t really do enough to be considered an active hero) is Monty, a rascal of a lord’s son who is fated to inherit his father’s titles and estate whether he wants it or not. Tough life, no? But one thing this book does very well is talk about privilege, without ever saying the word. Monty comes to recognize that he needs to see outside himself and acknowledge the world and its difficulties even if they don’t directly affect him – and he’s also taught that just because his problems aren’t world-shattering, that doesn’t mean they don’t matter. For a young adult novel about a bixesual rake with an incredible knack for getting into trouble, it’s a delicate balancing act well executed.
Monty, his best friend, and his sister are off on “tour” – Englishpeople visiting continental Europe almost on a gap year tourist extravaganza. Things of course rapidly go wrong because Monty is a bed hound with a drinking problem who’s never thought much beyond his own nose. It’s an adventure book about problem-solving and trust and pining after your best friend. There were a couple of loose ends that still bother me (like the chick he hooked up with at the French palace – who was she and why?) but meh. I’ll probably read the sequel anyway.