Princess Floralinda and the Forty-Flight Tower

I’ll admit, I went into *Princess Floralinda* expecting something clever but safe—a fairy tale with a feminist twist, maybe a few meta jokes. What I got instead was a full-throated, unapologetic middle finger to the entire genre, wrapped in prose so vivid it feels like Muir is daring you to look away. The tower’s flights aren’t just filled with monsters; they’re packed with *ideas*—each one a grotesque parody of fairy-tale logic, from a room that forces you to listen to a never-ending story (relatable) to a sentient cake that judges your life choices (iconic). The pacing is relentless, but not in a breathless way; it’s more like being dragged up a staircase by a manic, brilliant friend who won’t let you stop to question the sanity of it all. Moira Quirk’s narration is the secret weapon here. She nails the story’s shifting tones—one minute she’s purring like a villainous fairy godmother, the next she’s growling like a monster mid-transformation. Her timing is impeccable, especially in the book’s funniest (and most disturbing) moments, like when Floralinda delivers a monologue about the absurdity of her situation while covered in someone else’s blood. My only critique? The ending, while satisfying, feels slightly rushed compared to the meticulous buildup of the tower’s earlier flights. And Quirk’s voice for one of the minor characters veers a little too close to cartoonish, which briefly undercuts the story’s otherwise razor-edged tone. But these are quibbles. This audiobook is a wild, bloody, hilarious ride—like if *The Princess Bride* and *House of Leaves* had a lovechild who grew up on a diet of black coffee and schadenfreude. If you’ve ever wanted a fairy tale that feels like it was written for *you*, not for some hypothetical child, this is it.