Tamsin Greer has always been different.
A street-smart private investigator with psychic gifts she's spent years trying to ignore, Tamsin is barely holding her life together when a stranger walks into her Brooklyn office and changes everything. She has family she never knew, and a sprawling, psychedelic Victorian manor on the coast of Washington State to prove it.
Brightstar Manor is nothing like she imagined. The house hums with old magic, the woods press in with a watchful menace, and the live-in caretakers are two glittering, shape-shifting gargoyles with a flair for midnight kitchen performances. As Tamsin unravels the secrets of her mysterious Uncle Sullivan's life, she discovers that the quiet town of Port Townsend is anything but ordinary.
Navigating a world of covens, wraiths, and creatures that defy everything she thought she knew, Tamsin must claim her place as the new mistress of Brightstar Manor before darker forces claim it first. Somewhere between the clover-covered lawn and the stained-glass rainbows she might just find something she stopped letting herself hope for: home.
The Shattered Moonstone is a warm and witty urban fantasy about belonging, inheritance, and the chosen family that was waiting for you all along.
Tamsin Greer has always been different.
A street-smart private investigator with psychic gifts she's spent years trying to ignore, Tamsin is barely holding her life together when a stranger walks into her Brooklyn office and changes everything. She has family she never knew, and a sprawling, psychedelic Victorian manor on the coast of Washington State to prove it.
Brightstar Manor is nothing like she imagined. The house hums with old magic, the woods press in with a watchful menace, and the live-in caretakers are two glittering, shape-shifting gargoyles with a flair for midnight kitchen performances. As Tamsin unravels the secrets of her mysterious Uncle Sullivan's life, she discovers that the quiet town of Port Townsend is anything but ordinary.
Navigating a world of covens, wraiths, and creatures that defy everything she thought she knew, Tamsin must claim her place as the new mistress of Brightstar Manor before darker forces claim it first. Somewhere between the clover-covered lawn and the stained-glass rainbows she might just find something she stopped letting herself hope for: home.
The Shattered Moonstone is a warm and witty urban fantasy about belonging, inheritance, and the chosen family that was waiting for you all along.
The house in front of her was a Victorian monstrosity. Tamsin held her breath. The gingerbread trim was a dizzying display of sickly pinks, baby blues, and puce. The colors were so disturbing that they throbbed. The metal fence was a six-foot, rusting barrier. It stretched along the street and was stuck into cracking concrete blocks; the gate hung open, crooked and broken. Tamsin stood rooted to the sidewalk. Her feet were frozen and unwilling to walk onto the property.
When the lawyer, Mr. Finch, had shown her the paperwork of her inheritance, she had pored over the diagrams. The property line crisscrossed behind the house and into the woods. The thin black line on the plans had stated two acres, two acres that were handed over to her with clinical detachment, but the diagrams hadn’t captured the scent of fresh rain and damp woods. They had missed the foreboding presence of the forest. Tamsin stared into the woods that lined the property behind the house. There was something there. She felt something pull at her mind; the coolness crept out and reached for her skin. The diagrams hadn’t warned her of that. A brisk wind slipped around the house and tousled her hair.
Tamsin felt as though someone was watching her. She turned and looked back at the street. There was no one there. She started to open her second sight, but a voice broke through her concentration.
“Mrs. Geer, as you can see, the property needs some work, but as you well know, there are live-in caretakers contracted to the estate.”
Tamsin nodded and stepped through the heavy metal gate. To the right of her inheritance, her Victorian monster, there was a well-kept ranch house. It was prim and proper against the backdrop of its eccentric neighbor. Tamsin smiled. She had visions of a bespectacled accountant stumbling into a circus. The imaginary accountant protecting his neat briefcase and smart suit from the colorful chaos. The ranch house had a pristine lawn and neat hedges; it was a picture of small-town normalcy. Thankfully, there was no HOA.
To the left of the house, there was a second lot, also part of her inheritance. It was a desolate stretch of land with no structures, only six twisted apple trees. Their scraggly branches darted out from bent trunks like skinny arms; the bark was cracked and peeling, and it revealed patches of sickly gray wood beneath. The ground was littered with rusting nails and the remnants of old fences. Rotten, sun-bleached planks lay scattered among the trees. A few pathetic, stunted apples stubbornly clung to the branches.
Tamsin felt it again, the prickling sensation along the back of her arms and up her neck. She was being watched, but not by anything human. She had felt this before, many times. Her mind traveled back. Her last foster home, the one that had gotten her into so much trouble. A special government unit had found her. They had taken her innate ability and trained her for this; now she couldn’t escape it. Her property vibrated with energy invisible to the naked eye, and from the woods, eyes watched her, and something tested her defenses. She took a deep, shaky breath. She couldn’t open her sight with Mr. Finch around; she would have to wait.
Tamsin turned back to the house. It was awful. No, awful wasn’t the word. It was obscene. It was a Victorian clown house. She had never met her Uncle Sullivan, but it was clear that he had a rare definition of charm. It wasn’t just that the paint was badly chosen. The years of bright paint were a layered tribute to flamboyant redecorating. The overlapping patterns and vivid tones made her head spin. Tamsin felt nauseous, but it was wrapped in something else. There was a layer of dread creeping through her insides. This house was a legacy of bad taste she was now somehow responsible for, and all her senses were screaming that there was more to it.
Mr. Finch adjusted his eyeglasses. The polished lenses reflected the sun as it dipped lower in the sky. His hands quivered as he fiddled with the sleeves of his jacket. Tamsin raised an eyebrow; it was painfully clear that he didn’t want to be there. There was something about this house that made him uncomfortable. Did he know something, or could he somehow feel what she was feeling? He cleared his throat, and the breeze picked up the sound and stole it away. She felt the soft pressure of his hand on her shoulder.
“We really should hurry, Miss Greer. We’re already running late, and the caretakers have things to do.”
Tamsin let go of the breath she had forgotten she was holding.
“We have much to do,” Mr. Finch said again.
Tamsin swallowed. She wished she had taken a water bottle from the airplane. She needed something to soothe the dry scratch in her throat. They approached the psychedelic porch in a slow, shuffling march. Mr. Finch tried to rush her along, but she couldn’t bring herself to move any faster. This monstrosity of a house was everything she’d dared to imagine in solid form, a life filled with laughter and family. For all her life, that dream was as fantastic as a unicorn.
Tamsin wasn’t like other children, and before long, that always became clear to her foster parents. Each home had been a brief attempt at belonging. Each one had ended in the same gut-wrenching farewell. She could still see the fear in their eyes and the rejection drawn into the lines of their mouths. Tamsin paused, and Mr. Finch strode ahead of her. Her knees threatened to buckle. She had to pause and take a breath. All that time of bouncing from foster home to foster home, and the last member of her family had been living here, in this crazy house.
Tamsin’s hands shook. A frightening thought moved through her mind. It was desperate and illogical, but it attached itself to her insecurities. Maybe they’d made a mistake. Maybe they got the wrong Tamsin Greer. The irrational part of Tamsin’s mind expected a car to pull up, and a woman would step out and take her rightful place as heir. That woman would probably be wearing bright pink and lime green and match the house perfectly.
Mr. Finch returned to her side and linked his arm through hers. The unexpected contact pulled her back from the brink of panic. They fell into step together, and Tamsin marveled at how unfamiliar the path was, yet somehow unconsciously familiar. She had never walked the path before, but she could feel a silent acknowledgment of welcome. Tamsin kept her eyes down. She avoided looking at the house to keep the panic from rising again. She scanned the lawn and kneeled.
“It’s clover.”
Mr. Finch was already a few strides ahead of her. “What?” he asked as he turned.
Tamsin looked up. “Oh, nothing. I was just noticing that it’s all clover, not grass.”
The lawn was a dense carpet dotted with tiny white clover flowers. Rose bushes lined the porch, spilled out into the yard, and erupted from the earth in chaotic patterns. Their blossoms were a spectrum of pinks, reds, and yellows. Tamsin imagined that a playful giant had scattered them across the landscape. Their positions were random. Yet somehow, there was perfection in the imperfect.
Mr. Finch watched her from the steps; he motioned for her to follow. The scent of honeysuckle drifted from the bushes surrounding the porch. The vines had wrapped themselves around the banisters and the eaves. They hid parts of the porch from the view of the street. Mr. Finch raised his hand to knock, and the massive, ornate door swung inward. Mr. Finch yanked his hand back in surprise. Standing in the doorway was a woman whose petite stature was dwarfed by the immensity of the house. Delicate wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose. Peeking out over them were bright, curious eyes. Her curly brown hair was a halo of unruly ringlets. Each curl vibrated with energy. A wide, gap-toothed grin spread across her face as she planted her hands firmly on her hips.
“Well, you must be the new owner!” Her voice sparkled with mischief.
Tamsin was shocked by the deep tenor coming from such a small woman. She felt it again, the sudden rush of otherness. It wasn’t the same watchful darkness that she felt from the forest, but there was something off. Tamsin’s throat went dry. What had she gotten herself into?
Other than the shift in energy, the woman was a perfect embodiment of the house. She was dressed in a billowing tie-dye T-shirt that swallowed her almost entirely; the colors swirled in a psychedelic storm of blues, greens, purples, and oranges. Her pants pooled around her ankles, and her brightly colored sandals and her painted toenails participated in the riot of color.
The woman gestured wildly toward the inside of the house. She called over her shoulder, and her voice echoed down the hallway. “Jolvaan! They’re here! The new owner!”
Mr. Finch stepped across the threshold first. His tweed suit immediately looked out of place against the backdrop of the manor. His hand reached for the silver flask in his pocket. He removed it and then remembered where he was, placing the flask back into his pocket. Tamsin stayed a few steps behind Mr. Finch as he followed the woman into the house. The house had a tangible hum, a vibration that moved through the walls and crackled the air with energy. Tamsin frowned as she scanned the interior. There was magic in this house. She could smell it. It was a heady mix of incense and exotic spices. Tamsin’s vision grew dark, and then there was a bright light beneath her, as if the floor had disappeared and she was looking directly into the basement. She shook her head to clear the vision; there was something down there.
Tamsin’s focus was pulled to the woman as she swept ahead of them. She was a radiant whirlwind that glowed against the dark wood. Tamsin let out a low whistle. There were antiques in every corner of the house. The woman continued to call out. Her voice became a high-pitched trill that bounced off the heavily decorated walls. “Jolvaan! My darling Jolvaan. Where have you hidden yourself this time?”
The foyer windows were a collage of stained-glass birds and mythical creatures. The iridescent plumage cast rainbows across Mr. Finch’s face, highlighting his growing discomfort. He leaned in, and Tamsin could smell the scent of pipe tobacco on his tweed jacket. His voice shook slightly as he spoke, and there was a tremor in his lower eyelid as he whispered conspiratorially into her ear.
“Keep a close eye on her.” His breath was uncomfortably warm against her cheek. “That’s Margarith,” he continued. “Her twin’s Jolvaan. You won’t be able to tell them apart. Honestly, don’t even try. They’re the caretakers, and the will stipulates you have to keep them with the house.”
Tamsin’s lips pressed into a thin line, and her brow furrowed. “I don’t think I realized that the caretaker lived in the house.”
Mr. Finch sighed. “It was in the paperwork I gave you. They cannot be evicted; they live in the attic. The will says you will find them very useful.”
Margarith skipped back to Tamsin and offered her a soft smile. “Your uncle traveled extensively. He needed someone to oversee the property while he was away.” She gestured around the expansive manor. “He entrusted us with his estate.” Margarith took two flouncing steps back from Tamsin. “We’ll manage everything you need.”
Tamsin's hand floated to her chest as she felt her breath grow short. She had been waiting for this. “Can you tell me about Uncle Sullivan?” Tamsin couldn’t hide the desperation in her inquiry.
Margarith’s chuckle sounded like dry leaves blown across pavement. “Of course! We can talk all about that later. First, let’s get you settled.” Margarith’s eyes were bright and kind, but they betrayed her; there was a lot she was holding back. Margarith led them into a sitting room. Blue light was refracted through the stained-glass windows. It sent flickering scenes across the antique furniture. The air smelled faintly of lemon furniture polish. Margarith gestured toward two worn armchairs that flanked a small, intricately carved table. The wood was dark and polished to a deep, rich sheen.
Tamsin barely had time to sit. The door to the parlor swung on squeaky hinges. Standing in the doorway was a figure that was almost identical to Margarith. It was Jolvaan. Mr. Finch hadn’t lied. She and Margarith were identical.
Jolvaan’s equally unruly curls were ruthlessly pinned in a French twist that perched precariously atop her head. The constraint of her hair only added to the chaos of her tie-dye shirt, which was a swirling explosion of oranges and greens. A rather large, and frankly rather bold, marijuana leaf was emblazoned across the chest. Her glasses rested on top of her head, and they squished her curls flatter with each passing second.
Tamsin’s eyebrows shot up. Her shock was so subtle that it might have been missed entirely if one wasn’t paying close attention. Mr. Finch, however, had been paying close attention. His sigh escaped him as he leaned toward her.
“I did warn you,” he whispered in her ear.
Jolvaan carried a tray that dipped slightly under the weight of a silver teapot and a plate of iced cookies. Each one was meticulously decorated with a swirl of icing and a tiny, piped bow. Jolvaan placed the tray before Tamsin. She vibrated with annoyance as she poured tea into antique, flowered cups. Tamsin took a moment to scan Jolvaan’s face, then her eyes darted back to Margarith. They were almost identical. Jolvaan vibrated with the same soft magical energy that she had felt from Margarith, but there were subtle differences in their energies. Jolvaan bristled with anxiety while Margarith was softer. Margarith was content to watch and assess; Jolvaan seemed ready to pounce.
“You’re late,” Jolvaan said. Her voice lacked warmth. “We expected you hours ago. Lunch is, shall we say, ruined.”
Tamsin’s response was less an apology and more of a bewildered stammer. “I . . . I’m sorry.” Tamsin looked between Jolvaan and Margarith. She focused her attention on Mr. Finch. Were they late? Tamsin clasped her hands in her lap and took a deep breath. She was already overwhelmed, and now she had inadvertently angered one of the caretakers.
Jolvaan snorted. The sound was clipped, and frustration radiated from her in waves. Margarith draped herself across the crimson velvet of the chaise lounge. She watched the exchange with amused detachment. The more agitated Jolvaan was, the more Margarith giggled from her lounge. Her sprite-like laugh vibrated in the quiet room.
“Don’t fret, Miss Greer,” Margarith purred. The sound was designed to annoy Jolvaan even further. She turned her attention to Tamsin. “It’s simply a matter of low blood sugar.”
Jolvaan was still visibly agitated. She managed only a tight-lipped nod. Her jaw twitched in subtle rage. Tamsin sat rigid, the worn fabric of her chair digging into her thighs. Brightstar Manor pressed in on her; memories were flooding back. She tried to push them aside, but everything she saw was quickly compared to her past. Around her, mirrors reflected an excessive amount of porcelain vases, and scattered Persian rugs signified wealth that she could only dream of. Had she ever seen a porcelain vase before? She didn’t think so. She had carried her things from foster home to foster home in a garbage bag. Until the last fateful home. Tamsin shook her head and pushed down the memory.
Tamsin felt Margarith’s silent assessment. “Jolvaan,” she continued in her purring tone, “perhaps you could expedite our tea service? Our new mistress deserves a proper welcome, wouldn’t you agree?”
The emphasis on mistress wasn’t lost on Tamsin; her knuckles were bone white as she wrung her hands in her lap.
Tamsin raised her hands, palms up, and waved away the general idea of being the mistress of the manor. She willed her voice into a solid boundary. “No, really, it’s alright. Take your time. Mistress? I hardly feel like anyone’s mistress.”
Jolvaan continued pouring tea as Mr. Finch dragged a bulky stack of papers from his briefcase. The scent of paper was overwhelming as the stack landed on the table in front of Tamsin. Nausea rose in her belly as she reached for the tea, taking a shaky sip. Mr. Finch interjected into the conversation and cleared his throat. “Well, technically, Miss Greer, you are now the mistress of Brightstar Manor. Everything is now yours. These documents will provide access to all accounts.”
Jolvaan pushed Margarith’s legs aside and settled into the vacant space. She bit into a cookie before she passed a cup and a plate to Margarith. Jolvaan relaxed as she nibbled a cookie. Tamsin watched the way her shoulders settled down, and her posture eased.
“Actually, Mr. Finch, I manage the accounts. It wouldn’t be appropriate for the new mistress to handle the finances herself.”
Tamsin paused. Anxiety blossomed in the center of her chest, and her heart began to race. Accounts? When Mr. Finch had come into her life, she had about twenty dollars in a checking account, and she was sleeping on the couch in her office. She had an apartment that she could barely afford the rent on, and her ex’s things were still there; she couldn’t bear the thought of going back. Now she had accounts. What did having accounts even mean?
Then there was Jolvaan’s deflection about the accounts. Did she detect genuine wrongdoing? Was this just an uncomfortable change from her lonely existence? Her body vibrated with anxiety; it was all compounded by the strangeness radiating off the twins.
Tamsin lifted the cup and took a shaky sip of tea. She then lowered the cup and picked up a pen. Her gaze darted between Jolvaan and the intimidating stack of papers.
“What shape are the finances in? Is the house sound?”
She had searched for any information about her uncle, and he wasn’t a wealthy man; he was a failed magician. This house didn’t make sense.
Jolvaan’s smile bordered on smug. She handed her cup and plate to Margarith. Then, with a flourish of her hand, she reached under the couch. From the depths she produced two leather-bound ledgers. She passed them to Tamsin, who leaned down and breathed in the scent of old paper. She was holding a part of her history.
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Finch said. He eagerly reached for the ledger. “The ledgers. Everything is meticulously recorded.” He opened the ledger to the most recent page. His fingers traced over Jolvaan’s elegant handwriting, then he passed the open book to Tamsin.
Tamsin’s eyes widened with wonder. A sharp gasp tumbled from her lips. There was a fleeting moment of stunned silence, then she slowly exhaled. Her lips silently mouthed the figures as she ran her finger down the page. She pulled the book closer. Maybe she was reading the numbers wrong.
“How did my uncle amass this fortune? He was a touring magician!”
The sheer scale of the wealth was staggering. It was enough to ensure she would never have to work another day in her life.
Jolvaan smiled. Her eyes beamed with pride. “He had other ventures besides his stage performances. Let’s just say he was a man of diverse talents.”
Tamsin slammed the leather-bound ledger closed and then dropped it onto the polished mahogany table. Margarith and Jolvaan cringed at the sharp sound. It was only a few weeks ago that she’d been hunched over her chipped desk in her Brooklyn shoebox office when Mr. Finch knocked. She’d been hoping for another client; she needed another case to cover the rent that was already past due. Then Mr. Finch walked in and changed her life. Family, he’d said. She had family she’d never known. Family had arrived just as her world had imploded. Her last case hadn’t gone well. Socialites were going missing from the hottest clubs, then their bodies would turn up dumped and drained of blood. Tamsin immediately knew it was a vampire, and she had started the hunt under that understanding. She had been wrong, very wrong, and two more women had died before she had found the human monster that was hunting them. Her reputation had taken a serious hit, and on top of that, her girlfriend abruptly dumped her, leaving her in a dark place. The inheritance from Uncle Sullivan felt like a lifeline.
She’d googled him, of course, multiple times. She had been so obsessed with understanding who he was that she had spent more time on her computer than she had intended; packing had become a frantic endeavor. Sullivan Greystone, the magician. His online presence was underwhelming. There were a few blurry photos from children’s birthday parties and a website showcasing rather boring close-up magic acts. Nothing about the man suggested he owned a sprawling mansion called Brightstar Manor. Let alone two staff and a ridiculous amount of wealth.
She’d pictured a cozy cottage. She expected something quaint and unassuming, tucked away on a quiet street in Port Townsend. Instead, she’d flown across the country to a riot of color, with stained-glass windows sending rainbows dancing through the interior. Mistress of Brightstar Manor? That was ludicrous.
The pen was heavy in Tamsin’s hand. Mr. Finch’s voice broke through the frantic stream of her own thoughts. He continued talking. He droned on, explaining the legal jargon scrawled across the crisp white pages. Each word was a blur. The pages became meaningless syllables lost in the swirling vortex of her mind. He’d asked something. Tamsin blushed as his voice rose slightly in expectation.
Tamsin’s pen hovered above a signature line. “What?” she managed. “I’m sorry. I’m a little overwhelmed.”
Mr. Finch repeated his question, struggling to remain patient. “Do you plan on continuing your employment?”
Before Tamsin could even begin to formulate a response, Jolvaan piped up.
“Private investigator sounds way more fun than, like, work, right?” Jolvaan’s words danced around Tamsin. “OW!” The word was sharp and muffled as Margarith’s pointed kick connected with Jolvaan’s leg.
Jolvaan rubbed her leg. Her face was contorted with pain and annoyance. The silence extended uncomfortably long. The sound of Jolvaan’s fingers rubbing against her leg grew louder in the quiet. Tamsin’s pen remained still as she watched the twins. “How do you know?” Tamsin finally asked, hesitation creeping into her voice.
Jolvaan and Margarith turned to each other; there were hidden secrets in their eyes. Tamsin felt the urge to launch across the table and hold the tip of her pen under one of their necks. Maybe then she could get some answers.
Mr. Finch cleared his throat. “Sullivan. He had been aware of you for many years before he passed.”
The words felt like punches raining down on her. “What?” Tamsin hadn’t expected this revelation. Her hand lifted to her chest, where hot jabs of pain pulsed under her ribs. Her uncle had known of her existence for years, and he’d never reached out.
Margarith’s eyes were assessing every emotion running across Tamsin’s face. She stopped the unsaid things from telegraphing across her features. “He was reclusive at the end,” Margarith explained. Her voice dropped into a soothing tone. There was sympathy in her words that Tamsin wasn’t used to. “He kept tabs on you. He wanted to be sure you were the right choice, but he was too distraught over your parents’ death to reach out.”
Thirty years. It had been thirty years since her parents had died. She’d endured thirty years of abandonment. Sullivan Greystone was consumed by grief and had let her languish in the foster care system. The rage that had been simmering beneath the surface boiled over. Tamsin’s face grew hot. Anything would have been better than that. He didn’t even have to come in person; he could have sent a letter. Tamsin picked up the pen again. This time her signature was a furious scrawl.
Spoilers: Patience D. Schoene’s The Shattered Moonstone, the first book in The Brightstar Manor Series, has all of the positive traits of an excellent Dark Contemporary Fantasy.
However, two things elevate this book from good to extremely great. They are the sharp witty sarcastic tone that comments on and subverts the dark energy of the plot and setting and two brilliant supporting characters that steal the spotlight from their bemused protagonist.
Tamsin Greer, a private investigator has inherited Brightstar Manor in the town of Port Townsend from her deceased Uncle Sullivan. As she settles into her new home and befriends the twin caretakers, Jolvaan and Margrithe, a pair of bubbly gargoyles, Tamsin discovers old secrets, hidden magic, and sinister fantastic creatures who have a few scores to settle with the Manor and its current inhabit.
This book has an ominous atmosphere and a neophyte protagonist who needs to be shown the ropes of this odd place. It operates on old fairy tale codes which exist solely in the magical world.
There are sinister creatures, such as demons and vampires, that live within and surround the house. They all have their own histories, standards, and guidelines on how to address them, ask for and grant favors, and sometimes fight against. It's enough to confuse a person and yet it's how this society operates and keeps the darkness from consuming everything.
The dark ominous tone of the setting is contrasted with a sharp sardonic wit that the narration carries throughout. The tonal division keeps the meta commentary fresh and prevents the book from getting lost in its own Gothic horror.
Sometimes characters call events ahead of when they occur. Tamsin herself knows that she is caught up in a paranormal mystery and reacts like a person who was taught her whole life that monsters weren't real. Now she not only believes in them but has to accept that they live around her like the strangest HOA ever.
The chapters also add to the overall humor with titles such as “Gargoyles Don't Gossip (They Observe),” “Tin Foil, But Make it Fashion,” “Eight Hundred Years of Side-Eye,” and “Don't Take That Tone With Me, I'm Granite.” They are like episode titles for a sitcom from Hell.
The titles alert the reader that while there are genuine shocks and eerie plot points, the book keeps them at an emotional distance. The meta tone injects fear with a playful understanding that subverts and makes light of the plot’s events.
Another breath of fresh air is the appearance of gargoyles, Jolvaan and Margrithe. I like to think that gargoyles have become prominent creatures in Fantasy Fiction because many authors, like myself, grew up with and were heavily influenced and inspired by the Disney animated series, Gargoyles.
To see these characters who were once on the outside fringe of magical creatures gain prominence and establish themselves as defenders and protectors of households, demonic intimidating figures in appearance, and loyal and devoted caretakers is a credit to a pop culture item that still holds up well in terms of animation, storytelling, and characterization. The animated series still continues to resonate even 30+ years later in subsequent works like this one.
In this case Jolvaan and Margrithe are a witty addition to this cast and steal just about every moment they are in, drawing attention away from the somewhat generic protagonist, Tamsin and are certainly far more interesting than the bland potential love interest, Julian. The gargoyle gals are a strange combination of dedicated defenders of the homestead and everybody's favorite wine aunts.
They act as plucky comic relief and providers of ancient wisdom. In one chapter, they are cleaning the house singing their own version of Salt N’ Pepa’s “Push It.” (“Clean it real good!”) In another, they offer exposition information on Tamsin’s uncle and his bargains with certain demon houses. In another, they are threatening a demonic intruder with all of their strength if they ever come anywhere near their girl, Tamsin again.
They may be funny but remember they have sharp talons, fangs, and demonic appearances for a reason. They are also dangerous to an enemy and are not to be trifled with if crossed. They will just make themselves look fabulous and have a witty retort while doing it.
As characters Jolvaan and Margrithe embody what a book like The Shattered Moonstone is. A Dark Fantasy Novel with a sharp edge that merges with the ominous energy and becomes its own commentary.