The odd thing about this is—and I do see the inherent absurdity in starting a review of something by Miéville with the odd thing about this is–that for the first fifty pages or so it didn't actually feel like Miéville. Which is not to say that I didn't find it engaging, but it was just too...normal, or something. Then, inevitably, the world opened up into the kind of complex and deeply weird and faceted landscape that Miéville's books, even his YA stuff, are most beloved by me for. I'm not sure what I was expecting when I started reading the book, but now that I'm finished I feel like I should have been expecting exactly this, because everything layered into it in perfectly unexpected ways and all of the little things that I love about his books were all there, in the end. I think it fell short of a five—which for my tastes he is certainly capable of—because I think I liked the pieces more than I liked the story. But still, a great book.