Reading [a:V. E. Schwab|21785271|V. E. Schwab|https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/user/u_50x66-632230dc9882b4352d753eedf9396530.png]'s [b:The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue|50623864|The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue|V.E. Schwab|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1584633432l/50623864.SY75.jpg|46895612], which I did in less than a week (rare for me for a book 442 pages long) was nothing but fun, but I don't mean that it was shallow entertainment. The best way to describe its genre is quote a short blurb on the jacket flap and say that it's a "genre-defying tour de force." The fantasy genre might come closest, but I don't gravitate toward that genre, so I'm hesitant to call it that.
 Most of takes place in Brooklyn in 2014 and most of the characters are in their twenties, but it would be wrong to describe it as a novel about East Coast millennials. Its origins are in early eighteenth century France.

 There is magic to this evening.
 A defiant pleasure in a simple act.
 Addie spends the first hour holding her breath, bracing for catastrophe, but somewhere between the salad and the main course, between the first glass and the second, she exhales. Sitting there, between Henry and Elise, between warmth and laughter, she can almost believe that it is real, that she belongs, a normal girl beside a normal boy at a normal dinner party. She and Bea talk about art, and she and Josh talk about Paris, and she and Elise talk about wine, and Henry's hand finds her knee beneath the table, and it is all so wonderfully simple and warm. She wants to hold the night like a chocolate on her tongue, savor every second before it melts.