Mara Rutherford’s A Curious Kind of Magic weaves together the cozy warmth of found family with the sharp edges of grief, creating a fantasy that feels less like escapism and more like coming home to a house you didn’t know you needed. This isn’t your typical magical romp through enchanted kingdoms—instead, Rutherford plants her story firmly in the dusty corners of a failing curiosity shop, where desperation and wonder exist in equal measure, and where the real magic might just be learning to trust again.
The Charlatan’s Daughter and Her Reluctant Witch
At the heart of this tale stands Willow Stokes, a prickly, sharp-tongued orphan running her late father’s shop of counterfeit magical items in the Scottish-inspired town of Ardmuir. Rutherford crafts Willow with remarkable honesty—she’s neither a plucky underdog nor a tragic heroine, but something far more interesting: a survivor who’s built walls so high she can barely see over them herself. When Willow describes herself as “brainless as a highland cow,” it’s not self-deprecation but armor, a preemptive strike against a world that’s already dismissed her as the daughter of a charlatan and a dead woman she never knew.
Enter Brianna Hargrave, an outlander from Carterra harboring a secret that would make most people run screaming: everything she touches transforms into its magical potential. What should be a gift has become Bri’s curse, isolating her from human contact and forcing her into a life of careful avoidance. The dynamic between these two young women forms the novel’s emotional core, and Rutherford handles it with genuine care. Their partnership begins transactionally—Bri needs to find a grimoire to break her curse, Willow needs Bri’s abilities to save her shop—but evolves into something far more valuable than either anticipated.
The prose captures Willow’s voice with remarkable authenticity. When she reflects on her relationship with Finlay, the printer’s assistant who’s been her only constant since her father’s death, Rutherford writes with an aching vulnerability: “I was utterly terrible at being loved, and even worse at loving in return.” This kind of raw emotional honesty elevates the story beyond typical YA fare, acknowledging that trauma doesn’t heal overnight and that learning to trust is often more terrifying than facing down magical threats.
A Magic System Grounded in Consequences
One of the novel’s greatest strengths lies in how Rutherford constructs her magical world. Rather than overwhelming readers with complex spell systems, she keeps the focus intimate and practical. Bri’s touch brings objects to their magical potential, but the effects are temporary—a broom might fly for a day or two before becoming ordinary again. This limitation creates genuine tension and forces creative problem-solving rather than relying on magical deus ex machina moments.
The magical objects themselves reflect Rutherford’s playful imagination: a lamp that houses light sprites, a thimble for mending more than just cloth, pomade with unexpected consequences, and the wolpertinger—a rabbit-antlered, wing-bearing creature that becomes central to the plot’s most emotionally devastating revelation. Each item feels like it emerged from folklore’s dustier corners, objects that could have been traded in Victorian curiosity cabinets or Victorian-era occult shops.
The world-building extends beyond objects to include witches, artificers, grimoires that flip their own pages mischievously, and a university library where ancient books require white gloves and respectful handling. Rutherford doesn’t info-dump her magical system; instead, she reveals it organically through Willow and Bri’s discoveries, making readers feel like they’re learning alongside the characters.
Where the Story Stumbles
Despite its many charms, A Curious Kind of Magic isn’t without its weaknesses. The pacing occasionally suffers from Rutherford’s tendency to pile revelations on top of each other in the final third. The truth about Willow’s suppressed magic, her father’s wish, Wexley’s villainy, and Bri’s mother’s hidden identity all cascade in rapid succession, leaving little breathing room for emotional processing. While each twist individually makes sense, their cumulative effect feels rushed, as if Rutherford suddenly remembered she had a page count to meet.
The villain, Oliver Wexley, never quite escapes the shadow of being a plot device rather than a fully realized character. His motivations—collecting magical objects for immortality—feel generic compared to the nuanced portrayal of the protagonists. His threat to the girls works on a functional level, driving the plot forward, but he lacks the complexity that would make him truly memorable. A few more scenes establishing his relationship with Willow’s father, or exploring how collecting consumed him, might have elevated him beyond standard antagonist territory.
The romantic subplot between Willow and Finlay, while genuinely sweet, sometimes feels at odds with the novel’s exploration of female friendship and independence. Finlay himself is wonderfully characterized—patient, kind, with a wonky tooth that Willow finds endlessly endearing—but the “will they, won’t they” dance occasionally interrupts the more compelling dynamics between Willow and Bri. That said, when Rutherford does let Willow and Finlay finally connect, she writes their relationship with tender specificity, particularly in Finlay’s declaration that he loves Willow not despite her prickliness but because of it.
Themes of Loss, Legacy, and Learning to Be Loved
Beneath the magical trappings and adventure plot, Rutherford explores profound questions about identity, grief, and what we inherit from those who came before us. Willow’s journey isn’t just about saving her father’s shop—it’s about reconciling the father she knew with the man he actually was, understanding his choices, and ultimately forgiving both him and herself. The revelation that Edward Stokes used his one wish to protect Willow rather than save himself transforms everything she believed about him, reframing his entire life through the lens of parental love.
The novel also thoughtfully examines the burden of magical gifts. Bri’s ability isn’t presented as purely positive or negative but as something complicated, a part of her identity that her Foundationalist parents suppressed out of fear and shame. When the truth about her curse emerges—that it’s not a curse at all but the result of her mother’s magic being partially removed—Rutherford makes a powerful statement about internalized shame and the damage caused by denying fundamental aspects of who we are.
The relationship between Willow and Bri embodies the book’s central message about found family. Neither girl gets what they thought they needed—Willow doesn’t get endless wealth from magical items, Bri doesn’t break her “curse” in the way she expected—but they get something far more valuable: people who see them fully and love them anyway. Rutherford writes their growing friendship with such authenticity that their eventual hug after breaking Bri’s suppression feels genuinely earned and deeply moving.
Prose Style and Atmospheric Detail
Rutherford’s writing shines brightest in small, specific moments rather than grand set pieces. She has an excellent ear for dialogue, particularly Willow’s sardonic observations and Bri’s patient sighs. The Scottish-inspired setting comes alive through careful atmospheric detail—the smell of burning coal and woodsmoke, the purple heather on the moors, the cramped feeling of the curiosity shop stuffed with decades of collected oddities.
The author also demonstrates skill in balancing humor with heartbreak. Willow’s voice remains witty even in her darkest moments, using sarcasm as both weapon and shield. When she creates a bald spot on her arm to test magical pomade before selling it to her childhood bully, readers can laugh while also recognizing this as a small act of reclaiming power from someone who made her life miserable.
A Cozy Fantasy with Sharp Edges
A Curious Kind of Magic occupies an interesting space in the YA fantasy landscape. It has the warmth and emotional comfort of cozy fantasy—think cups of tea, cats named Argyle and Tweed, and the satisfaction of organizing a chaotic shop—but Rutherford doesn’t shy away from harder edges. Characters face real consequences, make genuine mistakes, and must live with their choices. Willow’s lies to protect herself and her shop create tangible damage to her relationships, and the resolution doesn’t simply wave away that breach of trust.
This balance between comfort and challenge makes the novel particularly suited for readers navigating similar territory in their own lives. The book acknowledges that healing isn’t linear, that learning to accept love requires courage, and that sometimes the magic we need most isn’t found in enchanted objects but in allowing ourselves to be vulnerable with others.
Final Thoughts
Mara Rutherford has crafted a novel that manages to be both comforting and challenging, delivering a story about orphans and magic that never feels derivative despite treading familiar fantasy ground. While the plot occasionally stumbles under the weight of its own revelations and the villain could use more development, the emotional core remains strong throughout.
Readers familiar with Rutherford’s previous works—The Poison Season, Luminous, and the Crown of Coral and Pearl duology—will recognize her skill at creating atmospheric fantasy worlds and complex female relationships. A Curious Kind of Magic represents perhaps her most character-focused work to date, trading epic scope for intimate emotional exploration.
A Curious Kind of Magic by Mara Rutherford is a book for anyone who’s ever felt like a fake, who’s built walls to keep the world out, or who’s struggled to believe they deserve good things. It’s for readers who want their fantasy with heart, their magic with meaning, and their happy endings earned through genuine growth rather than convenient plot twists. Most importantly, it’s a reminder that sometimes the most powerful magic isn’t about transformation—it’s about acceptance.
Recommended for readers who enjoyed: Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones, The Language of Thorns by Leigh Bardugo, A Wizard’s Guide to Defensive Baking by T. Kingfisher, Emily Wilde’s Encyclopaedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett, and The Mislaid Magician by Patricia C. Wrede and Caroline Stevermer.
Similar Reads to Explore
If A Curious Kind of Magic resonated with you, consider these companion reads:
- Sorcery of Thorns by Margaret Rogerson – Another story featuring magical libraries, grimoires with personalities, and a prickly heroine learning to trust
- The Kingdoms of Ruin series by Rin Chupeco – For more found family dynamics and magical shop settings
- Legendborn by Tracy Deonn – Features another protagonist grappling with hidden magical heritage and complicated legacy
- House of Salt and Sorrows by Erin A. Craig – Atmospheric fantasy with mystery elements and strong sisterly bonds
- Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas – Another tale of proving yourself to your magical community while finding unexpected love
Rutherford has created something special here—a fantasy that understands that the hardest magic to master isn’t summoning dragons or breaking curses, but rather opening your heart after it’s been broken. In a genre crowded with chosen ones and epic quests, A Curious Kind of Magic reminds us that sometimes the most magical thing we can do is simply let ourselves be loved.
