Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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Following an in-milieu commentary about the Catalyst Wildeye, “A Full House” begins with the arrival of Shun at Withywoods; her reception is detailed, along with Fitz’s wonderings about her situation and circumstances. Fitz also ruminates on the shifts in his relationship with Bee, as well as on the work that has been done on the estate to bring it back into full operation. Shun is visibly displeased with the setting; Riddle, who accompanies her, is somewhat amused. Bee, in the thrall of one of her visions, enters and draws Fitz away, where he finds the Fool in dire straits.

Fitz takes up the Fool and begins to attend to him–finding him a her, and not the Fool, though much like him. She rouses under his ministrations and reports being sent as a messenger to him. Amid the report, Riddle intrudes, and Fitz tasks him with finding assistance. As Riddle departs on the errand, Fitz assigns tasks to Bee, as well, though she remains to confer briefly with him. The messenger delivers what of the message she can, although she notes that she has likely preceded danger.

Fitz leaves off the messenger to attend to Shun, who is verbally displeased at her situation and lays out her objections at length. Fitz realizes the depths of Shun’s despair, and he reaches out to her–only to be interrupted by Bee, who reports that the messenger has departed in haste. Fitz begins to puzzle out the issue as Riddle returns, and he and Bee move to investigate. Wariness begins to settle onto Fitz once again, and Bee begins to take it up, as well.

The present chapter does a fair amount of foreshadowing–it can hardly not, what with prophetic figures at play and the overt discussion of coming dangers from multiple sources, as well as Fitz’s admission of his lapsing wariness and assassin-appropriate paranoia (although it’s not paranoia if there are people out to get you). Too, it is the second appearance of a strange, pursued messenger in the narrative, and simple narrative structure suggests that a third will arrive. (Interestingly, the first messenger was almost completely missed, while the second was received but not fully. Narrative tropes suggest that the third messenger will deliver the message in full, but some other break will occur; typically, the first two set a pattern that the third violates. Admittedly, however, there is precedent for a decline in threes; the example of Lancelot’s judicial combat defenses of Guinevere comes to mind as an example for me for what may be an obvious reason.) Consequently, there’s some forward-looking at work, and at both narrative and structural levels, something I appreciate seeing.

I note, too, that the present chapter returns to something identified by several sources (as attested here) as something of a motif in the treatment of the Fool and his people: gender fluidity. While the term is not used within Hobb’s work (so far as I recall), the concept it describes very much is, and it surfaces in the present chapter in confusion about the messenger. Bee predicts that a man has arrived, and Fitz accepts the prediction as stated until presented with physicality that belies it–although the Fool had noted (and had been depicted as) being flexible in the expression and presentation of gender, something about which Fitz knows (and should know better than to assume). The notion of physicality determining gender, then, is not a stable one among the Fool’s people (nor necessarily among Fitz’s), and, given the foreshadowing at work already, it has to be thought that that flux will be of some moment, moving forward.

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Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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After a passage from Bee’s dream journal, “Dreams” begins with Bee receiving her first visit from Wolf-Father. The latter confers with Bee at length, guiding her through her fear and the corridors she had meant to explore before losing her light, exhorting her to use other senses than sight to find her way. She manages to return to her starting place, where she finds Fitz frantically searching for her. Angry in his fear for her, he forgets for a moment to wall himself off, and she detects his fear and the love that underlies it. As he tends to her, she lays out some–but not all–of her exploits, and Bee allows Fitz to put her to bed.

Bee fights sleep, then, first because she seeks to find the place in her bedroom from which she could be covertly observed, second because she does not want to dream. She ruminates on her dreams, images that transcend time, and falls asleep–into a prophetic dream. She wakes from it with a new determination to record what she sees, stalking about Withywoods to collect what she needs to begin to do so. She surprises some of the household servants as she does so, and when Fitz, somewhat vexed at not finding her in her bedroom, speaks with her, she voices reluctance to burn candles her mother had made. He agrees, and he lays out the impending arrival of Shun. Discussion thereof ensues, and Bee lays out her need for writing materials in details Fitz cannot mistake. The revelation shocks him, and he assents to hre request.

Preparations for Shun’s arrival ensue, and Bee takes the opportunity to ferret away supplies for her own use, both in her rooms and in the hidden corridors. Her own preparations are detailed, and she works to record the prophetic dreams she recalls. Her own studies also receive attention, including Molly’s emerging writing and Patience’s acerbic marginalia in gift-volumes given her and Chivalry. She also reads old letters Patience had kept, puzzling out details of the tangled histories of her forebears, and she stumbles onto Fitz’s written ruminations as she continues searching for writing materials. Among them is a consideration of his early days in Buckkeep with Nosy, and what might well be his earliest encounter with the Fool. Bee muses on the implications of what she finds, and, when she asks him, Fitz lays out some of his history with the Fool. It leaves some awkwardness between them.

There is a bit of retcon in the present chapter, in that it establishes Fitz’s awareness of the Fool earlier than that character’s first mention in the text as published. It is, admittedly, not to be wondered at that such a detail might slip a bit in the years between compositions–both in-milieu and in the writer’s world. And it is not a large slip; it’s a difference of one chapter only (out of some 400 between). But it is still a small vexation, a slight inconsistency that frustrates analysis somewhat, and if it is the case that I don’t do a lot of that work anymore, I still do some, and others also have such work to do.

More generally, however, the present chapter seems to make much of metacommentary–here, writing about writing. It’s something of a recurring topic in Hobb’s work, as witness this, this, and this, doubtlessly among others. The present chapter fairly dwells in it, Bee musing at some length on the utility of writing as a means of organizing one’s thoughts and sifting through information to arrive at understandings. (I’m minded of the “write to learn” thrust of much of my own writing instruction, as well as my instruction in teaching writing.) The attention paid to Molly’s writing and its development in form and content, as well as to the marginalia Patience left behind also speaks to it, pointing usefully to the ways in which writing and its changes bespeak characters’ development, even if out of narrative sight. Affective reader that I am, I perceived similarities between what Bee reports and my own experiences owning the physical objects of texts and working with the words and ideas contained within them. (There are differences between the two, as well as to the studies of the two.) I’ve noted marginalia in copies of books that I own; I’ve made no few margin-notes, myself, over many years of study within formal programs and without. And even the contents of this rereading series, in addition to my papers, are of similar thrust, if likely not of similar extent (even assuming the unshown realities within the milieu; of course the instantiated thing is of greater extent than the uninstantiated). Consequently, I found myself in the pages…again. It does seem to happen to me a lot. I’m not entirely sure what it says about me that I do.

In any event, as I have remarked elsewhere–the links’re above–it is not a strange thing that a writer would attend to the work of writing within the writing. “Write what you know” is old advice and often repeated; a writer, especially one with a long publication history, presumably knows writing. I do have to wonder how much emerges from the writer’s personal practice, as opposed to observed and reported practices of others; biographical criticism is, of course, always fraught, but I maintain that ignoring the contexts of composition is not the best way to approach any text–or any work in any medium, really.

Not bad for not finding it, eh?

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