I’ve been a fan of Ben Aaronovitch’s “Rivers of London” series since my good friend Matt first loaned me books 1-5 of the series many years ago. I thoroughly enjoyed the sense of humor, the urban fantasy worldbuilding and its commitment to diversity. I have been looking forward to the latest installment in the series – which includes graphic novels and novellas.
Unfortunately, plot and character seem to fall short in “Stone & Sky,” and I found more than a few distracting representational and structural issues that reduced my overall enjoyment. More than previous installments in this series, this one (combined with my recent reading of the “Springtime Masquerade” and the two most recent graphic novels) illuminated questions about authenticity, authorial gaze, and the limits of metaphor in fantasy fiction.
From uneven portrayals of queer relationships to the infantilization of magical beings, from the overuse of white male cultural references to the stylized rendering of dialect and slang, Stone & Sky reveals cracks in the series’ inclusive veneer. What emerges is a pattern of selective authenticity—where some identities are explored with depth and care, while others are flattened, exoticized, or reduced to narrative shorthand.
Queer characters have been present throughout the series—Thomas Nightingale, the emotionally reserved wizard, and Augustus “Gussie” Berrycloth-Young, a flamboyant figure in The Masquerades of Spring. Yet their romantic or sexual lives are treated with restraint, stylization, or humor. Nightingale’s queerness is acknowledged but rarely explored with emotional intimacy. Gussie is rendered as a campy, comedic figure whose attraction to men is more implied than deeply felt.
In contrast, Stone & Sky devotes significant narrative space to Abigail Kamara’s emotional and romantic attraction to Ione, a new female character. Abigail’s feelings are described with vivid emotional texture—her longing, her confusion, her desire. This disparity raises a critical question: why is a teenage girl’s same-sex attraction rendered with such depth, while adult queer male relationships remain emotionally muted?
Abigail is portrayed as a teenager in Stone & Sky, though her exact age is never explicitly stated. Based on the series’ internal timeline, she was born in 2000, which would make her 24 or 25 if the book is set in 2024–2025. However, the tone of the narrative—and the way her emotional development is framed—suggests she is still in her late teens.
The narrative lingers on Abigail’s feelings for Ione in a way that feels less like a teenager discovering her identity and more like an adult imagining what that discovery might feel like. The emotional intensity, combined with the sensual framing, risks crossing into voyeurism -- especially given that the author, a white man in his 60s, is writing from the perspective of a teenage girl.
Writing across lines of identity—age, gender, race, sexuality—is not inherently problematic. But it requires care, humility, and a deep understanding of the lived experiences being portrayed. When a teenage girl’s romantic feelings are described with more emotional and sensual detail than any adult relationship in the series, it raises questions about authorial intent.
Is this Abigail’s authentic voice, or is it Aaronovitch’s projection of what a teenage girl might feel? The line between empathy and appropriation is thin, and in Stone & Sky, it feels increasingly blurred. The result is a portrayal that risks centering the author’s imagination more than the character’s truth. Back to Abigail’s voice in a moment.
Complicating matters further is the fact that Ione is not just a girl—she’s a siren, a magical being capable of manipulating human emotion through song. This raises a fundamental question: is Abigail’s attraction to Ione genuine, or is it the result of magical influence?
If Ione’s presence or voice can enchant anyone, then Abigail’s feelings may not be uniquely queer—or even uniquely hers. They could be induced, universal, or illusory. The narrative does not clearly interrogate this possibility, instead presenting Abigail’s emotional / hormonal / pheromonal experience as unquestionably real. This ambiguity undermines the authenticity of the queer representation the book seems to offer. If the attraction is magically induced, then it’s not a story about queer identity—it’s a story about manipulation and consent. Is Abigail truly consenting if she’s under the influence of glamour? Ione is presented as being at least 18 and heading off to uni – which further complicates the consent issue.
The Rivers of London universe is populated with magical beings—faeries, selkies, talking foxes, river gods—who often serve as metaphors for marginalized or misunderstood communities. While this can be a powerful narrative device, it also risks reinforcing stereotypes through fantasy proxies.
The fae are portrayed as beautiful and emotionally distant; the foxes as tribal and cunning; the rivers as territorial and often exoticized. These portrayals can feel like stand-ins for real-world racial, ethnic, or social groups—especially when their behaviors are framed through suspicion or danger. As Borowska-Szerszun (2021) notes, Aaronovitch’s work attempts to challenge the “habits of Whiteness” in fantasy fiction but also reveals the “friction and negotiation” involved in representing difference.
When magical beings are used to explore social issues without naming them directly, it creates a safe distance for the author but also a lack of accountability in how those metaphors land.
Characterization of voice, intelligence and other traits is another very noticeable part of “Rivers of London.” I remember the first time that I read D.H. Lawrence and couldn’t understand the dialect representation of the “lower class” manner of speaking. Aaronovitch frequently and unevenly represents Jamaican patois, Scottish, Irish and Caribbean English phonetically as “dialect,” while “standard” British or American English is not, implying a linguistic norm and effectively othering some of the characters. Using this technique can reinforce caricatures or reduce characters to their accents. It also creates a power imbalance in representation – regional or ethnic pronunciations are marked as “different” or “exotic” while others are normalized.
For example, more than in previous books in the series, Abigail’s dialogue is peppered with contemporary London slang, including terms like “bare,” “peng,” and “peak,” which are common in Multicultural London English (MLE). This is consistent with her earlier portrayals as a sharp, streetwise teen from South London who is very smart, picks up Latin and is training to be a wizard. However, in this novel, the use of slang feels exaggerated—almost performative—and stands in contrast to the way other young characters speak. Ione and her cousin Duncan, despite being close in age to Abigail, speak in a more neutral, almost formal tone (aside from occasional “Scottish as dialect” representations).
This inconsistency raises questions about why Abigail’s voice is so heavily stylized. Is it meant to emphasize her “urban” identity? If so, it risks reducing her to a stereotype—especially when other characters of similar age and background are not written with the same linguistic markers. It also reinforces a sense of “othering” within the narrative: Abigail becomes the “voice of the streets,” while others are allowed to speak more generically.
Rather shockingly – there are assertions made about the communication abilities or styles of other species / characters in the book. The selkies—mythical seal-people—are depicted as unable to speak English. Instead, they “bark,” and their communication is described in animalistic terms. This portrayal strips them of linguistic agency and positions them as less-than-human, even though they are sentient beings with their own culture, and clearly intelligent enough to be pursued and enslaved/indentured to work on deep marine oil projects.
This is compounded by a moment in which Beverley Brook, a river goddess and Peter’s wife, mentions attempts to communicate with bottle-nose whales—and dismisses them as “kind of stupid.” While this may be intended as a humorous aside, it reinforces a troubling pattern: magical or non-human beings are often portrayed as primitive, unintelligent, or linguistically inferior, especially when they don’t conform to human (and specifically English-speaking) norms.
The portrayal of the talking foxes adds another layer to this critique. These creatures are shown to be technologically advanced—they have specially adapted tools to access the internet, maintain networks with humans for medical care and transportation, and operate with a high degree of autonomy. Yet Peter remarks, “if someone taught them to be spies then their teachers left some major gaps in their vocabulary.” This line, while humorous, undermines the foxes’ intelligence and agency.
Moreover, the foxes’ speech is rendered in a simplified, stylized dialect. They use phrases like “big diggy thing” instead of “boring machine,” which may initially seem charming or whimsical. But this linguistic reduction can also be read as a form of intentional infantilization—a way of making their intelligence appear quaint or incomplete. It’s possible Aaronovitch intended this as a commentary on how the foxes perceive human language, or even as a subversive joke about humans needing things “dumbed down.” But without clear narrative framing, it risks reinforcing the very stereotypes it might be trying to critique.
In effect, the foxes are presented as a paradox: technologically sophisticated, yet linguistically and culturally “othered.” Their dialect becomes a marker of difference, and their intelligence is constantly undercut by the way they are spoken about—and made to speak. This mirrors broader patterns in literature where dialect is used to signal inferiority or exoticism, especially when applied unevenly across characters.
This kind of framing echoes real-world colonial and racial narratives, where language and intelligence have historically been used as tools of dehumanization and domination. When magical beings are denied language—or mocked for their perceived lack of intelligence—it reinforces a hierarchy in which human (and often white, Western) characters are the default standard of intellect and civility.
In a series that otherwise tries to explore multiculturalism and magical diversity, this kind of portrayal feels regressive. It undermines the richness of the magical world by reducing some of its inhabitants to caricatures or comic relief.
Finally, let’s address a few of the larger, overarching tropes including the “Immortal White Wizard.” Thomas Nightingale, born in 1900, is over 120 years old in the Rivers of London timeline. Yet due to magical intervention, he appears to be in his early 40s—an ageless, elegant figure at the peak of his physical and magical power. He is consistently portrayed as the most powerful practitioner, the calm center of magical authority, and the one who saves the day when things spiral out of control.
In contrast, Peter Grant—young, Black, and the series’ protagonist—is often associated with chaos, improvisation, and collateral damage. His investigations are messy, his magic unpredictable, and his victories often come at a cost. While this may reflect a more modern, fallible hero archetype, it also reinforces a troubling dynamic: the older white man as the eternal, infallible guardian, and the younger man of color as the well-meaning but unstable apprentice.
This dynamic is further complicated by the fact that Nightingale’s age is magically concealed, allowing him to retain the visual and narrative authority of a man in his prime, while Peter is constantly reminded of his limitations—by others and by the narrative itself. For example, someone mentions that they “pulled a Peter” in the story. Ouch.
Why does the old white man get to be timeless, powerful, and composed, while the younger Black protagonist is framed as volatile and reactive? This imbalance echoes a long tradition in fantasy literature where wisdom, power, and control are embodied in white, male, often aristocratic figures, while characters of color are positioned as learners, disruptors, or comic relief.
I also saw that the canon namechecking to be rather overbearing and too “insider-y” to be enjoyable. Throughout Stone & Sky, Aaronovitch peppers the narrative with references to iconic figures and franchises—almost all of them white and male:
- Star Trek (Gene Roddenberry)
- Saruman (J.R.R. Tolkien)
- John Connor (Terminator)
- Darth Vader (Star Wars)
- Peter Capaldi (Doctor Who)
- The Lord of the Rings (“One does not simply…”)
- Neil Gaiman, referenced via the phrase “Neil Gaiman black”
These references are often used for humor or shorthand, but cumulatively, they reinforce a very narrow cultural canon—one that centers white male creators and their visions of fantasy, science fiction, and heroism.
This is especially jarring given the book’s attempt to foreground a young Black British girl as a protagonist. Why is Abigail—who is otherwise written with a distinct voice and cultural identity—constantly filtered through the lens of white male geek culture? Why not reference Octavia Butler, N.K. Jemisin, Marjorie Liu, or even Afrofuturist icons like Sun Ra or Janelle Monáe?
Even the reference to “Neil Gaiman black” is problematic— not only because it reduces a complex aesthetic to a single figure, but also because Gaiman himself has faced recent criticism for his public behavior and comments. In a book that already struggles with authenticity in voice and representation, this kind of namechecking feels less like homage and more like cultural defaulting—a reliance on the familiar, rather than an effort to expand the canon or reflect the diversity of its characters.
A quick visit to any online forum or fan site will reveal that many longtime readers have noted that the series has become increasingly formulaic. Each book introduces a magical disturbance, a new creature or system, and a procedural investigation that resolves with a mix of magic and logic. In Stone & Sky, this formula is stretched even thinner. The early chapters focus heavily on a family camping trip, with little narrative urgency or magical intrigue.
While this may be an attempt to deepen character relationships or explore quieter moments, it contributes to a sense of narrative drift. The stakes feel lower, the pacing more meandering, and the once-vibrant magical world increasingly routine. There’s simply too much padding in this book.
One recurring distraction in Stone & Sky is the level of detail devoted to what characters are wearing and how they look—often with commentary that feels judgmental, class-coded, or simply unnecessary. For example, a character named Mason is described in terms that go beyond observation and veer into critique:
“He was a short white man in his early thirties, brown hair, curls on top and short at the sides that didn't really suit a square face with a prominent nose and thin lips. At least his head matched the rest of him - broad shoulders, short legs, but a much better suit than I would have risked wearing to work. Dark brown wool, bought off the shelf, I reckoned, but then tailored. Despite the weather, he wore a lambswool pullover over his shirt.”
Peter is mixed-race, younger and from a working-class background -- why would he be even care if someone’s suit was bought “off the rack” and then tailored? I understand he wouldn’t want to risk wearing expensive clothing to work since he often ends up in situations where his clothing is damaged – but why would that matter in a passing evaluation of another person in a different role?
Descriptions like this don’t just paint a picture—they evaluate the character’s appearance, often through the narrator’s subjective lens and many of these observations come across as mean-spirited or superficial, especially when repeated across multiple characters. These moments rarely advance the plot or deepen character insight. Instead, they feel like narrative padding—a way to fill space rather than build momentum.
This kind of detail might have worked better in a graphic novel, where visual storytelling could convey these elements more efficiently and with more nuance. Given the success of the Rivers of London graphic novels, it’s easy to imagine Stone & Sky functioning more effectively in that format—especially given its visual settings, magical creatures, and dual perspectives.
Final Thoughts: Stone & Sky attempts to expand the emotional and magical scope of the Rivers of London universe, but in doing so, it exposes several representational and structural weaknesses. Queer male characters are emotionally sidelined; a queer teen girl’s feelings are spotlighted with intensity that may not be her own. Magical beings are used as metaphors for social difference, but often in ways that reinforce rather than challenge stereotypes. Linguistic choices—from stylized slang to infantilizing dialect—further complicate the portrayal of identity and intelligence.
The series’ once-fresh formula is losing strength and its cultural references remain narrowly focused on white male creators. Even as it strives for diversity, Stone & Sky often defaults to familiar tropes and voices—leaving its most radical possibilities unexplored.
Aaronovitch’s work has always aimed to be inclusive. But inclusion without critical self-awareness can lead to distortion. If Stone & Sky is meant to be a story of queer awakening, magical discovery, and emotional growth, it needs to ask harder questions—about power, about authenticity, and about who gets to tell whose story.
References (Other than the "Rivers of London" related books):
Borowska-Szerszun, S. (2021). Ethnic and cultural diversity in Ben Aaronovitch’s urban fantasy cycle Rivers of London. Journal of Contemporary Literature, 12(3), 45–62. Retrieved from https://www.researchgate.net/publication/335318094
Follypedia. (2023). Abigail Kamara. Retrieved from https://follypedia.fandom.com/wiki/Abigail_Kamara
Follypedia. (2023). Thomas Nightingale. Retrieved from https://follypedia.fandom.com/wiki/Thomas_Nightingale
© Jennifer R Clark. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. You may share and adapt this content with proper attribution.
