Second paragraph of third chapter:

The rest of the day had been nothing short of torture. Nell had spent hours answering Lieutenant Cabe’s endless questions and accepting Swann’s comfort, the whole time not daring to open her bag to take out her spare granola bar, or phone, or even her lip balm, lest she draw attention to what was also inside. After Lieutenant Cabe had finally let her go, she’d had to return to Classic, where Humphrey had told her she was now on bereavement leave for the rest of the week. She’d argued that she didn’t need it, but family was family, he’d said, and refused to believe she was fine. He was from a gigantic one, several generations all crammed together in the same ancient house on Long Island.

One of the books submitted for the Clarke Award which was clearly not science fiction; a New York map specialist discovers the magical effects of a map owned by her father, also a map specialist who dies mysteriously at the start of the book. It has sold massively well, but I didn’t think it was all that special – implausibly kept family secrets don’t often convince me; maybe it appeals more to people who haven’t read much liminal fantasy before. You can get it here.

This hit the top of four of my lists simultaneously: top unread book acquired this year, top unread book by a woman; top unread book by a non-white writer; and top unread sf book. (All as measured by number of owners on LibraryThing). Next on those piles respectively are Tristram Shandy, by Laurence Sterne; Winter, by Ali Smith; Life Ceremony, by Sayaka Murata; and Cart and Cwidder, by Diana Wynne Jones.