The Hands of the Emperor is the thing I read that meant the most to me this year. Possibly because of the timing. I started reading it the night before my surgery, when I was in a shared hospital room with people doing even worse than myself, and so hardly got any sleep. Once I was back in a private recovery room, I kept reading. The morphine kept the pain away, and Victoria Goddard's characters kept me company. That book is what I read when I practiced getting out of bed and sitting up in a chair. It was so engaging and so good that it transported me somewhere warm and bright and fragrant. (And kind. That is the most important thing of all.) I have the sequel ready to go for my next hospital visit, and I hope it will offer the same kind of necessary escape from physical unpleasantness.