I read this surreptitiously while in the office. Sneaking in a few words before lunch. A few lines after tackling a particularly difficult manuscript. Maybe because of my own sneaky nature of reading, I found this to be perfect as a whodunit. Perfect in pitch, perfect in style, perfect even in building characters that is often the downfall of many a lesser writer.

But the author, dear readers, THE AUTHOR. I demand greatness from her. In my delirious J K Rowling fangirl state, I want inexhaustible supply of literary perfection to pour forth from her blonde head.

And, well, that doesn't happen. It is unputdownable, but doesn't incessantly demand my brainspace like all her other creations did. Maybe it is me, maybe it is her, maybe it is my own lofty Agatha Christie reading expectations, but the sorting hat would probably sort this book to be a Hufflepuff.

But really, is that such a bad thing?