I bite my lip. My skin is hot with shame and I can't quite catch my breath. "Did they do that to all of you?" 
 She gives me a pitying look. "Only you." 
 I look at them, and I look down at myself, and I know why. All of the other women are wearing simple brown dresses with straight skirts and plain sleeves. I look like a peacock in this embroidered dress of mine. 
 This is a stunningly beautiful, complex book, but for two words: rape culture. Fucking rape culture, man. 
 This is one of the most reluctant 4-stars that I've ever given in my life. This was a fantastic book. By the time I finished, I was wavering between giving it 4 stars or 2 stars. 
 Why the discrepancy? That's a hell of a difference. Again, rape culture and occasional slut shaming. I loved this book, but fuck if it wasn't incredibly fucking frustrating to read. I gritted my teeth, torn between love and hate. In the end, I went with my gut instincts. I still loved most of this book, despite raging hard at it. Go figure. 
 Lest I be a hypocrite, let me first tell you why I hated this book. There is such an overwhelming sense of "Pretty girl! Me want to rape. Me want to molest. Me want to touch. Me Neanderthal. *chest thump*" Listen, I get it. I know that rape and molestation and the constant threat of abuse is a very, very real thing. With that said, it made me upset that this was such an overwhelming theme throughout the book, and that it only happened to the beautiful, nubile young character. 
 She is under constant threats of rape. From random men. 
 Ebian laughs, and his hand falls away from my neck. For a moment I believe I am free, but then I hear the tinkle of metal and realize he's fumbling with his belt. 
 To her own boss. 
 His mushroomy fingers are on my neck, and then--oh, I want to die--they are on the front of me, stroking down, only a few inches above the neckline of my dress. This is no way to touch a girl. This is private. This is sacred and intimate. I lean back to escape, but I only succeed in trapping myself against his weaselly, damp body. 
 Her boss, who, throughout the book, constantly, ceaselessly makes advances towards her. 
 Mugo's hand slips lower, and his fingers skim the neckline on the front of my dress. I can't take it anymore. I try to squirm away, but Mugo's other hand clamps down painfully on my shoulder, holding me in place. 
 Outside of that, she is believed to be constantly under the threat of rape by her own fellow women. 
 "You're lucky. I can't imagine what they would have done to you if they had the strength. Weren't you terrified?" 
 And made to be the victim at every turn. 
 As I push up to my hands and knees, I feel air on the back of my legs. 
 The impish boy has lifted my skirt. 
 The main character excuses her own abuser. 
 "You mourn for the boy who lifted your skirt in the cafeteria? Who exposed your skin for all to see?" 
 Something inside me shrivels. I hope I'm imagining the edge in his voice. "Yes, I do. He didn't mean it." 
 And every woman in the book seems to blame Wen for her own sexuality, telling her that it is her responsibility to prevent her own sexual abuse. 
 "You watch yourself, Wen. Mind your manners and don't wear fancy little girl clothes like you do. You're asking for trouble." 
 The main character allows herself to be fondled, to be debased, in the hope that she can sacrifice herself to save someone she loves---that's not how love works. 
 Tears of shame sting my eyes. If this were only about me, I would slap him in the face and storm away, but it's not. So I sit here and allow this disgusting man to fondle me, hating him, hating myself. 
 Little girl. Little girl. Little girl. 
 "You're such a little girl, Wen, aren't you? Just a little girl." His lips graze my hair, and I shudder. 
 There was a tremendous amount of emphasis on Wen as a "little girl," so young, so helpless, so beautiful. Existing solely to be molested and used by others. 
 Sigh. 
 I hated that. It was such a bloody fucking shame that this rape culture enraged me so much because it was such a good book otherwise. The race relations between the two races in the book, the Asian-like Itanyai and the Middle-Eastern Noors. There was a beautiful (yes, I said beautiful) and well-written love triangle between a Phantom-of-the-Opera-like ghost, Bo, and the forbidden-love Noor, Melik. The main character, Wen's relationship with her father is heartbreaking and real. The setting is fantastically creepy and bloody, deeply reminiscent of Upton Sinclair's The Jungle with a good dash of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. 
 The main character, while flawed and rather stupid, was still relatable. 
 It was a good book. 
 What a shame. What a bloody fucking shame.