There's lots to love about this book; I had very high hopes for it at the outset. Rogerson offers occasional penetrating observations on human nature, and does a wonderful job with worldbuilding and evocative contrasts between mortal and fay. I especially loved her occasional redolent imagery. E.g. 
 his inhuman scent enveloped me: a ferny green fragrance of spring leaves, the sweet perfume of wildflowers. Beneath that, something wild--something that had roamed the forest for millennia, and had long spidery fingers that could crush a human's throat while its owner wore a cordial smile. 
 There is also much to be desired; the insta-love aspect; the slight Stockholm Syndrome; and overall embarrassing effort at eroticism at the beginning of chapter ten. Worst was the tendency to linger in chase or fight scenes, and the trio of climactic conclusions made me feel like I'd unwittingly slipped into a vintage Bond-flick. The choice to cast a 17-year-old in the leading role seemed a little arbitrary and unconvincing. 
 Overall, her ruminations on the role of "Craft" and the art of portraiture as a tool for self reflection, her keen observations of human folly, ( 
 I exulted in my own cleverness. Of all the Crafters in Whimsy, I knew fair folk best... And while I worked the fever filled me, the thrill of my talent, an awareness that I was about to complete a portrait unlike any painted before 
 ); and sensitive descriptions of love gained and lost were delightful. 
 Two days later, I made a mental inventory of Rook's unfavorable qualities, prepared to indulge in some vicious criticism. He was arrogant, self-centered, and obtuse--unworthy of me in every way. Yet as I fumed over our first meeting, I couldn't help but remember how swiftly he'd apologized to me, no matter that he hadn't had the slightest idea what he was apologizing for. I recalled the look on his face exactly. By the end of the exercise, I only felt more miserable. 
 Three days later, I pressed the half dozen preparatory charcoal sketches I'd done of him between sheets of wax paper, bundled them up, and hid them at the back of my closet, resolving not to look at them again until I no longer craved seeing his face like prodding a fresh bruise. 
 After the third week I'd started feeling a little like my old self, but there was something missing from my life now, and I suspected I'd never be exactly the same again. Maybe that was just part of growing up. 
 Perhaps it is merely because I too am in the throes of trying to loose love, but I found Rogerson's account to be quite resonant. An author to watch? Maybe...