Anya and the Nigtingale by Sofiya Pasternack

Talk about disappointments. This has been probably the largest upset of a sequel I have ever read. I loved the first book. In fact, I said, "The writing is youthful and whimsical while being sturdy and serious when needed. Anya and Ivan were fantastic characters with the foibles of youth but not the agonizing angst," over here. The whole novel was cute and endearing. 

There was tons of Slavic folklore and mythical allure. This sequel pitched that all out the window. This time we are hoodwinked into reading a sloppy attempt at romance. In a middle grade book. Eww. These kids are fighting the ultimate of demons with novice level magic, and they are really worried about who to love. No.

But not all the changes were horrific. Instead of the Slavic details, we are exposed to the Jewish culture (and probably the only redeeming quality to this novel since I learned some new facts). I went from wanting to recommend this series to everyone to, now, burying it in shame in the backyard.