The Familiar, by Leigh Bardugo: A Review

At Menards in Fort Dodge, Iowa

I picked up The Familiar, by Leigh Bardugo, because the story takes place in late 16th Century Spain amid the Inquisition. The protagonist must keep her Jewish heritage a secret, given the threat that permeates all around her. Secrecy has to be her way of life. As I’m uncovering the fact that my ancestors were among those in history who had to keep their Judaism secret, I seek to understand why. Why hide something so intricate to themselves, even at the cost of their own deaths? I thought reading this book, with the help of Bardugo’s fictional characters, may help me understand within the body of a story - or at least open the floodgate of ideas in my mind.

It did, indeed.

The story opens with Luzia as a servant girl in the Ordoño household—a Portuguese Jewish family converted under duress, now trying to rise in the ranks of Spanish society. Luzia scrubs floors and peels garlic, and no one pays much attention to her except to punish her. But what no one suspects is that she possesses a miraculous gift. Her “milagritos” are small spells, subtle acts of quiet magic: a torn loaf of bread repaired, a dish stretched to feed more mouths, an egg multiplied in the bowl. These are acts of survival, carried in the blood-memory of women like her: conversas, crypto-Jews, the hunted. She has to be careful, as her milagritos could likely be her downfall in such a world.

The book begins, “If the bread hadn’t burned, this would be a very different story.” From the first time Luzia stretches a stew farther than it should go, the spirituality of food is brought into reality. Food makes its entrance at the beginning and is the gateway to memory, and therefore the gateway to more than the world around her - but she makes something delicious out of the world around her. Luzia’s miracles reclaim the kitchen as a site of power, as her miracles are most often born out of food. While noblemen debate philosophy and priests hunt heretics, Luzia kneads resistance into dough, even as she must hide her true identity.

The Ordoño household, with its layers of disdain and desperation, is a study in how women survived under patriarchal pressure. Doña Valentina, Luzia’s mistress, is a woman of rank and ambition but little real power. At first, she bullies Luzia, demanding ever more elaborate miracles to impress guests and curry court favor. But Valentina herself is trapped in a cold marriage and a cage of status, and inflicts her disappointment onto Luzia. Her trajectory is not so much redemption as collapse, a counterpoint to Luzia’s ascent. One woman sinks into the expectations of her station; the other dares to rise out of hers.

Yet the world outside the kitchen is no safer. When Luzia’s performances pull her out of the shadows and into the rich, dangerous sphere of Madrid's court, her magic introduces her to a world beyond what she’s ever hoped for. But nobles, alchemists, and would-be seers circle her like hawks, each seeking to claim the power in her miracles as their own. Among them is Don Víctor de Paredes, a nobleman desperate to restore his family's standing after the humiliating defeat of the Spanish Armada. And in his service is Guillén Santángel—the “familiar,” a man as unsettling as he is fascinating. His secret is as big as Luzia’s, and thus he begins to teach her how to hone her gift.

When one of his lessons for her is to grow a pomegranate from a seedling, repairing its snapped branch in the process, he asks her if she can “heal a living thing,” adding that “it’s no small thing to restore life when life is interrupted.” His master then orders another servant to break Santángel’s fingers to further the test. Yet the pomegranate tree, whose growth they had just initiated, burst into a tree when pain was inflicted upon Santángel, “its branches slamming against the ceiling, heavy fruit tumbling from its branches.” The miracle had not only stopped the servant from breaking more of Santángel’s bones, but the force had in fact split Luzia’s tongue and only her own song could repair it. “You are the burnt bread. You are the broken glass,” Santángel said, pleading with her to remember who she is and heal herself.

To me, Luzia’s reaction to such trauma, and by being doused in blood herself, and an instant later recognizing the sincerity in Santángel’s voice, made the story take on a deeper maturity. Her power is subdued and understated, but with such wielding, it’s in his best interest to speak reason to her - yet, the reader is aware by now that he’s guiding her out of deeper love.

In fact, she asks him a week later, ”You don’t fear the Inquisition at all?” What could he fear now, even in the face of so many threats?

We come to learn that Santángel is immortal, a creature bound by ancient debts, a protector whose soul is bruised and battered by centuries of violence and loneliness. He isn’t simply a bodyguard, but he’s a blade kept sheathed at Víctor’s side. He trusts no one and remembers everything. His immortality stems from a secret deal, but what it is exactly must be learned. His immortality was inflicted upon him as punishment. He cannot die, but he’s bound to serve, to kill, and to guard without love or purpose - until Luzia enters his life. The intensity with which he yearns to protect her melts into her. Though their relationship initiated amid wariness, Santángel sees something deeper in Luzia and their relationship grows into something more touching.

Another turning point for them comes when he tells her, “Pay attention, you are entering the arena and it is time to meet your fellow gladiators.”

I am reminded of “Hear, O Israel.”

Whilst their connection was forged in shadows, she reminds him of something that’s been long buried in him — purpose. He’s her guide in the court, but also her mirror. Both are servants bound by the expectations of their masters, and both perform out of duty. But both long to be more, and both can become more - with each other and the truth. 

However, as Luzia’s fame grows, so does the danger. The court demands fascinating wonders, greater than anything done before. The Inquisition demands secrecy And Luzia, of course, cannot afford to be seen. She knows her miracles are liabilities; and her lineage must remain secret in order to stay alive. The reader understands this from the historical context given.

In fact, Luzia must not only survive public scrutiny but reclaim a heritage she’s been taught to disown. In one sweeping sequence, she is imprisoned, interrogated, and condemned by the Inquisition. And even then—even in the face of fire—she resists not through violence or spectacle, but through words: she uses the Ladino sayings of her people like spells. Words her grandmother whispered over pots and pans become lethal against Spanish imperial terror.

In the moment when Luzia, facing the pyre, invokes her ancestors instead of the Church, she truly comes alive. She refuses to deny who she is. This is the culmination of the book’s understated thesis: that real power is rooted in memory, in identity, in the rituals passed down over meals.

Even as the final pages carry Luzia and Santángel out of Spain and into uncertain freedom, the scent of her kitchen lingers. In the story, she’s gone from scullery girl to court miracle-worker; from a silenced convert to a woman who claims her truth aloud. And always, through it all, she stirs up emotion like a broth. For her, the domestic sphere has been  a stage of resistance. That miracles made of eggs and dough are no less wondrous than those summoned with lightning. And surviving becomes the bravest miracle of all.

Bardugo’s prose is richly textured, especially in the descriptions of food and ritual which I loved. A rabbit stew can carry dread or comfort. A feast can be both performance and trap. We become rooted in a historical world of sweat and spice, of blood and wine. In a time when Jewish cooks had to disguise their heritage, the kitchen was both camouflage and confession.

Luzia reflects early on in the book that “every miracle begins with hunger.” Hunger, whether for justice, for belonging, for visibility, drives each of these characters. Luzia hungers to be seen, but safely. Valentina hungers for relevance. Santángel hungers to be released from a curse of immortality. Even the court, with its cruel games and pageantry, hungers for novelty, for control, and most of all for belief. 

The Familiar does not move quickly. It lingers on words and scenes; it’s not a book of quick satisfaction. It is, fittingly, a slow-cooked story—one that simmers in tension, and rewards patience. Like a good meal, it unfolds in courses. In the end, we as readers are satisfied with what we’ve been served.