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In 2025, a Page Odyssey, I introduced you to the Caraval three-book series released in 2017 by American author Stephanie Garber. Now I'd like to review a follow-up trilogy by the same author, which I found equally enjoyable. Published in 2021, Once Upon a Broken Heart is set in the same fantasy world but focuses on the fate of a new protagonist, a hopeless romantic whose discernment is inversely proportional to her exaggerated saviour complex — something that smacks more of compulsive recklessness than conscious heroism, and seems to make her a magnet for every psychopath on earth. Among them is the very ‘borderline’ Jacks, also known as the Prince of Hearts, previously featured in the last two volumes of Caraval, who becomes the captivating central figure of the series.
When Fairy Tales Go Sour
While the previous story ended on a note of triumph and resolution, this one begins on a decidedly darker, more ambiguous note. Stephanie Garber explains that she actually wanted to tell a fairy tale with murder added to it: “I thought it would be fun to have a girl solve a murder while falling for someone she suspected might actually be responsible for the murder,” she says
Evangeline Fox is a bit like Cinderella: an orphan, bullied by a greedy stepmother, and secretly envied by her stepsister. Almost caricaturally naive, she maintains an unquestioning belief in the existence of soulmates, twin flames, and other persistent, deceptive myths such as Everlasting Love. Hence her devastation when, overnight, she finds out that despite being deeply in love with her, her sweetheart is about to marry her stepsister.
Evangeline had a gift when it came to believing in things that others considered myths—like the immortal Fates. She opened the metal grate. The door itself didn’t have a handle, forcing her to wedge her fingers into the tiny space between its jagged edge and the dirty stone wall. The door pinched her fingers, drawing a drop of blood, and she swore she heard its splintered voice say, Do you know what you’re about to step into? Nothing but heartbreak will come from this. But Evangeline’s heart was already broken. And she understood the risks she was taking. She knew the rules for visiting Fated churches.
In desperation, she bargains with the charismatic Prince of Hearts to stop the wedding. But as the saying goes, “Be careful what you wish for”. As soon as her wish is granted, she immediately regrets it. Fortunately, nothing is ever set in stone forever — not even her. Except that nothing ever comes for free either, and her second chance granted for a fresh start quickly turns out to be a bittersweet, poisoned gift.
Just like the deadly kiss of Jacks the Cursed, whose heart has stopped beating, as revealed in Caraval. Even though the broken heart in the title officially refers to Evangeline's, it seems that Jacks' has suffered even greater damage — enough to turn him into a Fate — although the author remains unclear about the circumstances.
How Far Would You Go for Happily Ever After?
This opening question alone on the back cover captures the main theme of the series and brings up several others: What is happiness? What is eternity? And most importantly, why would anyone want to confine the very essence of life — which is supposed to be an ever-changing flow — to a fixed, permanent state?
Jacks became immortal, though it is unclear how, in the wake of a romantic tragedy caused by a curse cast upon him. His heart has stopped beating, but he still has the power to affect the hearts of mortals. The curse that turned him into a Fate is not only emotional, it is ontological. It is worth noting that, from an occult perspective, the heart is the symbol of the inner core of the soul.
It is a frequently recurring symbol in fairy tales. One example is Snow White, whose heart the hunter, sent by the Evil Queen, is tasked with retrieving. The heart is part of the mechanism of entrapment. It is a vessel for memories and vital energy.
In this series, immortality is vampiric. It requires blood. There's even a blood-sucking tree: “Anyone clever enough to find the tree and brave enough to drink its blood will be human no more, but immortal”. This comes at the cost of sacrificing the person you love most. However, the end appears to justify the means. Even in fairy tales.
And given all the backstabbing, curses and other failed (or successful) murder attempts, the quest for immortality is anything but glorious and actually drives people mad. It entraps them in never-ending cycles and patterns in which the original wound is replayed over and over again. Even when memory is altered or fragmented, something always remains. Lifelines seem to keep repeating. Forgetting does not eliminate the wound: it simply obscures it.
Jacks Out of the Box
If the heart is regarded as a carrier of memories and vital energy, Jacks stands as a quintessential anomaly. He no longer possesses his own — at least not in the same way as everyone — and yet he exerts influence over other people's hearts. He does not merely convey a desire or an illusion: he reactivates wounds, expectations, and hidden legacies.
Jacks is undoubtedly one of Stephanie Garber's most compelling characters. He is somewhat akin, albeit darker and more complex, to Archibald in Christelle Dabos' The Mirror Visitor series.
What makes him so intriguing is that his apparent cruelty is not gratuitous, unlike what his behaviour in Caraval seemed to suggest. It stems from a more ancient mechanism. He is not only ambiguous, he is the product of a system that transforms wounds into functions. The archetype of the tempter linked to the forbidden fruit — the iconic red-juiced white apples, which he eats in all circumstances.
He is not just a tragic seducer. He is the fulcrum of a memory that transcends individuals. His apparent nonchalance is more of an armour than a sign of indifference. When you are doomed to outlive those you love, attachment becomes a liability. For an immortal, to love a mortal is to accept that you will lose every time.
Jacks does not play with hearts out of cruelty. He shields himself from a world where every promise has an expiry date. While trying to avoid getting hurt, he ends up hurting others. And that is undoubtedly the real curse: the one that dooms him to kill any woman he kisses if she is not his true love.
“Every Story Has the Potential for Infinite Endings”
This raises an important question: do the characters in this series really choose their actions, or are they simply replaying predetermined storylines?
Amidst curses, prophecies and spells of secrecy – which prevent them from telling the truth – speech itself seems to be under control.
The Valors, the first royal family of the Magnificent North, had constructed the arch as a passageway to a place called the Valory. No one knew what the Valory contained, since the stories of the North couldn’t be fully trusted, thanks to the story curse that had been placed on them. Some tales couldn’t be written down without bursting into flames, others couldn’t leave the North, and many changed every time they were told, becoming less reliable with every retelling. In the case of the Valory, there were two conflicting accounts.
The tales of the North catch fire, become distorted and inconsistent, and ultimately shape reality. History is no longer a reliable reference point: it is instrumentalised.
Whereas Caraval celebrated the illusion as spectacle, Once Upon a Broken Heart offers a glimpse into what goes on behind the scenes.
The warm, theatrical atmosphere of Valora in the South gives way to the colder and harsher setting of the Far North. The arches hold more than just wonder: they open the way to power struggles, coveted magical artefacts, negotiated alliances, and rumours spreading faster than the actual truth.
The media shape reputations, fabricate scapegoats, and pass judgment based on hearsay. Magic turns to strategy.
In this deceptively enchanting world, full of contradictory tales, alternate timelines, amnesia, artefacts, and mythical creatures, where certain truths cannot be spoken, Evangeline finally stops blindly believing the stories she is told. She learns to discern, to observe, to connect the dots rather than surrender to them.
Following on from Caraval, which presented illusion as entertainment, this series explores the reverse side of storytelling: its capacity to manipulate as well as expose. Stories may deceive, conceal, and influence perceptions — but they may also be a source of empowerment. It all depends on who is telling them, and who chooses to believe them.
Beyond the balls, curses and oaths of eternal love, the series questions the power of the narratives that shape our perceptions. Admittedly, it remains a romantasy aimed at a young adult audience, where gloom is tempered by enchantment. But beneath the glittering veneer lies a more troubling question: do the stories we tell ourselves construct our reality, or do they merely distort it?
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