If you loved following Auri through the Underthing—choosing just the right soap, tending to Foxen’s light, and carefully placing treasures where they belong—you’ll feel right at home with Sibling Dex’s tea-making rounds and quiet, mindful wanderings. Like Auri’s attentive listening to Mantle and Tenance, Dex and the robot Mosscap move at a humane, contemplative pace, letting small choices and tender conversations carry the weight of meaning. A Psalm for the Wild-Built offers that same soft hush, a kindness-forward story where the day’s gentle rituals are the adventure.

Rothfuss’s delicate, incantatory sentences—Auri naming secret rooms like Boundary and Throughbottom, feeling the rightness of a blue bottle—echo in Gaiman’s spellbound voice. In The Ocean at the End of the Lane, the narrator’s memories, Lettie Hempstock’s pond-that’s-an-ocean, and the eerie “hunger birds” turn everyday corners into thresholds. If the way Auri’s language transforms soap, buttons, and baths (dear Van) into talismans moved you, Gaiman’s luminous prose will cast a similar, intimate enchantment.

You appreciated how Auri’s story unfolds in drifting days and word-music rather than in quests or confrontations—how the Underthing’s moods are the plot. Lincoln in the Bardo likewise breaks from convention: a polyphonic chorus of spirits surrounding young Willie Lincoln in a liminal graveyard, a collage of voices that creates feeling first and narrative second. If the quiet, plot-light cadence of Auri’s week—her listening, arranging, and naming—was exactly the spell you wanted, Saunders’s inventive tapestry will feel like kin.

Auri’s sensitivity to balance and rightness—her careful calibration of gifts for Kvothe, her need to place each object where it truly belongs—mirrors Maia’s tender, anxious navigation of a court that constantly threatens to overwhelm him. In The Goblin Emperor, Maia’s deep interiority, moments of panic, and hard-won gentleness create the same intimate empathy you felt for Auri’s quiet bravery. If you cherished being inside Auri’s careful, wounded heart, Maia’s compassionate voice will resonate just as strongly.

If mapping the Underthing’s secret halls—Wains and Crumbledon, Mantle and Tenance—and sensing the ‘rightness’ of things delighted you, Piranesi will feel like a door opening. Its solitary narrator tends to statues, tracks tides in vast marble halls, and keeps meticulous journals, much like Auri’s inventories and rituals with Foxen’s light. The world itself hums with mystery; meaning lives in corridors and small, precise acts. It’s the same gentle strangeness, the same sacred hush of hidden places.