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It was a dark overcast day and the trees I could see out of my window were bending beyond reason. I was reading this book.
My house creaked. The mansion in the book creaked in unison.
Katrina Leno does a terrific job writing teenagers in a real and relatable manner. I felt for the young girl who lost a beloved father. I felt for her leaving sunny California for a frigid New England manor with broken windows. It was a cold day outside for me and for her. Will we make it?
There were moments when I wanted to yell at the hero to RUN and never look back. There were moments when I wanted to slap her mother and force her to deal with life instead of hiding. Grief manifests in many ways, say the characters. It is true. It was painful, but it was real.
At times this book made me want to drop it and never think of anything but gentle sunshine again. I held tight onto my cat and turned the pages in urgent desire to know more and to make it stop.
Please, please, just go back to talking about Agatha Christy and coffee and reminiscing of the California life. Please, please, do not stay in this house. Please do not talk of the roses. Please...
Are there shortcomings in this novel? Yes. For one I felt like some storylines were not developed fully and some elements were unnecessary. The eating of the books which opens the story was such a marvellously appealing element, and I feel cheated it didn't blossom more... Oh, devil, did I say blossom? Please don't make me think of the roses again... Or of the other things I cannot beat to talk or think about...
I did not want to go where the story was bringing me, but neither did the hero. This made me feel more involved, more entwined. I was suffocating. Could I break free? Could the hero? Could we make other choices or were they made for us?
I was at home alone and I couldn't stop reading. I was scared.
Should you read this book? Do you like sleeping well? Are you also alone in your house? Are you a sympathetic sound? Or maybe you have a stronger constitution. Maybe you do not care when a sleepy burning despair sees a glimpse of happy possibilities while it simultaneously turns darker with every page. More catastrophic. More obviously ruinous. More horrid.
I should have run. But i kept turning the pages.