The Maidens by Alex Michaelides

Alex Michaelides is one of the most widely read psychological novelists of our moment. His work is fast-paced, intelligent, and finely attuned to contemporary concerns. I chose The Maidens out of curiosity, both about the genre itself and about how modern fiction engages with themes such as mental health, grief, and obsession.

Set amid the ancient courts and cloisters of Cambridge University, The Maidens unfolds in a closed, almost monastic world where ideas, loyalties, and fixations intensify. The story follows Mariana Andros, a psychotherapist whose professional understanding of the mind intersects with her own unresolved grief.

Beneath the beauty of Cambridge’s spires and ancient rituals, Mariana senses something darker at work. Her suspicions settle on Edward Fosca, a charismatic professor whose fascination with Greek tragedy, and particularly the myth of Persephone, threads quietly through the novel. Persephone, the maiden drawn into the underworld, becomes more than a classical reference. She is a symbolic lens through which questions of innocence, descent, and psychological captivity are explored. Michaelides uses this myth not to instruct, but to suggest, allowing it to hover over the narrative like a shadow that deepens the sense of unease.

From the outset, the novel establishes momentum. Chapters are concise, the atmosphere carefully managed, and the reader is drawn forward with purpose. This is a story designed to be immersive without being overwhelming. One of the novel’s quiet strengths is the way it handles mental health and obsession. These themes are not presented as abstractions, but as lived experiences that shape perception, behaviour, and judgment.

Michaelides shows how grief can narrow attention, how fixation can feel purposeful while slowly becoming consuming, and how intellectual environments can intensify emotional blind spots. Obsession here is not sensationalised; it is woven into the psychology of the characters and the enclosed academic setting itself.

The Maidens offers readers clarity, intrigue, and forward motion. Its accessibility is part of its appeal. The prose is controlled and direct, allowing readers to engage with complex themes without being asked to dwell heavily in emotional interiority. For many readers, this balance is precisely what makes the book satisfying. It explores darkness while keeping the reading experience contained and navigable.

Mental health and obsession are handled with insight and restraint. Psychological tension can be explored without emotional overload. Popular fiction often reflects contemporary needs with precision. There is value in stories that move swiftly while still thinking deeply.

Reading The Maidens was both informative and enjoyable. It sharpened my understanding of how this genre works, how contemporary readers are being met where they are, and how psychological themes can be explored with control and intention.

Until the next page turns,

Rebecca

Postscript: Alex Michaelides was born in Cyprus and raised in the United Kingdom. He studied English literature at the University of Cambridge and later completed a master’s degree in screenwriting at the American Film Institute in Los Angeles.

In addition to his literary and screenwriting training, Michaelides studied psychotherapy for three years and worked for two years at the Northgate Clinic Adolescent Unit, a mental health service supporting adolescents experiencing complex mental illness. This professional experience informed and inspired his debut novel, The Silent Patient, which brought him international recognition. The Maidens further established his place within contemporary psychological fiction. His novels are known for their suspense-driven structure, psychological themes, and accessible prose, often drawing on elements of classical Greek tragedy.

The Butterfly Girl by Rene Denfeld

”That was the thing about the butterflies. They could be kind when Celia felt bitter. They could encompass all the beauty of this world even when the skies smarted gray”

Rene Denfeld, “The Butterfly Girl”

I was only a few paragraphs into the first chapter when I knew, without question, that I had discovered an extraordinary book. Rene Denfeld’s “The Butterfly Girl” could only have been written by someone who had experienced what her characters endured, the profound sense of the loneliness, the fear, and the delicate hope that keeps her character’s alive. “The Butterfly Girl” is not just a story. It is a revelation of what happens when imagination becomes a means of survival.

At the heart of the novel is Naomi, a private investigator with a haunted past who is searching for her missing sister. Her path crosses with Celia, a twelve-year-old runaway living on the streets of Portland, Oregon. Through these two intertwined stories, Rene Denfeld explores what it means to be lost and what it means to be found. She allows readers to feel the restlessness of those who search. Naomi for her sister and Celia for safety. Beneath the surface of the mystery, there is a deeper story about endurance. How stories, even imagined ones, keep us alive when the world feels too hard to face. The novel moves between danger and tenderness, grief and renewal, with a quiet current of hope running beneath the darkness.

The butterflies of the title are more than a symbol; they are a saving grace. They represent transformation and the capacity to change, to lift out of darkness, to find beauty in the midst of struggle. Their wings carry both vulnerability and strength.

What impressed me most about “The Butterfly Girl” was Rene Denfeld’s ability to enter the mind of a child, not through sentimentality, but through truth. She understands that imagination is not a retreat from reality but a way of surviving it. She does not romanticize the children’s lives, yet she never strips them of dignity. Her gaze is steady, respectful, and filled with compassion, her words come from a place that only lived empathy can bring. She enters the mind of a child not to dramatize pain, but to show how imagination, that fragile, shimmering thread, can hold life together when everything else falls away.

The contrast between the “street people” and the “day people” was a brilliant way to describe the gulf between children on the street and people who move through their routines, caring about the world but often unable to look directly at its deepest suffering. It is difficult to face issues of homelessness, addiction, lost childhoods, especially when there does not appear to be way to help.

“no matter how hard she tried, she could remember nothing more of her past. Terror had wiped her memory clean.”

René Denfeld, “The Butterfly Girl”

Rene Denfeld is an American author and investigator who has worked extensively with victims of trauma, including survivors of violence and those on death row. She has also served as a therapeutic foster mother. Her life’s work, which transforms her own hardships into compassion for others, gives her fiction its unmistakable authenticity. She has an ability to make these children visible, not as symbols, but as individuals with dreams, humour, and astonishing courage. They form their own communities, caring for one another when the world does not.

“The Butterfly Girl” is not an easy book to read, but it is an essential one. It reminds us that seeing is an act of love, and that the imagination is humanity’s greatest refuge. Reading “The Butterfly Girl” reminded me that awareness is not enough. Compassion must begin with respect. And respect begins with truly seeing.

Until the next page turns, may your days be filled with warmth, wonder, and a good story to share.

Rebecca

Postscript: Rene Denfeld is the award-winning, bestselling author of four novels: “The Enchanted” (2014), “The Child Finder” (2017), “The Butterfly Girl” (2019), and “Sleeping Giants” (2024). Her writing has been praised by Margaret Atwood as “astonishing.”

Her forthcoming literary thriller, “The Talking Bone”, will be published in July 2026 by HarperCollins. Inspired by her own justice work as a death row investigator, it promises to continue her exploration of trauma, truth, and redemption.

#DetectiveFiction #fiction #FictionSalon #IMReadingABook #ReneDenfeld #TheButterflyGirl #Trauma

Christine de Pizan: Europe’s First Professional Female Writer

Sometimes, while wandering in unexpected places, we stumble upon voices that seem to have been waiting for us. That is how I first encountered Christine de Pizan, not in a history book, but while browsing Project Gutenberg.

Born in Venice around 1364, Christine moved to France as a child when her father, Tommaso di Benvenuto da Pizzano, was invited to serve as astrologer and scholar at the court of Charles V. Thanks to him, she had something rare for a girl of her time — access to books, ideas, and learning.

At fifteen, she married Estienne de Castel, a court secretary. Their marriage was a happy one, but after just ten years she was left widowed, with her mother and three young children to support. Out of grief and necessity, Christine turned to writing. Out of that choice, she became something extraordinary: Europe’s first professional female writer.

The Gift of Her Pen

Christine began with poems of mourning, ballades written to the memory of her husband. They touched hearts and brought her recognition. From there, her voice grew: ballads, rondeaux, and lays, always infused with sincerity. Her talent carried her words into the hands of dukes, queens, and princes.

She did not stop at poetry. Her prose works reveal both imagination and courage. In The Book of the City of Ladies (1405), she envisioned an allegorical city built of women’s achievements, stone by stone, guided by the voices of Reason, Rectitude, and Justice. In its companion, The Treasure of the City of Ladies, she offered women practical counsel on living with dignity and strength, no matter their station in life.

And Christine kept writing: reflections on her own life, a biography of King Charles V, and volumes that displayed a dazzling range of knowledge and insight. Her pen had become both her livelihood and her legacy.

A Voice for Her Time

Her life unfolded during political upheaval. After France’s devastating loss at Agincourt in 1415, Christine retired to a convent. Yet even there, her voice was not silent. In 1429, she wrote a final profound poem: Le Ditié de Jehanne d’Arc.

It is a joyous hymn to Joan of Arc’s early victories and the only French poem about Joan written while she was still alive. What a closing chapter: a woman writer, celebrating a woman warrior.

Why Christine Still Matters

Christine’s story holds within it both privilege and loss. She began with the advantages of a father’s library at the French court, yet she endured widowhood, financial struggle, and the responsibility of raising children. Out of these contrasts came a voice that still astonishes us today.

Her words still speak with clarity and conviction:

“If it were customary to send little girls to school and to teach them the same subjects as are taught boys, they would learn just as fully and understand the subtleties of all the arts and sciences.” The Book of the City of Ladies

“This is the beginning of the book that Dame Christine de Pisan made for all great queens, ladies and princesses. And first, how they ought to love and fear God.” The Treasure of the City of Ladies (Penguin Classics translation)

Christine’s city of ladies was not just allegory. It was prophecy. In it. She gave women a place of belonging. Six centuries later, we can still walk through those gates and hear her voice: courageous, wise, and profoundly human.

Until the next page turns,

Rebecca

#christineDePizan #courtlyLiterature #fictionSalon #medievalLiterature #nonFictionSalon #projectGutenberg #rebeccasReadingRoom

In Praise of Romance: Why “Comfort Reads” Carry Culture

When I was about eighteen or nineteen, my uncle gave my sister, Sarah, and me five hundred Harlequin romances. My father was horrified, but we were delighted. We read every single one of them. For every book I finished, Sarah read four — so you can imagine how quickly she made her way through the stack, and how many late-night conversations we shared comparing plots, heroines, and rogues. Eventually, we passed the books along for others to enjoy, but I sometimes wish I had kept a few of those vintage Harlequins. They were part of a season in our lives, a shared sisterly adventure that still makes me smile.

Fast forward to this summer, when I read Stephen Akey’s essay ‘The Rakish Rogue Who Loved Me” in The Hedgehog Review. In it, Akey introduces us to Elizabeth, a well-known New York editor who lives in an apartment lined not with the Booker winners or Pulitzer shortlists, but with row upon row of romance novels. She loves them unapologetically.

For Elizabeth, romance reading is not a step down from “serious” literature; it is an alternative to the self-consciously difficult books that dominate award lists and critical acclaim. Where some novels demand labour and solemnity, romance offers pleasure, connection, and hope. Elizabeth reminds us that joy is just as valid a literary aim as complexity.

Stephen Akey confesses that her example unsettled him:

“In considering Elizabeth’s reading life, I can hardly avoid thinking about my own. Inevitably, if unintentionally, she unsettles virtually every one of my assumptions about reading. It’s a chastening experience. Must I always read with care and deliberation?”

That question stayed with me.

For months, I had Julie Garwood’s “Ransom” waiting on my Kindle. Inspired by Elizabeth’s reading life and Akey’s reflection, I finally opened it. Within minutes, I was swept into the medieval Highlands—into a story of loyalty, justice, and courage wrapped in the irresistible pace of a romance. I understood, once again, why these novels are addictive.

Romance novels endure because they offer more than entertainment. They give hope. In times of uncertainty, the promise of a happy ending is not trivial—it is radical. They provide community. From Harlequin shelves to on-line reading rooms, readers find belonging through these stories. At the same time we can recognize that courage, trust, forgiveness, and love reflect the story of humanity.

For too long, romance has been dismissed as unserious or even shameful. Yet, what could be more serious than love, or more essential than hope? Romance, far from being escapist fluff, is one of the most deeply embedded cultural forms we have.

My takeaways from the article from Stephen Akey can be distilled into these thoughts:

Romance novels are a form of cultural storytelling that carries hope across generations. They remind us that joy, courage, and compassion belong in our reading lives as much as “serious” deliberation.

Romance is rarely read in isolation. My sister Sarah and I proved that with our five hundred Harlequins, racing each other through the pages and comparing notes late into the night. The books became a shared language between us — a way to laugh, debate, and dream together. That, to me, is the hidden strength of the genre: it builds community. From sisters sharing shelves, to friends swapping titles, to strangers connecting over on-line reading room recommendations, romance reminds us that love is never solitary — it is always relational.

Until the next page turns,

Rebecca

#fictionSalon #imReadingABook #rebeccasReadingRoom #romanceFiction #theHedgehogReview

A Meditation on Reinvention, Truth, and the Long Flight Home

Some books are more than stories. They become places we return to, long after the final page. The Bird Hotel by Joyce Maynard was one such book for me.

I read it on a flight from London to Vancouver, high above the clouds, where stillness and motion meet. The novel’s setting, Guatemala, carried me back in time, not only in imagination but in memory. I first travelled to Guatemala in 1970, when I was fifteen. We stayed in Flores, a town by the lake, quiet and shimmering. I remember the faces of the people, the warmth of their welcome, the stillness of the water, the view from a small hotel where time seemed to slow. That’s where The Bird Hotel met me.

“Sometimes you don’t know you were waiting for someone until they arrive.”

Joyce Maynard, The Bird Hotel

Joyce Maynard tells the story of a woman who leaves behind everything she knows and begins again. Her reinvention is not glamorous or clean; it is tender, raw, and flawed. She carries wounds — and so do the people she meets. Each guest at the Bird Hotel arrives with a secret grief, a past they are escaping, or a truth not yet ready to be spoken. Maynard places a volcano just beyond the lakeside horizon, looming, mysterious, not found on any map. Within the world of the novel, however, it feels utterly real. That volcano becomes a symbol of what lies beneath the surface — grief unspoken, memories simmering, truths waiting to erupt.

Reading this book reminded me that reinvention is not escape. It is recovery, a recovery of self, of voice, of memory. The protagonist does not erase her past; she learns to live beside it. She listens to it, allows it to shape her, and gradually discovers a version of herself she never could have imagined in her youth.

What moved me most was the role Guatemala plays in the story. It is not simply a backdrop, but a presence, a character, a keeper of stories. Maynard writes with reverence for the land – the scent of the trees, the hush of the lake, the beauty shaped by history and hope. For me, Guatemala is not a distant setting but a place I once knew when the world was just opening before me. The hotel in her novel reminded me of the one where I once stayed, where we watched the light change on the water and listened to the hush of evening. Reading her words felt like coming home to something I hadn’t realized I had lost.

The Bird Hotel is filled with flawed people, written with honesty and grace. They are wounded, sometimes selfish, often afraid, but always real. Their griefs are quiet and deep, their mistakes both ordinary and understandable. In that space of truth, something beautiful emerges: forgiveness, connection, and the courage to stay. We are all flawed. We all carry grief. Yet sometimes, in the company of strangers, we discover that we are not alone.

Some readers have called this novel slow or meandering, but I found its unhurried pace to be its greatest strength. It does not rush toward resolution. It breathes. It gives silence a voice. In doing so, it creates space for reflection, the kind that deep reading invites. It reminded me that I love stories not only for their plots, but for the truths they reveal. Those moments when a sentence catches the breath and whispers, Yes, I’ve felt that too.

Sometimes, reinvention feels less like running away and more like returning — not to who we were, but to who we are becoming. Truth does not arrive in a single moment; it comes in waves, carried by places and people, shaped by memory and silence. Guatemala, both in life and in literature, is a land where story and stillness intertwine. And like the characters who arrive at the Bird Hotel, we all come carrying our wounds, yet are capable of grace more surprising than we ever believed possible.

Until the next page turns…

Rebecca

Postscript: Before I set this book down, I wanted to share a note about Joyce Maynard herself. She first came to public attention in 1972, when The New York Times Magazine published her essay “An Eighteen-Year-Old Looks Back on Life.” Suddenly, she was everywhere — her voice carried far, though not always on her own terms. For a time she was linked to J.D. Salinger, an experience she would later write about candidly.

But what strikes me most about Joyce Maynard is not the controversies others pinned to her name, but her persistence in returning to her own voice. Over the decades she has written novels, memoirs, and journalism that explore the hidden places of family, the long arc of grief, and the possibilities of beginning again. The Bird Hotel, published in 2023 after the sudden loss of her husband, feels like a meditation born of lived experience. Maynard writes with the authority of someone who has stumbled, lost, loved, and begun again. That is why her voice lingers, long after the page is turned.

#fiction #FictionSalon #Guatemala #JoyceMaynard

The Book Woman’s Daughter by Kim Michele Richardson

During the Great Depression, the U.S. government sought ways not only to provide employment but also to lift the spirits of a weary nation. Out of this effort came the Works Progress Administration and, with it, the Pack Horse Library initiative. In the remote hills of Kentucky, women were employed to deliver books on horseback to families living in isolation. These “book women” rode miles through rugged terrain with saddlebags filled with stories, recipes, magazines, and scrapbooks of clippings. It was an imaginative response to crisis — work that fed minds and hearts as well as families.

Kim Michele Richardson honours this history in a pair of novels. The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek introduced readers to Cussy Mary Carter, one of the first packhorse librarians and a member of the little-known “Blue People of Kentucky.” Now, in the sequel The Book Woman’s Daughter, we meet Honey Lovett, Cussy Mary’s daughter, who must navigate her own path in a community still marked by prejudice and hardship.

Honey inherits her mother’s strength and determination, but she also carries her mother’s legacy of difference — and the suspicion that comes with it. In her story, Richardson explores what it means for a new generation to seek belonging in a world that too often resists change. Honey’s journey is not only about survival but about carrying forward the belief that knowledge, kindness, and empathy can outlast fear and cruelty.

At its core, The Book Woman’s Daughter continues the themes of the determination and resilience. The packhorse librarians carried more than books; they carried hope and connection. Through Honey Lovett’s eyes, we see how courage and compassion pass from one generation to the next, and how embracing diversity is essential to building a more humane world.

Richardson’s storytelling honours history and honours the people who lived it. By revisiting the struggles and triumphs of the 1930s, she reminds us that diversity is not a barrier to overcome but a gift to embrace. The book women carried more than pages; they carried hope. Their rides echo forward to us today, reminding us that literature is a bridge and that empathy is the only true foundation for belonging.

My Takeaways

My greatest takeaway from The Book Woman’s Daughter is that resilience is not only lived in one lifetime — it is handed down, like stories themselves. Honey Lovett’s journey reminds us that empathy is learned and relearned, that differences are not burdens but gifts, and that history still whispers through the pages of fiction. Richardson’s sequel is a call to embrace the beauty of diversity and to carry forward the hope that books and belonging can bring.

Until the next page turns…

Rebecca

Postscript: Kim Michele Richardson writes with a calling born of her own lived experience. Growing up in rural Kentucky amid poverty, orphanages, and foster care, she learned early the power of books to sustain hope. She recalls a librarian once placing a sack of books into her hands — an act of generosity that became a lifeline. It is no wonder that her novels return again and again to the quiet heroism of libraries and the resilience of overlooked communities.

Richardson has said she nearly stopped writing after The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek, but readers’ letters and the encouragement of her husband persuaded her to continue. “You must write the stories to honor your Kentucky people,” he told her. And so she did. Her work is not only fiction — it is preservation, a way of lifting up forgotten histories and honouring the women who carried courage through mountains, storms, and prejudice.

Her empathy runs deep because she knows what it is to endure. Through her characters, she reminds us that the stories of the past enrich our lives today, shaping our sense of belonging, compassion, and courage for the future.

#BooksThatWalkedBesideMe #FictionSalon #HistoricalFiction #Kentucky #KimMichelRichardson #OnTheRoadBookClub #PackHorseLibrary #TheBookWomanOfTroublesomeCreek #TheBookWomanSDaughter #TheGreatDepression

Poignancy in Books: Sadness or Joy?

I recently came across an article about book lists, The Ultimate Fall 2025 Reading List, by Emily Temple and noticed that one title appears again and again: The Wilderness by Angela Flournoy. Curious, I placed a hold on it through the Vancouver Public Library. It will be eight weeks before I can read it, which tells me just how popular it is right now.

In the meantime, I read the offered sample. Already, I can see why it has been chosen for so many lists. The writing is rich, layered, and deeply observant. At the same time, I know it will not be an easy read. The novel explores difficult family dynamics and complex friendships, and it does not shy away from the heaviness of brokenness.

This made me wonder: why do we seek out books steeped in sadness or hardship?

For some readers, sad stories offer catharsis. They give us space to feel emotions we might otherwise suppress, or to recognize in another’s struggle a mirror of our own. Sadness becomes a form of solidarity.

For others, poignancy comes through joy and resilience. They find more meaning in stories where light is visible—where small triumphs, laughter, or gestures of kindness shine against life’s darker backdrop. These moments reassure us that hope endures.

Neither approach is wrong. Literature offers poignancy in many registers. Sadness and joy are not opposites but companions: one deepens the other. A book filled with sorrow may illuminate the fragile beauty of hope, while a joyful book may remind us that joy is precious because it stands against loss.

Perhaps the deeper question is: how do we want to be met by words on the page? Do we seek recognition of our wounds, or reminders of our capacity to heal? In either case, the poignancy lingers—an invitation to reflect on the mysterious resilience of the human spirit.

Until the next page,

Rebecca

Rebecca’s Reading Room continues in the tradition of the Victorian and Edwardian reading rooms—places where neighbours gathered not only to read books and periodicals, but to exchange ideas, wrestle with change, and imagine new futures. Beginning this season, my Reading Room will also reflect on contemporary articles—essays and reports that shape the way we live, read, and connect. These reflections will offer a pause: not quick reactions, but invitations to think more deeply about the world we’re co-creating.

#AngelaFlournoy #BookLists #FictionSalon #LiteraryFiction #MorningReflections

Night Train to Lisbon by Pascal Mercier

“We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.”

Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon

It was this single sentence that drew me to Night Train to Lisbon several years ago. I don’t remember where I first read it—perhaps in a magazine article or on a well-loved bookmark—but I do remember stopping mid-stride, reading it again, and feeling as though it had been written for me. That quiet truth—that we are shaped by places we have touched, and that they continue to live within us—was an invitation I couldn’t resist. I knew I had to find the book behind the words.

Pascal Mercier’s novel tells the story of Raimund Gregorius, a quiet Swiss classics teacher whose life has been one of routine and predictability. A chance encounter with a mysterious woman and a book of philosophical writings by Amadeu de Prado stirs something long dormant in him. Without warning, Gregorius leaves his work, his students, and his familiar world behind to board a night train to Lisbon in search of the man behind the words.

This is not a novel of fast-moving plot, but of slow, profound shifts. Through Prado’s reflections, Mercier invites us to linger on questions that surface more insistently as we reach the middle of life: Have I lived the life I wanted? What remains unspoken or undone? Who might I have become if I had taken another path?

For readers in midlife, Gregorius’s journey resonates because it is both literal and symbolic. It speaks to the restlessness that can arrive after decades of following a certain course—when the need for meaning and authenticity grows stronger than the comfort of the known. Gregorius’s leap into the unknown is not reckless but deliberate, an act of quiet rebellion against a life that no longer fits.

Reading Night Train to Lisbon felt like walking through a city at dusk—moments of light and beauty giving way to stretches of shadow and mystery. Lisbon itself becomes a character in the story, holding echoes of the past and hints of who Gregorius might still become.

My Takeaways

Night Train to Lisbon reminded me that our lives are not fixed, no matter how far along the path we think we are. At any moment, a single encounter, a single sentence, can open a door we didn’t know was there.

Midlife often brings the illusion that most choices have already been made. This book challenges that idea. It whispers that there are still untold stories, untraveled roads, and unspoken truths waiting if we are willing to listen.

And perhaps most powerfully, it reassures us that leaving behind the familiar isn’t always loss—it can be a return. Not only to forgotten places, but to forgotten parts of ourselves.

It also reminded me that our words, once set free into the world, have lives of their own. Whether spoken, written, or shared in passing, they travel to places we may never see, touching people we may never meet. Sometimes they comfort; sometimes they provoke; sometimes they inspire someone to take a momentous step into their own unknown. In that way, we all leave parts of ourselves scattered across the world—waiting to be found.

Until the next page,

Rebecca

P.S. This book returned to me recently after I watched the film adaptation of Pascal Mercier’s Night Train to Lisbon, starring Jeremy Irons, a couple of weeks ago. It reminded me how powerfully stories circle back to us when we least expect them, carrying the same questions but offering new answers with each return.

https://youtu.be/9Ds5L7qS85s

#BooksThatWalkedBesideMe #FictionSalon #LiteraryFiction #NightTrainToLisbon #OnTheRoadBookClub #PascalMercier

Gardens of Memory: Rediscovering Julia Kelly’s The Last Garden in England

There are some books that linger quietly in the back of your mind long after you’ve read the final page—books that feel like a warm cup of tea on a rainy afternoon. The Last Garden in England by Julia Kelly was one of those stories for me.

I read this novel about a year ago, at a time when life was especially busy, and though I intended to write about it right away, the post had to wait. But the story stayed with me, like the scent of lavender long after summer has passed. And now feels like the perfect moment to return to it.

Set in the heart of Warwickshire, The Last Garden in England is a beautifully layered historical novel told across three timelines—1907, 1944, and the present day—all rooted in the soil of a single, magnificent estate garden. Through the voices of five women, we see how this garden becomes a place of quiet resistance, creative expression, and personal healing. Julia Kelly weaves together their lives like the paths of the garden itself, each one twisting through love, loss, war, and renewal.

Julia Kelly herself is a passionate gardener and storyteller. Though born in America, she now lives in the UK, and her love of English gardens shines through the pages of this novel. The fictional garden at Highbury House, with its “Winter Garden,” “Lovers’ Garden,” and “Children’s Garden,” was inspired by the garden rooms made famous by legendary designer Gertrude Jekyll. In fact, Venetia Smith—one of the novel’s central characters—is loosely modeled on Jekyll, a pioneering woman in garden design. The novel’s setting may be imagined, but its spirit is grounded in a very real tradition of women shaping beauty and meaning in the natural world.

Kelly’s attention to historical detail and emotional nuance brings each era to life. Whether it’s Venetia’s artistic defiance in Edwardian England, Beth’s work as a wartime land girl, or Emma’s present-day efforts to restore the garden, each storyline blossoms with resilience and quiet power. As the chapters unfold, we begin to see that the garden is more than a backdrop—it is a living character, carrying memory and offering restoration to those who care for it.

This is a story about how nature holds memory, how beauty endures through turmoil, and how gardens—like books—can quietly change the lives of those who enter them.

If you’re looking for a feel-good read with depth, history, and heart, The Last Garden in England is a tender and restorative journey I highly recommend.

My Takeaways from The Last Garden in England

• Time is always moving, always reshaping us. The garden reminds us that life is not static—it grows, wilts, and blooms again.
• The past is never far behind. What came before—people, choices, places—continues to shape our present in subtle and profound ways.
• Decisions ripple outward. The choices we make, even those that seem small, can change the course of our lives and the lives of others in unexpected ways.
• Beauty can be a quiet form of resistance. Creating something meaningful—whether a garden or a life—is an act of courage and care.

Thank you for joining me in my reading room. Wherever you are, I hope you find a good book and a quiet place to read.

Rebecca

#FictionSalon #HistoricalFiction #JuliaKelly #RebeccaSReadingRoom #TheLastGardenInEngland

The Square of Sevens: A Journey Through Cards, Mystery, and Literary Alchemy

Some books don’t just tell a story—they invite you into a riddle, a ritual, a hidden map. The Square of Sevens by Laura Shepherd-Robinson is one such book. It caught my imagination instantly. But as often happens, the story led me elsewhere—backwards in time, deeper into history, and into the pages of an arcane little book from 1897.

What I discovered was The Square of Sevens: An Authoritative System of Cartomancy by E. Irenaeus Stevenson, a curious volume published by Harper & Brothers. Part mystic manual, part literary enigma, it claimed to reveal a long-lost Romani method of fortune telling using ordinary playing cards. Stevenson even offered it “to John Davis Adams… a new forth-setting of an old mystery.”

“To the untrained eye, a card is but a card. But to the knowing mind, each bears the weight of fate, the whisper of what is—and what may be.”

E. Irenaeus Stevenson, The Square of Sevens (1897)

As noted in the introduction to the 1897 edition of The Square of Sevens, few even among the most inquisitive book-hunters of the modern age—or those of the past two or three generations—have encountered this “scarce and curious little volume.” Known as The Square of Sevens, and the Parallelogram by Robert Antrobus, the book is described as “a friendly literary resurrection.” Its title may suggest dry mathematics, but what lies within is anything but. With its solemn faith in mystical gravity, its eccentric capitalizations, and its sly asides (while always sticking “strictly close to business”), the work possesses both a literary spirit and an occult character all its own.

It is this peculiar blend of sincerity and whimsy that makes it a fascinating ancestor to Laura Shepherd-Robinson’s novel—a work that resurrects not just a system of divination, but a forgotten literary tone.

The Square of Sevens: A Journey Through Cards, Mystery, and Literary Alchemy

What Is the Square of Sevens?

At its core, the Square of Sevens is a system of cartomancy—the art of telling fortunes with playing cards. It is distinct from tarot, though it shares similar symbolic and intuitive roots. Cards are arranged in a square pattern, then interpreted through layers of meaning and sequence.

But this system never became widely practiced. Instead, it lingered in the margins—a literary curiosity whispered about in esoteric circles. Some researchers, like tarot scholar Mary K. Greer, even suspect the 1897 book was a cleverly crafted hoax, using the language of mystery to create something between satire and spell.

Still, that’s the wonder of such books: they don’t need mass acceptance to feel real. Their power lies in possibility.

Laura Shepherd-Robinson’s and the Square of Sevens

Fast forward to 2023, and author Laura Shepherd-Robinson breathes new life into this forgotten system in her historical novel The Square of Sevens.

Her heroine, Red, is the daughter of a Romani fortune teller who inherits the Square of Sevens method as both a legacy and a survival tool. Set in 18th-century England, the novel charts Red’s journey through deception, high society, and long-buried secrets. Each card reading becomes a turning point. Each shuffle of the deck is a step closer to truth—or danger.

“People like to say they seek the truth. Sometimes they even mean it. The truth is they crave the soft, quilted comfort of a lie.”

Laura Shepherd‑Robinson, The Square of Sevens

What makes the book so compelling is how Shepherd-Robinson uses the cartomancy system not just as atmosphere, but as architecture. It drives the plot. It deepens the mystery. And most importantly, it gives voice to a character caught between fate and self-determination.

Why This Book—and This Mystery—Still Matters

Why do books like The Square of Sevens continue to resonate?

Because they remind us that stories are not just for entertainment—they’re tools of meaning-making. We turn to them, like fortune cards, in search of guidance, clarity, and connection. We’re all looking for signs—sometimes in ink and paper, sometimes in symbols and silence.

And while The Square of Sevens may not be a household name in the world of cartomancy, its legacy has been revived in the most magical way: through fiction, through memory, through literary fate.

My Takeaways

Hidden knowledge often returns in unexpected forms—through a novel, a symbol, a half-forgotten system
Even obscure books can shape the future of storytelling
Our hunger for meaning is timeless, whether we find it in a deck of cards or a well-written sentence

Thank you for joining me in my Reading Room. Until our next story, may your reading bring you joy and quiet wonder.

Rebecca

#bookReview #bookReviews #EIrenaeusStevenson #fiction #FictionSalon #GothicFiction #HistoricalFiction #LauraShepherdRobinson #Mystery #RebeccaSReadingRoom #SquareOfSevens