Catching Up on Books

I had an embarrassment of riches in Advance Readers' Copies and I'm just now getting caught up in reading them. This post will serve to "officially" catch up by sharing my thoughts on three books. I thought they were all worthwhile reads and I really loved one of them. I'm writing this post ahead of time on Saturday for publication on Monday because we have a blizzard predicted to start on Sunday, with 16-20 inches of snow and 50-60 mph winds. Once again, I'm keeping my fingers crossed that we don't lose electricity, but even if we do, hopefully you'll still be able to read about these three books.

Fairy tale retellings are nothing new. Shelves are lined with fractured princesses, redeemed villains, and revisionist happily-ever-afters. But Lady Tremaine by Rachel Hochhauser stands out from the crowd as an exceptionally well-crafted reimagining that doesn’t simply flip the script on Cinderella’s “wicked stepmother,” but interrogates how such a woman might have come to be called wicked in the first place.

Hochhauser’s Etheldreda, Ethel to those who know her best, is a widow twice over, clinging to the brittle scaffolding of respectability in a manor house that mirrors her own circumstances: grand on the outside, quietly crumbling within. She is sharp, strategic, and fiercely devoted to her daughters’ survival in a world that offers women very few safe harbors. In this version of the story, ambition isn’t vanity; it’s survival.

What makes this retelling so compelling is that it doesn’t excuse cruelty, but it contextualizes it. Through Ethel’s eyes, we see how desperation, grief, and the razor-thin margins available to women can calcify into hardness. Hochhauser brilliantly illustrates how, in a patriarchal system where inheritance, security, and status are controlled by men, women are forced to fight relentlessly for themselves and their children. Marriage is not romance; it is infrastructure. Reputation is currency. A royal ball is not magic; it is strategy.

The novel’s emotional core is Ethel’s love for her daughters, a love that is both tender and ferocious. When a royal engagement accelerates in unsettling ways and dark secrets surface within the monarchy, Ethel must confront the true cost of the future she’s been so carefully engineering. Her choices, particularly regarding her prickly, resistant stepdaughter, are what elevate this book beyond a simple villain redemption arc. Hochhauser shows how stories are shaped by perspective, and how history (or folklore) often flattens complicated women into cautionary tales.

The writing is lush without being overwrought, and the pacing remains propulsive, especially as political intrigue deepens. There’s romance, yes, but it is the romance of agency and survival as much as it is between individuals. The peregrine falcon perched at the edge of the household feels like a perfect symbol: beautiful, dangerous, and trained to survive.

If I’m holding back half a star, it’s only because a few secondary threads could have been explored even further. But that’s a small quibble in what is otherwise a gripping, thoughtful, and emotionally resonant retelling.

In a genre crowded with glass slippers and spinning wheels, Lady Tremaine reminds us that sometimes the most interesting woman in the room isn’t the girl in rags; it’s the one fighting to keep the roof from collapsing. This one was a glowing five stars for me. 

Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin's Press for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on March 3, 2026.

The Shock of the Light is an emotionally rich, carefully researched World War II novel anchored by a powerful sibling bond. Twins Tessa and Theo feel convincingly intertwined from the first pages, making the novel’s central loss resonate long after the war story itself unfolds.

The wartime sections are especially strong. Tessa’s work with the Special Operations Executive brings tension and moral complexity, while Theo’s experiences as an RAF pilot, and later as a wounded, grieving veteran, are rendered with sensitivity and restraint. Theo’s identity as a clandestinely gay man in a period when homosexuality was criminalized adds another layer of quiet danger and injustice, and Hall handles this aspect of his life with care rather than melodrama.

The novel’s dual timelines largely work, particularly the postwar storyline involving Edie, a PhD candidate researching the SOE. Her partnership with the aging Theo provides a moving frame for uncovering Tessa’s fate and exploring how grief reshapes a life over decades. That said, the contemporary sections occasionally slow the novel’s momentum, especially when compared with the immediacy and emotional intensity of the wartime chapters.

Where the book truly shines is in its portrayal of love - between siblings, between comrades, and in the redemptive connections that can arise unexpectedly from shared loss. While not every narrative strand carries equal weight, The Shock of the Light is a thoughtful, affecting novel about courage, secrecy, and the long shadows cast by war. Fans of character-driven historical fiction will find much to admire here.

Thank you to NetGalley and Viking Penguin for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on March 17, 2026. There is a giveaway on goodreads if you are interested. 

 

I don’t often judge a book by its cover, but I was immediately struck by this title and knew I had to read the book. Everything Was Beautiful and Nothing Hurt announces its intentions right away; this is a meditation on mortality, love, and the fragile beauty of being alive.

This is also a surprisingly difficult book for me to rate. The original title and premise feel like an easy four stars all on their own, and in places the writing rises to five-star territory with quiet, luminous passages that capture grief, tenderness, and human connection with real grace. At the same time, there were sections that felt thinner or more familiar, where the novel landed closer to two or three stars for me.

Ben Reeves gives us a modern, quietly human incarnation of Death in Travis, who wears jeans, lives in a drab town, and approaches his work with gentleness, patience, and deep respect for the natural order of things. His role is not to interfere, only to witness and to comfort, and the novel’s early chapters are especially strong in conveying the dignity and tenderness of these final moments. There’s something profoundly soothing in the way Reeves allows Death to listen without judgment.

The emotional center of the book emerges when Travis forms a connection with Dalia, a midwife, and her spirited daughter Layla. The contrast between someone who ushers life into the world and someone who accompanies it out is handled with warmth and clarity, and Layla’s presence adds lightness without ever feeling forced. Through them, Travis begins to understand attachment, joy, and loss in ways that complicate his carefully maintained detachment.

This is a short novel, and its brevity is both a strength and a limitation. The writing is often lovely and sincere, but some ideas feel introduced and resolved a bit too quickly, as though there were room for deeper exploration that the book chooses not to take. Still, the emotional impact is real, along with plenty of compassion.

Ultimately, this is a gentle, thoughtful book about accepting impermanence and finding meaning anyway. I settled on 3.5 stars rounded up. The ambition, compassion, and moments of truly beautiful writing make this a worthwhile read, even if it doesn’t fully cohere at the same level throughout. For readers drawn to gentle reflections on life, love, and death, there is much here to appreciate. This one was four stars for me. 

Thank you to NetGalley and Simon & Schuster for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on July 7, 2026. 

Here's hoping you're safe, warm, have plenty of books to read, and electricity, all at the same time!