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!
