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My real name, no one remembers. The truth about that summer, no one else knows. In the summer of 1862, a group of young artists led by the passionate and talented Edward Radcliffe descends upon Birchwood Manor on the banks of the Upper Thames. Their plan: to spend a secluded summer month in a haze of inspiration and creativity. But by the time their stay is over, one woman has been shot dead while another has disappeared; a priceless heirloom is missing; and Edward Radcliffe’s life is in ruins. Over one hundred and fifty years later, Elodie Winslow, a young archivist in London, uncovers a leather satchel containing two seemingly unrelated items: a sepia photograph of an arresting-looking woman in Victorian clothing, and an artist’s sketchbook containing the drawing of a twin-gabled house on the bend of a river. Why does Birchwood Manor feel so familiar to Elodie? And who is the beautiful woman in the photograph? Will she ever give up her secrets?
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Incredibly frustrating read. Terribly slow start and I finally felt like I was getting interested by page 200. There were at least 6 individual time periods that the story covered. At one point I think a satchel became the narrator, which was weird. A lot of bits and pieces that weren't always fully fleshed out, which for a book of this size you would think wouldn't be an issue. The more I'm writing the more I'm thinking about things that drove me bananas and I just need to stop with this: very unsatisfying ending. So bad. The entire very long, very slow book built up to... absolutely no resolution to anything. Do not be swayed by the pretty, pretty cover like I was.
I really liked it, but it was difficult to figure out who all of the characters where and how they played into the story. I feel like I'll have to read it a second time to better understand the book as a whole.