I’m actually finding it really difficult to review this book because my overall impression of it is just so bland. I didn’t like it. I didn’t particularly dislike it, either. I mostly finished it because I was curious if it’ll end up getting any kind of reaction out of me, but every time I picked it up, it was hardly more than background noise for my thoughts.

On paper, this looked like something I was supposed to enjoy: a woman in her seventies making sense of getting old all on her own, without any living children to help, striking an unlikely friendship with an octopus who’s coming to terms with the impending end of his lifespan in captivity, all of this told with a focus on life and looking forward. I can’t even say anything was particularly disruptive about the execution. Maybe it’s a case of picking up the book at the wrong time.

I did like Marcellus the Octopus, his chapters consistently held my attention. It was interesting to see this “from the outside looking in” perspective on human messiness, though I think the author could have dug deeper with this angle. The plot was pretty well-constructed; I guessed Cameron’s role in the story far earlier than it was revealed, but I didn’t really mind how the reveal was paced.

All in all, this oddly felt like the literary equivalent of elevator music.

I have pretty much no idea what I’ve just read, but my, it’s been a wild ride.

We’ve got that classic gothic set-up here: a young governess arrives to a dark old mansion that belongs to a rather unpleasant family: a husband whose main hobby is measuring people’s skulls, a wife who has no qualms with making servants sleep in the dog’s kennel, kids who are decidedly not alright. But it’s the governess who turns out to be the real monster in this one. (Though I must say, many of the unpleasant people we meet end up making a worse impression than Miss Notty does; she at least is sincere and fun in her unhinged glory).

I weirdly found myself completely uninvested in the overall plot and very invested in the various situations it’s comprised of. Like, I didn’t particularly care what all the weird, gory shenanigans were building up to, each of the episodes in the isolation was simultaneously gross compelling in that “can’t look away from a trainwreck” way.

I feel like Anna Burnett, the audiobook narrator, added a lot to this dark charm. Her irreverent, nonchalant, slightly dreamy delivery is spot-on, and she really sells Winifred Notty as a sociopath who doesn’t even really try to blend in, just stands there observing other humans as if they were a different species and shining a light on their flaws, remaining wrapped in her inner darkness herself.

A weird experience, truly, but also a deeply interesting one.

The blurb, the dedication, and the first chapter all suggested the story was going to be focused on healing, but I would call it more of a “painkiller” one. The difference, for me, is that healing can get messy and hurt sometimes, while painkillers simply make everything stop hurting and can put you in a pleasant haze where you get to ignore whatever is wrong. Which is exactly how this book feels. And don’t get me wrong, I definitely feel stories like this have their place and their purpose, but apparently, I happen to prefer the ones that don’t shy away from the messier parts of healing, even if there’s lots of coziness and gentleness around the characters. Stories like The Spellshop and Violet Thistlewaite Is Not a Villain Anymore, for example.

Regardless, there were a lot of nice moments here. I liked the overall vibe of the fairy tale village, the absolutely adorable baby griffon, all the fairy-like beings in the forest and the bog. The writing itself is pretty atmospheric, with the kind of descriptions that really pull you in, and the author really, really commits to creating something unapologetically and self-indulgently cozy. So while this wasn’t a particularly memorable experience for me personally, it was undeniably a pleasant one, and I can still recommend it to those who are after this kind of vibe.