Thanks to the author, Bantam Books UK and NetGalley for the opportunity to read an advance copy of They Can’t Burn Us All in exchange for an honest review.

This book pulled me straight into 17th-century Iceland, into the harsh life of a small settlement where cold winters loom over every household. It’s intensely atmospheric, threaded with Icelandic words and the texture of daily life, and it feels seriously researched without ever turning dry.

The premise is instantly gripping. Inspired by the witch hunts on mainland Europe, a witch-hunting craze takes hold. Þuríður Jónsdóttir grows up with the old gods and close to rune magic, watching her father and brother practise it. When the two men are accused of witchcraft and condemned to burn, and the local pastor Jón Magnússon’s accusing gaze turns to Þuríður, she fights back.

What is needed to convince a community to temporarily abandon their civilized ways, to cast out one of their own to die? The novel shows the paranoia of the witch trials, how every qualm and streak of bad luck in a harsh life will be attributed to a scapegoat once one is available.

I really appreciated how this novel shows the mechanics of gender and power:

“As a woman I am expected to dim my light, to walk in this world of men at their command and do their bidding. This is why I am standing here. Because I refused.”

Þuríður is denied knowledge and authority because she’s a woman, even as her father uses her hair and blood in his spellwork. She has real power of her own, but the men around her are oblivious to it. Watching Þuríður refuse this power dynamic, and insist on being heard, is one of the great satisfactions of this book.

This novel is also a love letter to women standing strong together. Kemp writes women’s relationships with so much care: friends, sisters, mothers and daughters looking out for each other without question. Their sisterhood becomes both a shelter and a force: “We stand together against those who would crush us for who we are, for being women who dare to think for themselves.”

Kemp wrote the pastor's wife as one of the other pov characters. Her relation to Þuríður and the sisterhood is such an interesting point in the book, and can be read as a commentary on Christianity as a patriarchal religion.

The pacing is another highlight. A lot of ground is covered, but the story never feels rushed. I devoured it in just a few days. It adds an extra chill to know this is based on true events. The Kirkjuból witch trial occurred in 1656, and Þuríður Jónsdóttir, Jón Magnússon and their families were real people in that place and time.

They Can’t Burn Us All is a gripping, inspiring story about a very dark page in history, and a fierce reminder of what women are capable of when we decide to stand together.

I received a free advance copy of In Meadowlight by Sussie Anie in exchange for an honest review. Big thanks to NetGalley, the author, and Orion Books for this opportunity.

I’ll admit it upfront: I requested this ARC for the cover. And the title. In Meadowlight follows Mercy, a queer daughter of the Ghanaian diaspora in the UK, who’s recovering from quite a long stretch of misfortune and instability. After a no-fault eviction, she ends up house-sitting, moving from home to home while trying to rebuild her life.

The plot revolves around a couple of days in which she's housesitting a particularly nice cottage with a peculiar owner. In the quiet of the English countryside, Mercy contemplates on what she's been through.

Debt, a breakup, conflict with her parents, and a period in a cult layered on top of each other. We learn about her past peacemeal, as Mercy drifts through rooms and memories in Meadowlight.

This is a slow, contemplative novel, and it had to grow on me. It strikingly captures the tentative way one feels out a new place, a new routine, the vulnerability involved.

At its core, this is a book about healing. Not the glossy version. The kind that starts with feeling safe enough to admit that maybe, you’re not okay. Mercy is so out of it that she feels detached even from her own agency, which is both impressive on the page and occasionally frustrating to read. Still, it's true to the subject mayter: healing takes time. It happens in increments, rarely in great leaps. Before “getting your act together,” you might have to embrace your self-love, feel that you deserve a better life. That it’s okay to not be okay right now. That maybe, sometimes, it wasn’t your fault.

I connected with the book a lot more in the second act, when Mercy reunites with her childhood friends. These women are successful, but each carries her own struggle, and their friendship is genuinely wholesome. One line that stuck with me: “My whole family is pressure, all the way. (…) Excellence. Every day. But at some point, you know what, we have to live.”

My main reservation is the ending. A lot of plot points are resolved neatly, but after such an intimate portrayal of a healing process, I wanted a little more reflection at the finish. There are emotional threads here that still feel unpacked.

Overall, this book moved around for me while reading, from a three-star start to a solid four-star middle, then settling closer to 3.5/5 by the end. Still, I’m glad I read it, and I think it will land best for readers who like quiet literary fiction that documents recovery in real time, without rushing.