Jane Steele  well, there’s supposed to be a picture there. That’s your link to buy, by the way.

The book ends with these wise words (don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare spoil it for you!): “We tell stories to strangers to ingratiate ourselves, stories to lovers to better adhere us skin to skin, stories in our heads to banish the demons. When we tell the truth, often we are callous; when we tell lies, often we are kind.”

That resonated with me, as I’ve always had a passion for the truth, and also why so many people can’t stomach me. Which is fine. I’m not gonna tell you I think your baby is cute (unless it really, really is. And they have to be something truly spectacular for me to remark upon it), or that you’ve a nice steed, or that you look good in that dress unless I really mean it. Naturally, this earns me more than a few enemies, as people are coddled and stroked and told all manner of lies all the livelong day.

I went into this book thinking it was going to read like Jane Eyre had metamorphosized (WordPress doesn’t recognize that spelling, but I googled it to make sure I was correct) into Stephen King. Unfortunately, that is not the case. All of her are murders are SUPREMELY justified, if I do say so myself. From the writer’s synopsis: “She has no strong objection to pretty frocks, good whiskey, large estates, expensive horses, or marriage to a brooding Byronic hero.”
“Reader, I murdered him.”
How can we not find this endearing? After all, she’s admitting to us her sins, and that is to be admired. Nothing wrong with the truth, I’ve always been told. Perhaps this review would best be told in quotes from the novel, as I didn’t particularly love the book, I did enjoy the writing. “I have always been wicked, but I was not always universally loathed.” “In short, my mother and I–two friendly monsters–found each other lovely and hoped daily that others would find us so as well.
They did not.”
“–and though I was wary of my cousin, I was not afraid of him. He adored me.” (this proves to be a near fatal mistake). “What sort of game?” “Trading secrets,” he rasped. “I’ve loads and loads. Awful ones.” I found that bit humorous, as he was thirteen and this was England in 1936 or something. Looking back, it’s more like an omen.
“I wondered over the unsettling notion of words running dry.”  ~That sounds awful to me, indeed!
“…did I allow myself the highly literary indulgence of losing consciousness.”
“There is no practice more vexing that that of authors describing coach travel for the edification of people who have already traveled in coaches. As I must adhere to form, however, I will simply list a series of phases for the unlikely reader who has never gone anywhere: thin eggshell dawn-soaked curtains stained with materials unknown to science; rattling fit to grind bones to powder; the ripe stench of horse and driver and bog.
Now I have fulfilled my literary duties…”
“Ye’ll learn a plentiful heap o’ facts, if all goes well.” “And how if all goes ill?” “Then ye’ll not need to worry yerself–“he coughed “–as it’s prodigious difficult to trouble a corpse.” This intelligence was punctuated by the stomping of boots as the coachman returned to his high post, a friendly cry of, “Damn you, Chestnut, you bloody useless sack o’ glue!” and we were off again.
“If you don’t remember the others, remember me.”
Oh, there are twists and there are turns, designed to pull the most cautious reader into a ensnaring trap of war and lust and greed. I liked it just fine. I just wish it wasn’t quite so correct in language, as it takes awhile to get to the heart of the matter, due to all the lace and flowery overtures. If you like this type of thing, by all means, read this. I give it a 3.5

“So often the way…with books.”