'Weyward, they called us, when we would not submit, would not bend to their will. But we learned to wear the name with pride.'

Altha. Violet. Kate. Three women connected by an ancestral line and the (magical) realism of five centuries of patriarchal violence, five centuries of female rage. Altha, 1619, is standing trial for murder by means of alleged witchcraft. Violet, 1942, is reckoning with a trauma she can't name but that pulls her closer to solving the mystery of her mother. Kate, 2019, is pregnant and, in fleeing her abusive partner, finds her way to her great-aunt Violet's rural cottage. The legacy of the Weyward women is hidden, but it screams to be found.

As distinct and distant as they are from each other, I loved all three of these narrators. All three overcome isolation, oppression and ostracisation to find comfort in nature and harness the power within. I'm not sure the ends entirely justify the means, because moments with each of them are near emotionally unbearable lol but I also admire Hart's boldness in rendering female suffering so vividly. Violet's narrative was particularly challenging for me, like uncontrollable sobbing on the train challenging, but I also couldn't bear to stop reading (CWs for abuse, r*pe and induced miscarriage). Go with more caution than I did.

Increasingly, I've been yearning to disappear into the woods to commune only with the pigeons so, if I could call in a Weyward-esque property inheritance from a long-lost relative that'd be great. No worries if not, I'll just live in the vicarious poetic justice instead 🪶