Addie LaRue and Luc? Absolute scene-stealers. Their complexity and emotional depth made them impossible to ignore, and I was fully invested in their messy, beautifully tragic dynamic. Henry added an extra layer of emotional turmoil—vulnerable, flawed, and just the right amount of tragic. Some of the side characters, though? Bea and Robbie existed, I guess. They weren’t bad, but let’s just say I wouldn’t have lost sleep if they had been a little more fleshed out. Still, with main characters this strong, it’s a minor gripe.

Schwab could describe a crumbling brick wall for three pages, and I’d still be riveted. The settings—from moody 18th-century France to the bustling anonymity of New York—felt rich, immersive, and dripping with atmosphere. Even the repetitive descriptions of shadows and longing (and oh boy, are there many) somehow worked in the book’s favor. It’s one of those rare times when an author hammering a theme into my skull actually enhanced the experience rather than feeling like overkill.

Schwab’s prose isn’t just writing—it’s poetry that took a shot of espresso and decided to emotionally wreck me. Every line flows effortlessly, weaving a dreamlike, almost hypnotic effect that made it impossible to put the book down. Dialogue, narration, time jumps—it all worked seamlessly. Even the quieter moments carried weight, making me want to highlight entire pages. If Schwab wrote a 600-page guide to assembling Ikea furniture, I’d probably still be enthralled.

A Faustian bargain with a petty, alluring god? A centuries-spanning struggle for identity and love? Yes, please. The story’s unique blend of history and magical realism kept me hooked from start to finish. That said, some sections meandered a little too long, lingering on the same beats of Addie’s life (yes, we get it—no one remembers her). But the emotional payoff was so satisfying that I was willing to forgive the occasional bout of déjà vu.

This book had me in a chokehold. The premise alone was fascinating, and Schwab executed it masterfully. Every moment felt like it carried the weight of something bigger, whether it was the unraveling of Addie’s curse, her tenuous relationship with Luc, or the impending tragedy of it all. Even the slower, introspective sections had an undercurrent of tension that kept me coming back for more. If I had to take breaks, it was only because my emotions needed a second to recover.

Addie and Luc’s relationship was the definition of toxic, drawn-out yearning, and I loved every second of it. The magic system—specifically, the rules of Addie’s curse—was well thought out, though a few inconsistencies nagged at me. Her influence through art and memory felt a little fuzzy at times, but not enough to break the immersion. Henry’s deal was a brilliant counterpoint to Addie’s struggles, though I wouldn’t have minded digging even deeper into his arc.

Did I love this book? Absolutely. Did it emotionally wreck me? Also yes. Schwab delivered an exquisitely melancholic, beautifully written experience that left a lasting impression. Even the slower moments didn’t diminish my enjoyment—if anything, they made the emotional highs hit even harder. This book was like a bittersweet symphony that I never wanted to end. Would I read it again? Without hesitation. Would I recover emotionally? Unlikely.