Monday, 30 January 2017

Melody's Key

Hello, tis Heather here! I come bearing a review for a romance book (which comes with a soundtrack)! It's my birthday today, which seems a decent excuse for posting a few days later than I normally do. 

Author: Dallas Coryell
Published: June 2016
Publisher: AsherRain Publications
Length: 305 pages

Anyone that loves a good romance should certainly consider this book! Melody’s Key is jam-packed with all the quirks that a love story should contain. Tagen has halted all her dreams to help out with her family’s holiday business, when suddenly the famed pop-star Mason Keane stays with them for the summer to take a vacation from his many fans. Initially, Tagen has her doubts as Mason seems to tick all the check-boxes for an egotistical celebrity, but as they get to know each other, this impression changes and they grow closer.
For me, Tegan was a fairly relatable protagonist; she reads, does art and makes music. At some points her rants about music were reminiscent to my own brother’s (he’s studying vocals at university), so I was all too familiar with the fraudster aspects of the industry and glad that Coryell brings them to light. Coryell also has a soundtrack to go with the book in which he performs some of the songs Tegan writes – I’d highly recommend listening to these while you read; he has a lovely voice. Overall, Tegan was a well-rounded individual, her fondness of art having already earned her a scholarship. You would not believe the quantity of books out there that focus on having a hopeless protagonist that has seemingly achieved null all her life and has no hobbies that only really lives when a man is introduced. Like most teens, she’s struck on having the picturesque romance, and having access to her relatives love notes from the war certainly intensifies this want.
My main critique of the book is that at points it is somewhat cliché, and the flirting a tad too blatant consider how insecure the two characters are. I’d have liked for them to have had more time in a platonic relationship so the reader could see more development. Whilst I do enjoy a good bit of romance with the male love-interest firing some charming lines at his lady (and vice versa), Mason got a little over the top, telling her that she looked pretty when she slept twice and using the classic ‘we can make our own music to dance to’ line. That being said, I know that loads of people love these sweet snippets of cuteness. Besides which, this was slightly broken up with Tegan’s humour as she sassed him out several times and used snarky, sarcastic comments to spice it up. I was so glad that the book didn’t conform to having a beautiful, passive woman being the main love interest, and that this book had absolutely no love triangles, true love and devotion to one person beats confusion in these books.
The book itself is not a dull one, nor is it overly simplistic; the writer integrating flowery and descriptive imagery to give the reader a true understanding of how Tegan feels and the surroundings. Personally, I found the plot a little predictable, mimicking the modern Cinderella storyline, but that’s not necessarily bad. I’d much prefer the storyline to be simple than for there to be multiple men that Tegan was contemplating dating and the basis of her living on a holiday establishment made it original enough to not bore the reader at all. The only thing that really bothered me was that Simon’s mystery boyfriend was never revealed!
Whilst some of the scenes are of a sexual nature, they aren’t too graphic (plus Tegan’s sister kept interrupting them anyway). Thence I’d recommend this lovely book to anyone over sixteen who wants a nice and fluffy romance… kind of like a marshmallow.

Monday, 23 January 2017

Killing Me

Good Evening!! It's Lydia here! Here is another homework task from my creative writing Alevel. Hope you enjoy. Go and give our blog a follow.

It smells of antiseptic, all around is white, while walls, a white door and the chair I’m currently sitting in, it’s soft and embraces my body, a way of making me feel at ease for the event about to take place. The cushion coating of the metal arms begins to quake and rattle, as I realize my hands are the cause of the noise. I clench and unclench into my palm into fists to steady myself and remain in control, but it only worsens the chattering.

My mind goes numb and struggles to filter thoughts. Why am I so frightened?
I made this rational decision to remove the thing inside of me. Except it’s not a thing exactly, it’s a smaller version of myself, a human being. I only discovered a week ago that I was pregnant, the same day that I broke of the engagement with John.

God, I just want this out of me, so I can continue on with my life normally and forget this ever happened. Yet I can’t subdue the persistent stab of guilt in my stomach, slowly making its way to my heart. Images begin to merge in my mind. I’m sitting on a sofa at home, and I’m bouncing this giggling baby boy on my knee, his fingers are gently placed on my forearm. He is soft and warm beneath my touch; his bottle green eyes and caramel hair mirror my own reflection. His face could easily break a few hearts in eighteen years.

What if I’m not a good mother? What if I fail and he is taken away from me? The laughing turns into a high-pitch scream as the baby tumbles off of my knees and falls with an echoing thud on the floor. As I reach for him, he’s no longer a baby, but a ten year old. I stretch my hands towards him, but he swipes them away. “Get away from me!” He hisses, “You’re not my mother!”

I gasp and my mind brings me back to the white room again. No. I must go through with this. It’s for my own good. I’m twenty- three years old; I can’t and could never be a mother. I don’t even have enough income; a one-year-old history graduate cannot raise a child. The worst part is I would be raising this child alone; John made it perfectly clear he wasn’t coming back.

Yet I couldn’t shake the child’s chubby rose face from my thoughts.

 Catherine said I was good with Anne, my niece. Last Saturday I baby- sat for her seven year old, we had a tea party, and I arranged all of her soft toys around the chairs of her miniature table, and even spoke the high and low voices of each bear and rabbit. Anne looked at me with so much joy and love, how could I kill a innocent child.

What if the baby was a girl? I would be able to buy her beautiful coloured dresses, and get matching socks to cover her tiny and delicate feet, each one you could fit the palm of your hand. Then when she’s older we would travel together and go on road trips. Then in sad times I will be there hugging her tightly, stroking her hair and blotting her tears away when someone breaks her innocent heart.

I bent my head towards my stomach, and said, “I love you.” Tears descended from my sparkling eyes, “I love you, and I always will. I will never stop loving you.”

John would not be coming back, and I didn’t want him back. Yes I would be alone in this pregnancy, but I wouldn’t be lonely. I have my loving family to guide and support me along the way. In nine months I would have a family of my own.

A woman entered with a clipboard in her hand, “Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Alison –.“  The women stopped, and looked around the white room and saw I was nowhere to be found.

Friday, 20 January 2017

The Eye of Neferiti (Book 2 in the Pharaoh's Cat series)

Hiya, this is Heather posting today. When we received an email asking us to review a book about a time travelling Egyptian cat, I basically begged the other two to let me do this one, and I was not let down.

Author: Maria Luisa Lang
Published: November 2016
Publisher: Self-published

The Eye of Nefertiti does act as a sequel to The Pharaoh’s cat, but can be read as a stand-alone novel without leaving the reader lost or confused since the book refers back to any vital events. No surprises here - the protagonist is a time travelling kitty from the Egyptian era named Wrappa-Hamen, accompanied by the High Priest with his partner Elena and their son. They occupy Elena’s home before zipping over to England for Elena to work in Bath. This book is filled with all the classics of a fantasy book: prophecies, a dysfunctional family, a bit of humour and the fast-paced, dialogue packed writing style that still lets us visualise what’s happening without any confusion. Since this week has been far too chaotic, I’m doing this review in a simpler way than I normally do – things I loved and things that could have been improved.
I really liked how the author included snippets of Egyptian history in the book, much like Sutcliff’s novel The Eagle of the Ninth, the reader can become enthralled with learning about ancient history as they follow the story. I’m pretty sure at least half of my knowledge of Ancient Greece is based from the Percy Jackson series. The relationship between Wrappa-Hamen and the High Priest was cleverly constructed, with both of them sharing amusing experiences and covering for each other to keep their deviances from Elena. Their bond from being from Ancient Egypt means they show trust between each other. I found Elena to be another great character and would have liked to have seen more of her, she proved herself to be a nice contrast between the more comedic and clumsy others with her smart, earnest and caring qualities. There were several settings within the book, but the clarity of writing meant this was not puzzling. The most confident and vivid descriptions were certainly the ones of Egypt, particularly when they visit the market. The final part I'd like to praise is the front cover, I only have this in a pdf version but isn't it beautiful?!
Whilst I must stress that this book was very much an enjoyable read, I do confess that I had a few qualms. Firstly, Wrappa-Hamen was a little bit too humanised for me – this is a purely personal view, but I found that the charm of having a cat protagonist less apparent when he was able to make a peanut butter sandwich, develop feelings for a woman and drink alcohol as well as talk. It is very clear that the novel is fantasy, but regardless I would avoid animals consuming alcohol in literature, even some adults can be stupid enough to dismiss the fantasy label and give their cats alcohol (I know a family that gave their dog chocolate, which is a crazy risk to take considering it’s poisonous). I was not quite certain of the target audience for this book, the style reminded me somewhat of Rick Riordan; it was light-hearted, educative and descriptive but not overly so. Thus, I was startled to see words like ‘womb’ pop up and mention of testicles and breasts, changing my perception of the audience to at least over 13s. To be honest, I think this book would rise a lot in popularity if the author had left out these bits and made it more PG to attract a pre-teen audience. Especially since the protagonist is a cat, which is a pretty dignified animal, the talk of testicle size is a little uncomfortable.
Any fans of fantasy novels with elements of comedy and history mingled will find this book appealing. There were a few minor aspects that I wasn't too keen on but this is based on my opinion so don’t let it sway you away from reading this; the majority of the book is a charming read.

Sunday, 15 January 2017

Social Anxiety - An Unstable Mind

Hey everyone, its Shani!
Today I thought I would post my poem for my creative writing class. The task was to write a piece on an opinion, belief, experience, or feelings about something indirectly. Therefore if the poem doesn't make sense or isn't explicit the title of this post (and of the actual poem) should shed some light. Though the point of the task was to get across the subject to the reader, without directly saying it. So, hopefully I have achieved that! I hope you all enjoy c:

Social Anxiety - An Unstable Mind

It starts with a single incident, 
A childhood trauma enmeshed in your skin
That with tender years, blooms into a dark
Cloud of misery. Remember when life was simple?
When gentle smiles were not purged with disdain,
And society's hands did not ravish what I was
Unwilling to give. It seems such a simple time. 

Vultures swam the mind sinking their talons deep,
Into a tangled web of sounds and words,
Please don't look at me. 
Sweat festers in crevices along the body,
Fingers tremble from the threat of an unwanted presence. Yet, they will not leave, and your lips cannot move.
A slave to an unstable brain that quivers with timidness

Who are they? Why do they stare at me so?
The old age question that shrieks like an alarm,
For people mistake the constant shaking for coldness.
But it is not the winter air that has affected my mind,
Alas! It is a disease which purges me of 'normality'
A ravine that I cannot - and will not - escape.
Yet, because the illness is one of the mind,
People are reluctant to believe, they observe from afar but

They cannot see. Some diseases can be cured,
The violation in discussion is a terminal sentence,
A voice caressing my limbs - preventing me from going here,
There, anywhere. A string of 'people are looking at you.'
Everyone is staring, staring, staring. 
And I'm sorry ma'am! I didn't mean to make eye contact with you.
Life is a constant state of apologising, of humiliation,
Of shame that you will always be half bathed in shadows.

Others dwell in the sunlight - happy creatures they seem.
And did I once belong to them?
I think I must have belonged to them. 
For life before was a swirl of yellows, pinks, and oranges,
Whereas now the world is more subdued, accompanied with flashes of red. 
And I wish, oh I wish, I could 
Explain to you my dear what is is like,
To live in an unstable mind. 

Saturday, 14 January 2017


Hiya, this is Heather writing! I know that several people are planning on reading this book, so will attempt to avoid spoilers. Bear in mind that a lot happens in this book, so this review does simplify the plot massively!

Author: Sebastian Faulks
Published: September 1993
Publisher: Hutchinson

Birdsong covers just under seventy years – from 1910 to 1979 – and is largely themed around the First World War, including before it has begun and the aftermath. The main protagonist (though the perspectives do change throughout) is Stephen Wraysford, a young British man who has been sent to France to oversee the way their textile industry works, whilst staying with the Azaire household. I think some people found the first section rather confusing because it is mostly a romance initially, you have to persevere until the war is abruptly entered. I actually really liked this, it shows that the soldiers’ lives did not simply revolve around the war; they had their own conflicts and personal battles before it. We also get a glimpse into the life of Stephen’s granddaughter, Elizabeth, who is narrating from 1978/9 and gains a sudden fascination with the war. Again, this displays rather a contrast to war, branching onto a more drama themed section as she struggles with her own relationship. Moreover, it illustrates how society disregards the First World War so much, with many of the characters lacking much sympathy or understanding of the horrors that we see Stephen go endure.
Like Barker’s Regeneration, the book addresses the link between love and war. At first, I thought this might be linking to how the soldiers would think of the most beautiful moments of their lives to remind themselves what they were fighting for, hence the love scenes were aforementioned. Yet there’s also the concept that love is a distraction, rather than a reason, to fight. The juxtaposition of ending life in war and forming life through a form of love is very powerful to write about. I did struggle to find the relationship between Stephen and Isabelle (this isn’t really a spoiler, it’s fairly obvious that they develop feelings for one-another) romantic since she is cheating on her husband with all things considered. Though the way Faulks presents it, Isabelle has no intimacy with her husband anyhow and Azaire is fairly easy to dislike, so it’s in no way an uncomfortable romance to read, I very much enjoyed it (plus it’s very easy to skip past the brief sex scenes if that disturbs you).
The parts set in war were written in a grotesquely visual manner, which was excellent at portraying the reality of war. Another main character – Jack Firebrace – works in the tunnels, which is a role that very few books look at. I can honestly not think of much worse than tunneling in the war. It’s described so vividly that as someone not fond of small spaces or loud noises, I felt terrified at points. The prospect of being buried alive was real for many in the war, so I’m really glad the Faulks wrote about it, as I feel it’s sometimes forgotten about when we refer to roles in the First World War.
Reactions to war is another phenomenally written aspect of the book – again, I find myself hooking back to Regeneration, particularly Siegfried Sassoon and his hatred of the civilians – Birdsong goes deeper into this so the reader really does sympathise with this view. When Weir goes home for a bit, his parents seem to dismiss his war experiences as dull, with the soldier’s family almost treating him like a nuisance for coming back without any advanced warning. Weir’s father seems practically offended that his son thinks he knows more about war, announcing at one point that he’s read about it in the paper, insinuating that he doesn’t need to know any more details, he’s perfectly well informed. I’m not quite sure whether to view this ignorance as his father’s bitterness about not being able to enlist himself, or perhaps feeling threatened upon knowing that his son is so tremendously brave and has seen such dreadful things. Maybe he wants to protect himself from hearing about the traumas his son has witnessed. Either way, Weir sums up his frustration later on saying that “his ‘bit’ and mine seem so different”. Anyone that’s read Haig’s play My Boy Jack may think to Rudyard Kipling, who is presented contrastingly in a proud way but still as ignorant to the reality of war, glorifying every moment.

Anyone on the hunt for either a romance, drama or war novel, please do opt for Birdsong and don't be dissuaded by the number of pages. Faulks writes in a vivid and captivating manner that makes the reader really understand more about the First World War. If you’ve read this or have any questions, comment below!

Friday, 13 January 2017

Our Future

Hey guys, its Lydia here! This is another poem for my creative writing homework. Even though this poem is quite angry and violent, I had a lot of fun writing it. Hope you enjoy it, leave me a comment and give our blog a follow. 

I am dying. Choking on old decaying blood.
 While men below create pointy spears, to breathe blue and grey ash.
The sticky tar desolates my air and corrupts my lungs.
Forever living in smog.
What have I done to deserve this?

My children will never feel the rain, nor know sunlight.
Thousands upon thousands, burnt, mutilated, dead.
Their skin peeled away, revealing bare green bone.
Left now only empty holes of innocent echoes.
You stole their existence, and condensed them to nothing.

There is an eagle, forever lost and flying with the wind.
Searching for a home. There is none left.
All gone, all stripped bare.
Her wings reluctant with exhaustion.
She is falling, plummeting.
Drowned in lashings of toxic waves.   

I am sweating, burning from inside out.
This scorching devours north and south.
Bringing helpless massacre and carnage in my wake.
 Only scraps and heaps left in revenge.
If I will perish, you will perish with me.   

Monday, 9 January 2017

These Two Ladies

Good evening, Lydia here. I started to write this poem yesterday and finished it tonight, I needed to get my creative juices flowing again. I hope you enjoy it, beware it rather strange.
 Leave me a comment and follow our blog to get updates on our posts.

I stand on the second coming,
See the split earth beneath.
A foolish man of two loves.
Two women of equal pleasant,
One no more than the other,
To choose one, a callous decision.

Oh lady of death!
Your sickly beauty and dangerous cheeks
Will grant the fires of immortally. Those black curled
Roses, and blessed thoughts that lie underneath.
What stranger wouldn’t subdue temptress?
Thou eternal requiem sings from blooded lips,
And teeth of moonlight with rays of daggers.
But can thou love silent lady, whose heart stirs not.
Under that lily skin is seedless soil, cracked and unblossomful.
I doubt that vow to me,
 Your dark eyes have tasted other souls.

I turn to this lady, with almond eyes
 And precious brow.
Dear good mistress of love,
Time is not our gift
We may age and wrinkle,
But our united body will defeat the battle of life.
There is no fear in secondness, for you are the gentle wind,
And radiant sun that brought to this embrace.
I will spend this new world, kneeling in your wonder.

Take heed in this fool, and consider to share this widened rapture.

Sunday, 8 January 2017

In praise of... Loud eating

Hello everyone! It's Shani and today I'm sharing my recent creative homework. Our task was to turn a negative subject or annoyance into something positive. Now my piece isn't meant to be serious, in fact my aim was to keep it light and humourous! I hope you enjoy.

In praise of... Loud eating

I hate Sundays. My mother has always told me that I shouldn't use the word 'hate', that it's an awful word to use and I can't possibly dislike something that much. I do though. I loathe Sundays.

Sundays, in concept, are a day of rest. Of tranquillity. My Sundays, however, are absolute hell. The day consists of an extra two hours in bed, a gulp of scalding tea just before twelve o'clock, and then an hour to hastily get ready and head to my uncle's for Sunday roast.

As tradition in the Casey household my entire family meets once a week to catch up on current affairs - or in other words to gossip and gorge ourselves on my auntie Thelma's delectable food. In a way, it's like a miniature Christmas every week... Just without the presents and the drunk dancing which Christmas brings.

Now, I used to enjoy our family gatherings. Seeing my cousins was always a treat, despite the fact that I usually sat and conversed with the adults of the family. Being the only girl in the family, and the second youngest, my emotional maturity was a great deal more developed then my all male cousins. Though this never stopped me from laughing at their stupid jokes, or running after then as they played Chase.

Sundays used to be my favourite day of the entire week. I'd often wish for the week to hurry up, eagerly awaiting for the weekend.
That was until... The inccident. That fateful Sunday that changed everything. I was blissfully chewing on a Yorkshire Pudding when my cousin, Benjamin, commented: "Shani eats really loudly, doesn't she?"

I froze. My Yorkshire Pudding falling from my fingers. My cheeks flushed in embarrassment: they had discovered my secret. Eight pairs of eyes latched onto me. The mush of my Yorkshire Pudding lay still in my mouth, I did not dare move, nor breathe. My family stared at me. Waiting. Ever so slowly, I bit down on the remains of my Yorkshire Pudding, watching in horror as my family gasped around me.

"Nicola, did you know she was a loud eater?" My aunt enquired in a shrill voice  watching with wide eyes as my mother flushed in shame.

"It's like she's chewing nails!" My uncle said smugly as he sliced his chicken up.

The only word I can use to describe that situation is: mortification. Now I cannot attend our annual dinner without being given the 'side eye' or getting a full glare from my mother. They have now become the worst hours of my entire week.

It is no different this Sunday. I grace table alongside my two older brothers. We take our usual seats. Glasses of wine are poured and polite, though strained, conversation is made around the table.  Soon my aunt Thelma brings out our plates stock full of Turkey, greasy roast potatoes, the usual vegetables, pigs wrapped in blankets, and golden Yorkshire Puddings. All accompanied with thick, steaming gravy.

My family digs in around me. All gobbling down the haven in front of them. I sit still though. Not daring to move. I'm ravenous, desperate for some smooth Turkey, and the crunch of stuffing. So, with trembling fingers I grasp my cutlery, and slowly cut through my dinner. Everyone around the table is gorging on their own meal, they haven't noticed me yet, totally engrossed by the food in front of them. I strike my fork down and quickly pop a piece of chicken into my mouth. I bite down, bliss twisting around my tongue, when a gasp echoes from across the table and I lock eyes with my mother.

Please, her eyes plead, please try to eat quieter. I stare at her for a few moments, then without breaking eye contact, I pluck another piece of chicken into my mouth and gnash my teeth together. My mother winces at the sound.

I chomp my way through dinner, ignoring the horror struck faces around me, the side eye glares of my cousins, and my mother's beetroot face. I am hungry, and nothing, I mean nothing, gets in the way of me and my dinner when I'm hungry.

I realise that to many people my loud eating habits must be irritating. The munching, the gobbling, the loud clack as my teeth knock together, but I see no reason to be ashamed of my loud eating. At least with me as a guest my host will know how much I truly liked their meal. The enjoyment clear through the inhaling breaths, the speed in which I devour the supper. At least I am honest with my eating habits. 

Friday, 6 January 2017

The Accidental

Hello, it's Heather here! This is a review on The Accidental, which is a little more mature than the typical book I'd go for, but I felt like trying something different.

Author: Ali Smith
Published: 2005
Publisher: Hamish Hamilton

The writing style is what really makes this book stand out. Anyone that knows my book tastes can confirm that I love a good stream of consciousness, so naturally I was intrigued by The Accidental. It's not quite as heavy as Woolf's take on the stream of consciousness, so anyone tempted to delve into that sort of work - but concerned it'll be too slow paced - may want to try this out. Some of the scenes and topics covered are quite mature. There will be spoilers in this review.

The accidental is peculiar to say the least, I began reading it (technically last year I suppose) in December and was delighted at how it was set out. The book is so structurally organised, I felt rather orderly indulging in one sub-section, then eating a biscuit, then reading the next sub-section etc until I had finished a section (and too many biscuits). It flutters between five narrators; Astrid, Magnus, Michael and Eve as well as a rather ominous narrator who calls themselves Alhambra who the reader can presume to be Amber I suppose, though that’s up for debate really. There are three sections which allow each character to have their say. The story-line is hard to concisely put into words without sounding dull, but basically the family are on holiday when a girl named Amber knocks at their door and apologises for being late for an appointment. Everybody then assumes that this appointment is either to meet with Eve (who is a historical writer) or someone involved with Michael, who seems to have numerous affairs with his students. Meanwhile, Magnus is consumed with guilt from having participated in a prank that resulted in the death of a girl he barely knew, so does not question Amber’s appearance. The quote below, eloquently put in Magnus’ narrative, expresses the family dynamic quite well:
“Everybody at this table is in broken pieces which won’t go together, pieces which are nothing to do with each other, like they all come from different jigsaws, all muddled together into the one box by some assistant who couldn’t care less in a charity shop or wherever the place is that old jigsaws go to die. Except jigsaws don’t die.”
Whilst there are certainly some rather awkward moments for the reader, which I’ll write about in a bit, there are also some excellent parts. The writing style is lovely. I’ve said many times that a stream of consciousness is one of my favourite styles because there’s so much that can be done with it – Smith did one of Eve’s sections through a question and answer style thing in her mind (I’m sure we’ve all done it sometimes, you ask yourself a question then answer it like you're on TV) this is surprisingly fun to read. At times, I’d have liked a little more imagery and some more details, we hear a lot of thoughts but not so much description. The contrast in tone between each character was written beautifully: Astrid is a vibrant and young yet somewhat naïve girl fascinated with filming so she can retain the memories she worries will be spun into a dream as she ages and doubts reality, Magnus is consumed with grief then struggles to comprehend Amber and his feelings as he matures, Eve is too forgiving yet also appears bitter and insecure and Michael is pretty self-consumed. Then, there’s Amber, who we mostly hear about through the others. I honestly am in awe of their politeness towards this girl, who randomly intrudes their house, breaks Astrid’s camera and is extremely rude to Eve. The presence of this girl is perhaps so curious that they are bamboozled by her to the extent they don’t seem to mind her crudeness.
The sexual scenes between Amber and Magnus in this book were somewhat disturbing given the age gap and how vulnerable he is at this point (she literally found him trying to commit suicide in the bathroom before trying to seduce him). I was very glad that they weren’t too long or detailed… Another weird part of their relationship was that the church seemed to be a favourite place to meet and do the sex thing (you can probably tell I feel awkward writing about this) – which is fairly typical of an English Literature novel; look at books like Regeneration in which two characters get intimate on a gravestone. Smith plays with this idea of sex and religion being interlinked, perhaps looking at the bad morality of the situation, which seems to foreshadow the relationship itself. Though one can also associate a church with the circle of life since many are christened there, get married there and then have their funeral there. I’ll probably write more detailed waffle about how death and sex are common themes in my Birdsong review. Anyway, the other aspect of this relationship that really deflated the romance was that Magnus’ stepdad Michael was first wrongly presented by Eve to be one of his many flings, then Michael even spends a little time wishing Amber was involved with him in that manner. So, it’s weird to go from thinking that she could be a potential love interest with Michael to then realising she’s more attracted to his stepson.
Alright, that's the end of this review then. If you have read this book too then let me know what you think in the comments section below! Anyone considering reading it, I'd only recommend this to those over the age of 16 and would advise to look out for symbolism (note how Astrid talks a lot about red when the books reaching its climax) if you like symbolism hunting.