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A powerful and spine-tingling gothic tale exploring mother-daughter relationships, sexuality, and class, set in late Victorian London.
"Haunting and vivid, creating that palpable sense of isolation…Parry's atmospheric storytelling leaps off the page." - Glamour
There are some facts about the world that only your mother can teach you…
Marguerite Périgord is locked in the attic of her family home, a towering Chelsea house overlooking the stinking Thames.
For company she has a sewing machine, Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management, and a carrion crow who has come to nest in the rafters. Restless, she spends her waning energies on the fascinations of her own body, memorising Mrs. Beeton's advice and longing for life outside.
Cécile Périgord has confined her daughter Marguerite for her own good.
Cécile is concerned that Marguerite's engagement to a much older, near-penniless solicitor, will drag the family name – her husband's name, that is – into disrepute. And for Cécile, who has worked hard at her own betterment, this simply won't do. Cécile's life has taught her that no matter how high a woman climbs she can just as readily fall.
Of course, both have their secrets, intentions and histories to hide. As Marguerite's patience turns into rage, the boundaries of her mind and body start to fray.
And neither woman can recognise what the other is becoming.
Intense, claustrophobic, and lyrically mesmerizing, this haunting gothic novel from award-winning author Heather Parry is perfect for fans of Carmen Maria Machado and Shirley Jackson. Heather Parry is a writer of fiction and nonfiction. Her debut novel, Orpheus Builds a Girl, was shortlisted for the Saltire Fiction Book of the Year award and longlisted for the Polari First Book Prize. She is also the author of a short story collection, This Is My Body, Given For You, and a short nonfiction book, Electric Dreams: On Sex Robots and the Failed Promises of Capitalism, and writes the Substack general observations on eggs. She was raised in Rotherham and lives in Glasgow with her partner and their cats, Fidel and Ernesto. Marguerite Périgord had been confined for the sake of her wellbeing. That's what her mother had said, on that foggy February morning when she took Marguerite up the stairs with a small stack of books and an armful of bed linen and settled her into the cramped attic of the family home.
Marguerite, Cécile's eldest daughter, was on the brink of putting herself out into the world, on the brink of marrying herself off to a man, and Cécile felt it necessary to bless her daughter with everything she knew about being such a thing – a woman, married to a man. There are some facts about the world that only your mother can teach you. So into the attic Marguerite had gone, climbing the stairs towards her promised freedom, and she would stay there until she had learned the lessons that would prepare her for the real world, the lessons that only a mother could teach. Such a queer girl. It was for the sake of her own wellbeing. The Périgord family lived in a smart house in Chelsea, a residence befitting their blood, which was aristocratic, as Cécile would often remind them, and French aristocratic at that, which was the best type. Marguerite had never lived anywhere but the Chelsea house; she was born within its walls. Cécile had expelled her eldest child in her bedroom on the first floor, screaming into a pool of her maternal blood while holding the hands of staff who'd delivered their own babies in tin baths, alone. After her long recovery and countless fruitless efforts to expand the family, more than six years later came Louis, and after that, in quick fashion, Thérèse, and then there were no more children because there was no more husband at all. From then it had been the four of them: the wellborn Périgords.
The family home was on a street called Cheyne Row. It had three storeys above ground
"Haunting and vivid, creating that palpable sense of isolation…Parry's atmospheric storytelling leaps off the page." - Glamour
There are some facts about the world that only your mother can teach you…
Marguerite Périgord is locked in the attic of her family home, a towering Chelsea house overlooking the stinking Thames.
For company she has a sewing machine, Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management, and a carrion crow who has come to nest in the rafters. Restless, she spends her waning energies on the fascinations of her own body, memorising Mrs. Beeton's advice and longing for life outside.
Cécile Périgord has confined her daughter Marguerite for her own good.
Cécile is concerned that Marguerite's engagement to a much older, near-penniless solicitor, will drag the family name – her husband's name, that is – into disrepute. And for Cécile, who has worked hard at her own betterment, this simply won't do. Cécile's life has taught her that no matter how high a woman climbs she can just as readily fall.
Of course, both have their secrets, intentions and histories to hide. As Marguerite's patience turns into rage, the boundaries of her mind and body start to fray.
And neither woman can recognise what the other is becoming.
Intense, claustrophobic, and lyrically mesmerizing, this haunting gothic novel from award-winning author Heather Parry is perfect for fans of Carmen Maria Machado and Shirley Jackson. Heather Parry is a writer of fiction and nonfiction. Her debut novel, Orpheus Builds a Girl, was shortlisted for the Saltire Fiction Book of the Year award and longlisted for the Polari First Book Prize. She is also the author of a short story collection, This Is My Body, Given For You, and a short nonfiction book, Electric Dreams: On Sex Robots and the Failed Promises of Capitalism, and writes the Substack general observations on eggs. She was raised in Rotherham and lives in Glasgow with her partner and their cats, Fidel and Ernesto. Marguerite Périgord had been confined for the sake of her wellbeing. That's what her mother had said, on that foggy February morning when she took Marguerite up the stairs with a small stack of books and an armful of bed linen and settled her into the cramped attic of the family home.
Marguerite, Cécile's eldest daughter, was on the brink of putting herself out into the world, on the brink of marrying herself off to a man, and Cécile felt it necessary to bless her daughter with everything she knew about being such a thing – a woman, married to a man. There are some facts about the world that only your mother can teach you. So into the attic Marguerite had gone, climbing the stairs towards her promised freedom, and she would stay there until she had learned the lessons that would prepare her for the real world, the lessons that only a mother could teach. Such a queer girl. It was for the sake of her own wellbeing. The Périgord family lived in a smart house in Chelsea, a residence befitting their blood, which was aristocratic, as Cécile would often remind them, and French aristocratic at that, which was the best type. Marguerite had never lived anywhere but the Chelsea house; she was born within its walls. Cécile had expelled her eldest child in her bedroom on the first floor, screaming into a pool of her maternal blood while holding the hands of staff who'd delivered their own babies in tin baths, alone. After her long recovery and countless fruitless efforts to expand the family, more than six years later came Louis, and after that, in quick fashion, Thérèse, and then there were no more children because there was no more husband at all. From then it had been the four of them: the wellborn Périgords.
The family home was on a street called Cheyne Row. It had three storeys above ground