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432 pages, Paperback
First published March 22, 2016
It was the boarding school that taught me to act as a wolf in girl’s clothing should: skulking, a greyer shadow within a grey landscape. It was London which formed me into a pale, wide-eyed creature with an errant laugh, a lust for life and for dirty vocabulary, and a knife in her pocket.This is a very, very loose retelling of Jane Eyre in which Jane is a serial killer. And reader, it was awesome! If you're very, very canon about your Jane Eyre, stay far away. If you want to be entertained, if you have a secret (or not so secret *preens*) dark and twisted side, come and dive right in.
I hereby commence my account with the unembellished truth:
Reader, I murdered him.
On the last occasion we had shared a drive in the trap, the candied aroma of clover in our noses, Edwin had parted his trouser front and shown me the flesh resting like a grubworm within the cotton, asking whether I knew what it was used forJane is an unwanted orphan in her relatives' home. That is nearly where the similarity ends. Despised and unwelcome, Jane is destined for a miserable future, foisted onto her cruel aunt...but she us unlike the fictional Jane Eyre (a heroine upon our own intrepid Jane often compares herself).
My aunt Patience thought girls ought to be decorative. Indeed, Jane Eyre tucks herself away in a curtained alcove at the beginning of her saga, and thus at least attempts docility.Like Jane, she attends a boarding school, one even more horrid than the original. And again, she escaped, the only way she knows how.
I was not a fictional orphan but a real one.
Reader, would you prefer me to have felt remorse in the aftermath of my second slaughter?Jane kills, yes, but her tale is presented in a way that her acts are almost...justified. I don't advocate victim blaming and vigilantism, but I was sympathetic to Jane and what she did. I know this sounds strange, given that we're talking about a serial killer, but Jane is a good person. She is capable of love, she kills to protect the ones she love.
Though the brutality of the act sent fearsome tremors through my small frame for days and weeks afterwards, never have I regretted ending the life of my headmaster.

Some cities bustle, some meander, I have read; London blazes, and it incinerates. London is the wolf's maw. From the instant I arrived there, I loved every smouldering inch of it.
A lad hunched against a shoddy dressmaker's dummy slumbered in, cradled by his faceless companion. The atmosphere was redolent - meat sat piled up to a shop door's limit of some six feet, the butcher sharpening massive knives before his quarry. Yesterday's cabbage was crushed underfoot, and tomorrow's cackling geese were arriving in great crates, ready to kill. So early, the square we passed through ought to have been populated only be spectres. Instead, sounds reverberated from all directions - treble notes from a bamboo flute; the breathy scream of a sardine costermonger; the bass rumble of a carrot vendor, his cart piled with knobby red digits, shouting as his donkey staggered in the slick.
It was not welcoming, but it was galvanising. Arguing with London was useless; she was inexorable, sure as the feral dawn.
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"Of all my many murders, committed for love and for better reasons, the first was the most important."

“I relate to this story almost as I would a friend or a lover - at times I want to breathe its entire alphabet into my lungs, and at others I should prefer to throw it across the room.”