He took a bride from the wrong wood. The debt is coming due.
Everyone knows the story: the orphan governess, the brooding master of Thornfield Hall, the madwoman locked on the third floor. But at Thornfield the hedges are grown thick with thorn for a reason, and the thing behind the iron door is no ordinary madwoman.
Years ago, Edward Rochester walked into the wrong wood and came back with a bride of impossible beauty. The bargain that won her is eating him by inches, and her glamour has rotted into something feral that cold iron and a locked door can barely hold. Into this house comes Jane Eyre: plain, uncanny, and fae-touched - the one creature who can see through any glamour, and the only thing that can hold him to the mortal world.
In this faithful gothic reimagining of Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, Beverly McLeod takes the novel readers have loved for two centuries and gives it back with the fae heartbeat that always beat just under its surface. Brontë's plot, Brontë's people, and beneath them an older, colder story: the price of taking something out of the wood, and the woman who loves the monster anyway.
