How lovely is this new tome from Sharon Lynn Fisher, Salt & Broom, a witchy retelling of Jane Eyre?
Or, as Sharon puts it, “Jane Eyre, but make it witchy”! Yes.
Here are a few words from Sharon about the book:
The publication of Salt & Broom by 47North this month represents a dream come true for me. The novel is a witchy retelling of Jane Eyre, which is the book I consider to be my gateway classic. Before Jane Eyre, I didn’t believe I enjoyed classics. But a friend recommended the book (some 30 years ago), saying “trust me,” and after that I was on to the other Brontes, Austen, Eliot, Shelley, Trollope, and many more.
I’m not sure exactly what made me fall in love with the original. I think I identified with Jane herself, though we were born worlds apart. She was an outsider, felt small, and described herself as plain – I felt much the same growing up. She felt connected to the supernatural, and in fact Rochester is constantly (playfully) accusing her of being a witch or fairy. I loved that aspect, along with the gothic vibes, and as an adult fantasy author, I got to thinking how wonderful it could be if the book actually had supernatural elements. I had been wanting for some time to write a witchy book, too, so it all came together perfectly.
A number of readers have mentioned in reviews that it was brave to take on a Jane Eyre retelling, and until seeing those it hadn’t occurred to me that such an endeavor was risky. It should have. The book is near and dear to many people’s hearts, after all. But once the story began to spin itself in my mind, there was simply no stopping it. I’m incredibly grateful that so many readers have connected with my witchy Jane.
And here’s the prologue:
(Edward Fairfax Rochester)
Thornfield Hall, North of England—October 1, 1847
Nearly midday, and still I tarried at my bedchamber writing desk, gazing out over the grounds of my ancestral home. Beneath the window, a maid dug quick fingers into the rich soil of the kitchen garden, harvesting some variety of root vegetable that would no doubt make its way to the dinner board. Her birdlike voice lifted to the window as she spoke with Thornfield’s cook, the earthier-toned Mrs. Glenn, who stood closer to the house and out of view.
Off to the northeast, where the great oak wood wrapped around one corner of the estate, crows jagged and dived like my own unquiet thoughts, harrying the gilded treetops. Beyond the wood, and in all other directions, stretched rolling green hills and swaths of fading-purple heath. Bruised-looking clouds hung oppressively over all.
The nearest village was Hay, but the orientation of my bedchamber gave me no view of it; Thornfield might have been the only house for miles.
The estate came to me from my father, Osborne, and to Osborne from his father, and so on in an unbroken line all the way back to the first Rochester, who had married into it in the sixteenth century. Since the death of my father, I’d been the sole Rochester upon the place, except for the very brief period when there’d been a mistress of Thornfield.
If I continued in my procrastination, I might very well find myself the only soul still haunting the old hall by Christmas.
Sighing, I gazed down at my littered desk. I gathered up the crumpled, half-written sheets; carried them to the fireplace; and tossed them in, watching as they bloomed and hissed into yellow flame. I’d meant to complete this task days ago but had so far found it impossible to word a request for a thing I simply did not believe existed.
Yet I must do something. Else the servants would certainly desert me, and I could hardly blame them. For myself, I cared little if the old place fell derelict, but they deserved better. Thornfield’s tenants deserved better. And I had a duty to my father to preserve the estate—though at this rate I might very well be the last Rochester to inhabit it.
Blast.
I returned to the desk, sank down, and took out a clean sheet of paper. With a long breath for clarity of thought, I dipped my pen into the inkwell and wrote with determination. When I lifted nib from paper, I did not read what I’d written but quickly blotted the letter, then folded it and applied my seal, addressing it finally to Mr. Simon Brocklehurst of Lowood School in Lancashire.
Is that not swoony? Here are some more links for Sharon:
WEBSITE: https://www.sharonlynnfisher.com/
BOOK PAGE: https://www.sharonlynnfisher.com/salt-and-broom
GOODREADS https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/123443274-salt-broom
INSTAGRAM https://www.instagram.com/sharonlynnfisherauthor/
FACEBOOK https://www.facebook.com/sharonlynnfisher
