Mere by Danielle Giles is the kind of novel that wraps itself around you like the creeping fog of the Fens—at once beautiful, chilling, and impossible to ignore. Set in 990 AD in an isolated Norfolk monastery, Giles weaves a tale steeped in atmosphere, where pagan superstition clashes with the early roots of Christianity, and where faith is as much a weapon as a comfort.
The story unfolds in a place of eerie quiet and ancient secrets, where every shadow whispers of something older and darker than the cloistered walls can contain. Hilda, the monastery’s infirmarian, is a quietly powerful presence, grounded in knowledge and intuition. As the layers peel back—after the mere claims a young boy—what’s revealed is a tangled web of power, fear, and buried desire.
Sister Wulfrun’s arrival turns the already fragile order on its head. Her presence is electric, and the chemistry between her and Hilda is undeniable, complex, and beautifully drawn. Is Wulfrun divinely touched or dangerously deluded? Giles keeps that tension tight, blurring the lines between holiness and heresy, between devotion and defiance.
I genuinely loved this book. It’s dark and mysterious in all the right ways, with prose that reads like incantation and imagery that lingers long after the final page. I thought the ending might turn one way—it didn’t—and yet, in retrospect, it couldn’t have ended any other. The resolution is quiet, but devastating.
If you enjoy historical fiction that is full of atmosphere, explores faith and power with a deft hand, and doesn’t shy away from the unsettling, Mere is a must-read.