Here's the thing: if this is a Victorian-ish inspired alterna-reality, then this book rocks. However, if it is meant to be a Victorian historical, with supernatural elements à la Henry James, then this book is kind of a big fail. From the start, the setting of the story is fuzzy: I just assumed it was Victorian, from the cover design and the ghostly mystery, but there's nothing specific in the text to place it there, and so my reading -- and review -- might be totally off.Reminiscent of DuMaurier's Rebecca at the start -- from the similar-sounding first lines, to the heroine's dreams of houses burning, and the heavy emphasis on the estate of Everton -- this novel lacks the chilly tension and creepy mystery that makes Rebecca so fun. Boccacino seems fairly enamored of Charlotte Markham, his governess-narrator, and Mr. Darrow, master of Everton, but Boccacino doesn't offer the reader enough time to grow enamored of them as well, and so the inappropriate romance feels foisted and odd.The heroine is a widow; her employer a widower. Both lost their spouses about a year ago or so, both attest to the deep and abiding love they have for their deceased spouses, and yet, Boccacino inserts a romance novel-ish frisson of desire. "At times our sessions together would only end when the sun threatened to appear over the horizon; at others they would continue on until...an accidental touch of one hand against the other charged the space between us with something unspoken and unacknowledged." (p16) For the rest of the novel, Charlotte has a breathless eagerness to be cleaved to Mr. Darrow with a few weak protestations that she doesn't want to appear to be a seductress. Rather than have a Jane Eyre-ish desire for the governess and master to end up together, I found myself telling a friend that Charlotte's interest in Darrow and her musings on life at Everton reminded me a bit of The Hand that Rocks the Cradle -- early on in the story, she's quick to imagine herself the mistress of the house simply because she cares for the master's children. Were Charlotte our anti-heroine, this build up would be deliciously wrong, but it's clear Charlotte is meant to be sympathetic, beautiful, and good. I could harp on my problems with Charlotte, but I won't (and I did so in my Goodreads status updates), so I'll offer a few comments on the rest of the book. Boccacino creates a Victoriana playground for his characters to inhabit: the village of Blackfield is quaint, quirky, picturesque, and without class strata; the dream world of Darkling is a phantasmagoria-ish place of evil knickknacks, shifting landscapes, and tentacled overlords. When I could let go of my aggravation at the historically inaccurate behavior of our heroine, I really enjoyed the world-building, and the creepy atmosphere of the story. So, needless to say, I've got complicated feelings about this book. Despite my complaints, however, I am eagerly anticipating Boccacino's next novel (not sure if one is in the works, but if there is...). If his character development matches his world-building, then we'll be in for a treat.