Review: 'Carrion Crow' by Heather Parry

Getting ready for married life can be quite a challenge, although few women would likely find themselves in the same position as Marguerite, who has been locked into the attic by her mother. Much of Carrion Crow is intriguing, but unfortunately I had some real issues with it as well. Thanks to Steerforth & Pushkin and NetGalley for providing me with a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Pub. Date: 30/06/2026
Publisher: Steerforth & Pushkin; Pushkin Press

Marguerite Périgord is locked in the attic of her family home, a towering Chelsea house overlooking the stinking Thames.

For company she has a sewing machine, Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, and a carrion crow who has come to nest in the rafters. Restless, she spends her waning energies on the fascinations of her own body, memorising Mrs. Beeton’s advice and longing for life outside.

Cécile Périgord has confined her daughter Marguerite for her own good.

Cécile is concerned that Marguerite’s engagement to a much older, near-penniless solicitor, will drag the family name – her husband’s name, that is – into disrepute. And for Cécile, who has worked hard at her own betterment, this simply won’t do. Cécile’s life has taught her that no matter how high a woman climbs she can just as readily fall.

Of course, both have their secrets, intentions and histories to hide. As Marguerite’s patience turns into rage, the boundaries of her mind and body start to fray.

And neither woman can recognise what the other is becoming.

Fusing grisly body horror with raw and evocative prose, this unforgettably haunting gothic novel from award-winning author Heather Parry is a story of mothers and daughters, and the dual capacity for both great kindness and unfathomable cruelty.

I was really intrigued by much of Carrion Crow but there is one thing that has sort of stuck in my craw and which I want to address first. I'm not quite sure when I first heard of Blanche Monnier, whether it was in a book, a podcast, or somewhere online, but I have known about her for years. Blanche was born in 1849 in Poitiers, France, to a noble family and when she was twenty-seven, her mother and brother locked her in the attic because she wanted to marry an older lawyer. She was found there twenty-five years later, covered in filth and emaciated, after an anonymous tip to the police. This case is well-known and most reviews I've scrolled through of Carrion Crow on Goodreads reference it. And yet, there is no direct, explicit reference to Blanche in the book itself, or at least in my advanced reading copy. In a foreword/preamble to the book, Heather Parry refers to hearing about 'some woman' (literal quote) and then goes on to speak about her personal connection to Mrs. Beeton's advice book. In an interview with the Glasgow Review of Books, however, Parry states that Blanche's story provided the 'focus to what [she] was trying to do' (Source) with the book. Why, then, if we are so interested in the violence being perpetrated against women, want to draw real truths out of fiction, and want to give voice to things hardly discussed, are we not mentioning Blanche's name in our fore- or afterword?!  I appreciate this might feel like a petty point, but Carrion Crow is so visceral, so explicit about the deprivation and pain Marguerite experiences, building off of the real horror Blanche experienced, that I just don't know why you would call the latter 'some woman' and not at the very least honour her by telling us her name. It feels counter to the themes the novel aims to address, which means I also find the horror of the story more difficult to swallow. (Again, perhaps this is amended in the published book, in which case all of this is about my experience rather than the finished product itself.)

Carrion Crow is about Marguerite, who has been looked into the attic by her mother Cécile. Marguerite had a plan, which was to marry a boring lawyer so that she could escape her childhood home, live an independent life, and be with the woman she really loves. Cécile told her, however, that in order to be ready for marriage, she needs to prepare, so up to the attic we go with a copy of Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management to learn from. The novel starts with Marguerite already up there, trying her very best to somehow figure out what exactly it is her mother wants her to learn. Time is a blurry concept in this book, passing in the blink of an eye, the span of a paragraph. Marguerite is not entirely alone in her isolation, as a crow nests in between the attic and roof, but this is a bleak replacement for any kind of love or interaction she might otherwise have. Marguerite's slow descent into madness is intersected with chapters about Cécile's own youth and marriage, tracing her working-class roots, her enchantment at marrying into nobility, and the harsh bargains she has to make to keep herself afloat in the end. Cécile works like a villain in Carrion Crow, although the chapters about her do give a certain insight into her. I found these conversations about violence and trauma between mothers and daughters intriguing, as there is a lot there to work with, but they don't quite make it to centre stage in the novel. What really stands out about Carrion Crow is the body horror of it all. This book is viscerally disgusting in many ways, tracing the collapse of Marguerite's body right alongside her mind. Now, there is nothing wrong with body horror in and of itself and in fact much can be said for the approach taken here, but it is nonetheless something you should be aware of going in. 

I've laid out my main issue with Carrion Crow above, which is how I feel Heather Parry approaches her source material. Undeniably this novel is historical fiction, Parry's own creation and story, but it is, as she acknowledges herself, indebted to Blanche Monnier's life. That aside, I am very impressed with how the novel is written, even if it there were moments where I seriously considered taking a break because it was making me uneasy in my own body. The novel's main selling point and potentially its biggest drawback for many is the detail with which Parry writes. I could picture the attic, its every piece of furniture, the crow's nest, the cracked bathtub a floor lower, the streets of London, the nets in the aviary. Parry brings her London to life with these details and it makes for a vivid reading experience. Equally vivid, however, is the decay of Marguerite's body, which oozes, cracks, disintegrates, and expands in ways that are visceral. As I said above, I think there can be value to this kind of explicit, dark, upsetting writing. I have found other books very upsetting as well, while still seeing the point that was being made and understanding how my discomfort played into it. With Carrion Crow I ended up more conflicted though, in part because of Blanche, who maybe suffered these kinds of pains but does not get named. It added a sense of exploitation, without this necessarily being true or at all intended by Parry, but I couldn't shake it. Because of that, I doubted what all this explicit body horror was really for. What point is it really serving? What am I, as the reader, meant to take away from it? And if, after finishing the book, I can't say for sure that Parry had a point to make with it, I can't help but wonder why I was subjected to it. I don't have clear answers here, not even fully-formed opinions, only a sense of unease that hasn't gone away yet.

I give this novel...

3 Universes!

I think there is a lot in Carrion Crow that is interesting and well-thought out and Heather Parry's writing is undeniably powerful. Something about this novel isn't sitting right with me though, like I've eaten something my body is now rejecting, and I still can't tell if that is part of the point or not.