With the promise of Salome’s Kiss (2022) being a gothic narrative steeped in the eerie ambiance of desolate moors, shrouded in mists concealing all matter of sinister truths waiting to be dredged forth – I could hardly wait. As a long-term enthusiast of ebi-hime’s work, I braced myself for A Bad Time™ (of course, within the realm of literary indulgence I love nothing more than a dash of drama and a surfeit of angst so I say Bad Time™ with utmost fondness). True to the quintessential sense of gothic romanticism from which Salome’s Kiss draws inspiration, its narrative unfolds with a claustrophobic atmosphere coaxing the reader along the creaking annals of Hatton Manor, inhospitable landscapes where mortals dare not tread, and the repressive social milieu of 1800s Britain. The countryside assumes an identity of its own, mirroring the tumultuous emotions of its leading pair; each furious gust of wind rattling thin, ivy-wrapped windowpanes hinting at concealed depths ready to engulf.

Protagonist Letitia fumbles with a tapestry of societal norms, clumsily weaving burgeoning threads of sexuality through all-too rigid fabric. Navigating restrictive social boundaries, she grows to confront repressive hegemonic structures which seek to confine all that she represents as a queer woman. It’s a journey which tragically shares similarities through which the object of her skewed affections, Genevieve, reaches self-acceptance. However Letitia’s own path culminates in murdering the ostensible figurehead representative of all that stands in her way.

This man – her employer, and Genevieve’s father – appears to represent a life hidden in the shadows, the snatching away of freedom and dignity for the litany of women at his beck and call. With his marring unfurling in a manner that could only be described as surreal, the disconnect between what Letitia dreams of in all her lofty reveries and the reality is far too great with promise of emancipation coming at a steep cost.

Of course, he isn’t anything at all like what she had been led to believe. But in that moment, all blood-soaked carpet and panicked voices, it doesn’t really matter.

With our erstwhile protagonist’s grim fate Salome’s Kiss may prompt readers into considering its ending to be ill-conceived, however one needs to assess the respective positions of those swept into the swirling, oppressive nexus of 1800s Britain. Letitia, though characterized by a well-intentioned if naïve disposition finds herself scorched by the flames of passion; flickers of acceptance licking at calloused heels. Genevieve is cast through the complex prism of a woman understandably embittered by salivating village residents utilizing her family tragedies as points of fervent gossip, further lost in the throes of grief and the looming threat of all that may become of her.

Although Letitia recognizes her fiery mistress’ at times barbaric and callous nature, she chooses to fundamentally see the latent good which may exist within Genevieve. Even with such a good-natured reading we need to carefully examine how the governess approaches her pupil, with Genevieve serving as a convenient conduit to traverse the labyrinth of Letitia’s own complex emotions towards queerness and desire. It is arguable whether she truly cares for Genevieve, or whether she is taken with all that she could possibly represent. She wants to be adored, loved. Accepted. If Clara could not give it to her, perhaps Genevieve could. And if not Genevieve, then who? A cavernous void yearns to be filled, which unfortunately opens her up to being manipulated and isolated so effortlessly.

Despite the revelation of Genevieve meticulously orchestrating the complexities of the sordid affair which pushes Letitia towards certain doom, pangs of sympathy cultivated over the course of Salome’s Kiss persist. While Genevieve may cut a cruel and cold-hearted figure, she too finds herself enmeshed within the restrictive web of social norms that ensnare Letitia. The ill-fated pair struggle to break free from the fine silk which constricts their very being, yet their respective social standings may have tragically cemented the difference between idyllic reveries born from wishing to be loved, and callous desperation when faced with the prospect of heteronormativity.

Of marriageable age, Genevieve is afforded little time to carve out a potential future with the woman whom many years have been spent with – her beloved Dinah, a housemaid at Hatton Manor. The risk of being married off to some faceless man looms, so amidst the welcoming shade of Hatton they hatch a most nefarious plan to ensure their peace remains undisturbed, a future together guaranteed. Even if all great Neptune’s ocean fails to wash the blood clean from their hands.

Much like Letitia moulding Genevieve into a vessel through which a faint pastiche of love emerges; its presence ghosting her soul, Genevieve in turn transforms Letitia into a key to reveal a future where she can continue to live as a queer woman sans restraint. The pair ardently pursue what will grant them salvation, rendering Salome’s Kiss a uniquely queer gothic horror that in truth is not a romance between its two leads. It instead evolves into a thought-provoking, bittersweet exploration of how two different queer woman negotiate the smothering confines of a society intent on suppressing their authentic selves.

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