Distant Storms, Unseen Rainbows

Character-wise this absolutely shines. Cassia's interiority has a clear tide pattern, surging with longing and then pulling back into caution, and the dialogue carries that rhythm so you can hear the rooftop arguments sharpening into honesty. Thorne is written with bright edges that cut when handled wrong but the text never excuses them, and Luka's easy warmth complicates every scene he enters in a way that feels organic rather than engineered. I believed these three even when the plot leaned into enchantment, and that belief made the stakes feel intimate and real.

From a classroom and library perspective, this leans heavier than the cover sparkle suggests. Memory tampering, a controlling relationship dynamic presented as protection, and a persistent family curse create a tense emotional climate that will unsettle some readers.

I would shelve it for grades 9 and up and hand-sell carefully to teens who actively seek moody coastal romance with soft-magic rules and thorny power questions. Readers wanting light swoon with low angst may be frustrated by the amnesia thread and the recurring confrontations.

Mixed feelings on the plot mechanics, impressed in places and impatient in others.

• Luminous coastal vibe
• Clever objects like stormglass and a fickle compass
• Early momentum sputters near the midpoint
• Confrontations crowd the final chapters

Greyhollow is both postcard and portent: glasshouse nights, a lighthouse with brass bones, Harbor Street salt in every word, and weather instruments that hum with fate, all grounding the curse without drowning the teens in lore.

Formally, this sings. The prose is precise without feeling brittle, and the structure mirrors Cassia's memory returning in glittering fragments that slowly cohere. I liked how the motifs recur with intent, especially the instruments that measure pressure and direction, which double as scene beats. The middle stretch wanders a little as the romance triangles its way through familiar motions, but the final movement snaps the thematic threads taut and lands with earned clarity.

I felt this in my ribs. The story keeps circling the same tidal truth, that we live with "one for surviving and one for hoping," and by the end I was clutching both.

What looks like a glittering romance in a glasshouse becomes a study in weathering, in how you learn to read the barometer of your own heart. The book honors the ache of forgetting and the thrill of remembering without shaming either, and it threads that moral tension through every rooftop argument and lighthouse meeting.

The coastal magic is more than pretty atmosphere. Stormglass, a stubborn compass, the moon on the windows, even the bronze weather vane point beyond themselves toward choice, consent, and the risk of real love. I kept smelling the electric rain and crushed limes and thinking, yes, this is what change feels like.

Cassia's voice holds light and salt in equal measure, Thorne's shine is complicated without being cruel on the page, and Luka's tide-blue steadiness tests every easy answer the narrative tries to sell. The result is conflict that glows rather than scorches.

I am lit up by this book, and I want to hand it to every teen who believes storms can cleanse and not just destroy. Five stars, full heart, soaked hair, no regrets.