The fuel of this book seems to be the question: “wouldn’t it be cool if [someone] said/did/went through [crazy random happenstance]?”
The answer often is, no, no it wouldn’t. What it would be is tiring to see the author trying to fit it retroactively into the narrative.
I found the beginning tremendous; the rest is sadly one long wince. I think that happens when there are interesting ideas in the premise, but then you have to see the author grossly miscast Rochester as, on the whole, a jolly good fellow. He's amorphous and annoying and un-Brontë.
This kind of sentence, when not perpetrated on purpose, needs to die -not a litteral quote-: "Thursday realised that she would never forgive him and then she went shopping for cashews".
I was specially put off by the noir parts. I kept waiting for someone to say “this isn’t a place for you, little girl”, and I was going to go “you know what? Maybe you’re right.”
The tragic thing is that I liked the bare facts of the plot. I’m all for Richard III as Rocky Horror, I love the time travelling business, I'm into name-dropping litterature to death, and it was wonderful to have everyone care
about books like they didn't have to feel weird about it.
But the truth remains: this is all fit with shoehorns. Tool steel, 1,2 percent carbon ones.