I've been on a Scandinavian crime fiction jag, and this was the first disappointment. There's a fair amount of interesting detail about brilliantly creepy Icelandic folklore, but that doesn't make up for an unfocused narrative with a minimum of suspense. The writing is also fairly inconsistent, relying on cliches and odd little asides (Thora's opinions on global warming and politics, for example) that, while humanizing, don't add much to a murder mystery that dabbles in the occult. Since Bernard Scudder was a pretty distinguished translator of sagas and other Icelandic writing, I don't think he was to blame for the book's lacking style. Although I love the Icelandic setting and admire Sigurðardóttir's attempt to infuse the dour Scandinavian crime novel with occult overtones and a bit of humor, it doesn't quite come off. That said, I did finish it in one sitting - not a completely uninvolved reading experience.