It is cheering to see an emerging strain of feminine picaresque in Icelandic fiction in translation (Gðrún Eva Mínervudóttir's The Creator being another example) – a welcome change from the murder mysteries that usually make it across the North Atlantic. There are moving moments of sadness and hilarity, especially during the flashbacks to the narrator's own childhood and adolescence, and Ólafsdóttir shows a rare ability to write a serious and convincing small child; the boy's flowering relationship with his clueless foster-carer is beautifully handled. The author's delight in the strangeness of Iceland's weather and landscape will appeal to many readers.

Nevertheless, there are oddities that non-Icelandic readers will find problematic.