Why Was Idlewild Hall Abandoned In 'The Broken Girls'?

I just finished 'The Broken Girls' last week, and the timeline really stuck with me. The main story unfolds in 2014, following journalist Fiona Sheridan as she investigates a murder tied to Idlewild Hall, a creepy abandoned boarding school. What makes this book special is how it jumps back to 1950, showing the school when it was still operating. The 1950s sections follow four roommates dealing with dark secrets at the school. The contrast between these two eras creates this awesome tension—modern investigative tools versus old-school mysteries that got buried with time. The 1950s setting feels particularly vivid, with its strict social rules and the way the girls navigate them.

I've always been drawn to 'Our Lady of the Abandoned' for its raw portrayal of emotional healing, especially between characters who’ve been shattered by life. The way the author weaves their journey back to each other isn’t just about grand gestures—it’s in the quiet moments, the shared silences where they relearn trust. One character might leave a cup of coffee on the other’s desk, still steaming, just the way they used to take it before everything fell apart. It’s these tiny, deliberate acts that rebuild the bridge between them, showing how healing isn’t a linear path but a series of choices to stay present. The fic excels in making vulnerability feel like strength. There’s a scene where they argue under a streetlamp, voices cracking, and instead of walking away, one reaches out to wipe the other’s tears. It’s messy, imperfect, and so human. The author doesn’t shy away from showing setbacks—nights where they sleep back-to-back, old wounds reopening—but that’s what makes the eventual reconciliation hit harder. By the end, their love isn’t a bandage covering the damage; it’s the light seeping through the cracks, brighter because of what they’ve survived together. I’ve reread it three times, and each time, I catch new details, like how one character starts humming the other’s favorite song again, soft and hesitant, as if testing the waters of their own healing.

I've read 'The Broken Girls' multiple times, and while it feels chillingly real, it's not based on a true story. Simone St. James crafted a fictional narrative inspired by real-life elements—abandoned boarding schools, cold cases, and urban legends. The setting mirrors actual 'asylums for troubled girls' that existed in the mid-20th century, places where society hid away women who didn't conform. The ghost story woven into the plot taps into universal fears, but the specific events and characters are products of St. James' imagination. If you want something based on true crime, try 'The Stranger Beside Me' by Ann Rule—it's about Ted Bundy.

I've scoured every corner of the internet for news about a sequel or spin-off. From what I can gather, there isn't an official sequel yet, but the author, Simone St. James, has dropped hints about expanding the universe. The book's ending leaves room for more stories, especially with how rich the setting of Idlewild Hall is. I could totally see a spin-off focusing on another ghost story tied to the school or even a prequel about the original girls who died there. The way St. James blends historical mystery with supernatural elements is so unique that fans are practically begging for more. Until then, I recommend checking out her other books like 'The Sun Down Motel'—it has a similar vibe with ghostly mysteries and strong female leads. What makes 'The Broken Girls' stand out is its dual timeline structure, weaving past and present so seamlessly that it feels like two books in one. A sequel could explore another cold case tied to Idlewild or even follow Fiona as she uncovers new secrets. The paranormal aspect is just chilling enough to keep you hooked without being overly scary. St. James has a knack for creating atmospheric settings that stick with you long after you finish reading. If she does decide to write a sequel, I’d be first in line to buy it. For now, though, we’ll have to make do with rereads and fan theories.

My favorite part of 'The Abandoned Girl Who Became Princess' is how the setting acts almost like a character itself. The story is rooted in a fictional, medieval-style kingdom that feels European in flavor—cobblestone streets, market squares, manor houses, and a clearly defined social ladder. Most of the early chapters drag you through the grit of the city’s poorest districts: orphanages, alleys, and crowded taverns where survival beats ceremony. That contrast makes the later shift to palace life hit so much harder. As the plot moves on, the focus shifts to the capital and the royal court: opulent ballrooms, whispered corridors, and the manicured gardens where alliances are planted as carefully as roses. There’s also the countryside and noble estates—those pastoral scenes that let you breathe after the claustrophobic city chapters. Even though the novel isn’t heavy on fantastical worldbuilding like maps or invented languages, the geography is vivid enough that you can easily picture the protagonist being ferried from one world to another. I love that the setting highlights themes of displacement and reinvention. The author uses places—from orphanage to palace—to mirror the heroine’s inner life, and those scenes still stick with me when I daydream about the book. It’s a setting that rewards readers who enjoy atmosphere as much as plot.

Bright and a little fierce, 'The Abandoned Girl Who Became Princess' reads like a slow-burn redemption tale with some royal intrigue tucked into the corners. I follow a girl who starts out discarded and invisible, surviving on wit and small mercies before fate nudges her toward the palace. The synopsis focuses on her unlikely ascent: through clever alliances, quiet resilience, and a few well-timed risks she climbs into the orbit of power, eventually taking on a mantle she was never meant to wear. What really hooked me was how the plot balances courtroom-style politicking with intimate, small scenes—stolen meals, whispered confessions, and scraps of memory about a past family. The story doesn't handwave trauma; it lets the protagonist heal in increments while she learns to navigate nobles, rivals, and ceremonial obligations. There's also a satisfying arc where other characters evolve from obstacles into allies. Overall, it's a layered tale about identity and agency more than a pure rags-to-riches fantasy. I loved the emotional honesty and the way quiet cunning is treated as its own kind of nobility — left me smiling and thinking about it for days.

The ending of 'The Home for Wayward Girls' is both bittersweet and cathartic. After years of enduring the oppressive environment of the home, the protagonist finally uncovers the truth about its dark secrets—leading to a confrontation with the administrators. The climax is intense, with her rallying the other girls to fight back against their abusers. The resolution sees the home shut down, but not without scars. Some girls find foster families, while others, like the protagonist, choose to forge their own paths. It’s a story of resilience, but it doesn’t shy away from showing how trauma lingers. What struck me most was how the protagonist’s journey doesn’t end with a neat 'happily ever after.' Instead, she’s left grappling with trust and identity, hinting at a long road ahead. The final pages focus on her tentative steps toward freedom, like learning to trust small kindnesses. It’s raw and hopeful in equal measure—definitely the kind of ending that stays with you.

The novel 'The House of Broken Angels' is set primarily in San Diego, California, near the U.S.-Mexico border. The story unfolds in a vibrant Mexican-American community where the characters grapple with family, identity, and cultural heritage. The setting plays a crucial role, as the borderland becomes a metaphor for the characters' own liminal spaces—caught between two worlds, neither fully American nor entirely Mexican. The beach, the barrio, and the family home are central to the narrative, each location dripping with nostalgia and tension. The author Luis Alberto Urrea paints San Diego not just as a backdrop but as a living, breathing character that shapes the story's emotional landscape.

I haven't seen an official English release date announced for 'The Abandoned Girl Who Became Princess', and honestly that’s both frustrating and familiar to me. A lot of titles float around in their original language for a while before a publisher picks them up, and publishers usually announce acquisitions on their social feeds, conventions, or through retailer listings. If a formal license is made, the announcement is typically followed by a pre-order window and a release window that might be a few months to a year out, depending on how much localization work is needed. If you want to track it, I follow publishers, illustrators, and the series' original platform because announcements pop up there first. For physical release candidates, places like major bookstores will often list a tentative release page. For digital releases, official platforms sometimes roll chapters out faster. There are also fan translations online that appear quickly after new chapters, but they’re a legal gray area and the quality varies. Personally, I prefer waiting for the official release when I can — it helps support the creators and often comes with better formatting and bonus content. So, bottom line: no concrete English release date that I can point to right now, but this kind of series tends to get noticed if it has a strong following. Keep an eye on publisher announcements and the creator’s accounts; I’ll be refreshing those pages like crazy until it shows up, because I want an official version on my shelf too.