It’s 1966, and Frances (Frankie) Croy has fled to Venice to hide. More than a decade has passed since her debut novel captured the London literary world, during which she’s published a string of failures. A particularly cutting review of her work has cast her writing style as a dinosaur whose long-deserved extinction can’t happen soon enough. A hypersensitive loner, Frankie has let that review get under her skin, believing — with some reason — that her editor shares the negative opinion.

At a publicity gathering for someone else, Frankie erupts violently, having misinterpreted postures and expressions around her as slights. The London tabloids eat this up, and Frankie just manages to avoid legal trouble. After a brief stay in a psychiatric hospital that does her no good and only spawns further gossip columns, she’s taken flight to Venice, where friends loan her a palazzo, known as the Palace of the Drowned.

As you may have guessed, Frankie is quite the paranoid. But this novel operates under the old adage that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean nobody’s after you. And much to her consternation, shortly after her arrival in Venice, a woman much younger than she accosts her, says they’ve met before, and declares herself an admirer of Frankie’s work, especially that debut novel.

Frankie’s certain she’s never met “the girl,” as she thinks of Gilly Larson (though she understands that descriptive is fast becoming déclassé) and wonders what her game is. Gilly fastens herself to Frankie like a leech, offering literary opinions she can’t seem to keep to herself, and which would appear to criticize Frankie’s work, except for that debut novel. To rephrase the adage: Just because a leech professes to like you doesn’t mean she won’t suck your blood.

So the game’s afoot, and a clever, well-crafted game it is. It’s not that Palace of the Drowned proposes a cat-and-mouse relationship between Frankie and Gilly. Rather, Frankie wonders whether that’s what they've got, or if she’s reading malign intent into innocent, if strange, behavior. Frankie goes back and forth, at times suspicious, at times grateful for Gilly’s companionship and generosity, from which she learns about the city she detested at first sight but has come to appreciate.

I like how Mangan taps into the pervasive fear belonging to people insecure in their accomplishments, especially when a seemingly more confident youngster comes along. I also like the way the narrative depicts an author fiercely anxious about her creative powers who fears she has only one thing to say and said it years ago. You don’t have to be a writer — or any form of artist — to put yourself in Frankie’s place.

That’s what saves the novel for me. The first hundred pages feel like a chore, because none of the characters appeal to me. Mangan has chosen to enact her tale with a brittle, difficult, even obnoxious cast. Frankie seems to care about no one but herself, and I don’t get why she instinctively pushes people away. Gilly’s self-righteous, intrusive, and controlling, too interested in what other people think of her to see them for themselves. Frankie’s friends, the ones who loan her the palazzo, strike poses I find tiresome, while her editor gives publishing a bad name (and makes a couple implausible moves).

Mangan’s assemblage does offer ample opportunity for conflict, therefore creating reversals, the essence of any thriller. She need not strain for plot points, because much of the story comes from within, and credibly so. You also don’t get too cozy with anyone, so you can readily believe them capable of just about anything. But if you’re like me, you cease to care, and only when Frankie’s vulnerabilities feel at all human, rather than merely repellent, do I latch on.

Whether Palace of the Drowned will please you probably depends on your tolerance for its characters. Mangan’s a gifted author, and her psychological portrayals ring true. Yet this book is too cold for me to embrace. ( )

Shades of Patricia Highsmith in this thriller about a writer and her possibly obsessive hanger-on in 1960s Venice. The setting is the star here, a luscious depiction of a chilly, wet bygone city culminating in a climactic storm and flood. There is much drinking going on. This novel is a slow burn, and the twists are not too surprising, but it does have great atmosphere. I don't think I liked it as much as Mangan's first novel, but it was plenty dark, and I prefer this old-fashioned style of thriller to all the frenetic ones that seem to be the fashion right now. ( )

Struggling novelist Frances Croy has had a bad year. Poor reviews for her latest novel, especially one from JL, had upset her and finally she had a meltdown at the Savoy leading to a stint in a 'sanatorium'. The offer of a place to stay in Venice seems ideal for an escape to get over it all but Venice is not the place of romance and sunshine. The weather is cold and wet and Frankie finds herself taken up by a young writer called Gilly who seems just a little intense. Frankie fears for her sanity as she is convinced there is someone in an empty building and then the weather closes in.
I really liked Mangan's first novel but this blows it out of the water. Venice is a real star, not the romantic side but the ghostly, gothic nature of the city on the lagoon comes to the fore. Frankie sits somewhere to one side of the line of sanity but the reader is questioning everything as the plot progresses. Whilst the narrative does have a huge sense of inevitability it is brilliantly written, both claustrophobic but also with a terrific imagination. I was completely gripped as could not put this down, racing through to the end and loving every page. ( )

(41) Impulse borrow from the library after seeing a review on this novel in the newspaper. A reclusive author goes to Venice to recover from a public breakdown over a bad review and encounters a mysterious young girl who claims to be a daughter of a friend. Frankie, our protagonist, is an unmarried female professional in the 1960's, orphaned during the War as her parents were killed during the Blitz. She is almost pathologically independent and possibly not in her right mind. Who is this girl who befriends her and takes her around the mysterious city of Venice? The palazzo Frankie is staying in is crumbling and the rumor is a woman was found drowned there. Drowning, fetid water, decay, rain, cold permeate this atmospheric psychological thriller.

It was hard to tell where this novel was going. I figured out a twist pretty early on and kept waiting for something a bit more diabolical. The ending of the novel was abrupt and disappointing - accounting for a whole star off. My enjoyment up until then was more along the 4 star range - but it honestly just seemed like the author ran out of steam. I loved the palazzo and wished the novel could have stayed in Venice and featured more scenes set there. I felt as if when Frankie left Venice the tension (despite what could have been great drama) just seemed to slacken and the novel became a bit plodding. I did empathize with Frankie and wished we could have delved deeper into her mental state.

Anyway, not bad - parts were really nicely done - the palazzo, the Gilly character, the atmosphere, the contextual details and the weirdness of Venice. But in the main, disappointing. Sometimes it is almost worse when a book you are really enjoying doesn't deliver then if it had just been mediocre the whole time. (But I wouldn't want to give too negative of a review and send the author off the deep end...) I would read this author again, actually. In many ways, my kind of of book - just some flaws in the execution. ( )

Oh, dear, no.

Such a trite plot: "writer has meltdown after bad review; goes off to Venetian palazzo, where there are, of course, mysterious noises; encounters stalkerish fan; etc." If you're going to be trite, at least write well. But "heels clicking on cobblestones" twice in two pages, and again several pages later? Are there no editors? I quickly became a) annoyed, and b) bored, and quit halfway through.