“We return what was taken, with love and humility. No harm was intended. We ask for peace and we ask for calm. So mote it be.” – Glenn Quigley, Heart of the Wren
GLENN Quigley’s Heart of the Wren, part of the Own-Voices gay paranormal romance series Haunted Hearts: Season of the Witch, offers a significant contribution to the evolving landscape of gay/queer historical romance fiction. Set in rural Ireland during the 1980s, the novel intertwines supernatural folklore, mature gay male desire, and a richly atmospheric setting to create a love story that is both evocative and subtly subversive.
At the center of the story are Lorcan, a solitary gay farmer haunted by his past, and burly Dara, his new lodger and farmhand, who is also a practicing witch. When Lorcan discovers a mysterious Celtic brooch, a series of strange and magical disturbances disrupts his quiet life. As Lorcan and Dara work together to uncover the mystery—and grow closer to one another—the novel unfolds into a tender romance that challenges dominant tropes found in historical, romance, and gay/queer fiction.
Heart of the Wren initiates a broader queering of historical narratives, constructions of masculinity, ideals of the sexually desirable body, and normative assumptions regarding the preferred age of romantic protagonists.
A central contribution of the novel lies in its portrayal of gay male intimacy in a setting rarely associated with queer visibility. By placing two gay men at the heart of the narrative in rural 1980s Ireland—a time and place frequently pictured as having strong religious beliefs and conservative social values (you get a taste of this type of atmosphere in the excellent 2017 UK film God’s Own Country)—Quigley queers both the romance genre and the historical setting. Rather than relegating queer characters to the margins or suggesting their existence as tragic or clandestine, the novel affirms their centrality, agency, and desirability.
This is particularly evident in how both Lorcan and Dara are portrayed as emotionally complex and physically grounded characters, despite the presence of the supernatural. Their relationship develops gradually through trust and shared labour, offering a form of queer relationality that challenges the normative model of youthful, hetero-romantic love typically found in the genre. Writing from an “Own-Voices” perspective, the author brings an authenticity to his gay/queer characters that is not only convincing but deeply satisfying.
Quigley’s treatment of setting is equally significant. The isolated Irish farm is traditionally a space of rugged masculinity, agrarian hardship, and patriarchal order—none of which are typically considered fertile ground for queer life. Homoerotic, sure, but to move beyond that? In Heart of the Wren, the farm becomes a queer space, a place where alternative ways of being can quietly flourish. Dara’s witchcraft and his integration into Lorcan’s daily life subtly destabilize not just the norms but even the expectations of rural respectability, introducing liminality, connection, and, of course, sensuality into the harsh rhythms of conventional agricultural life. 
The novel’s evocation of Irish folklore, especially the use of “Wren Day” and the haunting wrenboys—a fascinating celebration I knew nothing about previously—further subverts the landscape by embedding queerness within cultural memory and ritual. The story links gay/queer desire and love to old myths passed down through generations. This connection disrupts the conventional narrative of romance stories, which typically follow a straightforward, traditional (heteronormative and chronological) timeline of love and life events. Quigley’s fiction is often like this and expertly executed. I myself have utilized this unconventional process, specifically with my split-time Haunted Hearts novel, The Night Belongs To Lovers. It’s not everyone’s cup-of-tea, but I highly enjoy it.
Both Lorcan and Dara are described as “beefy” and “burly” working-class men: strong, physically capable, but not idealized in the typical romance fashion. They are older than many romance protagonists, and their bodies bear the marks of labour and life. This resistance to polished, youthful gay bodies contributes to a broader gay/queer aesthetics of realism and inclusivity in romance fiction. And I’m here for it! These are not heroes or idols who deserve the reader’s lust and adoration because they are flawless and perfect; instead, they are desired and fascinating because they are realistic and relatable, and this is a quality that can thrive within the Romance genre. In this way, Quigley joins a growing number of queer authors challenging the erasure of older, fuller-bodied men as leads in Gay and M/M fiction.
As both an author and a reader of gay fiction, I feel it’s still a transgressive thing to write about queer lives that resist the idealization of youth, conventional beauty, and urban sexuality as the only markers of valid queer experience. Good on ya, Mr. Quigley!
Importantly, the novel’s romantic arc does not rely on tragedy, secrecy, or social ruin, as is often the case with queer characters in period settings. Instead, Quigley offers what might be described as a gay/queer pastoral: a vision of rural life that allows for love, magic, and belonging outside of societal surveillance. This refusal of queer tragedy is not a denial of conflict; Lorcan, in particular, wrestles with “old pain” and emotional isolation, likely stemming from years of repression and the loneliness of rural life. Yet the conflict is resolved not through exile or loss but through intimacy and mutual care.
This emphasis on healing and interdependence reflects key themes often found in queer identity, a focus on chosen family, authentic expressions of love and desire, and the affective networks that sustain queer lives in the absence of traditional (support) systems.
Quigley beautifully blends historical flavour with the paranormal, locating romance within a space that’s temporary yet ever-changing and culturally specific. The 1980s Ireland setting adds a layer of socio-political tension without being overtly didactic. It situates the characters in a believable, lived world—one shaped by religious conservatism, local myth, and unspoken codes—but allows them to find joy and connection regardless. The novel resists both the sanitized vision of gay/queer love common in some contemporary romance and the relentless “trauma narrative” often found in queer fiction, historical or not.
Despite my deep analysis (I just can’t help myself!), Heart of the Wren absolutely leans more towards romantic idealism than radical social critique. The main antagonist is a supernatural threat rather than issues like overt homophobia or societal exclusion.
Ultimately, Heart of the Wren offers a heartfelt, textured, and beautifully imagined queer romance that situates love in a space often denied to it: rural, historical, and magical. Through its attention to older gay/queer characters, its affirmation of embodied desire, and its integration of folklore and witchcraft, the novel expands the boundaries of both historical romance and queer fiction, yet combines them wonderfully. It reminds us that queer lives have always existed not just in cities and subcultures but in fields, farms, and folk stories—often in silence, but no less vibrantly. In this, Quigley has not just written a love story; he has reclaimed space and time for queer possibility. Heart of the Wren is truly a wonderful book.
