Candle Flames in Darkness

Agnes Magnúsdóttir, convicted of murder, awaits execution in 19th-century Iceland. She reflects on her fate, likening herself and others to candle flames flickering in the wind, soon to be extinguished. The cold, the isolation, and the certainty of death press in on her, as she wonders if anyone will remember her true self once she is gone. The prologue sets a somber, introspective tone, immersing the reader in Agnes's fear, regret, and the stark beauty of the Icelandic landscape. Her voice is both defiant and vulnerable, haunted by memories of fire, betrayal, and the relentless approach of her final day.

A Murderess Comes Home

After her conviction, Agnes is removed from the squalor of Stóra-Borg and sent to Kornsá, a remote farm, to await execution. The family at Kornsá—Jón, Margrét, and their daughters Steina and Lauga—are forced by the District Commissioner, Blöndal, to house her. The family is anxious and resentful, fearing for their safety and reputation. Agnes arrives filthy, exhausted, and traumatized, treated more like livestock than a person. The family's initial interactions with her are tense and suspicious, but necessity and the harsh Icelandic winter force them into uneasy proximity, setting the stage for a slow, painful reckoning with the truth.

The Valley's Reluctant Hosts

The arrival of Agnes upends the fragile routines of the Kornsá household. Margrét, already weakened by illness, struggles to maintain order and protect her daughters. Steina is awkwardly curious, while Lauga is openly hostile, fearing Agnes's presence will taint their family. The community gossips, and neighbors like Róslín and Ingibjörg visit, bringing both support and suspicion. The family's poverty and isolation are laid bare, and the burden of hosting a condemned woman becomes both a practical and moral trial. The chapter explores the psychological toll of fear, duty, and the slow erosion of certainty in the face of another's suffering.

Chains and Shadows

Agnes's life is reduced to a series of humiliations: chained, watched, and spoken about as if she were already dead. She is denied even the comfort of her own name, becoming "the murderess" in the eyes of others. Her memories swirl with loss—of family, of love, of dignity. Yet, she clings to the fragments of her identity: the sagas she knows, the poems she composes, the small acts of resistance that keep her spirit alive. The narrative delves into the psychological effects of prolonged isolation, the cruelty of gossip, and the desperate need to be seen as more than a crime.

The Assistant Reverend's Task

Thorvardur "Tóti" Jónsson, a young, inexperienced assistant reverend, is chosen—at Agnes's request—to be her spiritual advisor. He is plagued by self-doubt, unsure how to guide a condemned soul. His father is distant, offering little comfort. Tóti's first encounters with Agnes are awkward and fraught; he is unsettled by her suffering and the intensity of her presence. Yet, he is drawn to her humanity and begins to question the nature of sin, redemption, and his own role as a conduit of mercy. Their relationship, tentative at first, becomes a lifeline for both, challenging the boundaries of faith and compassion.

Agnes's Past Unveiled

Through conversations with Tóti and the Kornsá family, Agnes's history emerges: born illegitimate, abandoned by her mother, shuffled between foster homes, and marked by poverty and loss. She recalls the death of her beloved foster-mother Inga, the coldness of her foster-father, and the loneliness that shaped her. Agnes's intelligence and resilience are evident, but so too is the trauma of being unwanted and misunderstood. The chapter explores how social stigma, gender, and class conspire to limit her choices, and how the past is never truly past—it seeps into every present moment, coloring perception and possibility.

The Weight of Judgment

The legal and social machinery that condemns Agnes is revealed through letters, court records, and the voices of authority figures like Blöndal. The trial is a spectacle, with Agnes's words twisted and her motives presumed. The community's need for a scapegoat is palpable; justice is less about truth than about restoring order and deterring others. Tóti, seeking understanding, visits local priests and neighbors, uncovering layers of prejudice and rumor. The narrative interrogates the nature of justice, the power of narrative, and the ease with which a woman can be made into a monster by those who refuse to listen.

Winter's Unforgiving Embrace

As winter deepens, the Kornsá household is forced into closer quarters. Agnes works alongside the family, her competence and quiet strength gradually earning a grudging respect. The daily routines of slaughter, preservation, and domestic labor become acts of survival and, paradoxically, moments of connection. Margrét's illness worsens, and she and Agnes share late-night confidences, finding common ground in suffering and endurance. The landscape itself becomes a character—beautiful, brutal, indifferent. The chapter is suffused with a sense of impending loss, as the days grow shorter and the execution draws nearer.

The Ties That Bind

The relationships within Kornsá and between Agnes and those around her deepen and complicate. Steina's empathy grows, while Lauga's resentment festers. Margrét, despite herself, comes to see Agnes as more than a criminal. Tóti and Agnes's conversations become more intimate, touching on dreams, faith, and the possibility of forgiveness. Agnes's memories of Natan Ketilsson—her lover and eventual victim—are revealed in painful detail: their passion, his betrayals, and the tangled web of jealousy, hope, and despair that led to tragedy. The chapter explores the limits of love, the wounds of abandonment, and the longing for belonging.

The Illugastadir Murders

The events leading to the murders at Illugastadir are recounted in harrowing detail. Agnes, Natan, Sigga, and Fridrik are caught in a vortex of desire, resentment, and desperation. Natan's manipulations, Sigga's vulnerability, and Fridrik's rage culminate in violence: Pétur is killed with a hammer, Natan is stabbed, and the farm is set ablaze to cover the crime. Agnes's role is ambiguous—both participant and victim, driven by love, betrayal, and the crushing weight of circumstance. The chapter is a crescendo of emotion, blurring the lines between guilt and innocence, agency and fate.

Confessions and Consequences

In the aftermath, Agnes, Fridrik, and Sigga are arrested, interrogated, and tried. Their confessions are coerced, their stories distorted by those in power. Sigga, young and pretty, is pitied and eventually pardoned; Fridrik, impulsive and angry, confesses but is unrepentant; Agnes, intelligent and self-possessed, is seen as the mastermind and bears the brunt of blame. The machinery of justice grinds on, indifferent to nuance or mercy. Tóti, shaken by what he learns, struggles to reconcile the woman he knows with the monster described by others. The chapter examines the cost of truth, the hunger for scapegoats, and the impossibility of true justice.

Awaiting the Axe

As the date of execution approaches, Agnes's world contracts to the confines of Kornsá and the company of those who have come to care for her. The family, once fearful, now mourns her impending death. Tóti, weakened by illness and doubt, returns to her side, determined to offer what comfort he can. Agnes's memories and dreams become more vivid, haunted by loss and longing. The community prepares for the spectacle of execution, and the machinery of the state moves inexorably forward. The chapter is suffused with dread, tenderness, and the ache of unfinished stories.

The Last Rites

In her final hours, Agnes is dressed in borrowed finery, embraced by the family that once feared her, and comforted by Tóti's presence. Margrét, Steina, and even Lauga offer gestures of compassion, acknowledging Agnes's humanity and the injustice of her fate. Agnes, exhausted and resigned, finds solace in small acts of kindness and the knowledge that she will be remembered. Tóti prays with her, holding her hand as the world outside grows silent and cold. The chapter is a meditation on mortality, forgiveness, and the fragile bonds that persist even in the face of death.

The Execution Hill

On a bleak January day, Agnes and Fridrik are led to the execution site, surrounded by a ring of silent witnesses. The execution is swift, brutal, and meticulously recorded by the authorities. Their bodies are buried without ceremony, their heads displayed as a warning. The machinery of justice is satisfied, but the sense of loss and futility lingers. Tóti, shattered by grief and helplessness, is left to reckon with the limits of faith and the persistence of memory. The chapter confronts the finality of death and the ways in which society seeks to erase those it cannot understand.

Memory, Mercy, and Silence

In the aftermath, the community returns to its routines, but the memory of Agnes lingers—haunting, unresolved. The narrative reflects on the nature of storytelling, the power of compassion, and the possibility of redemption. Agnes's life and death become a lens through which to examine the failures of justice, the dangers of certainty, and the enduring need to bear witness. The silence that follows is both an indictment and an invitation: to remember, to question, and to seek mercy in a world that too often prefers judgment.

Characters

Agnes Magnúsdóttir

Agnes is the novel's tragic center—a woman condemned for murder, yet rendered with deep psychological nuance. Born illegitimate and abandoned, she endures a life of poverty, loss, and social stigma. Her intelligence and sensitivity set her apart, but also make her a target for suspicion. Agnes's relationship with Natan is passionate and fraught, marked by longing, betrayal, and the desperate hope for belonging. Her time at Kornsá reveals her capacity for work, kindness, and reflection, challenging the community's view of her as a monster. Agnes's inner life is rich with memory, poetry, and pain; her journey is one of seeking dignity and understanding in a world determined to deny her both. Her final acceptance of death is both heartbreaking and defiant, a testament to the irreducible complexity of a life lived on the margins.

Thorvardur "Tóti" Jónsson

Tóti is Agnes's chosen spiritual advisor—a young, inexperienced assistant reverend, thrust into a role for which he feels unprepared. Sensitive, introspective, and plagued by self-doubt, Tóti is initially overwhelmed by the gravity of Agnes's situation and the expectations of authority figures like Blöndal. His relationship with Agnes evolves from awkward formality to genuine intimacy, as he listens to her story and confronts the limitations of doctrine and the demands of compassion. Tóti's own faith is tested by Agnes's suffering and the failures of justice; his journey is one of growing empathy, humility, and the painful recognition that mercy is often at odds with the world's demands. In the end, he offers Agnes the only absolution he can: presence, understanding, and the refusal to let her die alone.

Margrét Jónsdóttir

Margrét, the mistress of Kornsá, is a woman worn down by illness, poverty, and the burdens of family. Initially fearful and resentful of Agnes, she is forced by circumstance to confront her own prejudices and the limits of her strength. Margrét's relationship with Agnes evolves from suspicion to a kind of maternal solidarity, forged in the shared experience of suffering and endurance. Her practical wisdom, sharp tongue, and moments of unexpected tenderness make her a deeply human presence. Margrét's struggle to protect her daughters and maintain dignity in the face of overwhelming hardship is emblematic of the novel's exploration of resilience and the possibility of grace.

Steina Jónsdóttir

Steina, the elder daughter of Kornsá, is ungainly, open-hearted, and often at odds with her more conventional sister. She is drawn to Agnes, recognizing in her a fellow outsider and responding with curiosity and kindness. Steina's willingness to question authority and extend compassion marks her as a quietly subversive force within the family. Her journey is one of growing understanding, as she moves from fear to empathy, and ultimately to mourning the loss of a woman she has come to respect.

Lauga Jónsdóttir

Lauga, the younger daughter, is more concerned with propriety, reputation, and the maintenance of social order. She is initially hostile to Agnes, fearing contamination and the loss of her family's standing. Lauga's anxiety manifests in resentment and attempts to control her environment, but beneath her rigidity lies a deep vulnerability. As the story progresses, Lauga's defenses are challenged by the reality of Agnes's humanity and the family's growing attachment to her. Her eventual gestures of compassion are hard-won, reflecting the novel's insistence on the possibility of change.

Jón Jónsson

Jón, the head of Kornsá, is a man caught between duty to authority and responsibility to his family. He is practical, stoic, and often emotionally distant, but not without a sense of justice. Jón's initial compliance with Blöndal's orders is motivated by necessity, but as he witnesses Agnes's suffering and the impact on his household, he is forced to reckon with the moral ambiguities of his position. His quiet support in Agnes's final days is a testament to the slow, painful work of empathy.

Björn Blöndal

Blöndal is the novel's chief representative of the law—a man more concerned with order, reputation, and the appearance of justice than with truth or mercy. He is ambitious, self-important, and unyielding, orchestrating Agnes's execution as both punishment and spectacle. Blöndal's interactions with Tóti and the Kornsá family reveal the impersonal, bureaucratic nature of power, and the ease with which individuals can be sacrificed to the needs of the state. He is both a product and an agent of a system that values certainty over compassion.

Natan Ketilsson

Natan, the murdered man at the heart of the story, is a complex and contradictory figure. Charismatic, intelligent, and skilled as a healer, he is also manipulative, secretive, and emotionally volatile. His relationships with Agnes, Sigga, and others are marked by passion, betrayal, and the exercise of power. Natan's own fears, superstitions, and dreams haunt the narrative, blurring the line between victim and perpetrator. His death is both a personal tragedy and a catalyst for the community's need for retribution.

Sigrídur "Sigga" Gudmundsdóttir

Sigga, the other woman convicted in the Illugastadir murders, is young, pretty, and perceived as simple-minded. Her vulnerability elicits pity, and she is eventually pardoned and sent to prison rather than executed. Sigga's relationship with Agnes is fraught—marked by moments of solidarity, jealousy, and mutual dependence. She is both a victim of circumstance and an unwitting participant in the machinery of justice, her fate a stark contrast to Agnes's.

Fridrik Sigurdsson

Fridrik, the young man convicted alongside Agnes and Sigga, is driven by resentment, poverty, and a desperate need to assert himself. His relationship with Sigga is passionate but destructive, and his rivalry with Natan is fueled by envy and humiliation. Fridrik's confession is both a bid for agency and a surrender to the inevitability of punishment. His execution, like Agnes's, is a public spectacle, a warning to others and a testament to the community's hunger for closure.

Plot Devices

Multiple Perspectives and Epistolary Fragments

The novel employs a shifting narrative structure, alternating between Agnes's first-person reflections, third-person accounts of the Kornsá family and Tóti, and a series of official documents, letters, and court records. This multiplicity of voices creates a tapestry of perspectives, highlighting the ways in which truth is constructed, contested, and often obscured by rumor, prejudice, and the needs of authority. The epistolary fragments serve both as exposition and as a commentary on the limitations of official narratives, inviting the reader to question what is left unsaid or deliberately distorted.

Foreshadowing and Symbolism

The novel is rich in foreshadowing and symbolic imagery: candle flames, ravens, stones, and the Icelandic landscape itself recur as motifs, signaling both the fragility of life and the persistence of memory. Dreams and omens—Natan's premonitions, Agnes's nightmares—blur the boundaries between fate and agency, suggesting that the past is never truly past. The execution itself is foreshadowed throughout, casting a shadow over every act of kindness or cruelty, and imbuing the narrative with a sense of inexorable doom.

Confession and Testimony

Central to the novel is the act of confession—both forced and voluntary. Agnes's story is repeatedly told and retold: by herself, by her accusers, by the community, and by the state. The tension between her private truth and the public narrative imposed upon her is a driving force, raising questions about guilt, innocence, and the possibility of redemption. The structure of the trial, the role of testimony, and the manipulation of evidence all serve to highlight the ways in which power determines whose voice is heard and whose is silenced.

Setting as Character

The harsh, beautiful, and indifferent Icelandic landscape is more than a backdrop—it is an active force in the story, shaping the lives, choices, and destinies of the characters. The isolation of Kornsá, the brutality of winter, and the omnipresence of death and decay create an atmosphere of claustrophobia and inevitability. The setting amplifies the themes of survival, endurance, and the longing for connection in a world that offers little comfort.

Analysis

Burial Rites is a haunting exploration of the ways in which society constructs guilt and innocence, and the devastating consequences of refusing to see the humanity in those we condemn. Through the story of Agnes Magnúsdóttir, Hannah Kent interrogates the failures of justice—how poverty, gender, and rumor conspire to erase the complexity of a life. The novel's layered narrative structure invites readers to question the reliability of official histories and to seek out the silenced voices beneath. At its heart, Burial Rites is a plea for empathy: it asks what it means to bear witness, to offer mercy in a world that prefers judgment, and to remember those whom history would rather forget. The emotional arc—from fear and suspicion to understanding and grief—mirrors the journey the reader is invited to take, challenging us to look beyond the surface and to recognize the irreducible dignity of every life, even in its darkest hour.

Last updated: December 4, 2025