The reader in me waded into this book and the current of the story swept me off my feet and down the stream. My poor conscience was left running down the shore alone. After the final page the reader dragged herself out onto shore and sat dripping, foolishly grinning as she stared off into the distance. But before too long my conscience showed up and assaulted the reader in me. “What was that?” “You seriously liked that person?” “Weren’t you annoyed by that person?” “Didn’t you think?”
But the reader in me only shrugged and with a little half smile said, “That lady can write.”
Would I recommend it? Yes.
I love historical fiction but often I feel like I read a different spin on the same time and place over and over and…





