Amazon just sent me an two copies of Deanna Raybourn’s Silent in the Sanctuary, when I only ordered one. Maybe I should read both at once? It did, of course, mean that my post this morning was unceremoniously dropped on my feet as I lay in bed this morning, with the order of “Stop buying so many books!” coming sternly from my other half. I also received Tasha Alexander’s A Poisoned Season, so today will be spent curled up in Camellia’s, with a pot of lapsang souchang and crumpets with honey. It’s raining outside, and so my plans to go and catch the West End Live outdoor concert in Leicester Square with friends have been shelved since I don’t go out in the rain for anyone less than Kristin Chenoweth.

There seems to be a burgeoning trend around writing historical thrillers set in the 19th C, with widows as their heroines. It makes sense – they were among the most comfortably off in Victorian society (at least if they were upper class and came into a nice inheritance) – they didn’t have a man to defer to, and they were considered invisible and asexual, which is handy when all the men around you have been conditioned to be misogynist idiots who think women shouldn’t have the vote. I very nearly ended up tilting my MA dissertation Spinsters, Widows and Whores: the single woman in Victorian literature. I’m really wishing I had done, since I only ended up writing about the former and 20,000 words on single women didn’t exactly do it for me. I’m fairly sure I went bonkers at the end and referred to Bridget Jones as a modern example. *shudders* Aside from Raybourn and Alexander, Brian Thompson has also gotten into the act with The Widow’s Secret – novel which, from my cursory flick through in Waterstones the other day, combines a fabulously right-on protagonist with sensation novels, one of my favourite genres EVER. That one is going to have to wait until next month, however. I really need to stop spending my entire paycheck on novels.