A Year In Provence by Peter Mayle

Peter Mayle's wry sense of humor charmed me. Here’s a paraphrased example:  I’d never met a more mendacious, vicious brute. I liked him more every day.

Despite his oft-delightful wit, I didn’t end up loving A Year in Provence as much as I thought I would at first. Mayle went on about the most mundane things, though granted, I’ve never really been much for travel reading. I didn’t connect with his level of sophistication, I suppose, as he talked about continually going to restaurants and dancing at cocktail parties and all such.  I would glaze over and have to go back to re-read sections to make any sense of it.  Here’s how un-memorable the content was: I finished the book and went back to it, forgetting I’d finished it.  Not much of a story.

I did come away from it with a little better sense of Provence, though.  Some things I do recall: 

·    The Mistral is a severe, cutting wind that blows through the region in the winter, especially. The climate is quite cold much of the year.

·      The French spoken by the locals has a hard ‘g’ added to so many words, especially those ending with ‘ien’ or ‘in’.  So, ‘bieng, vieng’ and the like.

·     Some of the restaurants don’t have menus.  They just serve your meal, and you eat whatever it is!  I personally wouldn’t care for this, since I have dietary restrictions, but if I didn’t, I might actually enjoy that… 

·         Lots of mushrooms can be found in the woods.

·         Documents are required all the time, for everything.

·     The area is rich in vineyards and has many wine producers. I knew this about France generally, but not particularly about Provence.

Mayle drew memorable characters—the brutish neighbor; Menicucci, a very competent and cultured furnace guy whom he called about all his home issues; another neighbor who farmed the vineyards, but whose wife did the vast bulk of all the hard work, including chimney-sweeping, mechanical repairs, planting grapevines, etc.

*Spoiler Alert!*

The poor author-couple started remodeling their new house in January, and much of it still wasn’t complete in December!  Honestly, it makes you wonder if it really was THAT bad to be worth it. What a nightmare for them.  The couple had been pestering the workers for months, and they were given endless reassurances, the latest being, “Don’t worry, we’ll be finished way before Christmas!”  Anyhow, the author’s wife solved the issue by arranging a party to celebrate the ‘finished house’, inviting the workers AND their wives.  Since the workers didn’t want their wives to see their work incomplete, they showed up right away after getting the invitations and actually finished the job.  Brilliant stroke on her part, hmm? Too useful a tip not to mention here.

 The grand ending was really just the end of the year, on Christmas day. Aside from having the renovations completed (nearly), their electricity went out. The restaurant was already booked, but Peter explained their problem, and the restaurant set up a tiny extra table next to the kitchen for them. Mayle remarks on all sorts of extreme conditions that wouldn’t garner the sympathies of the natives of Provence, but he claims that any gastronomic suffering will in full.

A Year In Provence was amusing and occasionally engaging. I guess it should be easy in general to forget you’ve finished a travel book, so I won’t hold it against him—and few have, it seems. Apparently, the book was something of a sensation when it came out and was made into a TV miniseries.  I wouldn’t mind watching that…

Fawkes by Nadine Brandes

**Spoiler Alert**

Brandes draws us into a vivid alternative-history/magical version of the political and religious realities of early-17^th century London.  With a stroke of brilliance reminiscent of C.S. Lewis, she renames Catholics as ‘Keepers’ and Protestants as ‘Igniters’, both of whom have respect for White Light (i.e., God) but have a different understanding of how they should interact with it.  Igniters speak directly with White Light, using all the different colors of the spectrum in their magic. This enhances their power, generally speaking.  The Keepers view this direct interaction and broad scope of power as dangerous, and the magic folk among them apply their own personal powers to a single color, which they choose when young and adhere to for life. The correlations are fun and well-conceived, though I did take issue with the obvious conclusion that Protestants were magically ‘stronger’, as there didn’t seem to be any redeeming qualities to concentrating powers on a single color.

Thomas Fawkes, son of the infamous Guy Fawkes, is a Keeper—at first.  His father has neglected to provide Thomas with the mask he should have received in order to harness his color power, so Thomas makes his way to London to find him. Of course he lands in the thick of the Gunpowder Plot as a co-conspirator, though his lady-love, Emma, just so happens to be an Igniter.

To spice it up, Brandes throws in a stone-plague and African skin and John Dee, who was once court astrologer to Queen Elizabeth I. I’m loving this alternative history of masks, cloaks, and magic and am appreciating Thomas’ struggle with the madness that surrounds him.  Though he wants to be a loyal Keeper, he fervently respects Emma and is somewhat troubled by the mass murder he’s helping to plan (these Keepers intend to blow up Parliament and the King, of course—which is what the Gunpowder Plot was about).

Half-way through, and I’m enchanted, right?  I adore Thomas’ insight as to the futility of their struggles against one another, especially since both sides claim to respect White Light.  His mind opens to Emma’s perspective, and he’s rightly troubled by what he’s helping to plan.  At this point, I’m feeling that Nadine Brandes has that C.S. Lewis’ grasp on Christianity, that she’s in touch with White Light herself, that if the world would just see things as she does, all would be well.

And then the story turns.  Thomas’ mind isn’t ‘opened’, it’s more that he converts.  And suddenly, somehow, the Keepers are lost, in his mind.  And when, in the end, Guy Fawkes is tortured and headed towards death, all Thomas can think of is how desperately he wants to convert his father, too.  I’m just horrified that while Brandes vividly describes how awful the father’s treatment has been, that Thomas doesn’t empathize with his father, nor does he seem to feel the slightest remorse (his father would likely not have been caught if not for Thomas, after all).  The son only pressures the father to convert, to talk to White Light directly. Brandes seems to view the division between Protestantism and Catholicism to be as profound as they did in those times—and I truly wonder if she doesn’t view Catholics as sufficiently ‘saved’!  For modern Christian circles, I believe this view is unusually narrow-minded, though I doubt she was continuing her correlation by this point.

The last third of the story loses me, as well, in that Thomas Fawkes seems to feel obliged to burden everyone with his confessions.  In reality, he would have been offed immediately. Foolishly, selfishly, he repeatedly opens that maw of his to tell everyone how he betrayed them.  I’m not just upset for his sake—he still has plans to try to save people, and if he’s killed, he won’t be able to do it. But he insists on having a clear conscience at all times, and he repeatedly speaks up with his confessions, displaying not a wit of reserve or savviness or guilt for ruining the lives of his Keeper-friends. When King James asks him what boon he desires, instead of doing good or even benefitting himself or Emma, Thomas ends up asking only to see his father, whom he pesters to convert as the poor man is in agony.  Thomas attends his father’s execution with Emma, and it’s such a happy day for him as he sees his father dying—because his father shows White Light in his blood, as Igniters do.  What a joyous thing, hmm?  [This is irony, btw.]

I’m drawn in by Thomas’ earnestness, and I appreciate his shift, but then I’m left baffled by his suddenly-narrow adherence to his newfound perspective.  Again, I suspect Brandes loses her correlations and isn’t intending to imply that Catholics aren’t ‘saved’ (though maybe she is?).  In the end, Thomas’ entreaties to his father remind one of a overzealous missionary, desirous of saving souls while being unmoved by human suffering. 

I was so inspired by the first half of this book that I’m not sorry to have devoted time to this novel. Brandes is a fine writer with a wonderful imagination, but I was quite disappointed with our protagonist in the end. Guy Fawkes, however, acted with unwavering humility, savviness, and loyalty, however misguided his plans were. He seems a hero, and I’ll likely never feel as dubious about the holiday called ‘Guy Fawkes’ Day’ again, thanks to this fictional account by Nadine Brandes—who, again, is a fantastic writer.

Admission by Jean Hanff Korelitz

Admission by Jean Hanff Korelitz is not a book I necessarily recommend.  I honestly didn’t much like the protagonist, Portia, and yet I’ve read it all the way through; it certainly retained my interest.

What kept my interest in this quite-dense book?  Well, I actually enjoyed the ongoing discussions of the admissions processes for the Ivy Leagues.  The author herself was a part-time reader for the admissions office at Princeton for a couple of years, so she has given it all such thorough consideration that I was impressed at Portia’s integrity about the process.  She’d lean a little too much one way—but only for a few pages, and then she’d draw back and be more balanced. She dealt with my reservations and questions, on a philosophical and moral level, about the whole admissions process. Occasionally Portia would lose her temper over reasonable concerns and laments by those who were disappointed in the results of the process, and I was impatient with Portia for this—because when it wasn’t application season, she was out there encouraging those kids to apply, getting their hopes up.  So for her to turn around and have no patience for the complaints of families of the brilliant, near-perfect students getting turned away…well, nope, again not sympathetic.

As a sidenote, I partly enjoyed reading this book because it was validation for me as a writer!  I am told again and again not to include history in my novel because it takes away from the story-arc. Yet the reason I choose to read historical fiction at all is to have history brought to life. Throwing in historical details adds value and reality to the writing. Conversations about political situations bring us into the period authentically.  I find a similar situation with this book.  My favorite passages of Admission are actually when Portia goes on her diatribes about the admissions process, which take up much of the book, most often in conversation form.  It’s nice to see it from her perspective and to appreciate the balance the admissions officers try to maintain. As my daughter and I are looking at colleges for her right now, it’s somewhat fascinating to contemplate.

My son actually was interviewed to go to Princeton.  Only in reading this book did I realize he might not have gotten so far without his national-level award, which was a little extraneous to his main efforts and who he is, perhaps why he didn’t get in. I’d never have guessed it to be a critical factor in his being invited for an interview, in his obtaining admission.    

I leave feeling disquieted at the broad encouragement for normal, excellent students to apply for the Ivy Leagues. It’s clear that unless the students have extremely disadvantaged backgrounds or have achieved national honors at some level, most have little hope of being admitted.  Since the book begins with Portia delivering her, “Apply to Princeton!” sales pitches to high school students, with no mention of how incredibly unlikely it is for those who don’t have unusual qualifications (even 4.0s and perfect SATs don’t cut it, apparently) to get in, I was dismayed to learn this only well into the book, when she was assigning scores based on these factors—numerical scores that generally precluded exceptional students with otherwise unremarkable achievements from getting in.  Only the exotic, eccentric, and massively-achieved-outside-of-sheer-academics-alone need apply!  (It doesn’t count to be service-oriented or to volunteer regularly, etc.)  But then, I get why they’d want a variety of applicants.  After all, aside from trying for diversity and wanting to keep their ranking high (they’re ranked #1 for undergrad universities), which is largely dependent on how many rejection letters they get to hand out, they do want a certain variety of students on campus—like singers and rugby players and the like.  I don’t pay much attention to sports, but Portia and the admissions officers want a vibrant, wholistic campus life.  And…I sorta get that.  So someone with a noted talent, like singing, might get in with a solid SAT and excellent grades.  To find the best of those folks, they want a broad applicant pool. It’s in the school’s best interests for all students to apply, to broaden the base for their Office of Admission to pick and choose.

Still, there’s something wrong with Portia taking offense to the upset applicants and their families.  When one mother says, “It’s a disaster!” or something of that nature, Portia makes an intelligent, well-thought-out response about how higher education is better than it’s ever been, how excellent the state universities so often are, how many good choices students have nowadays.  I liked her reply, but I didn’t like her contempt.  Because it is rather a disaster to get so many near-perfect students’ hopes up—and waste their time—only to dash them because those students really have little-to-no chance of getting in.  Not if they come from an unremarkable family and haven’t achieved something extraordinary (these factors are not specified in the recruitment speeches).  Minorities might have a slightly greater chance, and they are looking to round out things, as I said, so I do see why they’re reaching out so broadly, but it’s still a disaster for the incredibly intelligent, hard-working kids who don’t stand out.  Oh, and she made it clear that Princeton could easily fill its halls only with legacy kids, but that 2/3 of the legacy applicants are still rejected. Granted, they have a greater chance of getting in than the other applicants, but with nature-and-nurture from parents with Ivy-League educations and the very best primary and secondary educations their money can buy, shouldn’t they naturally stand a somewhat better chance, even if the Office of Admission were blind to their legacies?    

Okay, so I’ve gone on about the admissions process, but there is an underlying life story for Portia.  Stop reading now if you don’t want a spoiler!

**

SPOILER ALERT!

**

I am captivated at the moment by the fact that Portia’s offspring, who was adopted out seventeen years earlier, is an eccentric who reads like mad.  When we finally hear of Portia’s pregnancy, how she took a break from school, got a tiny apartment, and spent almost all her time alone reading classics, it makes a mother’s heart ache with joy and sympathy and the beauty of that connection between them.  Portia hasn’t made much of it, but you do wonder how much of what the mother does during her pregnancy rubs off on her children.  I don’t know too much about what my own mother was up to when she had me except that she was caring for a two-year-old boy and that she went into labor a month early while trying to cut our huge yard with a push mower!  She was only two days out from her scheduled Cesarean, and she didn’t want it to be overgrown when she returned—when she did get back, she was furious that nobody had bothered to cut the small patch she hadn’t been able to finish.  I’ve always found that story entertaining, and it’s fun to think how this might have influenced me. Pregnant women often get that tidying urge just before labor, and I also went into labor with my son after cleaning and carrying boards out to the shed (he was just a week early).  Since my mother was a stay-at-home mom, I can’t isolate any of her influences to the period of pregnancy.  I rather think they’re from later, mostly.  But still, it’s nice to see this charming correlation at the end of the novel between Portia and her son. The rest of the book is almost exceptionally uninspired.  Just nuts-and-bolts reality. 

Another reviewer found the book’s romance unrealistic, and I do have to agree.  The way she comes across her adopted son is unrealistic, too, perhaps—though there’s something to be said for that magical draw between mother and child.  I can go for that, from a romantic’s point of view.  The romance with her lover, though, bothered me from a number of perspectives.  One, she slept with him without a moment’s thought to cheating on her 15-year partner.  You might believe this if she were a serial cheater (she wasn’t—she hadn’t been with anyone else in 15 yrs, and only two men before that).  You might believe this if she were drunk—possibly.  You might even believe this if there were an intense romance in their past, and she were caught up in the moment.  But honestly, when she slept with him, it didn’t even sound very romantic.  Almost sordid, it definitely rang of ‘serial cheater’.  I think the author was trying for the shock-factor, for the reader to be stunned when she revealed that Portia had a partner already.  And then, later, when we find out he’s having an affair and the woman’s pregnant, maybe we’re supposed to conclude that Portia somehow intuited this affair.

Portia is a strange, cold woman, though.  She falls into depression, but you’re never even sure exactly what she’s depressed about.  You can guess. There’s a myriad of possibilities. She’s surprised about the affair, and then she just sort of shuts down, and it’s so extreme that it doesn’t make sense that this new guy would be later attracted to her when she must reek.  Portia has him over to her disaster-of-a-house, where nothing has been cleaned for months, and there’s this romantic interlude that I’m completely disbelieving about.  The place is disgusting.  And then!  When Portia’s going to go out with the new lover, she takes a shower, can find no clean clothes of her own that aren’t fancy (put on that cocktail dress, for God’s sake! Or go shopping. Or use your washer!), and so wears her ex’s clothes.  Just no, no, no!  I was appalled.  What in the world?

Okay, I’ve given away so much of the book here, and I suppose I’m being too idealistic, perhaps.  What happens in reality often doesn’t conform to what we imagine things should be like.  It’s only that the author hardly acknowledges the strangeness of so much of what Portia does.

The book does bring up a few questions for me.  As in, when Portia finds out she’s pregnant, the man she loves has already dumped her for another woman.  So Portia doesn’t tell him about the pregnancy.  Not to be mean.  She just doesn’t.  And later, she says he had a right to know about the child.  Yet…he went on with his life, married the new girlfriend, and didn’t have to suffer like Portia did.  He didn’t follow up with Portia, either.  So…did he really have a right to know?  Maybe?  It is a little sad that he didn’t know, especially after the baby was born.  But then, he brought that on himself.  If he had a right to know in that instance (seriously, when she let the baby go for adoption, she could have given the child into the hands of his wealthy family), then what if knowing that would have led her to choose an abortion?  Does he have a right to know, given a pro-choice sentiment here?  The book provoked this question for me.

While I was appalled at how he broke up with her, I also thought that although she was madly in love with him that she didn’t quite deserve him.  She was contemptuous of his belief that there was no-such-thing as class, still contemptuous that he had gone back to marry a Bostonian blond young woman and all.  But given her contempt, I don’t blame him. It must have shown at the time (at least, it sounded as though it would have). He’d likely found someone more aligned with his views, who didn’t scoff at his attempts to be color-blind and race-blind.  Portia, by the way, was of Jewish heritage, though it wasn’t a belief system so much as simply an ethnicity. He loved all of her ‘exotic’ qualities and appreciated her disapproving mother. Sheesh, I’m not sure how much harder he could have tried there—and I wasn’t convinced he would actually find her so exotic as she seemed to believe he did.  She felt different and strange, and she projected her beliefs onto him.  Perhaps.  But my sympathies were with her when he so lightly broke up with her.  Maybe he wasn’t really serious about her.  But after several months together, it was awful of him to dump her in Europe like that.  Again, since it would be rather humiliating for a dumped woman to ‘chase’ after a man, does he really have a right to know she’s pregnant after treating her that way?  And what if she’s pregnant but decides she really doesn’t want to be with him, doesn’t want to be pregnant, etc.?   I have to go with it being her choice, but I did balk a little at the thought of her adopting out without letting him know.  While he may have preferred not to have the disruption, it seems just unfair that he wouldn’t have the chance to be the parent of his own child before a stranger would. Then again, he’d dumped her, and she’d have had to face the scorn of his family; she just wanted something quiet, so that she could go back to her own life without having to face the public with it. Honestly, she might not have chosen to have the child if she had to face all that.  So there’s a consideration…

So, the author brought up this difficult question for me unintentionally, I believe.  She wasn’t really exploring these ideas, but we all get something different out of what we read.

This book called to me just as I was looking at college rankings. I knew it was on my shelves, but so are hundreds of other books that will never be read...  It’s taken a while to read, and it’s not exactly inspirational, but it is fascinating for those of us who have considered the Ivy Leagues for ourselves or for our children.  Portia repeatedly claims that there are a slew of excellent non-fiction books on the subject, also by former admission officers, but I’ve never bothered to find them.  This one just came into my hands, maybe at a library sale—and it is fiction, and it does pick up at the end, surprisingly so.

If you prefer novels and think you might enjoy considering long discussions about how Ivy League students should be selected, this may be the book for you.  Portia answers dozens of questions on this topic with insight and depth.  I am finishing the novel with more respect for the struggle that their Office of Admission is going through—and more insight as to what they’re looking for.  That said, unless my daughter publishes a book or does something else truly remarkable, I doubt I will encourage her to apply to the Ivy Leagues.

Beyond all that, Portia pushed people away and walled herself off from her very loving mother, rejecting anything that hinted of ‘natural’ and ‘organic’ and even ‘vegetarian’. It was a bit strange, since she was raised by a mother highly aware of these issues. Even though Portia remained determinedly clueless as to how those benefit our health and society, she seemed to believe that she is ‘a force for good in this world’. As far as her profession as a Princeton admissions officer went, perhaps she was fine (though I worry that she’d have been biased against some of the very best people). But to reject all that her mother taught her?  I understand sometimes when folks raised conventionally have trouble seeing differently, but for this narrow-minded woman, I have little sympathy. 

Tietam Cane by Lance Levens

Lance Levens is a highly-regarded, long-standing member of my writing group. He has a handful of novels out, some available on Amazon and more in the pipeline.  He's just released Mr. Hooks, which I've yet to read. I have, however, recently completed his altogether-different novel Tietam Cane. The protagonist is an unusually bright boy with an extensive vocabulary, but otherwise he's a typical white boy from middle Georgia, the author's home terf. Tietam has been brought up by his Confederacy-loving grandfather and is intensely loyal to his family. In the course of the book, however, his entrenched prejudices are reexamined to a certain extent.
I had so much sympathy for this boy--and his love for his family.  Being from the South and quite into genealogy, I’ve discovered that my adult male ancestors of soldiering-age in the Civil War period were almost all Confederate soldiers, nearly half of them dying on the battlefield.  It was sobering to discover this and to reflect upon how radically it changed the lives of their fatherless families.  Most of the women did remarry, but the devastation wrought by the war was severe, and I could appreciate Tietam's grandfather’s suffering at thoughts of ‘the boys’ (young soldiers who died for the Confederacy).  At the same time, it was interesting to watch Tietam’s oftentimes-painful shift from ‘little rebel’ to someone with a more open mind.
What I most appreciated about this novel were the incredibly rich, poetic descriptions and how Tietam perceived his world.  His commentary was often amusing, with one reviewer comparing him to Huck Finn. I can certainly see why. What a voice Tietam had regarding everything and everyone—and half the time even he didn’t understand why he reacted the way he did.  So little of what he said or did was planned or thought out, which is how it truly is so much of the time.  Tietam Cane was beautifully written and left me full of curiosity about the boy's future.

The Guineveres by Sarah Domet

The Guineveres is a brilliant piece of writing.  Engaging emotionally, drawing us into a reclusive convent school, the novel is one of the first examples I’ve seen of proliferative story-writing in the first person plural—though the novel was technically set as first person singular from Vere’s perspective.  I was so impressed with this little group of girls, so interlinked that they were often a ‘we’ in their experiences.  Conversations were relayed, so often not seeming to find it important to differentiate who said what.  “Someone said.”  “One of us said.”  In most books, that would have been annoying and disconcerting, but in The Guineveres, it emphasized the unity of the bond these girls had.

I was momentarily confused by the insertion of each of the girls’ pre-convent histories, again told from the first person POV—the only time it veered away from Vere.  Once I realized what these jumps were about, though, I appreciated them even more—they were artfully interspersed throughout the novel, making us long to hear Vere’s history, which she saved for last.

The other deviation from the story were the tales of women saints—several of them, masterfully and dramatically told, also interspersed through the book.  After the first of these, however, I found them rather in the way of the story about the girls, which I was anxious to get back to.  Overall, though, they leave me feeling that the story is epic, grander than I would have remembered it being.  And they emphasize an aspect of Catholicism I have never given much thought to—not in any sort of appreciative way.  I’d previously read some short descriptions of the terrible fates of several saints, quickly realizing it wasn’t something I wanted to think about, but Domet makes them come alive for us in a poignant, beautiful way that my summaries did not. 

The Guineveres is overall a poignant, beautiful story, too.  Domet doesn’t coddle us with fairytale happy endings, but neither does she devastate us completely.  She somehow has us desperate to run away from the convent and yet duly impressed with it at the same time—all the while not romanticizing the religious workers—except that I adore the overly-strict Sister Fran, for some reason. But that’s me. I read pensively, afraid of the possibilities, but Domet kept me sympathetic to nearly everyone in the book.  I highly recommend this read!         

Guides to the Victorian Life

Here are two wonderful books that have influenced my editing of Silk: Caroline's Story. While I am charmed by Sarah Chrisman's love for all things Victorian and appreciate her delightful explanations about aspects of Victorian living, I cannot recommend Ruth Goodman's How To Be a Victorian highly enough for those who really just want the nitty-gritty. Ruth Goodman has a rather more objective, encompassing outlook, while Sarah is inspiring, sharing her joys in discovering the Victorian world.

Ruth is so, so practical. She's been experimenting with much of what she researches her whole life, shying away from almost nothing - neither the clothes, the cleaning implements, nor the tools. She tries out everything so that we can be informed - not intending to adopt her experiments as habits or a permanent way of life as Sarah Chrisman does. Ruth has wonderful attention to important details - keeping in mind the needs of filmmakers and authors. 

Ruth is British, whereas Sarah is American, so Sarah's perspective helps to round out Ruth's very British focus a bit. Sarah provides an intimate perspective on the hows and whys Victorian living - one that only a modern person would know how to explain to us. I am charmed by the way she relates her discoveries - the joy is palpable. Her staunch defense of Victorian ideals and morals leave me inspired, and I find myself agreeing with the overwhelming majority of her views, although apparently they have created a backlash among certain segments of fearful, intolerant people.  Sarah Chrisman keeps up a fascinating blog at www.thisvictorianlife.com.

I look forward to future books by by both of these amazing women.

Medicis Daughter by Sophie Perinot

I enjoyed getting to know Marguerite and the Valois court in Sophie Perinot's new book, Medicis Daughter. Not only is this 16th-century princess brought to life for us, but Perinot depicts the tragedy of the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre and provides a compelling story of how it came to pass. I was brought to tears at one point by the poignancy of Margot's romantic dreams being sacrificed for state reasons. Her subsequent pragmatic behavior was understandable, if less than inspiring--and yet Perinot is showing how Margot can remain true to her heart despite the realities of her surroundings, which is inspiring in its own right. I did find myself wondering at times about how much of the story had been edited out--there seemed to be some rather abrupt shifts in perspective and attitude which I felt certain were not the author's oversight, as she is a meticulous writer. At the same time, however, I was able to follow along just fine and felt like the story went at a good pace in those sections. Perhaps the edited-out sections would have bogged down even as they made the transition more seamless, but I would have liked to have more explanation for Margot's shifts included. The ending was unexpected for me, but it made sense and and I appreciated not being fully placated at the end. History is complex and these stories are far from being fairy tales. I saw a review which suggested there was too much morality in the story, but I found almost the opposite--Margot was very, very practical, and as an idealist, I had difficulty understanding how she could not dwell on disturbing events more than she did--aside from her primary love interest, whom she dwelt on plenty! A good read, especially for those who are interested in the intrigues of 16th-century court life, and I'll look forward to Sophie Perinot's future novels.