|Scotland; early January 2008|
The summer I turned 13, my choir went on a tour to England. One day, while driving from one cathedral town to another, I noticed that the older girls had gathered in the back of the bus; the low constant murmur I could hear was punctuated every so often by peals of laughter. Curious, I picked my way down the aisle to see what they were doing, but as soon as they saw me they fell silent. One of the girls, a rising twelfth-grader, had a book in her hands.
"What are you reading?" I asked.
She shook her head at me. "You're too young for this kind of book," she said. "Go back to the front of the bus."
I hung my head and retreated to my seat - but not before I'd seen the cover of the book and made a mental note of the title and author. When we got back to the States a week later, I went straight out to Barnes and Noble and, of course, bought that exact book.
And that, dear readers, is how I discovered historical romance novels. Eliza and Sydney and Victoria, wherever you are - thank you for the education!