To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. “You are magnificent,” she said, “but the steel of your truth is a little oversharpened. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding.
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