In Which Your Humble Blogger is too squicky about eyeballs to talk about the book in any detail.
In Which Your Humble Blogger reaches into the dim recesses of his mind. Ew. Better leave them dim.
In Which Your Humble Blogger enjoys a nice nap. I mean, really enjoys it. MMmmmmm, nap.
In Which Your Humble Blogger thinks about Rufus Sewell, but he’s not in costume.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is aware that technically it isn’t a conspiracy if there’s only one villain, but it’s like a conspiracy, just without all that tedious conspiring.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is halfway through the year, and eighteen books behind. Well, eighteen after I hit that blue save button.
In Which Your Humble Blogger wept the first time through, and the second time through cried, not just the streaming tears that I usually weep but great wracking sobs, like I have not cried since the last time I was in the presence of Death.
In Which Your Humble Blogger can’t read the same book again, not a score and seven years afterward, but then perhaps neither could Jim Nightshade, if it came to that.
In Which Your Humble Blogger can’t go home again, at least not without painting the sails.
In Which Your Humble Blogger keeps going with the reading, and with the logging of the reading, getting further and further behind…