OK, a nice preeny moment in a long, infuriating day.
As several people know, I'm doing a joint reading with Tad Williams around Thanksgiving. I gave him an uncorrected proof of Weaver awhile back; he offered a blurb for promotional materials and/or the cover.
He just sent it:
Deborah Grabien's "The Weaver and the Factory Maid" is nominally about music and ghosts, and this book has plenty of both, but what this mystery has in even greater abundance is heart and soul -- especially the disembodied sort. The characters are likeable, the haunting spirits suitably frightening yet truly pitiful, but best of all for this reader, no one involved wastes time trying to come up with workaday explanations for the fantastical truth before getting on with the important things.
"The Weaver and the Factory Maid" is charming, in all senses of the word, but also a meditation on love and eternity and all the lives that have been lived, for good or ill, in fields and cottages far from History's main roads.
I am, as they say, all pink and pleased and stuff.