Fifty days and five years: that's the distance between Rosemary and Rue and The Winter Long. At an average of 350 pages a book (average; please don't comment to say "but this one was only 338..."), that's almost 3,000 pages of Toby, with more to come. Honestly, I'm amazed she's lived this long, given everything that I've put her through. She's too stubborn to die and too fun to kill, which is probably the only thing that's saved her.
Fifty days and you get to find out everything I haven't been saying since book one. This is the volume where a lot of chickens come home to roost: it's always been planned as the game-changer for act one of the series. I think I managed to accomplish that. Early review copies are out in the world, and thus far there have been no spoilers, for which I am very grateful. I really like it when people can discover what I've done for themselves.
Fifty days. I'll be somewhere in Europe when this book drops (probably in Edinburgh, with Amal, hiding under whatever piece of furniture I can wedge myself beneath), twitchy and waiting for the reviews to come in, yet terrified of reading them. I wish I could be here to do my normal release day funtimes. I'm glad I'll be far away. Somehow, both emotions are succeeding in existing at the same time.
Fifty days. That's so long.
Fifty days. That isn't long at all.