Much like its author, this book has gone through quite the transition in its journey to full-blooded novelistic endeavour. Ever aiding it – and, occasionally, just putting up with it – is my dearest Claudia Chapman. Her generous and incisive criticism hoisted the story from innumerable nets of nonsense.
Cipher Press have excelled and exploded my dreams of the perfect publisher for this tome of madness and rodents. Jenn and Ellis stared into the face of Dallyangle’s odd little soul, and Wolf made magnificent art from it. Thanks also to Jordan Taylor-Jones for publicity worthy of Nettleblack’s Tincture, and Laura Jones for marvellous typesetting escapades. I am so lucky to be able to, in Ellis’s words, roll forwards with grace and aplomb in such brilliant company.
I was blessed with early readers, and I want to thank them all for indulging my makeshift attempts at email-based serialisation. Gwen Davis (perennial champion of Edwina’s cause), Katie Barrowman (she of the crochet ferret), Vanessa Knight (apologies for killing your darling L.L.), and others – I am profoundly grateful. Even if – especially if – you read a ghastly draft. And you, Courtney O’Donnell, are the ferret reading this.
I’m grateful to the English Department at Royal Holloway, for its wonderful world of critics who are creative and creatives who are critical, and to the Cambridge contingent who nudged me into asking how words worked. To all the scholars, researchers and writers who opened up the nineteenth century for me, especially the ones who showed its strangeness and diversity. To TECHNE, who thought they were funding a PhD and got a novel as well. To Adam Roberts, for ‘what is book?’ and patient reassurance. Diolch yn fawr to M. Wynn Thomas, for double-checking my Welsh – if there are errors remaining, they’re quite my fault. To Mark Samuels Lasner, Margaret D. Stetz and the Delawareans, for enthusiasm and a hoard of glorious novel covers. Heartfelt thanks to Preti Taneja, for letting me take prose to a poetry salon, and uplifting my spirits when they threatened to shrivel.
Profoundly, to my parents. My mother, who will do me the highest compliment if she gets the local library to order this book. My late father – I hope he’d be both delighted and relieved (and only slightly perturbed) by the end result.
I have to write these rather early, so I can only apologise tenfold for being insufficiently thorough. Sprawling and fervent gratitude to anyone not named who’s done aught to help Nettleblack. If you’ve answered a delirious question, spread the word, enjoyed the book, said something nice about the cover, and so forth – please accept my thanks.
And to Henry, Sept, Pip, Cass, Matty et al – you knew I was queer before I did.