I would like to acknowledge that this book would never have been written if not for the following things: First, in 1989 my sister checked out from the library Robin McKinley’s fine Damar books and then left them on the floor of our bedroom, where I tripped over them and then fell in love with them. Second, for many years my parents lovingly supported both my book-buying habit and my book-writing ambition, taking me out of school to meet people like Robin McKinley and Patricia C. Wrede, and forking over lots of hard-earned cash for books about dragons and magic and heroic rescues, before finally handing the (financial) responsibility over to my husband. And third, when the first line of this book leaped into my brain one night, my poor, dear husband agreed to walk the floor for hours upon hours with our colicky baby so that I could get some writing done.
I would also like to acknowledge (or confess, really) that when Melanie, the editor of my dreams, called to tell me that Bloomsbury (the publisher of my dreams) was going to publish my book, I was still in my bathrobe.
It was noon.