The Virgin Blue haunts my shelf. It sits next to the other Tracy Chevalier novels. Quietly. Unassumingly. But it winks at me every time I walk past. Read me. No, you're weird. Read me. No, you kinda creep me out. Read me. I did already, that's how I know you're creepy. I know you like me. No, I don't. Then why is my binding wrinkled? Why are there soup spots on my pages? Because. Now go away. Read me. Listen, I've read you. You're very good, but a little creepy. I don't want creepy right now. But you like me. OK, I like you. Are you happy now? Not until you read me. Again. Fine. If I read you again, will you stop bothering me? Maybe....