This story should be riveting. It should be exhilarating. It should have had me in the edge of my seat at times and in tears at others. However, it did none of these things, mainly because I found the writing approach too analytical, too calculated, and too dry. Writing fiction of any kind should be an art, and the writer an artist. If this had been a painting I expect I would have only seen uniform shapes placed in a precise pattern as though the painting had been rendered by the hand of a geometrist rather than an artist. If Miss Rockefeller would loosen up here writing just a little and not be so stiff and formal with it, this series just may attract a larger following.