Nicolaus of Damascus

Learning from 40 AC Book Bios “Καῖσαρ” Kai-Caros (in Slavic "Like the King") Bio of CaesarArt, Education, Symbols and Signs, Power of Mind, Quotes

Sclaveni pre Byzantine Cultural Influence

By Nataša Pantović

Ancient Europe's Cultural Heritage

Europe has passed through a process known in history as “Romanization” that changed indigenous populations, including Roman speech, Roman religion... The historical moment of the Roman conquest has profoundly structured the interpretation of the archaeological remains dating to between 200 BC and 300 AC.

Xanthos now Turkey 39 BC Ancient Greek Tomb British Museum London

Moving deeper into the past, archaeological remains provide evidence for existence of Ancient Europe pre Christ, with major ethnic groups, such as the Germans, the Slavs and the Celts, in prehistory. In Europe, the ancestral remains of various European peoples, help us distinguish between ‘Dorian culture’, ‘Mycenian culture’, ‘Danubian culture’ observing the beauty of the European mixed heritage.

The archaeology of countries where European powers have implemented various forms of institutionalized dominion for considerable periods of time, struggle to identify “own” history: Malta with its Ancient Temples Culture after the Knights, the UK in Ireland, Germany and Turkey in Balkans, both Irish and Slavs are still finding their rightful space in Ancient Europe’s history.

The "imperialist" archaeologies, for instance, deny of any ongoing relationship between living Australian Aborigines and their past which is defined as ‘prehistoric’ and ‘dead’. Israeli archaeology pre Christ is often classified as nationalist. A complex relationship between history, religion, archaeology and the construction of particular cultural identities is often confusing.

Claiming own historical heritage was for some nationalities a troublesome process

Slavs were slaves in Europe, and as such have been traditionally historically identified with Germans, or with Barbarians, even though a Slavic DNA story will tell you a different story of Balkans, that in its mountains, hid first Slavs (Sclaveni) that inhabited Europe. We try to trace them by names.

Ama Dios Notebook

A complex, extensive and often overtly political in nature, without a wish to offend, archaeology today, fights the core mythological lies of various religions

Giving the full respect to our scientists, it is the fact that the “European”, as “Latin” and North American culture history has been ‘exported’ around the world. It is the basis of our historians’ current mind-sets. The original texts in Ancient Greek about gods narrate most interesting new stories.

Greek NF MG 32, a palimpsest manuscript from the New Finds, St. Catherine's Monastery of the Sinai, Egypt

Internal cultural change and innovation has always been a slow and gradual process amongst most cultural groups. Back in time, 4,000 years, some of the major city centres were leaders of innovation and change. This was RARE in history, so coming across the giants like Babylon, or Ancient Egyptian Cairo, or Ancient Greek Athene, or Ancient Cyprus, or Ancient Malta, or ancient Danube culture, where a cultural group settled for 1,000+ years has created miracles, where writing, science, sports and art flourished, creating pockets of knowledge about micro and macro cosmos, later to be explored during the Age of Enlightenment, and now, post electricity, 4,000 years later, by us, consciousness researchers who wish to dig deeper.

Nicolaus of Damascus Book Bios “Καῖσαρ” KaiCaros (in Slavic "Like the King") Bio of Ceazar

The Ancient Greek historian Nikolas or Nicolaus of Damascus (Greek: Νικόλαος Δαμασκηνός) was a historian and philosopher with a Slavic name who lived during the Augustan age of the so-called Roman Empire. He was born in 64 BC. 

He was an intimate friend of Herod the Great (Cezar). According to Sophronius, he was also the tutor of the children of Mark Antony and Cleopatra. He was commissioned for his work. He wrote a universal history in 144 books. His work was mainly lost. Extensive fragments of the first seven books are preserved, these cover the history of the Assyrians, Medes, Greeks, Lydians, and Persians. 

The Book 4 of his History was on A-bra-Ham (the monotheism, the Monad), so the historians have named him “a Jew”. However, he has done a work called “On the Psyche”, so he could have also been a Pythagorean or Platonist.

Nikolas wrote "A Life of Augustus", Caesar (Bios *“Καῖσαρ” KaiCaros =  pronounced as “Bios kai Caros”)

Nikolai writes the name of Cezar, in Ancient Homerian Greek as “Καῖσαρ” “Καίσαρος”, “Καίσαρι” sounding as: Kai Caros (meaning in Slavic "kao Car", or "as the King", the Slavic supreme ruler is “Car”) “Καίσαρ” became in Latin "Cezar".

Excerpts from Nicolaus

"Caesar had by this time completed the wars in Europe, had conquered Pompeius in Macedonia, had taken Egypt, had returned from Syria and the Euxine Sea, and was intending to advance in to Africa."

"Caesar wished Octavius (the next Caesar) to have the experience of directing the exhibition of theatrical productions (for there were two theatres, the one Roman, over which he himself had charge, and the other Greek). This he turned over to the care of Octavius."

"He fell, under many wounds, before the statue of Pompeius, and there was not one of them but struck him as he lay lifeless, to show that each of them had had a share in the deed, until he had received thirty-five wounds, and breathed his last."

“There was a crowd, too, in the theatre, which got up and rushed out in disorder (there happened to be a gladiatorial exhibition in progress) knowing nothing definite of what had happened but frightened by the shouting all about them. Some said that the Senate was being slaughtered by gladiators, others that Caesar had been murdered and that his army had started to pillage the city; some got one impression, others another.”

"...carrying their swords bare and shouting that they had acted in behalf of common freedom. A great crowd of gladiators and slaves, who had been prepared for the purpose, followed them. There was much running in the streets and through the forum, now that the news that Caesar had been murdered became known to the throng. The city looked as if it had been occupied by an enemy.”

“Even the city treasury, which his father had filled with funds, they had emptied within two months after Caesar's death, wasting money in large lots on any excuse that offered in the general confusion; and furthermore they were on good terms with the assassins. So Octavianus was the only one left to avenge his father, for Antonius let the whole matter pass, and was even in favour of an amnesty for the assassins.”

On the Psyche - An Arabic translation of his work De Plantis, once attributed to Aristotle, was discovered in Istanbul in 1923. It also exists in a Syriac manuscript at Cambridge.

He is the first one to narrate of a sramana (a Gypsy from India) who burnt himself alive in Athens to demonstrate his faith. A tomb was made to the sramana, still visible in the time of Plutarch, with an inscription "ΖΑΡΜΑΝΟΧΗΓΑΣ ΙΝΔΟΣ ΑΠΟ ΒΑΡΓΟΣΗΣ" (In Slavic: Za roman Čergaš, Indos apo Vargoeše), for a Gypsy (RamaN) from Xegas (Chergash), an Indian from Vargosha. Interestingly, in Serbia, we still call all the gypsis Chergaši...

“Eight naked servants, with girdles round their waists, and fragrant with perfumes, presented the gifts which were brought. The presents were a Hermes (i. e. a man) born without arms, whom I have seen, large snakes, a serpent ten cubits in length, a river tortoise of three cubits in length, and a partridge larger than a vulture. They were accompanied by the person, it is said, who burnt himself to death at Athens. This is the practice with persons in distress. On his tomb was this inscription:  ΖΑΡΜΑΝΟΧΗΓΑΣ ΙΝΔΟΣ ΑΠΟ ΒΑΡΓΟΣΗΣ

ZA-RMANO-CHEGASH,, for a “Roman”, “Gypsy” Chergash, an Indian, a native of Vargosha.

During his time in Babylon

Speach of the King Babylon 2500 BC Church Ritual

An enormous amount of knowledge passed to us, researchers of Babylon, through the most ancient carved in stone Akkadian letters about the names of Kings, countries, religions, numbers.

Museum Louvre Paris France Obélisque de Manishtusu Akkadin Babylon 2,270 BC

The Greeks mythology learned from the Babylonian one, of Egypt, 2,500 BC, and this one was influenced by Cyprus, Malta, Serbian Vinča, the Danube-an culture. The Supreme “0” θ

Babylon God Male Name        Female Element                                               Child

Ea (Ancient Greek for goddess θεa)      DaM-kina (in Slavic oD Majkina)                     Samas ς *C (Serbian female names follow this pattern Zori-Ca, Veri-Ca, Mili-Ca, and the Queen in Slavic is Cari-Ca * or Crkva that means Church). Following this pattern one of the S of Samas is actully σ or "C"

BeL (Bel = “white” in Slavic)              BeLTiS (bel-ti-si “white you are”)                     SiN (in Slavic “son”), moon

Bel or Bog in Slavic, meaning “white” in Slavic, God in English, the Zeus of the Greeks (θεὸς or Δίὸς ) and Dios of the Catholic Roman Church.

• The Tao of Logos
  Have you seen the oldest preserved Gospel of John found in Egypt 200 AC? It took me ages but I did go line by line comparing the old Greek text to
• Metaphysics of sound
  True Name of god   and  Ancient symbols and frequencies Pulsation, vibration, rhythm exists everywhere as Akasha / Sound / Waves and we hope to reach...

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Where Emerald Ashby's story leaves us in the last pages of The Whispering of the Willows, sixteen-year-old Coral Ashby's story begins. Like the changing mulberries, Appalachian siblings Coral and Ernest Ashby, navigate life through the late 1920s. Coral is determined to visit the family nemesis, Charlie, who now stews in prison.

When Ernest's previous love interest, Mercy, returns to the holler of Big Creek, she discovers that his heart is now singing a melody for Charlotte, the older Ashby brother's widow. But Mercy has brought along her own spiritual tools and a special friend who guides her way.

Accompanied by friends and foes, matters of the heart complicate life for Coral and Ernest. Relationships must be journeyed carefully.

Amazon.com

In the first book of the Big Creek series, the plot centered around the troubles of Emerald Ashby, mainly the man who developed a dangerous obsession over her. That man, Charlie, now sits in prison for the kidnapping of Emerald's baby as well as the murder of her eldest brother, Lester. Now, at the beginning of The Melody of the Mulberries, the focus is more on Emerald's youngest sister, Coral. There's also a side story involving the complicated love life of their brother, Ernest.

So let's start with Ernest. Ernest had a previously relationship with pretty local Mercy, but Mercy left town after she decided she couldn't stand the scrutiny that came with being in a bi-racial relationship (Ernest is white, Mercy is black). Now, a few years later, Mercy is back in town and pregnant with a mystery man's child. She makes it clear she's hoping to lure Ernest into being the baby daddy, but Ernest's affections have since shifted over to Charlotte (aka Lottie), the widow of Lester. Rather than let that deter her, Mercy seems set on waiting things out until she gets her way. The longer she's around, the more complicated her presence makes things. Does Ernest base his choice on heart's desire or history?

Though Ernest does an inner wince whenever Charlotte calls him "brother" out of habit, Charlotte starts to notice her feelings for him have shifted and intensified as well. Just as they were trying to figure out the new boundary lines to their relationship, in walks Mercy. Charlotte, feeling a new kind of stress growing between herself and Ernest, chooses to leave the mountain for a time to let him have a chance to get his head & heart settled. She accompanies Coral to Charleston, SC where Charlie is serving his sentence. 

So what would compel young Coral to take the trip to the prison that holds her brother's murderer? Well, Coral tells the family that of late she's felt led by God to go and visit Charlie. Though she fears him, she has this compulsion to try to find the means to forgive him. The rest of the Ashby family struggles to entirely understand all this, but they can see she's set on seeing this through, so Charlotte tags along to at least make sure Coral is chaperoned and safe. The trip turns complicated when Coral falls victim to an influenza epidemic roaring through Charleston that year.

Just as with the first book, each chapter in this sequel starts with a bit of Appalachian folklore... a historical touch I quite like, though some of the saying may seem highly laughable to the modern reader. A few of my favorites:

* If you tell a bad dream before breakfast, it will come true. (So don't tell your spouse anything right when you're startled awake, I guess LOL)

* If you whistle before breakfast, you will cry before dusk (God help the person who wakes up in a good mood, eh!) 

* To get rid of warts, steal someone's dishcloth and bury it. The warts will go away. (Don't cut your eyes at me, Pamela. That was a medical emergency!) 

There are also cute tiny mulberry leaf prints scattered through out the pages, sometimes to signify a scene change, sometimes just because!

The plot here had a very meandering way about it, where some ideas for main conflicts were presented, but then put to the side to lay more emphasis on just getting to know the Big Creek community in general (For example, A LOT of story time dedicated to descriptions of bear watching!) Sometimes I didn't mind it, other times I would've liked the story to have more defined direction and better paced action. 

It took til near book's end for Coral's story to really come alive and get good, but I loved her bravery of spirit that shined through all her scenes, particularly this one with prison guard James, whom she had developed a bit of a crush on, until she became aware of his temper problem. When she decides to end their acquaintance later, this is the exchange that solidifies her decision:

She knocked on the door before entering. James rose to his feet but didn't move toward her or even extend a hand. 

 

'Charlotte told me you visited and sat by my bed. I'm wantin' to offer thanks.'

 

'I'm sure she told other things as well.' James answered.

 

'She did, but thanks is still in order.'

 

He stepped forward and took her hand. 'I have feelings for you, Coral. We can work this out. I've been dreamin' of you and your beauty. You're the girl for me. I know it, and I believe you know it too. Give me a chance. I'll do whatever it takes to win you over.' 

 

Coral drew back her hand and shook her head no. 

 

'It's the job. The men in this place are vile and violent. I've become like them. I can change.'

 

'I'm sure that guardin' criminals ain't easy, but don't be blamin' others for your struggles. Sheriff Robbins in Big Creek is tough as nails, but anger ain't part of his being.'

 

'Forgive me, Coral. It won't happen again. I promise. The Bible says you need to forgive me...'

 

'Don't be using God's word for manipulatin'.' She turned and walked away. 

 

'You forgave Charlie but won't forgive me. That ain't Christian, Coral.' 

 

She didn't answer. She kept walking and didn't look back. Lottie took her hand and, with heads held high, they entered the expansive front door.

Following that exchange, it was nice to see the growth in Coral as she begins to understand what a truly healthy, supportive relationship should look like, a realization helped by the growing tenderness between her and Kenneth, the doctor who attended her during her illness. If there are further books planned for this now duology, I'd love to see more of the story between those two!

It's interesting, given that this is a Christian Fiction series, that Blessing worked in supernatural themes such as spirit possession / contacting the spirit world via stick fortune divination. While it's not necessarily out of place historically, this story being set in 1920s Appalachia, and the supernatural element is light, I was just surprised to see the topic worked in at all as I don't recall it having much of a presence in the first book.

The Christian themes are much more prominent in this sequel than I remember them being in the first story. Again, while it historically makes sense to some extent, the way it was presented here came off overly preachy for my preference and frequently detracted from the overall story. Some of the conversations had an odd flow, almost as if they were crafted JUST to give a platform for biblical references. Unfortunately this gave the conversational flow between several characters an unnatural, forced feel.

FTC Disclaimer: Bookcrash.com & Capture Books kindly provided me with a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. The opinions above are entirely my own. 

Today’s stop is for Jeannette de Beauvoir’s The Deadliest Blessing. We will have info about the book and author, and a great excerpt from the book, plus a great giveaway. Make sure to check everything out and enter the giveaway.

Happy Reading :) 

If there’s a dead body anywhere in Provincetown, wedding consultant Sydney Riley is going to be the one to find it! The seaside town’s annual Portuguese Festival is approaching and it looks like smooth sailing until Sydney’s neighbor decides to have some construction done in her home—and finds more than she bargained for inside her wall. Now Sydney is again balancing her work at the Race Point Inn with an unexpected adventure that will eventually involve fishermen, gunrunners, a mummified cat, a family fortune, misplaced heirs, a girl with a mysterious past, and lots and lots of Portuguese food. The Blessing of the Fleet is coming up, and unless Sydney can find the key to a decades-old murder, it might yet come back to haunt everyone in this otherwise-peaceful fishing village.

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Chapter One

The sunset was living up to expectations.

I’d parked my Civic—known affectionately as the Little Green Car—in the row of vehicles facing Herring Cove Beach, one of the few places on the East Coast where the sun appears to set into the water. As usual, the light was spectacular. It’s the light that made Provincetown what it is, the oldest continuously operating art colony in the United States: the light here, apparently, is like nowhere else.

Or so my friend Mirela tells me. She’s a painter, and is constantly talking about the light, though when it really comes down to it, she can’t explain exactly what it is they all see, the artists who live and work here. I know; I’ve asked.

It was late spring, and I didn’t yet have too many weddings crowding my daily calendar, so I was taking advantage of the calm before the storm of the summer tourist season really hitting when my spare time, like everybody’s else’s, would disappear altogether. I’m the wedding coordinator for the Race Point Inn, and while we do tasteful winter weddings inside the building, the bulk of my work is in the summertime, as Provincetown is pretty much Destination Wedding Central, mostly for same-sex couples but really for anyone who wants this kind of light. The sun was carving a path of gold right up to the beach, glittering and gilded, and I knew I was smiling, settling back into my seat with a sigh.

My phone rang.

Cell coverage is spotty out here in the Cape Cod National Seashore, and my experience is that it’s when you really need to reach someone that it’s not going to happen; on the other hand, when it’s something you don’t want to deal with, the signal comes through loud and clear. Murphy’s Law, or something along those lines. I sighed and swiped, my eyes still on the sunset. “Sydney Riley.”

“Sydney, hey, hi, it’s Zack.”

My landlord. This couldn’t be good. I mentally checked the date. Um, I’d paid my rent this month, right? “Hi, Reg.”

“Hey, hi. Listen, Sydney, I’ve got Mrs. Mattos here and she’s looking for you.”

Of course she was. I live above a nightclub, which makes for reasonable rent with free Lady Gaga thrown in at one o’clock in the morning; Mrs. Mattos is the eighty-something widow who owns the very large house directly across the street. Property developers are probably checking on her health daily as they wait for her demise; I can’t imagine how many million-dollar condos they could create in that space.

I take her grocery shopping to the Stop & Shop once a week and I’ve noticed, lately, that she’s finding more and more excuses to come over and buzz my doorbell. She’s lonely and probably a little scared and most of the time I try to help, but the silly season was already upon us and there was a lot less of my time available. Generally I try to wean her off daily visits by May, but we were already into the beginning of June now, and she was crossing the street rather than calling, a sure sign of distress.

Mrs. Mattos is frequently distressed.

Still, it must have been something out of the ordinary for her to have buzzed Zack, who owns the nightclub as well as the building and was probably peeled away from his never-ending paperwork to talk to her. Mrs. Mattos is usually a little nonplussed around Zack, who regularly paints his fingernails chartreuse or purple, and owns an extensive assortment of wigs. “She’s there with you now?”

A murmur of conversation, then Mrs. Mattos’ quavering voice on the line. “I just need you to come over, Sydney,” she said.

The sun was dipping into the water now; the show would soon be finished. Above it, scarlet and pink streaked across the sky. Some day, I told myself, I was going to be old and quavering, too. “Okay, you go back home,” I said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Her name is Emilia Mattos, she stands about five-feet nothing and might weigh a hundred pounds. But every bit of her, like most of the Portuguese women in town, is muscle and sinew. I know her first name, but I’ve never used it; there’s a certain distance, a certain decorum the elderly Provincetown widows observe, and I respect that. Out on Fisherman’s Wharf there’s a collection of large-scale photographs of elderly Portuguese wives and mothers, an art installation called They Also Face The Sea; Mrs. Mattos isn’t one of them, but she could well be.

Back when Provincetown was one of the major whaling ports, ships stopped off in the Azores to take on additional crew, and a lot of those people settled back in town and sent for their families; by the end of the 1800s they were as numerous as the original English settlers. Nowadays there are fewer and fewer Portuguese enclaves, as gentrification switches into high gear and Provincetown’s fishing fleet dwindles; but the names are still here: Mattos, Avellar, Cabral, Gouveia, Silva, Amaral, Rego, Del Deo.

Up until about ten years go, a prominent advertisement in the booklet for the Portuguese Festival was for the small Azores Express airline, when there was still a generation in town that was from Portugal itself; you don’t see that anymore.

She was standing in her doorway when I found a parking place for the Little Green Car and got to our street. I’ve read in books about people twisting their hands; I’d never actually seen it until then. “Mrs. Mattos! Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“Probably nothing,” she said, on that same quavering note. “Oh, I’m probably disturbing you for nothing, Sydney.”

“Not at all,” I said firmly, taking hold of her elbow and turning her around. “Let’s go in, and you can tell me all about it.”

She was docile, letting me steer her back in the house and into the big kitchen where most of her life seems to take place. She has a home health aide who comes in to help her with bathing and laundry, but she doesn’t let anyone touch her stove: not to cook, not to clean. And when I say clean, I mean clean within an inch of its life: everything in Mrs. Mattos’ kitchen gleams. Not for the first time, I lamented that she couldn’t make it up my stairs: if she expended about an eighth of her usual zeal, my apartment would be cleaner than it had ever been.

She sat down, still fussing with her hands. “I’m having construction work done,” she said, and stood up again. “I should show you.”

“What kind of work?”

“Insulation.” Her voice was repressive, as if she were delivering censure of something. We’d just come off an amazingly, spectacularly cold winter, with single-digit temperatures and a nor-easter that brought the highest tides ever recorded, so I suspected she wasn’t the only one thinking about making changes. “In the walls. Them people at the Cape Cod Energy said I should.”

“Okay.” I still wasn’t getting what was wrong here. “Do you want to show me?”

She turned and led me into the front parlor (in Mrs. Mattos’ house, you don’t call it a living room); I had to duck to get through the heavy framed doorway, and the ceiling here was about an inch or so over my head. She, of course, had no such problems. A loveseat had been pulled away from one of the exterior walls and a significant hole made. She didn’t have drywall, but rather plaster and lathing, as older houses tended to. “There wasn’t nothing wrong with it. The insulation before was just fine,” she said, resentful. “Seaweed.”

“Seaweed?”

She nodded vigorously. “Dried out. It’s what they used.” No need for anything else, her tone suggested.

“Okay,” I said again. “What is—“

“Go look,” she said, flapping her hands at me. “Just look.”

I looked. I pulled my smartphone out of my pocket and used the built-in flashlight. Wedged between strips of lathing was a box. “Is this it?”

Mrs. Mattos blessed herself. “Holy Mother of God,” she said, which I took for assent.

“Can I take it out?” I asked, eyeing the box. It looked as innocuous as last year’s Christmas present. Well, maybe not last year’s. Maybe from sometime around 1950.

Another quick sign of the cross. “Just don’t make me look. I can’t look again.”

I put my smartphone in my pocket and reached gingerly into the opening. Didn’t Poe write a story about a cat getting walled up somewhere? “Who’s doing your work for you, Mrs. Mattos?” It didn’t look as though they’d gotten very far in opening up the wall.

She was back to twisting her hands again. “The company wanted so much,” she began, and I nodded. Rather than getting a contractor, pulling a permit, having a bunch of workmen in her house and paying reasonable rates, she’d found someone to do it on the side. Someone’s unemployed cousin or nephew, probably. That sort of thing happens a lot in P’town, especially among the thrifty Portuguese. It explained the size of the hole, anyway: this was someone without a whole range of tools.

I pulled the box out—it was about the size of a shoebox, only square—and set it down carefully on the coffee table. Mrs. Mattos was looking at it as though something were about to pop out and bite her, like the creatures in Alien; she actually took a physical step back. This wasn’t just Mrs. Mattos being Mrs. Mattos; this thing was really spooking her.

I sat down beside the table and gingerly—you can’t say that I don’t pick up on a mood—lifted the top off the box. Sudden thoughts of Pandora blew by like an errant wind and I shook them off and looked inside.

Shoes; small shoes. Children’s shoes. Three of them, and none matching the others. It was wildly anticlimactic. “Shoes?” I said, doubt—and no doubt disappointment—in my voice.

“It’s not the shoes,” she said. “It’s that we shouldn’t never have moved them.”

I looked at them again. Old leather, dry and curling and peeling. But shoes? She was clearly seeing something I wasn’t. Had these children died some horrible death? Were these memories of lives that hadn’t been lived to their fullest? Something haunting, a song or an echo of laughter, moved through my mind as though on a whisper of summer air. I didn’t recognize the tune. “Mrs. Mattos?”

“It’s to keep them witches out,” she said, grimly.

“Witches?”

She nodded. “An’ now there’s nothing to keep ’em from coming in. And nothing we can do about it, neither.”

Jeannette de Beauvoir grew up in Angers, France, but has lived in the United States since her twenties. (No, she's not going to say how long ago that was!) She spends most of her time inside her own head, which is great for writing, though possibly not so much for her social life. When she’s not writing, she’s reading or traveling… to inspire her writing.

The author of a number of mystery and historical novels (some of which you can see on Amazon, Goodreads, Criminal Element, HomePort Press, and her author website), de Beauvoir's work has appeared in 15 countries and has been translated into 12 languages. Midwest Review called her Martine LeDuc Montréal series “riveting (…) demonstrating her total mastery of the mystery/suspense genre.” She is currently writing a Provincetown Theme Week cozy mystery series featuring female sleuth Sydney Riley.

De Beauvoir’s academic background is in history and religion, and the politics and intrigue of the medieval period have always fascinated her (and provided her with great storylines!). She coaches and edits individual writers, teaches writing online and on Cape Cod, and thinks Aaron Sorkin is a god. Her cat, Beckett, totally disagrees.

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