The Colour, by Rose Tremain.
Also, Traumascapes still. I had to have a pause after Beslan.
I've got about 120 pages of novel rewrite done (although I widened the margins, so I'm kind of cheating) - I'd say I'm about a third of the way through. Its relationship to the previous draft is: flying above it in the same direction, occasionally touching down and running a few steps with it before taking off again. It's the weirdest process, watching it come together, hearing the warning bells and then realising, 'No, two pages back at that paragraph was where I went off track. Go back and delete from there and head off this way instead.' To only lose myself for 2 pages instead of chapters and chapters - that's progress.
Having the writing room makes a big difference. It seems to keep some space reserved in my head, as well as in the outside world, so that the book stays downloaded and ready to be worked on even when I'm not in the room. I'm carrying my big notebook full of rewrite notes around with me, which is a huge list of things to do and think about, and pages of scribble where I work out exactly how 'souls' are going to work, and exactly what the bird-hallucinations are going to mean, and having that nearby and taking it out and reading a few pages here and there also keeps the thing bubbling away.
My back has behaved nicely this week, although I haven't set it much in the way of challenges. I'm about to head off to a Pilates class at 8 this morning, which I'm very nervous about, but if I don't do some stretching soon, all sorts of other aches and pains will turn up. More bike riding is needed too - oxygenate that brain, girl!