CUMMERBUND, n. This word—which means a fancy pleated sash that you wear around your waist, sometimes with a tuxedo jacket—comes to English via Hindustani (Hindi-Urdu), because British colonial officers adopted this fashion from India. The word is originally Persian; kamar means “waist” and band means “band” (love an Indo-European language connection).
The fashion is originally Persian, too. Wikipedia has a great photo, though tragically it’s sourced from Pinterest so there’s almost no accompanying information. My image searches didn’t turn up more, though I did find it in a 2015 forum post. Doubtful Pinterest metadata aside, you can see that these sashes were originally for carrying stuff around—especially weapons. They became part of the uniform for various militaries. Modern military dress uniforms in some countries still include decorative cummerbunds.
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I originally looked up “cummerbund” because I was going to write a character wearing a tuxedo, but I’ve changed his outfit now so this is all irrelevant to my novel. I still needed to tell you all about the word, though.
Man, it’s grim out there, huh? Sorry to my fellow USians and also everybody else in the whole world who is affected by our bullshit. I know we are all going to do what we can to fight this, and part of that fight is not feeling like shit all the time. Wanna read some small-r romance instead of the news? I do.
The Phoenix Bride (bi m/het f, both cis, historical) by Natasha Siegel. This is set in London during the Great Plague and the Great Fire (1665-6), which is such an unusual setting and is used to such great effect here. A melancholy aristocratic widow who lost her husband to the plague has been shut up in her sister’s house for months, and a series of doctors has failed to help her. Her sister, as a last resort, hires a Jewish doctor. He succeeds in treating her, but once he does, he and the widow have no more reason to see each other—and of course, an upper-class Gentile woman and a Jewish doctor can never have any future together. This is achingly lovely and kept me turning pages. It’s about loss and grief, but also, as any romance is, hope and love. All the characters are so vivid and complex. It’s got herbal medicine and 17th-century coffeeshops and it’s queer and Jewish! It’s one of the best books I’ve read in months; I cannot believe there was no library queue for it.
Blood Sweat Glitter (f/f, both cis and lesbian, contemporary, novella) by Iona Datt Sharma. Eleanor is the grouchy, prickly butch captain of a struggling roller derby team and Robin is the pretty, sparkly, ultra-fast jammer that the team desperately needs. Eleanor does not like Robin, for reasons she refuses to investigate, and they clash a lot. But the team needs them to work together, and eventually they need each other, and it’s lovely when they finally get together. Datt Sharma writes beautifully about all the little details of life, from trudging to the bus stop in the dark to making mulled wine while the hearth crackles, and there’s such a strong sense of place (North London). It feels very real, as well, that this contemporary isn’t one where we all pretend the pandemic doesn’t exist. Suffering is real, but so are love and roller derby. This one’s indie published so I bought it.
Swordcrossed (m/m, both cis and bi, fantasy) by Freya Marske. A wool merchant desperate to save his family’s failing business agrees to marry a very nice woman he doesn’t love, but in this fantasy culture, all big social events must have a ritual sword duel, so he needs a duelist, too. The only one he can afford is a con artist who’s lying about everything—except his prowess with a sword. Kinky sword lessons, fantasy fashion and food, wool-related economic intrigue, getting trapped in a wardrobe together, and, of course, having your wedding challenged at swordpoint. Delicious. And, of course, it’s Freya Marske, so the writing is beautiful. There was a library queue for this, as there should be.
Everyone I Kissed Since You Got Famous (bi f/? f, both cis, contemporary) by Mae Marvel. Fame always seems pretty abusive to me, and this book treats it as such: Katie Price came to the attention of a Hollywood star when she was 18 and he was 30, and he made her his girlfriend and thrust her into the spotlight, where she’s been trapped ever since. She loves being an actor, but not being a target of the gossip press, even years after she ran from her abuser. Her ex separated her from her best friend, Wil, who has gone on, in Katie’s absence, to become an insurance adjuster and a TikTok performance artist: she kisses two strangers a week and puts up a minute-long film of each kiss. Katie comes home to Green Bay—this book is so Wisconsin—for Christmas and reconnects with Wil. After years apart, they still have intense chemistry, but it’s unclear how they could ever mesh their lives. Right before this book came to me from the library, I had sworn off traditionally published contemporary romances, saying they never had enough conflict, but this one arrived to show me the error of my ways. It’s a delicate balance, keeping a romance tense and compelling while not making the atmosphere so imminently threatening that characters can’t catch a breath and bare their hearts, but Everyone I Kissed Since You Got Famous got it right for me. I believed the obstacles were real and that their fears were justified, but that the romance was worth it. And it’s so fun to witness Katie and Wil get back together. Every scene just fizzes. This book is really deliciously sensual, too. Thanks, Boston Public Library; I won’t give up contemporaries just yet.
That’s all for this time. I’ll be back in your inbox on February 9.