The calendar may not yet mark winter, but I live in Maine, and I’m cold. It’s supposed to snow this week. Ugh. I’m in my red LL Bean 3-in-1 jacket, gloves in the pocket.

Years ago I had a silver fox fur jacket that I bought at a vintage clothing store in Greenwich Village, but I wouldn’t dream of buying a fur coat now—not only because of the money, but because of the ickiness of it all. Yes, I eat meat and wear leather shoes. But somehow the idea of wearing dead little woodland creatures has lost its appeal.

My husband tried to buy me a mink coat once. We lived in Connecticut, and every single woman in our circle of friends had one. He sat back in a plush chair in the store as a saleswoman brought out coat after coat. As glam as I felt in chocolate brown fur that matched my eyes (that’s the saleswoman talking), I couldn’t do it.

My mother had one of those hideous snapping mink stoles that scared the bejesus out of me when I was little. Full bodies. Beady little eyes. Jaws biting onto tails and paws. Shudder.

Yet I’ve dressed my historical heroines in fur-lined cloaks. They’ve had fur hats and tippets and muffs. There was no PETA then. Nobody was throwing buckets of red paint around in protest. Fur is fine in fiction. Historicals give you a little leeway in the political correctness department.

What have you run across reading that would be icky in real life but that’s just ducky to read about? How do you feel about fur?

No one in the world needs a mink coat but a mink. ~Murray Banks

Book giveaway! The utterly fabulous, desperately delightful Eloisa James guest blogs tomorrow, November 20 on Vauxhall Vixens! Be sure to visit!