I live in fear of making a major historical boo-boo in one of my books.  The tiny slipups don’t bother me so much. Perhaps I referred to a color that wasn’t in existence in 1839 (apple-green chartreuse) or mentioned a breed of animal that had yet to have been bred in 1800 (Persian cats). My fragile world will not shatter. But I bolt up in bed at night, my body drenched in a cold sweat, my heart racing, terrified that I’ve unwittingly committed some grand-scale faux pas along the lines of getting Queen Victoria’s birth or death wrong or tangling up my hero’s title and address (Those blasted titles get me every time) or centering a plot around the incorrect date of an important election (Okay, I admit that I actually did that one.) and I’ll be banished from all good historical fiction society. At some point in the development process, I will have dinner at a Middle Eastern restaurant with my good friend and historian extraordinaire, Nancy Mayer. She is so kind and patient, she lets me gab on and on and on about my book-in-progress. It is so much more fun to talk about my book than to…