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By Emma Darwin

The harsh destiny of the Princes within the Tower is without doubt one of the so much fascinating—and such a lot troubling—of all England's historic homicide mysteries. yet what used to be the reality in the back of the deaths of the younger Edward V and his brother, Dickon, taken from their mom, Elizabeth Woodville, King Edward IV's attractive widow, and their dad or mum, Anthony Woodville? And what concerning the guy who might turn into King Richard III? In an excellent feat of historic bold, the acclaimed writer of the maths of affection reimagines the tragedy of the youngest sufferers of the Wars of the Roses. during the voices of Elizabeth, Anthony, and Una—a historian who herself understands grief, betrayal, and mystery love—Emma Darwin re-creates the deadly energy struggles into which the lads have been born, their heart-wrenching imprisonment, and the last word betrayal in their innocence.

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Extra resources for A Secret Alchemy: A Novel (P.S.)

Example text

Whiskey all right? I’m afraid I haven’t got any wine. ” “It was you who taught me to like whiskey,” I say, following him into the kitchen that was the darkroom. It’s extremely neat; Uncle Gareth always was, just as his hands were always clean and still are, however inky anyone else got. But the kitchen smells of old dishcloth and it doesn’t look as if he ever cooks. The glasses he gets out of a cupboard are smeary with nearsighted washing-up. Discreetly I rinse them under the tap, and dry them with a piece of kitchen roll, rather than the neatly folded but musty-smelling tea-towel.

Excuse me, miss. ” I jumped down from the bench, picked up Smokey Bear from the puddle he was lying in, and sat him in the sun to dry. This was interesting. ” Visitors came to the pilgrim’s porch and jangled the big frontdoor bell, and tradesmen jogged down the path along the side of the house to the back door and knocked. Family went in and out of any door that wasn’t locked, and we children climbed through the windows as often as not. I wasn’t sure what to do with this boy, but I knew it would be rude to ask what he was.

A child of twelve summers: Edward, Prince of Wales, but not yet a man to offer them any threat. Can it be God’s will to hurt such a good, such an innocent prince? I will not believe it. Ned is no enemy to Richard of Gloucester. He has Ned close, and thus has no cause to do him greater harm. I know it to be true—I know it to be true. And yet my spirit requires a consolation I cannot have. To face all that Fortune brings with steadiness and faith is the highest virtue a man may seek, whether he be the meanest or the most worshipful in the world.

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