Buy Here PROLOGUE 30 JANUARY 1661 We stand together, shoulder to shoulder, skirt to skirt, like a chain of paper dolls, come to see our father’s execution. Our hoods are pulled low over our faces although, in truth, few in the crowd would recognise us without our finery: we grace no coins, no medals or prints, and it is hardly likely any of them would have seen our portraits hanging, as they had, in the palaces of Whitehall and Hampton Court. A frosted blast of wind whips around my cloak and sends the three nooses hanging from the gallows before me swinging as if the condemned men already danced their deaths. I stare at the gibbet in blank horror. It is a terrible thing, vast and three-sided like a triangle, designed, Father once told me, to hold twenty-four souls at a time. ‘Why did it have to be here?’ I speak sideways to my sisters. It is somehow worse, much worse, that this is happening at Tyburn, the dirty, eerie crossroads outside London where they hang common felons: highwaym
Anything bookish goes. Contact me on Trishb2014@hotmail.com for any review requests.