The legendary figure of notorious seventeenth-century Italian poisoner Giulia Tofana, thought to be the first female serial killer in history, is brought to life in this feminist retelling.
Palermo 1632: Giulia is thirteen when she learns her mother greatest secret: Teofania makes an undetectable, slow-acting, lethal poison-Acqua Tofana-which she uses to free the broken and abused women of Palermo. Now Teofania wants to pass her recipe on to her daughter, and Giulia soon realizes that in a time when women have no voice, justice is sometimes best served in a cup of wine or broth.
Rome, 1656: Years later, within the alleys and shadows of the Eternal City, Giulia forms her own circle of female poisoners, who work together under the guise of an apothecary shop to sell poison to women in need.
But even in a time of plague, when death looms over the city, it doesn't go unnoticed that the men of Rome are starting to fall like flies. And with the newly elected pope determined to rid the city of witches and heretics, Giulia is more vulnerable than ever. How far is she willing to go to continue her mother's legacy?
Weaving together the stories of the women Giulia helped, the men she killed, and those who wanted her dead, this is a tale of magic, secrets, vengeance, and sin in the back streets of Rome-and, ultimately, a fight for power. Cathryn Kemp is a Sunday Times bestselling ghost writer and author with a prolific career writing celebrity, inspirational, true crime, and nostalgia titles. Her personal memoir, Coming Clean, won the Big Red Read Prize for Nonfiction. For A Poisoner's Tale, her first foray into historical fiction, she was awarded a foundation grant by the Society of Authors to pursue the research for this book, reaching into the state archives of Palermo and the Vatican's secret Holy Office of the Inquisition. She lives on the south coast of England. EXCERPT
The next night, Mamma comes to wake me again, but I am already waiting.
We creep, furtive as foxes, through the sighing villa. As Francesco snores. As Valentina, our cook, dreams. As the servant boy rolls over on his straw pallet, itching his arse, we leave. This time, Mamma turns towards the port.
"This way," she says.
We walk quickly, avoiding the main streets, choosing instead the crumbling vicoli, the alleys that crisscross the city. Here and there, a candle, a flame in a sconce, but mostly, it is darkness, the kind that wraps itself around you. The kind that hides those who wish to stay hidden. . . .
My mother turns suddenly into a tiny, pitch-black alley. My heart beats so fiercely I fear someone will hear it.
Then, she hesitates.
"What is it, Mamma?" I whisper, looking around, seeing no one. Before she replies, a door opens, throwing a shaft of candlelight onto the adjacent wall.
"Come, quickly," a voice says.
I follow, almost tripping on her skirts.
Inside, women in various stages of undress stare back from the edges of the small chamber, observing us. Some return to their whispered conversations. Others keep looking. Their faces are painted with crimson slashes for lips, their eyes blackened with kohl. Some wear what look like togas, and I realize, belatedly, that we are in the back room of a brothel. . . .
Sitting by the empty hearth is a woman, perhaps the same age as Mamma, who looks away as if she has not heard our arrival. The air is tinged with sweat and perfume. She has hair that reaches to her waist, and high cheekbones, giving her an almost regal air.
"Caterina?" Mamma says.
The woman turns her head, and I cannot help it. I gasp.
Where the curve of her c
