Excerpt from Disobedient by Elizabeth Fremantle, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

She hands him a purse and he says, loudly enough for everyone to hear, "Please forgive me," then says something else quietly into her ear. Her eyes catch his briefly with what looks like real dread, making Artemisia wonder how it is possible to be so convincing with make­believe.

The girl gets to her knees and the man ties a blindfold over her eyes.

A lone voice from the back shouts something angry. The audience becomes restless and Artemisia is glad they are sitting safely in the seats. The woman beside her is breathing heavily and noisily. Artemisia puts her hand over her nose and mouth to block out the smell of her scent.

When the girl lies down on her front, head on the step like a pillow with both arms splayed out, Artemisia supposes she must be enacting the martyrdom of one of the saints. She racks her brain to work out which of the Virgin Martyrs she is. On her fingers she counts them off from the prayer drummed into her by Sister Ilaria: Dorothy, Justina, Agatha, Lucy, Agnes, Cecilia ... She can't remember the others.

The axe moves in a whistling arc through the air. It falls with a loud thump.

At once the girl's leg kicks violently up, flinging her dress almost over her shoulders as the pretend head rolls away. A spurt of red liquid springs up, raining onto the stage to form a gluey pool around her and all over her dun­ coloured dress.

The crowd groans and snarls, shifting like rough water. A warm splash lands on Artemisia's hand. When she looks it is not red but clear, someone's tear, or spit, or a splash of the sweat that is now trailing down her neighbour's face as she shouts and waves a fist.

"How do they do it?" she asks. "How do they make it so real?"

The woman looks at her strangely. "What do you mean, child?" Her cheeks wobble as she speaks.

"The play. The martyrdom. It looks so real."

"Martyrdom?" The woman makes a kind of laugh. "It's an execution, poppet."

It is a moment before the woman's words sink in. This is not a play, not a boy pretending to be one of the Virgin Martyrs. Her belly hollows out. She is a real girl who is really dead on the platform, with real blood pumping on and on from where only moments ago her head was attached to her shoulders.

"But who is she? What did she do?" Artemisia's voice is small. Blood rushes in her ears.

"She is Beatrice Cenci and she murdered her father." It is Merisi who tells her this.

Artemisia's hand flies to her throat. Her head swills. Heat drives up through her body. She sways, lids heavy, vaguely aware of a commotion, voices, her name, a sharp slap on her cheek, water poured into her mouth, before the world turns red then black ...

The next she knows she is back at home, her mother's cool hand on her forehead. She is talking to Orazio who looms with Merisi, two shadowy shapes across the room. Her voice is snappish. She is annoyed. Artemisia's baby brother has begun to grumble.

"What can I say? You were right, my love. Always right, Pru. I shouldn't have taken her with us." Her father stoops to kiss her mother's brow, making all the sharpness drop away. A damp cloth is pressed to Artemisia's head. She keeps her eyes shut, not ready to wake yet.

"That poor Beatrice. As if she hadn't suffered enough."

"That's as may be, but murder can't go unpunished."

Artemisia continues to drift in the safety of her mother's arms, half listening to their conversation as images flash through her mind: the fountain of blood, the rolling head, the girl's small white hands, like butterflies.

"This afternoon has inspired me. I'm going to paint a Judith," Merisi is saying. "Not in the usual way. I want to show her in the moment she decapitates the Assyrian." Artemisia can hear the scratch of charcoal on rough paper. "Get right to the truth of what it means to take a life."

Excerpted from Disobedient by Elizabeth Fremantle. Copyright © 2023 by Elizabeth Fremantle. Excerpted by permission of Pegasus Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.