In this short but important chapter of The Girl From Oto, Zari Durrell wakes early and wends her way through Oxford’s quiet, sun-dappled streets to an imposing building of sand-colored stone. Here she meets conservator John Drake, who shows her centuries-old paintings stripped of their frames, clamped to great metal easels while sleek machines hum nearby. John ushers her to the Fontbroke College portrait, and she enters a bewitching world of science, technology, and conservators’ tools.

With John’s expert eye to help her, Zari studies a pendant around the neck of the portrait’s subject. The woman holds a book—and is that a single letter on its spine? The plain black background may conceal far more than it shows; John’s work will soon reveal whatever hides beneath the layers.

This chapter is where the detective work begins. The field of art conservation has changed the art world forever, and not everyone is happy about that. In laboratories like John Drake’s, “gut plus experience” gives way to x-rays, infrared reflectograms, and the thrill of the unexpected. What the artist painted and what we see today, Drake reminds us, are often quite different.

Behind the scenes, a research odyssey

Researching the modern narrative of the novel was a deep dive into an unfamiliar world for me. I had no idea how big a role science and technology now play in restoring paintings and sleuthing out their origins. There are myriad clues in a painting about its past. The composition of paint, the age and type of wood used for the panel, the markings and sketches on underlayers that the naked eye can’t see…all of these and more are markers pointing the way to the truth.

Because so much money is at stake with big-name old master attributions, some art dealers now employ their own conservators to analyze portraits and verify provenance before plunking down millions for works whose value lies in the artist’s name. Imagine paying a fortune for a Rembrandt only to learn after the acquisition that it’s a false attribution. The legal fees can be a nightmare, so it’s wise to invest in sleuthwork before money exchanges hands.

As The Miramonde Series progresses, exciting developments in art conservation arise during Zari’s search for the truth. During my research, I enjoyed amassing a treasure trove of tools for Zari and her colleagues to use in their attempt to piece together Mira de Oto’s work and life.

Press play, enter John Drake’s laboratory with Zari, and join the adventure.

🎧 Chapter 10 is live now. New readings drop every few weeks, and they’re all posted on my YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/@AmyMaroneyHistoricalFiction.

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This week’s addition to my “The Girl From Oto, Read By The Author” series takes our heroine Zari Durrell to a summer conference at Oxford, into the wood-paneled world of academic prestige, pompous professors, and unexpected allies. Below, I’ve summarized the chapter and shared some of the real history and personal experience behind it.

What Happens in Chapter 9

In the summer of 2014, postdoctoral researcher Zari Durrell attends an academic conference at Oxford. At the drinks reception, she meets Herodotus “Dotie” Butterfield-Swinton, a snooty medieval arts professor with a wandering eye who curates the Fontbroke College art collection. Dotie reveals he was the one who discovered documents now casting doubt on whether the portrait Zari has come to study was truly painted by the artist Cornelia van der Zee. He insists the painting’s provenance reeks of inauthenticity and assumes its anonymous restoration funder must be a male blood relation, unable to imagine curiosity alone as motive. After Dotie makes his exit, Zari is joined by allies: the sharp-tongued Vanessa Conlon and her friend Aggie, who helped bring Zari to St. Andrews. The women trade barbs about the “boy’s club” of academia. Vanessa shares how, as an Irish woman among skeptical colleagues, she drew strength from Eilish—an imagined kelp-haired sea goddess mentor from her grandmother’s island folklore. The three toast to mentors, real and imagined, who help them along the way.

Walking Oxford, 2012

I first walked through Oxford in 2012, and the city had me spellbound. There’s something almost magical about the place—the honey-colored stone, the spires, the feeling that you’ve entered a world running on centuries of accumulated ritual and prestige. When I wrote about Zari’s arrival at the Oxford conference, I drew on my own sense of being both dazzled and slightly intimidated.

The Women Art History Forgot

The character of Cornelia van der Zee grew out of a question that haunted me while researching this series: how many women artists existed in early modern Europe, only to be erased from the record? The historical answer is sobering. Women were routinely excluded from guilds and saw their work absorbed into a male relative’s name or dismissed as minor. Commissions went unrecorded, attributions changed, and a woman’s authorship was often the first detail to vanish as the years wore on. Yet the more I dug, the more I found evidence of women who were prolific and respected in their own time. That gap between how much these women likely produced and how little we can now prove is a central theme of the whole Miramonde Series.

When Science Rewrites the Signature

One of the most exciting shifts in the art world today is how science is rewriting attribution. Conservators now have tools that read a painting like a medical scan—infrared reflectography exposes the underdrawing beneath the surface, X-ray fluorescence maps the chemical fingerprint of the pigments, and dendrochronology dates the wood of a panel to within a few years. These techniques have caught paintings long assigned to famous Old Masters, revealing later overpainting, anachronistic materials, or stylistic patterns that simply don’t match. In the novel, this same technology is what threatens—and could ultimately vindicate—the attribution of the Van der Zee portrait. What excites me most: these tools can connect lost women artists to the works they actually made.

The Gates of the Ivory Tower

Chapter 9 has a bit of fun with Herodotus Butterfield-Swinton, but the world he embodies is real. Vanessa’s story—being doubted as an Irish woman claiming expertise in her own people’s history—captures how women and scholars from diverse backgrounds face an extra tax of scrutiny just to be taken seriously in academia. This has a ripple effect beyond any single career, because the people allowed into the room ultimately decide whose histories get unearthed and whose stay buried.

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New on The Story Compass: the latest installment of my ‘Read By The Author’ series: Chapter 8 of my debut novel, The Girl From Oto.

In Chapter 8 of The Girl From Oto, we leave the sixteenth century behind and meet Zari Durrell, the modern heroine whose research fuels the contemporary thread of the book. She arrives in Oxford on the trail of a sixteenth-century portrait supposedly created by a woman. Listen in for the full chapter, and read on for what makes it such a pivotal moment.

What happens in this chapter

Zari lands in Oxford after nearly twenty-four hours of travel from the San Francisco Bay Area, embarking on a post-doctoral fellowship in the U.K. Her colleague Vanessa Conlon shepherds her through a medieval college courtyard past a disapproving elderly scholar en route to a bedroom that comes with a rumor of ghosts attached. Rather than surrender to jet lag, Zari asks to see the painting immediately. Vanessa leads her into an underground archive, to a mysterious portrait that will obsess Zari for the next several years of her life. (Caterina van Hemessen, whose self portrait is pictured above, was the inspiration for fictional artist Cornelia van der Zee in the book.)

Why this chapter matters

Writing this chapter was painstaking work. In a handful of pages, we’re introduced to Zari, to her ally Vanessa, and to a world of gatekeepers: the “dinosaurs” drinking tea in the fellows’ lounge, guardians of an institution that was never built with women like her in mind.

And beneath the introductions, the book’s central questions come into focus: The historical archive is full of holes. Women artists existed, though the record often insists they didn’t. Academia rests on a foundation of inherited privilege, captured in a key moment when Vanessa tells Zari she’s got “the wrong set of chromosomes.”

At the center of it all lies the small, dusty portrait in its wooden box, holding secrets that the writers of history suppressed. Uncovering the truth about this painting is a task only an idealistic outsider would take on. Zari’s up for the challenge.

It’s a lot to convey in one chapter: a new protagonist, her allies, her adversaries, and the thematic core of an entire book. But Zari’s exhausted, wisecracking, ghost-hunting arrival sets the tone for the entire Miramonde trilogy — and by the time she’s descending into that archive, you’re descending with her.

🎧 Listen to the full audio reading above, and if this is your first time meeting Zari, I hope you’ll be as glad to know her as I am.

Her name was Jeanne Boucault. You won’t find her in the history books. She’s just a breadcrumb in the margins. While researching my next novel (about a fictional 16th-century woman artist caught up in the dramatic last months of Anne Boleyn’s life) I came across a passage in the French royal building accounts: a brief note that the wife of the portrait artist Jean Clouet journeyed from Paris to Fontainebleau in 1537 to deliver paintings to the king.

That was it. One line. But it sparked an obsession. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I imagined this woman riding to court, carrying precious portraits through bad weather, guarding them at inns and river crossings, delivering them safely into the glittering Renaissance court of King François I.

Did she make the journey often? Why her? Did she have a hand in creating those portraits? Many women contributed to the artistic output of their families’ workshops, their names lost to us now. What was it like for this daughter of a Tours goldsmith to step into the king’s world?

I decided to make her the star of my story for Courage.

Filling in the breadcrumbs

Digging deeper, I uncovered a few more precious details. Jeanne — or Jehanne — Boucault (also recorded as Foucault; sixteenth-century records are gloriously inconsistent) wasn’t only a goldsmith’s daughter. Her mother came from an illustrious family of royal metalworkers and armourers. Because I love Hans Holbein the Younger’s jewelry designs, I imagined this couple possessing real drawing talent of their own — and had them pass it down to their daughter.

Then I turned the clock back a year (this is fiction, after all), to 1536.

Why? That year, Anne Boleyn was executed.

Anne’s powerful network of French friends and allies would have learned the news quickly. I imagined that Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchesse d’Étampes — King François’s official mistress — would have been shaken by it. She may well have crossed paths with Anne Boleyn, who served as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Claude during her years in France. Whether the two were close is a mystery, but it’s possible.

Another real woman hovers at the edges of my story: Marguerite of Navarre, then the most powerful woman in France. She was François I’s sister, an ardent religious reformer and intellectual, and was a strong influence on Anne Boleyn; a few of Anne’s admiring letters to her survive. Marguerite and Anne de Pisseleu were friendly, too. The more I dug through history, the more the women’s worlds intertwined.

So I built a story around Jeanne — I call her Minette, for reasons that become clear in the telling — carrying portraits to Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly in June of 1536. The king’s mistress shares the terrible news from England, and Minette summons the courage to propose an audacious plan that would give her reason to return to court.

I don’t yet know whether Minette will appear in my forthcoming novel. But she has a place in my heart now. I’m grateful for the breadcrumbs in the margins of history that led me to this brave Frenchwoman and her long-ago ride to court.

An excerpt from “The Portrait’s Secret”

That night, rain hammered relentlessly on the rooftops of Paris. Minette barely slept, worrying about the journey to come. But at dawn, the skies were clear. It would be a fine day to travel.

Jean, dressed warmly against the morning chill, went with Minette into the lane and helped her into the wagon. Upon the box sat the driver, a strong-hewn man who had served the household faithfully for many years. The panel rested in a stiff leather case, cushioned with blankets and straw. Minette carried the miniature on her person, in a wool-stuffed pouch around her neck. The manservant swung into his saddle bearing a short sword and a dagger; he was a capable horseman and no stranger to this road, having ridden it often in Jean’s company.

“I’ll pray for your safe return. And Fanou’s,” Jean told her, taking her hand in his. “He’ll likely be back before you.”

She tried to return his smile. “Perhaps. Try to rest while I’m gone. And eat. I want to see you fatter when I return.”

“I’ll do my best.” He turned to the manservant, then the driver. “Bring my wife back safely to me, and remember that she’s carrying our child. There will be an extra coin in it for you both upon your swift return.”

Minette’s mind went to the strongbox. She’d taken much of the remaining coin for the journey. Now it was up to her to replenish their coffers.

After a long day of bone-jarring travel on muddy roads, they lodged in Melun. Cook had packed bread, cheese, and sausages to save the cost of tavern meals. The men lodged above the stables, and Minette slept fitfully on a lumpy straw-stuffed mattress in a cheap, noisy room above the kitchen. The next morning, they were delayed at the Seine crossing, where a crush of travelers waited.

Two merchants ahead of them traded complaints about mud and high water, then talked of a recent visit to London. Minette caught slivers of the conversation. “On dit que la Reine d’Angleterre . . . la putain du roi. . . a perdu la tête,” said one of the men. Minette puzzled over the words, sure she had misheard them.

The Queen of England . . . the king’s whore . . . lost her head.

Minette leaned forward, straining to hear above the clatter of hooves and the shouts of impatient drivers. What had this queen done to deserve the label of whore, and had she truly lost her head?

The gates to the bridge opened, and the crowd surged ahead. Caught up in the press of horses and wagons, Minette cast aside the man’s words. Gossip about foreigners meant nothing on a day when so much was at stake for her family.

All that mattered now was the moment when she could deliver her precious cargo into the hands of the duchesse and receive a heavy purse in return.

Fifteen tales of courage

“The Portrait’s Secret” is one of fifteen historically-based short stories in Courage: Tales of History, Mystery and Hope, written by a talented group of award-winning authors. The stories sweep from the Roman frontier in AD 395 all the way to the present day — my goldsmith’s daughter of Renaissance Paris is in fascinating company.

The anthology launches today. If you love historical fiction — or you just want to meet a few more of history’s unsung, courageous women and men — I’d be honored to have you along.

Order the Courage e-book → https://mybook.to/COURAGE-Anthology

Click above to hear me read Chapter 7 in full.

If you are new to the Miramonde Series, this episode is a great place to start. If you have been with Elena since the beginning, you know what’s coming.

Brave, Bold, and Vulnerable

In Chapter 7 of The Girl From Oto, Elena’s return to Castle Oto is violent and emotionally charged. This audio reading brings one of the novel’s shortest yet most dramatic scenes to life. Listen in for the full chapter, and read on for what makes this moment pivotal.

In a stone corridor, Elena finds a half-naked servant girl on the floor, cowering before a man wearing a red leather eye patch. Believing this man to be her greatest enemy, Ramón de Oto, Elena’s courage flags. But she speaks up in defense of the girl anyway.

That choice tells you everything about Elena’s character. Her tongue moves before her caution kicks in, and she pays for it. The man turns out to be Ramón’s steward, Beltrán, and he strikes her twice across the face, drawing blood.

As the servant girl creeps into the shadows, Elena curses her own impulsive act. She balances on her toes, ready to fight or flee. Her natural instinct to protect the defenseless has endangered her yet again. Will it be her downfall?

Enemy, or Protector?

Then a door opens. Baron Ramón de Oto steps into the corridor.

This is the man Elena has spent her life hating. Her ancient enemy. The ruthless baron whose name carries the weight of old wounds and deep grudges. She braces for the flash of recognition that will betray her.

It never comes.

Instead, Ramón looks at her bleeding face and tells Beltrán that any harm to this woman will cost the perpetrator his life. In the space of an instant, Elena’s enemy become her shield, and the ground shifts beneath her feet. It could be a trick, she thinks, listening for guards in the corridor on their way to seize her. After all, this act of mercy makes no sense, because mercy from Ramón de Oto does not exist in her experience.

The Secret Burning Within Elena

Chapter 7 sets up the central tension of Elena’s time at Castle Oto. She has come with a secret purpose. She expects danger from Ramón. Instead, she gets protection from the baron. Unfortunately, she’s made a new enemy.

Beltrán’s nod of obedience sets the stage for his future treatment of Elena. He will not strike her again in sight of the baron. But this moment of humiliation seals his hatred for her—and he’s a powerful figure in the world of Castle Oto.

The chapter ends with Elena bobbing a curtsy, one hand cupped beneath her chin to catch the blood. She is alive. She is, by some miracle, under Ramón’s protection. But she’s also marked, in more ways than one.

A Story Compass companion post to Chapter 6 of The Girl from Oto

Béatrice, abbess of Belarac, stands at the gates as an armed baron and his retinue thunder toward her. Cradled in her arms is a little girl with coppery hair and gray-green eyes, the baron’s own daughter, whom he has never been told exists. And yet, when Baron Ramón de Oto dismounts and demands to enter, Béatrice does not flinch. Instead, she negotiates.

Before the Council of Trent, Abbesses Were Power Players

It’s easy to assume that medieval religious women lived under constant male supervision, their worlds confined, controlled, and silent. But the historical record tells a far more interesting story.

The Council of Trent (1545–1563) formalized strict enclosure for women’s religious houses. Before that, however, abbesses and prioresses operated with remarkable autonomy. They managed large estates, ran profitable enterprises, received visitors of all kinds, traveled on business, and paid social calls.

The Patronage System: Noblewomen, Abbeys, and the Pyrenees

My research into the medieval history of Aragón and Béarn turned up something I found fascinating: queens and wealthy noblewomen were documented patrons of religious houses in the Pyrenean region throughout the medieval era. They endowed abbeys, funded building campaigns, and attached conditions to their gifts.

A patron might stipulate that masses be said for her family in perpetuity, that her coat of arms be displayed in the chapel, or that a member of her own noble lineage serve as abbess.

That last stipulation inspired the Abbey of Belarac’s origin story. Centuries before Béatrice arrived, a noblewoman of her family endowed the abbey with a significant sum — on the condition that one of her descendants would always lead it.

The Barons of Oto: Patrons with Ulterior Motives

The great noble families of Aragón were also patrons of religious houses, and their motives were not purely spiritual. Patronage bought prestige, political alliances, prayers for the family, and, as Ramón de Oto demonstrates in this chapter, practical leverage.

Ramón’s father had let the Oto connection to Belarac lapse. Ramón revives it. Not out of piety, but because he possesses sheep flocks in Aragón and has an eye on the lucrative northern markets. Belarac’s valley is large enough to overwinter his merino sheep. Its location near Nay gives him access to merchants who can transport his wool north to Flanders. And its abbess, it turns out, is already building a wool-washing operation that could add significant value to his endeavor.

His offer of a sack of gold comes with conditions that echo the original terms of the abbey’s founding endowment: “I give, and in return, you do as I say.”

Béatrice Knows Exactly What She’s Doing

What I loved most about writing Béatrice in this chapter is how clearly she sees the transaction for what it is. She is thinking ten steps ahead. She burns letters, hides gold, delays replacing a drunken priest because an unknown man would disturb the order she has built. She negotiates wool-washing rights with the confidence of someone who has done her homework.

And when Ramón threatens her? She takes his gold with trembling hands, and agrees to his proposal. Not because she has surrendered, but because she’s a clear-eyed pragmatist, and she is playing a longer game.

This week’s audio chapter is available above. Drop a comment below to share your thoughts.

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In Chapter 5 of The Girl From Oto, we meet Baron Ramón de Oto. He’s a battle-scarred nobleman returning to his least favorite family property in Zaragoza after years fighting in the south and north. With his father dead, he must now navigate the foreign world of wool trading to secure his family’s future.

A dinner invitation from Carlo Sacazar, a powerful wool merchant, kicks off the scene. Over steaks, these two men from clashing cultures circle each other carefully — the entitled, arrogant warrior and the cunning, pragmatic merchant — each concealing as much as he reveals. The picture Carlo paints is grave: Italian wool markets have collapsed due to the plague, and the Moorish boatmen who once pole-barged wool down the Ebro to Tortosa have been scattered by the Inquisition’s forced conversions.

Ramón also contends with the brotherhood of sheep ranchers, a powerful organization that moves vast flocks from the plains to high Pyrenean meadows each summer. These transhumance routes trigger violent clashes with mountain communities who answer to neither nobles nor kings, operating under their own ancient peace agreements called fueros.

Researching these fueros was one of the joys of writing this book. Using digitized French library databases and French scholarly books and articles, I discovered parchment documents dating to the 13th century recording agreements between mountain villages of Aragón and Béarn. The agreements governed water rights, grazing rights, and more. Each community elected vecinos, or neighbors, to serve as council leaders and negotiate with surrounding villages. These mountain people were not wealthy, yet they were literate and numerate, carefully documenting their world. It was a sophisticated, self-governing society, both protected and empowered by its isolation.

That peaceful equilibrium began to fracture when lowland ranchers like the Zaragoza brotherhood scaled up operations in response to Europe’s demand for merino wool. The verdant high meadows that mountain communities had shared for generations suddenly became contested territory. Clashes over resources grew violent — and as merino wool’s popularity continued to rise, tensions simmered to a full boil.

As Ramón realizes the challenges ahead, Carlo offers him a tip: sell wool northward in the wool markets of Béarn (what is now southwestern France). Ramón finally sees an advantage for himself: the Abbey of Belarac, once patronized by his family. He rides there intending to exploit it for his wool venture, unaware he is about to come face to face with the daughter he never knew existed.

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History is full of girls who were handed over like property for political and economic reasons. Daughter of a fifteenth-century knight-for-hire, Marguerite was nine years old when she rode away from everything she had ever known, crossing the Pyrenees en route to a castle and a man who would become her husband. Chapter 4 of The Girl from Oto is her story.

Cuddling her toddler, Pélegrin, Marguerite remembers the morning of her departure with clear-eyed detail. Her mother’s parting words were not sweet — they were a challenge. Make the Béarnais proud. No loving embrace, no reassurance that she would be safe, no acknowledgment that she was far too young for this journey. This was Marguerite’s duty, and she must not fail.

The trek across the Pyrenees was arduous, and at the ancient monastery of San Juan de la Peña, Marguerite met Brother Johan Arros. His warmth and genuine kindness made her feel seen and understood. He gave her a scallop shell necklace, the symbol of pilgrimage and protection, and told her she would always have a place at the monastery—and were she ever to need his help, she would have it.

In present time, Marguerite is a woman navigating a world that has shifted beneath her feet overnight. The mountain range she crossed at nine years old is her home now — and the lessons of that journey, the resilience her mother demanded, the sanctuary Brother Johan offered, are exactly what she needs to survive what is coming.

What I can tell you without spoiling anything is that Chapter 4 moves fast and hits hard. And it ends with Marguerite showing she’ll endure anything to protect her son and preserve the future of her baby girl, hidden away at the Abbey of Belarac.

The inspiration for Marguerite’s tale came from a real place. I visited the Abbey of Sainte Odile in Alsace, a breathtaking medieval structure built on the site of an ancient pagan wall high in the Vosges mountains. The legend of Sainte Odile — a girl hidden away at birth because her father wished to be rid of her, who ultimately founded the very abbey that bears her name — echoed in my heart, a universal truth about women and survival and the radical act of protecting a daughter.

Chapter 4 is available now as an audio chapter on my Substack. I hope you’ll listen — Marguerite’s voice deserves to be heard.

Behind the scenes of The Girl from Oto

In 2012 I traveled with my family to a restored medieval tower in Oto, Aragòn, where we stayed for several days looking out at the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees and hiking through the beautiful valley of Broto and Ordesa National Park. The owners of the tower explained that their ancestors were barons whose roots in Oto went back to the 1500s. I began to imagine a fictional world here for the novel that was taking shape in my mind.

During our visit we often saw flocks of sheep being herded by shepherds. Each animal wore an iron bell around its neck and the discordant jangle of hundreds of bells played in the background as we explored the rugged landscape. Adding to the magical atmosphere were entire towns built of stone that had been abandoned generations ago and were now slowly crumbling into the earth.

The ancient transhumance routes of the Pyrenees (wikimedia image)

I began poking into the past and soon realized that we had stumbled upon a place with a complex and fascinating history. Since medieval times, the high valley communities of the Pyrenees were governed by groups of “vecinos”, households that were independent of noble and royal oversight. They shared water, meadows, rights-of-way, and other resources. The leading families of these households kept records of their activities and business transactions. And their existence depended on the great flocks of livestock, especially sheep, that were herded to grazing meadows in the mountains each summer and taken to lower altitudes in winter. This annual movement of animals was called transhumance.

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A rugged wilderness

I also learned that in those days, the Pyrenees were ruled by wild things (bears, wolves, lynx) and wild weather. Winter snows shut down the trade routes over the Col de Somport for months each year. Avalanches and floods were constant dangers. Bandits plied the roads, their frequent victims the pilgrims who traveled through these mountains from points north to Compostela on the Camino de Santiago.

To defend their flocks against the elements and predators, the shepherds of the Pyrenees developed skills and resourcefulness beyond those of any ordinary shepherd. For example, they bred a special type of guard dog, the great Pyrenees, which wore spiked iron collars and had one job: to protect the flocks from bears and wolves. All of these elements added complexity and excitement to the story that was blossoming in my mind.

It turned out merino wool was the jewel of Spain’s economy for hundreds of years. In fact, removing merino sheep from Spain was such a serious offense that the official punishment was death. Merino wool had displaced English wool as the fiber du jour for Europeans in the 1500s (partially because of the Hundred Years War between England and France), and the Aragònese took advantage of this by hauling it over the Pyrenees on the backs of mules and selling it in market towns all along the pilgrimage routes.

Some of the richest sheep ranchers were monasteries, and while the nobility played a role, the merchant class was savviest about benefiting from the desire for fine wool in the north. When we visited the medieval town of Nay across the Pyrenees in France, I got to explore the home of an Aragònese merchant, Pedro Sacaze, who got rich off his wool and fabric business and was able to buy himself a noble title and a couple of monasteries with the proceeds. (For those who have read The Girl from Oto—yes, he was the inspiration for Carlo Sacazar.)

The home of Pedro Sacaze in Nay (wikimedia image)

I realized merino wool could tie together all the characters in my story. The drama, power struggles, and clash of classes and cultures that were byproducts of the wool trade would add richness to the tale and anchor it in a fascinating historical backdrop. As I created the characters and the world of The Girl from Oto, my research on the wool trade guided many of the plot twists and gave me some of my best ideas. Who knew something as humble as wool would be the source of my inspiration?

From research to fiction

Today’s audio reading, chapter 3 of The Girl from Oto, captures the ambition and courage of a young abbess, Béatrice of Belarac, who learns wool merchant Carlo Sacazar has purchased all of her abbey’s books. She travels to Nay, where Carlo has built an impressive abbey for his sister, Amadina, and filled its library with Belarac’s valuable tomes.

I loved creating the dinner scene that has Béatrice seated between the two gluttonous, self-congratulatory Sacazars as she marvels at the feast and the grandeur surrounding them. Amadina is a complex and colorful character, and over the course of the Miramonde Series, she perfects her role as a cunning, power-obsessed antagonist.

For her part, Béatrice is the ultimate pragmatist—a nun with the mind of a merchant, as Carlo observes. She chases power, too, but for very different reasons than Amadina.

It’s been a decade since I published my first novel, The Girl From Oto, a dual-timeline historical mystery that kicks off a trilogy. It tells the story of a Renaissance-era woman artist and the modern day scholar on her trail.

I was inspired to write the book after visiting Magdalen College at Oxford in 2012 and seeing a 16th-century portrait of a woman that was attributed to a female artist (Caterina van Hemessen).

Shortly after that visit to Oxford, I traveled to the Spanish Pyrenees and had the opportunity to stay in the medieval Tower of Oto. I immediately knew I had the perfect setting for my novel. I began researching the history of the area and learned that the merino wool trade from Spain to northern Europe had exploded in the late 1400s due to the 100 Years’ War between England and France. The war crushed the English wool trade, and merino wool growers in Spain saw their chance.

Suddenly wool was a hot commodity, and power players all over Spain got in on the action. Monasteries, nobles, and merchants all jockeyed for lucrative roles in the industry. Meanwhile, the shepherding people of the Pyrenees—who governed themselves via peace agreements—were overrun by sheep ranchers intent on securing the best summer grazing pastures for their flocks. Violence often resulted. It was a time of tremendous opportunity and great danger, and looming over all this drama were the knife-edged peaks of the Pyrenees.

Wolves, bears, storms, and avalanches posed constant threats to everyone in the mountains. The main route across the pass from what is now Spain to France was terrorized by bandits. Groups of black-clad pilgrims trekked continuously south and north, making their way to the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.

High in the mountain valleys, change came slowly. People left offerings for the pagan goddess Mari, bringer of storms, asking for her mercy. A benevolent giant called Basajuan was said to roam the woods, warning good people of dangers. The Catholic Church penetrated the mountains village by village, but the people never fully abandoned their beliefs.

Fascinated by the history, I came up with a complex cast of characters based on all of this lore. It took me four years from that intense period of discovery and research to the publication of The Girl from Oto in 2016.

To celebrate the milestone 10th birthday of the novel, I am narrating The Girl From Oto myself in serialized installments and sharing it on Substack. It will eventually make its way to my YouTube channel: @AmyMaroneyBooks.

There’s also a fabulous audio version of the book narrated by the talented Meg Price, available at various retail stores here. I decided to create an author-narrated version after many readers expressed interest in hearing me read my own work. Stay tuned for more chapters, plus a bonus scene or two and more research bits and bobs. I am also planning to fire up a podcast featuring historical fiction nerds like me, but that’s still in the dreaming and scheming phase. Audio is going to be a bigger part of my author world going forward—please come along for the ride!

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It’s been ten years since I published The Girl from Oto. I’d been working on the novel for several years when I finally hit the publish button in October 2016. I had no idea what would happen next, but I was over the moon. I was a published author, a feat I’d dreamed about for a lifetime.

As an independent author, I’d hired a team of professionals to help me edit the book, design the cover, and implement a marketing plan. I knew few other independent authors, and in those days, when I told traditionally published authors I was doing this myself, I usually got a dismissive response.

I didn’t care. I was determined to tell the story of Mira, a Renaissance-era woman artist, and Zari, the modern-day scholar on her trail. The saga of these two women inspired me, buoyed me, kept me up at night. The creative challenge and the opportunity to immerse myself in research fueled me. But there was another motivation, too.

I was furious that in my college Western art history survey course, the textbook did not mention a single woman artist of Early Modern Europe. Nor did the professor address this glaring oversight in his lectures. I was taught that there simply were no women artists. The Old Masters were all men. Case closed.

Anger can be corrosive, but it can be highly motivating, too. I had young daughters when I saw an astonishing painting at Oxford University’s Magdalen College in 2012. It was a 16th century portrait of a woman—and it was attributed to a female artist named Caterina van Hemessen.

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Women artists existed

Caterina van Hemessen, I learned, had been a successful portrait artist of the Renaissance era. She worked for merchants, nobles, and royalty, painting commissioned portraits for patrons.

This was mind blowing to me. I jumped down a research rabbit hole and burrowed deeper and deeper. I would soon discover this woman had painted what was assumed to be the earliest self-portrait by an artist in Europe. How could she have been left out of my college textbook? The thing weighed a ton. It was packed with detail. And yet it omitted this woman? Who else had it excluded?

Oooh, did my blood start boiling when I learned about Artemisia Gentileschi. She was a prolific and mega-talented Italian artist who had her own workshops in Rome and then Naples. She also worked for noble and royal patrons. Much of her work was once attributed to her artist father. I soon learned that many women faced this fate. Their work was attributed to men or left unsigned, mostly for economic reasons. Women’s work was not valued as highly as men’s. At least, that’s what the history books say.

But I’ve learned there were dozens of women artists of the Early Modern era who worked for male patrons. Some are known to us and celebrated now, like Artemisia and Caterina. Some still haven’t made their way out of history’s shadows. My Miramonde Series shines a light on those women and on the determined scholars who sift through history, searching for those lost voices.

A new rendering of history

Circling back, I was thrilled to launch The Girl from Oto a decade ago. I’ve learned a lot about independent publishing since then. I’ve now published six novels, two novellas, and several short stories. I love to comb through history and find scraps of evidence about ordinary women doing extraordinary things, then let my imagination run wild.

The Polish writer Ryszard Kapuściński wrote, "The past does not exist. There are only infinite renderings of it.” My goal with historical fiction is to study the historical record—with all its holes, silenced stories, and inaccuracies—and create a fictional world that honors the voices in the shadows. A new rendering. A new way of looking at the past.

Over the next six months, I’ll be serializing The Girl From Oto in audio form. The talented Meg Price narrated fantastic audiobook versions for all of my novels. See the audiobook storefronts offering The Girl From Oto here.

However, readers often ask me to narrate my own work, too. And since my childhood dream was to become a voice actor (for cartoons, because what’s cooler than that?) I’ve decided to jump in and try it.

Here we go. We begin with the prologue. Enjoy.

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This is a post about the presence and erasure of women in art and history—and the archival sparks that inspire my fiction about these topics.

A story by Jo Lawson-Tancred in Artnet this month illuminates the vibrant creative art economy of 17th-century Belgium, where women artists were not rarities. In fact, Lawson-Tancred reports they were ‘vital participants.’

She cites a current exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts in Ghent showing work by more than 40 successful women artists of the era. The talent pool ranged from a princess (painter Louise Hollandine) to middle class women such as Maria Schalcken, whose work was altered and attributed to her brother on at least two occasions.

The takeaway? Women were Old Masters, too. Until very recently, however, the historical record taught us otherwise.

I’ve written often about this type of intentional erasure, and it’s one of the cornerstones of my Miramonde Series. That trilogy tell the story of a forgotten Renaissance-era woman artist and a determined young art historian who uncovers her life and work in Europe’s great cities and last wild places.

Three sparks, one story

Case in point: my forthcoming story, The Portrait’s Secret, was inspired by just such a woman artist. Essentially, three details—I call them sparks—in the historical record did a magic dance in my brain and bewitched me into writing another tale starring a forgotten woman artist of Europe’s Renaissance era.

These creative inspirations are projects of my heart, and though they’re not commercially market-driven, I’ll keep writing them. Mainly because the historical record is full of holes, inaccuracies, and silenced voices. This makes me both furious and curious. Whenever I discover another woman who lived five hundred years ago and by some miracle got a mention in a letter or notary’s record book, I feel like I’m surfing a hundred-foot wave. It’s exhilarating.

About those three sparks

Let me backtrack a bit to the reason I was buried deep in research about sixteenth-century France and England. As a longtime reader of historical romance, I’ve been fascinated by the wives of King Henry VIII since I was a pre-teen living near Frankfurt, Germany. Germany had castles. England had second-hand bookshops filled with my favorite things: books in English. During travels in that chapter of my life, a magnificent alchemy began to percolate in my brain.

Fast forward several decades, and my fascination for those women—especially Anne Boleyn—grew stronger. As the mother of two daughters myself, I could not stop thinking about what really happened in that woman’s life. In some ways, it’s a well- documented life (for a woman of the early sixteenth century).

But much of what we know was written or observed by her enemies, or people who had been allies but went belly-up in the face of Henry’s wrath. We don’t even know what she really looked like. Of the portraits of Anne that exist today, none were made during her lifetime (the only definitive image of Anne made during her life is a small, damaged commemorative medal dating from her coronation).

She left a child behind, Elizabeth, who went on to become one of the most powerful queens in history.

Elizabeth was two when Anne died. What happened in the turbulent last months of Anne’s life? What did she and her friends—for she did have friends, many of them—do to prepare Elizabeth for a life without her mother? How did Anne leave a legacy of love, assurance, devotion to her daughter?

Naturally, I had to pursue this line of inquiry into history. For the last couple of years I’ve been popping down various rabbit holes into Tudor England and Renaissance France, searching for answers.

And that brings me back to my three sparks.

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Spark 1

Now we come to the magical bit. I knew Marguerite of Navarre (the powerful sister of French king François I) was a celebrated and controversial proponent of religious reform. I knew Anne Boleyn had spent most of her adolescence in Europe and served in the court of François’s wife Queen Claude. Claude was often unwell and usually pregnant, and the king frequently had Marguerite stand in for her during formal occasions. I also knew Anne was influenced by the religious reformists of France. She encouraged Henry to turn his back on Catholicism when the Pope wouldn’t grant him a divorce from Wife 1, Katherine of Aragón, and create the Church of England.

Focusing on France, I studied the letters of Marguerite de Navarre. She wrote hundreds, if not thousands, of letters in her lifetime. She was a massive correspondent. (Imagine all the time we spend scrolling devoted to writing letters instead.) Marguerite also wrote celebrated and sometimes controversial poems, stories, and other works. Much of her writing is preserved. While a couple of Anne’s letters to Marguerite survive, not one of Marguerite’s letters to Anne do. This begs the question, did Marguerite actually ever write to Anne?

Sadly, I can find nothing in the historical record about a friendship between the two. How close their connection was remains a mystery. And let me add that this is a perfect scenario for a novelist. Ambiguity offers a space for my imagination to slip in and fill the gaps. I used to feel quite conflicted about making up stuff to spackle those holes, and now I say with respect: if it bothers you, don’t read my books.

Summary of spark 1: Anne Boleyn and Marguerite of Navarre knew each other and almost certainly moved in overlapping circles; they had much in common.

Spark 2

In case you’re wondering how this all ties in with forgotten women artists, here you go. There was a mysterious Flanders-based family known as the Clouets who at some point made their way to France, first setting up shop in Tours and eventually moving to Paris. Jean Clouet, his brother Polet (sometimes referred to as Paul), and his son François are the most well known. But their lives are largely a mystery. For centuries they were thought to be one man named ‘Janet’.

Some of what we do know: Jean became a court painter for François I. He married a woman named Jehanne Boucault (sometimes referred to as Foucault). Record keeping was messy in the sixteenth century.

Jehanne’s father was a renowned goldsmith (in those days, goldsmiths were often also jewelry designers); her mother was from an illustrious family of metalworkers and royal armorers.

In my research, I discovered a ‘throwaway’ detail describing Jehanne riding to court to deliver paintings from her husband’s workshop to the king. I found evidence of a 1537 payment record stating that Jehanne Boucault, wife of “Jehannet (Jean) Clouet,” was given 45 livres tournois “because of the voyage she made from Paris to Fontainebleau to bring and show the King some works of the said Jehannet.”

This stopped me in my tracks. Why did she go instead of him? Did she have a hand in the work, like so many wives, daughters, and sisters of artists in those days? What happened when she delivered the paintings? Did she do it often? The questions flowed like lava, burning a path of curiosity too flaming hot to ignore.

Then I discovered another unusual detail related to the Clouet family. In one of Marguerite of Navarre’s letters, she describes hiring a brother of Jean Clouet, likely Polet, to be on salary in her household as an artist. In all my searching after that, I could not find any more information about said brother. Nothing about his life, his work, or his death.

Summary of spark 2: The Clouet family was connected to both King François and his sister Marguerite, and its matriarch herself delivered paintings to court.

Spark 3

This one concerns Marguerite’s early 1540s gift of her written debate on love, La Coche, to King François’s official mistress, Anne de Pisseleu. The book contains an image of Anne and Marguerite both holding the book, and one of the main topics of the volume is female friendship. At the time, these two women were arguably the most powerful females in France. My writerly imagination wondered if Marguerite, a champion of women, artists, and fine art, influenced Anne de Pisseleu’s spending habits at court.

Summary of spark 3: Anne Boleyn + Marguerite of Navarre + the Clouet family + Anne de Pisseleu = irresistible connections and the ingredients for an intriguing, dramatic story.

I’ll close with a brief excerpt from the story, which will be published in a forthcoming anthology entitled “Courage”, courtesy of renowned historical novelist Helen Hollick. Hop in my time-travel machine and buckle up. Safety not guaranteed…

A few things to know before we step into the scene: Many women artists of early modern Europe hid or subtly disguised their names, images, or other identifying marks in their work (see the above still life by Maria van Oosterwijck—can you find her image in the painting?). And I call Jehanne Boucault “Minette” in this story (there’s an explanation for this choice within the tale itself). Names are another challenge for historical novelists. Using ‘Jean’ and ‘Jehanne’ (or, as it’s commonly spelled, ‘Jeanne’) for the Clouet couple would have been too confusing. Also, I will provide a list of historical sources when the story is published.

They climbed a winding staircase in a tower and emerged into a sumptuously decorated set of chambers overlooking the woodlands to the south. Three ladies stood around a polished wooden table, examining the panel and the miniature.

“Ah!” A woman wearing tawny velvet and a necklace of black pearls adorned with a golden ‘A’ turned at their approach. “Monsieur Clouet’s wife. Welcome, madame. My ladies and I are admiring your husband’s work.”

“Your Grace.” Minette performed an awkward curtsy, sinking down until her borrowed skirts pooled around her on the stone floor. Getting up again was a challenge with her pregnant body, but she managed to force herself upright without falling over.

The duchesse dismissed the servant and her ladies, then beckoned Minette to the table. “Why did your husband send you in his stead?”

“He is still recovering from an illness. Well enough to get back in the workshop, but not ready for a journey such as this.”

The duchesse eyed her with a sympathetic expression. “And you’re heavy with child.”

“My wagon is comfortable, and my servants kept me safe. All was well.”

“Your husband told me your son is a fine painter, too,” the duchesse said. “And named for our king.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. He’s skilled at creating true likenesses.”

“What about you, madame? Do you ever wield a brush yourself?”

Minette was silent a moment. Should she tell or not? She thought of the tiny design she’d drawn with a fine-tipped silverpoint tool on the panel, underneath the large sapphire hanging from the golden ‘A’ on the Duchesse’s necklace. It was her mark. Her way of claiming a piece of the work, of proving she existed as an artist as well as a wife. Jean knew of the habit, and always said it amused him. After all, no one would ever know. What was the harm?

Raising her chin, she said, “We all must play a role in the workshop.”

But wait, there’s more!

Even more juicy details from the historical record will be revealed in The Portrait’s Secret, and I’ll keep you updated when publication time comes (later this spring).

Up next: I’m picking up the threads of my novel starring Anne Boleyn, a French woman artist connected to Marguerite of Navarre, and a modern-day art sleuth. It turns out Anne Boleyn is having a moment and if I could just write faster, maybe I could finally crack the code of commercial viability in fiction.

Over to you

Do you have a favorite woman artist or mesmerizing historical detail from your own research to share? Hit reply and let me know. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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One of my goals for this Substack is to share my fiction process. I’m writing a short story for a historical fiction anthology to be published later this year. The theme is ‘courage’.

What to write? I had several ideas, but I kept coming back to one French woman who’d captured my imagination a while back.

I’m working on a novel about a fictional 16th-century woman artist caught up in the dramatic last months of Anne Boleyn’s life. As part of the research for that novel, I found the following ‘throwaway detail’:

In Étienne Moreau-Nélaton’s Les Clouet, peintres officiels des rois de France (1908), he cites a passage from the royal building accounts and notes. The passage describes artist Jean Clouet’s wife, Jeanne Boucault, journeying from Paris to Fontainebleau to deliver paintings to the king.

I was immediately captivated by the image of this woman riding to court, carrying the precious portraits through inclement weather, protecting them during stops at inns and river crossings, and defending her precious cargo from ruthless men. This seemed to fit the theme of ‘courage’ perfectly.

Did she make the journey often? Did she have a hand in the creation of these portraits? Many women did contribute to the artistic output of their families’ workshops. What was it like for this daughter of a Tours goldsmith to enter King François I’s Renaissance-era court?

From imagination to words on a page

I began to imagine personal challenges and dramas that would elevate the stakes of her ride to court. I started writing a rough draft. As usual, my first draft was heavy on dialogue and world-building, light on plot. Recently, I learned about ‘reverse outlining.’ As far as I understand it, this means writing a first draft with abandon (i.e., not worrying about structure and plot, just enjoying the process) and then building a plot based on that first outpouring of creativity.

That’s what I’m doing here. I shared the first draft with my writing critique partner. Taking her feedback and my own reflections, I revised the first scene of that draft to heighten the stakes, tension, and conflict. It’s not finished. I have a lot more to do and fourteen more scenes to rewrite (some of them will be very short, as this story will be under 10,000 words).

Even though it feels a bit uncomfortable and scary, I am sharing the revised first scene here to show my process. It’s always hard to show our messy early drafts to the world. But I was at my drawing class the other night and we studied slides of artists’ charcoal drawings in various stages of completion. I loved seeing the contrast on the page between hurried first scribbles and sections that had been heavily worked over. Dazzling skill and breathtaking detail combined with preschool-like marks and swirls — all on the same page.

Writing is the same. We keep polishing and honing and cutting and pasting, fiddling with the original material over time until we’re satisfied. So here is a “round 2” version of my first messy outpouring of words for this first scene. I’ll keep revising until I’m happy with it.

Note: I have used a derivative of “Jeanne” (Ninon) to differentiate her name from her husband’s (Jean). Same for their son, François (I call him Fanou), to avoid confusion when referencing King François. I also will change the setting from Tours to Paris.

The Portrait’s Secret

Ninon finished changing the plaster on Jean’s chest and carefully repositioned the cushions supporting his head and neck. He coughed, an ominous murky rattle that set her teeth on edge. Then his wheezy snoring commenced again. He was wrapped in wool from head to toe, for he’d complained of being cold despite the fever. She shook her head. If anything, her husband seemed worse.

“Fanou should be here,” she said under her breath, taking Jean’s limp hand in hers. “Our son should be running to the apothecary for tonics and herbs and medicinal plasters, not me. He should be perfecting the paintings in the workshop, readying them for delivery to court.”

Jean made no response, no indication that he’d heard her. A knot burst in one of the logs in the fireplace, scattering embers and ash. She went to the hearth and began brushing the debris away from the floorboards. Midway through her task, she heard the hard clunk of the front door shutting, voices in the entry hall below.

Thank all the saints. Fanou is back.

She abandoned her work and hastened downstairs, relief rising in her chest. But halfway down the steps, she was intercepted by the manservant. He thrust out a sealed note.

“A court messenger delivered this for Master Jean,” he said. “To be opened at once.”

Ninon turned over the note in her hand. The red seal was massive, ornate. But it wasn’t the king’s seal.

She returned to Jean’s side and sank down on the bed. With a quick, decisive movement, she broke the seal and smoothed open the square of fine linen paper.

The note was short. Duchesse Anne de Pisseleu, official mistress of the king, wanted her commissioned portraits delivered earlier than planned—in time for the king’s name day celebration. A week away.

“God’s teeth, Jean,” she said. “We’ve got to finish them today or they won’t dry in time.”

He continued snoring, oblivious to her words. Fanou was gone. Ninon didn’t trust the apprentice to do it. No matter. She would do the work herself. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Ninon brought the panel close to the window, squinting in the waning light. There was one thing left to do—arguably, the most important thing. This portrait wanted blue. The matching miniature, too. Blue for the duchess’s eyes; blue for the jewels in her lavish gown. The Duchess had paid Jean for ultramarine—the fine pigment ground from lapis lazuli stones—months ago. It was the most costly part of any fine painting.

She went to the supply cupboard and unlocked it, then retrieved the pot of ultramarine pigment. It was light. Quickly, she pulled out the cork stopper.

“Saints above,” she whispered, peering inside the small vessel. It was empty.

After purchasing the lapis lazuli from a Greek merchant at the market this autumn, Jeanne herself had ground the stone into a fine dust. She had carefully poured it into the ceramic pot, stoppering it with cork. And she knew exactly what her husband had been working on since the commission. None of the other pieces contained ultramarine blue. It was simply too costly for the average merchant, and most of their commissioned works were portraits of merchants.

Her mind immediately went to the strongbox inside a locked oak trunk in Jean’s study. It was nearly empty of coin. She had loaned her goldsmith father their last ducats after a theft last month had emptied his coffers. There were a few handfuls of thin silver coins in the strongbox, enough to keep their household afloat through the winter. She could ill afford to spend them on blue.

The pot shook in her hand. Her pulse thudded in her ears. Ninon was a calm, reasonable woman, not subject to flighty emotions. But the strain of her husband’s illness and her son’s absence made her fearful. Fear made her muscles coil with tension and ignited flares of anger she could barely control.

Stay calm, she counseled herself.

Clutching the empty pot, she hurried out the workshop and across the cobbled courtyard to the main house. Striding through the kitchen, she drew up short at the sound of pounding at the door.

“Fanou!” She flew through the entry and flung open the door, the manservant on her heels.

“Ninon!” a familiar voice exclaimed. “It has been far too long.”

She took in a sharp breath, recognizing the wide, brown eyes, the narrow nose and high cheekbones, the expressive mouth. Jean’s brother. Polet. A snake in the grass, as far as she was concerned. Charming, handsome, quick with a witticism or cunning observation. Talented. Nearly as talented at Jean. But lazy. And above all, out for himself.

“Monsieur Polet,” she said coolly. “How unexpected to have you turn up on our doorstep after all these years. I’d presumed you left France for good.”

His gaze flickered to the manservant standing behind her. “You didn’t trust your man to open the door. Perhaps you’re expecting someone?” He smirked.

She returned his stare, ignoring the question. “Your brother is quite ill. I would invite you in, but it is unwise. You wouldn’t want to fall ill yourself.”

The smile faded from Polet’s lips. “What ails him?”

“Not the plague, if that’s what worries you. He’ll recover, but it will take some time.” A gust of wind barreled in through the open door. She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Where are you staying? I’ll be sure to inform Jean when he awakens.”

“I’d hoped to stay with you,” Polet said bluntly. “I have no other arrangements. And my purse is light.”

Ninon regarded him with distaste. Why did this man annoy her so? He was the opposite of his brother in most ways. Where Jean had character, he had swagger. Where Jean had hard-earned talent, he had the silver-tongued ability to persuade people with sweet words and promises. She looked beyond him into the descending twilight, willing her son to appear.

“Where’s my nephew?” Polet asked, as if he knew her thoughts. “He must be doing Jean’s work these days, since my brother is so ill.”

“He’s not here. He journeyed to Blois. He should be back any moment.” Ninon swallowed hard. Why had she divulged that? Polet was a master of squirreling away information to be used later.

Polet gestured at the pot in her hand. “Perhaps you’ve been filling in for Jean, eh?”

“Our workshop is no different than any other. I do what must be done.”

His lips twitched in a knowing little smile that had always irritated her. “I’d be happy to finish any commissions Jean might have awaiting completion. Anything I can do to help, my dear madame. That’s what brothers do for one another.”

She nearly slammed the door in his face. He’d been absent from their lives for fifteen years. No letters, no parcels, no word sent with scribes or messengers of his whereabouts. No interest in his nephew, Fanou. The ne’er do well.

“I have pigments,” he said quietly, patting the satchel slung over his shoulder. “Red. And blue.”

Ninon’s breath hitched in her throat. “Which type of blue? Pastel?”

He shook his head. “Blue from a stone, Madame, not a plant.”

“You vow before God?” She crossed her arms over her chest, the damp cold leeching into her bones.

“And all the saints.”

“Will you share it?”

“Of course. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for family.”

Ninon fought the urge to laugh in his face. He’d not changed a bit. All talk. But the promise of lapis lazuli pigment was too strong to ignore. She had no choice but to open her home to him.

The bastard.

“Come in, then.” She sweetened her voice and offered a smile. “You’re very welcome here.”

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I love discovering remarkable women in the mists of medieval and Renaissance European history. All too often, though, a tantalizing mention in a footnote or a female name in a notarial register is nothing more than a single flash of light.

Chasing that luminous glow, I stumble through the dark caverns of history, searching for elusive female painters, scribes, business owners, merchants . . . and the trail grows darker and darker until it ends at a blank, cold stone wall.

Once in a while, the trail stays brightly lit. I follow it with growing excitement, thrilled to find multiple resources shedding light on a particular woman. I feel lucky to be witness to a multilayered story, and I can’t wait to dig up more details, build a satisfying portrait of the woman in my mind. Then I create a character inspired by that person, a world inspired by her world, and I craft a fictional story in her honor.

So it went with The Pirate’s Physician. I created Giuliana Rinaldi, the heroine of this companion novella to my Sea and Stone Chronicles series, back in 2020. A few years previously, I’d read the Mistress of the Art of Death series by Ariana Franklin (the pen name of the late writer Diana Norman). I’d been captivated by her fiery medieval physician character, Adelia, who was a physician trained at the illustrious medical school of Salerno, Italy.

Trotula of Salerno—a real-life medieval woman physician

Poking around in history, I realized that Adelia was likely inspired by a real-life woman physician named Trotula of Salerno (she’s also known as Trota; ‘Trotula’ seems to refer to a compendium of women physicians). I had already done a lot of research on medieval medicine in the Eastern Mediterranean (my novels for that series are set in and around the islands of Rhodes and Cyprus). I’d learned that Arabic medicine was very advanced compared to most Western European medical practices, as were Jewish medical traditions.

I was fascinated to discover that at least in its first few centuries of operation (probably beginning around the 10th century) the medical school of Salerno welcomed women and practitioners of all traditions. Trotula of Salerno was not only a practicing physician in the 11th or 12th century (exact dates from this time period are fuzzy). She also wrote and published treatises on women’s health that became famous throughout Europe.

I am grateful to scholar Monica H. Green for all the work she’s done to dig up the truth about Trotula, because there has been a lot of misinformation circulating about her over the centuries. For more information about Trotula’s life and work, please see my previous blog post, Trotula of Salerno: Medieval Physician and Trailblazer.)

Though I usually focus on women artists in my novels, I was so thrilled to find a trailblazing woman physician of the medieval era that I decided to honor her memory with a character in my series. Like Trotula and the fictional Adelia, my Giuliana also studied at the Schola Medica Salernitana. In the novels of the Sea and Stone Chronicles collection, she is a minor character doling out medical care and advice to the women of Rhodes, Greece.

Giuliana was gracious about being relegated to minor character status, but she tugged at my mind all the same, insisting she had a story I needed to tell. After several years of this, I agreed with Giuliana. Her tale was too good to keep under wraps.

A Basque hero with a taste for adventure

But The Pirate’s Physician isn’t just about Giuliana Rinaldi. Her Basque love interest, a sometime pirate named Captain Eneko, was inspired by my interest in Basque culture. My first historical mystery series, The Miramonde Series, was set in the Pyrenees along the Camino de Santiago and features several Basque characters.

When I was in Basque country a few years ago, I told a local man about my books and he asked me why I care so much about Basque history. I told him there were some captivating things about his culture that made me want to write about it. For instance, the Basques have always allowed women to inherit. Unlike in most European cultures, where men traditionally received most of the wealth of their families no matter the birth order, Basque women who were firstborns inherited the family homestead.

During the medieval era, the Basque shepherding communities of the Pyrenees made “fueros” or agreements with neighboring regions. Using these agreements, the communities allocated grazing and water-sharing rights. They also established their own justice systems. They were not under the thumb of noble families; even the kings and queens of Spain left them alone. I found this amazing because most agrarian communities in Europe during this time did not have autonomy. Life was pretty miserable in feudal societies, especially for women.

Also, because early Basque culture revolved around the sea and fishing, men were gone for long periods at sea. Women were in leadership positions during these long absences, and took on positions of power during church rituals. (This did not go over well when the Catholic Church penetrated the Basque region later in the medieval era).

This brings me back to Captain Eneko. He was inspired by all the research I’d done and my visits to Basque country—and by a single line in an academic paper on piracy in the Eastern Mediterranean.

Basque pirates existed—I found proof

According to legal records from the city of Famagusta in Cyprus during the fifteenth century, Catalan pirates used the city as a base for their operations. In protest, citizens of Famagusta made legal complaints against the city for allowing pirates to circulate freely there. One man complained that sometimes more than a hundred pirates from the Bay of Biscay (off the coast of Spain’s Basque country) would appear in the city streets. The ships they used were Atlantic whaling vessels called balenas.

This stunned me because I’d assumed the Basques just kept to themselves in the Atlantic Ocean, whaling and codfishing, but no. They were also adventurers seeking their fortunes in the Eastern Mediterranean.

(I’m grateful to Nicholas Coureas and Andreas G. Orphanides for sharing this and many other details of life in the medieval Mediterranean. Their work helped me create dazzling lost worlds in my Sea and Stone Chronicles novels.)

Those who have read Island of Gold, Sea of Shadows, and The Queen’s Scribe (the three novels of the Sea and Stone Chronicles) might recall a Basque ship that periodically appears in the harbors of Rhodes and Cyprus. I knew while I was writing these books that Basque pirates would somehow figure into the fictional world I was creating. But it wasn’t until I began plotting out The Pirate’s Physician that I figured out how to give them their moment in the spotlight.

Of the six wives of Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn has always been the most memorable to me. After all, Henry divorced his first wife, Queen Catherine of Aragon, and turned his back on the Catholic Church in order to marry Anne. Three years later, she was dead, executed on trumped up charges of adultery so that Henry could marry wife number three.

During those whirlwind years of queenship, Anne managed to accomplish quite a bit. An ardent advocate of church reform, she helped resettle French religious refugees and lobbied King Henry to use funds from Catholic institutions for education reform and aid for the poor. She was close to Thomas Cromwell and worked with him to aid petitioners. Though her detractors—chief among them Eustace Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador—labeled her ‘la concubine’ and ‘the great whore,’ she often wielded her power for the common good.

Despite her short reign and horrific death, Anne’s legacy shines brighter than any of Henry’s other wives because she was the mother of Elizabeth I, a long-lived and legendary queen.

Yet one of the curiosities of Tudor history is the fact that not one confirmed portrait of Anne made during her lifetime survives. One of the myths surrounding this is the idea that Henry VIII ordered all images of her destroyed after he had her beheaded. But in my research on Anne Boleyn, I learned he was never recorded as having done so.

Still, any supporter of Anne’s with a sense of self-preservation would have hidden, painted over, or destroyed her images. After all, Henry married Jane Seymour just days after Anne’s execution. The Boleyns (aside from Anne’s brother George, who was executed along with four other men who were accused of adulterous behavior with her) were lucky to emerge from the gruesome drama of her downfall with their lives intact.

Clues about Anne Boleyn’s appearance

The images we know of Anne today are mostly copies of portraits that were not painted during her lifetime, so it’s unclear how true they are to her actual appearance. Perhaps the most famous of the existing portraits is held at England’s National Portrait Gallery, and several variations of it still survive.

There are several other images that may be of Anne, including a miniature painted in the 1520s before she married Henry, but the only confirmed image made in her lifetime is a commemorative medal struck in 1534, the year after her marriage to Henry and subsequent coronation.

Unfortunately, the medal is seriously damaged and Anne’s features are difficult to make out. However, I found a wonderful blog post by artist Lucy Churchill with a reconstruction of the medal here.

What did writers say about Anne’s appearance?

Not many written descriptions of Anne survive, either, and many of them were inked by her enemies. Unsurprisingly, her detractors found much to fault about her appearance, claiming she had a wart, a goiter, a projecting tooth, and an extra finger on one hand.

More kind assessments included French poet Lancelot de Carles’ description: “Beautiful and with an elegant figure.” Her long, lovely hair was a much-remarked upon feature of her coronation ceremony, but we don’t know for certain what color it was.

Perhaps the most famous description of Anne was written by a Venetian diplomat, Francesco Sanuto: “Not one of the handsomest women in the world; she is of middling stature, swarthy complexion, long neck, wide mouth, a bosom not much raised and eyes which are black and beautiful.”

Anne Boleyn and Hans Holbein the Younger

Image: wikimedia commons

German artist Hans Holbein the Younger made many of the iconic images that survive from the early Tudor court. He originally spent time in London in 1526, when he painted a now-lost portrait of Thomas More and his family (some of the original drawings he made of the portrait still survive). After returning to London in 1532, he became the favored portrait artist for wealthy merchants, members of the Tudor court, and King Henry himself.

Sadly, no portrait of Anne Boleyn by Holbein survives, but two drawings exist that some historians believe depict her. One shows a woman in a fur-trimmed nightgown looking down with a pensive expression, and was labeled with her name by John Cheke. Anne was Cheke’s patron so he definitely knew what she looked like.

Image: wikimedia commons

I’ll leave you with this final impression of Anne from all the research I’ve been doing for my next novel, an art mystery set in Tudor-era London:

Born in England and raised at Hever Castle, Anne spent her teen years in France as an attendant of Margaret of Austria and later French Queen Claude (first wife of François I). Anne was known for her intelligence, wit, fiery personality, fabulous dance moves, musical talents, and love of outdoor adventures. Her charisma attracted endless admirers. She was bold, she was highly educated, and she was ambitious.

For a woman in Tudor England, those were dangerous attributes.

(Main source: The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn by Eric Ives. I also referred to notes from Dr. Owen Emmerson’s Tudor art course, Six Queens in Art.)

Arnaud scrambled out of bed, jolted awake by rough voices outside the convent’s guesthouse. He jammed his feet into boiled-wool slippers, snatched up his sword, and ventured out into the first light of dawn.

Four armed men on horseback confronted him through the iron rungs of the gate, their mounts blowing and lathered from the journey. One of the men dismounted. He was tall, his long legs sheathed in polished black leather boots edged with finely tooled designs.

The boots of a wealthy man.

He tore his helmet off, his long hair cascading around his broad shoulders. At the sight of his face, Arnaud took in a sharp breath, fingers curling tight around his sword.

Before him stood Pelegrín de Oto. The twin brother of Arnaud’s wife, Mira. A man who, like his father before him, wanted Mira dead.

“I wish to speak to the abbess.” Pelegrín spoke in Aragònese, his voice deep and authoritative. He took hold of the iron gate and rattled it savagely. “Are you the gatekeeper?”

“I speak your tongue, sir,” Arnaud replied in the same language, nodding a greeting. “How can I be of service?”

Pelegrín looked at him in surprise and ran a hand through his long hair. “Praise God,” he said. “I seek a woman called Miramonde who was rumored to be traveling this way. She journeys with her husband. I do not know his name.”

A few months prior, Arnaud had followed Pelegrín and his men from the harbor in the Mediterranean port city of Perpignan to a tavern where they took a meal. He’d learned the men had returned victorious from Aragón’s battle with France for the kingdom of Naples. To his horror, he’d also learned Pelegrín was searching for Mira. They had fled Perpignan in a bid to keep her safe, and ended up in this modest convent in a remote, sun-baked valley.

So much for safety.

“Can you describe her to me?” Arnaud’s mind went to Mira in her bed within the convent’s infirmary, weak from a sweating sickness. “I’ll translate for the gatekeeper and ask if she’s seen her.”

Pelegrín nodded. “She has pale green-gray eyes, wide-set, like a cat’s. Her hair is the color of dark copper.”

Arnaud gestured to the gatekeeper, who stood in the guesthouse’s entryway. He switched to Béarnaise and made a great show of describing a person with exactly none of these characteristics.

“No,” said the woman, twisting her bony hands together. “I’ve not seen her.”

He turned to Pelegrín. “She can’t help you, but perhaps I can. A woman of that description, with a man at her side, rode past me on this road just a few days ago. They asked me if I knew how much longer it would take to reach Fanjeaux.”

“Where is Fanjeaux?”

“East of here. Not far. It’s a market town.” He pretended to think for a moment. “I recall the couple sought a bookseller at the market there. Something about illustrating books, I think they said.”

“Yes, yes, that would be them,” Pelegrín said.

Was there relief in the man’s voice? Or was it a hint of triumph? Arnaud studied Pelegrín carefully. “And you wish to find her because…?”

Pelegrín’s expression hardened. “It is a family matter.” He paused, his gaze raking over Arnaud. “I hope you speak the truth. The last man who lied to me got his tongue cut out and fed to the dogs on a battlefield in Naples. Before we take our leave, I’ll speak with the abbess.” He turned to the gatekeeper. “Where is your mistress? Lead me to her.”

She gave Arnaud a terrified look. “What does he say? He’s got a mad look in his eyes. God help us!”

Arnaud held up a hand to silence her. He kept his gaze on Pelegrín. “The gatekeeper is distraught because her mistress is ill. A fever is sweeping through the abbey, she says. Nothing to do but let it run its course.”

He rocked back on his heels, marveling at the audacity of his words. Wherever they sprang from, he was grateful.

Pelegrín stared at him for a long moment, inscrutable. Then the chapel bell tolled, calling the nuns to prayer.

Arnaud winced. Would the abbess and her flock appear in the courtyard as usual, streaming to their house of worship in the bloom of health, as he’d seen them do countless times since he and Mira arrived here? He waited for the scrape of the dormitory door on the cobblestones. But none came.

“If you like, I can guide you to Fanjeaux,” he said with all the lightness he could muster. His body coursed with an urgent need to do something, anything, to get these men as far from Mira as possible. “I’m heading east myself today, and if you can spare a few moments while I gather my things, I’ll show you the way.”

Mira’s father, the Baron of Oto, had died intent on destroying his only daughter. Mira was convinced the baron had instructed Pelegrín to finish the task for him. Arnaud had no reason to doubt her, and now that he was face to face with her twin, he was inclined to agree. The man was formidable.

Pelegrín’s expression eased. “Very well,” he said. “We shall wait.”

The gatekeeper followed Arnaud into the guesthouse. “I signaled the abbess to keep everyone behind locked doors until these men leave,” she said quietly. “We have a system.”

He nodded, grateful that the nuns were not as naïve as he’d imagined. “I’ll return after I lead them to Fanjeaux. Make sure you tell the abbess that, do you understand? I’ll be back for my wife. Now, hurry to the stables and have my mule saddled while I gather my belongings.”

Most of Mira’s things were in his guesthouse bedchamber. He rummaged through her art supplies and scrawled a note using a piece of her vine charcoal and a scrap of linen paper. He assured her he would return, but as he had no idea how long it would take him to divert Pelegrín and his men, he instructed her to travel west with a group of pilgrims as soon as she was able. He reminded her to take refuge with an ally if she needed help—someone they both trusted.

He rolled up the slip of paper and stuffed it inside her dagger’s sheath, silently entreating the gods to protect her.

With a little luck, she would find the note, and she would follow his instructions.

He reached under the bed for his boots, then remembered. The gatekeeper had taken them yesterday for cleaning, then passed them along to a man in the village for repair. No matter, he would wear his wool slippers. He was most comfortable shoeless, truth be told, but riding alongside a group of knights barefoot was no way to earn their respect. Slippers were hardly the mark of a gentleman, either, but what did he care? All he wanted was to get as far east as possible before nightfall.

When the gatekeeper returned along with a stableboy leading his mule, he pressed a few coins in the woman’s palm. “Keep my wife’s things safe and see that she gets them all back,” he said, low. “When I return here, I’ll give you more coin if you’ve done what I asked.”

He swung up into the saddle with his satchel over the pommel and swept one arm to the east.

“Let’s be off, gentlemen!” he said. “There’s a river nearby where we can water your horses, with shade for them to take cover. Once they’ve taken their fill, I’ll lead you straight to Fanjeaux.”

Pelegrín mounted his black horse with surprising grace for such a large man. Arnaud dug his heels into the mule’s belly and goaded it into a canter. The men fell in around him, their horses’ hooves pounding out a dull rhythm on the hard-packed road.

“What’s your name, sir?” Pelegrín called.

He meant to lie, but when he opened his mouth, the truth slipped out. “Arnaud.”

By all the gods, man, keep your wits about you, he scolded himself. The next mistake might cost you your life.

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They rode hard for Fanjeaux. The serrated granite peaks looming over the plains and valleys in the south reassured Arnaud. No matter how unfamiliar the landscape during all their travels these past months, he had only to glance up at the snow-capped Pyrenees to remember where he came from, who his people were.

He sifted through potential plans in his mind and discarded them one by one, finally settling on a scheme that seemed least ridiculous. If it went as he envisioned, he would be back on the road west within a few days, and Pelegrín would be riding east, with no more hope of finding his long-lost sister.

In Fanjeaux, they drew rein in the nearly empty market square. Arnaud dismounted and approached a merchant to question him. The man watched Pelegrín and the knights over Arnaud’s shoulder, his expression wary. He was curt in his responses and eager to be on his way. When he walked off, Arnaud turned to the men.

“There was a feast day this week, so the market was cancelled in this town,” he lied. “The merchant said all the artisans journeyed to Carcassonne, a larger town to the east, which will hold a market tomorrow. This Miramonde you’re looking for, she would likely have traveled to Carcassonne, if she meant to find the bookseller.”

There were some partial truths here. The merchant had said a market would be held in Carcassonne, and artisans did ply their wares there. Whether a bookseller was among them, he had no idea.

“How much farther is it to that place?” asked Pelegrín.

“Not far.” Arnaud waved an arm expansively. “We can be there by nightfall.”

“We?” Pelegrín’s expression changed. A look of suspicion came over his face. “But I thought you said you were heading here, to Fanjeaux.”

“I was only interested in the market. I’m a cabinetmaker. I’m in need of a few tools, so I’ll continue on to the Carcassonne market myself. And it’s better for me to travel with a group than on my own.”

One of Pelegrín’s men spoke up for the first time, a round-faced knight with a scraggly beard and a crooked, ruddy nose. “Especially looking like a weak and stupid peasant, with a lowly mule and no boots.” He stared at Arnaud’s feet and gave a patronizing laugh.

Pelegrín kept his eyes on Arnaud. “Where do you come from that you speak Aragònese as fluently as Béarnaise?”

“I’m from a small village in the mountains.” Arnaud jerked his head toward the south. “My mother and father were of different cultures; he from Aragòn, she from Béarn.”

“Why would a man from a mountain village travel all this way?”

Arnaud fought a rising sense of unease. He took a breath, willing his voice to stay calm, unhurried.

“To find work, of course. There’s nothing to do in the mountains other than raise sheep, herd the flocks, and survive winter. Most of us are bound to leave, to make our own way in the world. I’m skilled at woodworking. I’ve a place in a cabinetmakers’ guild awaiting me if I can only collect the right tools.”

Either Pelegrín was satisfied with Arnaud’s answer or bored with the conversation, for he abruptly turned his horse around.

“To Carcassonne, then,” he ordered.

The relief Arnaud felt at those words was tempered by the hostility in the round-faced knight’s expression. He avoided the man’s gaze as he settled back in the saddle, taking comfort in the fact that they were moving east again.

They approached the fortified town of Carcassonne in the violet light of dusk, their mounts tired after the long day’s ride. Stopping at a stream to water the animals, they stared up at the massive walls. Towers clad in black slate shingles knifed into the sky. Blue-and-gold banners fluttered in the wind, displaying fleurs-de-lys, the symbol of the French king.

“My father warned me,” Pelegrín said, gesturing at the gate tower. “He told me the French held fortified cities on the border with Aragòn. We cannot enter that gate.” He turned a suspicious eye on Arnaud. “You did not tell us this place is occupied by the French. Why?”

“I did not know, I swear to you,” Arnaud said. “The merchant said nothing of this to me in Fanjeaux. I’m bound to go inside those walls to get the tools I need at the market. I can seek out the bookseller’s stall, see if this woman Miramonde is about.”

The round-faced knight pulled off his helmet. “How much longer are we to put our lives in the hands of a stranger?” he asked, looking sourly at each knight in turn. “Let’s turn back to Perpignan and make haste for our ship. What fools of Aragòn would willingly show themselves to the French? I did not survive the war for Naples to die here.”

Pelegrín looked at him darkly. “You would not have survived at all if not for me. You’ll follow my lead, today and every day.”

The man bit back his next words and sat chewing his lip, glaring at Pelegrín.

“How are we to know you won’t turn the French guards upon us?” he asked Arnaud.

“My father and I are proud Aragònese. We hate the French as much as you. Why court trouble? If you want to learn what I find out about that woman, wait for me. If not, don’t.” He shrugged as if he did not care. “It’s up to you.”

Arnaud clucked to his mule and turned away. When he had ridden a short distance, he checked over his shoulder. The men had melted into the woods.

In Carcassonne, his luck held. The guards at the gates waved him in without a second glance. The market was due to start in the morning, he learned from two men outside a leather tanners’ shop. After some exploration, he found an inn off the main square. As soon as his mule was stabled and his belongings stowed, Arnaud escaped into the streets to clear his head. He wandered through alleyways, avoiding the small groups of French soldiers who strode by, keeping his head down and eyes averted.

Every moment he could string Pelegrín and his men along, every step he could cajole them to continue east, was a victory.

A small dissenting voice in his head said, What if the men have turned west again, and are even now closing the distance between them and the convent?

He brushed off the voice and headed back to the inn’s tavern. He ordered a roast chicken and a tankard of ale, consuming his meal in silence as the laughter and chatter of the other patrons swirled around him. His shoulders slumped as memories of Mira in the days leading up to their arrival at the convent played in his mind. She’d been wan and listless, the spark gone from her eyes, her spirited chatter silenced. She’d desperately needed rest, and calm, and the healing remedies of women.

Taking her there was the right decision, he told himself. We had nowhere else to go.

Arnaud slept little that night. Finally, dawn brightened the sky. He got to the main square early, while the artisans were still setting up their stalls. He wandered to the wool sellers’ section and struck up a conversation with a man from the mountains who reminded him of his father, with the same warm brown eyes and booming, rich laugh.

Arnaud nearly forgot his worries, absorbed in the sights and sounds of the bustling crowd. At the bookseller’s stall he spied a man unloading a satchel of paintbrushes and other art supplies. The man caught sight of Arnaud. Recognition flashed in his eyes.

“You’re Cornelia Van der Zee’s husband!” Arnaud said in astonishment.

“And you’re the husband of the young artist, Mira. How does she fare?”

“She is…” Arnaud looked around, lowering his voice. “She is well. And your wife? How is her health?”

The artist had been extremely ill when last Arnaud saw her, and he feared the news would not be good.

“She died a few days after you and your wife left the Valley of Maury,” said the man, confirming Arnaud’s expectation.

“I’m sorry to hear it, truly. And this—” Arnaud gestured to the goods. “Your wife’s painting materials?”

Cornelia’s husband nodded. “I need funds to return to Flanders.”

Arnaud regarded Cornelia’s husband with sympathy. “It’s a rare thing, a woman artist.” He recalled how Mira had envied Cornelia her sable paintbrushes when the women had worked alongside each other in the Valley of Maury. “I’m in need of brushes, so unless the bookseller can give you a better price…” He rummaged in a coin purse and pulled out a handful of silver. The swap was made.

Once Arnaud left the walled city and descended into the valley below, Pelegrín and his men swiftly emerged from the woods and intercepted him.

“Well?” Pelegrín said. “What news?”

“I regret to say,” Arnaud began, choosing his next words with care, “the woman you seek died. The bookseller told me of her death, for he had purchased the artist’s painting materials from her husband.” He drew out a sable brush from his vest. “A token for you.”

Something within him fought the action. It was as if he were giving a sacred piece of Mira to her sworn enemy. Artists’ tools gave her such joy. Especially those of a master painter like Cornelia.

Pelegrín reached for the brush. He turned it over in his hands with surprising care. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. “This cannot be.”

“It is what the bookseller told me,” Arnaud said. “He showed me all the things he had bought from her husband. Paints, pigments, oils.”

Pelegrín scowled, staring up at the shimmering walls of Carcassonne, and thrust the brush back at Arnaud. “This is a token of uncertainty, nothing more. Perhaps it was not Miramonde but some other woman artist who died.”

“Another woman artist?” Arnaud asked. “They are as rare as rubies.”

“I want to learn for myself what this bookseller knows,” Pelegrín said, his expression tightening. “I want to know where my sister was buried.”

“The bookseller said she was buried in a pauper’s grave,” Arnaud said hurriedly. “Her husband was penniless. That’s why he had to sell her things.”

“I’ll talk to the fellow myself, see if what you’ve told me is true.”

One of the Aragònese knights, who had been the quietest of the group in Arnaud’s estimation, spoke up. He wore his black hair short and bore a raw red scar on one cheek, and his small, deep-set eyes were in perpetual shadow.

“What if you enter those gates and never come out again?” he asked Pelegrín. “You know the French would love nothing more than a Captain of Aragòn in shackles, a trade pawn for their king.”

Pelegrín threw the knight a sharp look but said nothing.

“Did you get the tools you were after?” he demanded of Arnaud.

Arnaud shook his head. “Too costly, and the iron forger wasn’t in the mood to bargain. I’ll find what I need elsewhere.”

Pelegrín reached into his coin purse and pulled out something gold and glistening. “For your trouble,” he said.

Arnaud shook his head. “I don’t wish payment, for I’ve done nothing to earn it.”

“An Aragònese man entering a border city of the French puts his life in danger. That’s worth something.”

“I can’t accept your coin, but I thank you for the offer.”

Pelegrín set his jaw. “I do not care for indebtedness. You must accept something of value.” His restless gaze dropped to Arnaud’s feet. “Boots,” he said. “You need boots.”

His attention shifted to the round-faced knight who had mocked Arnaud’s slippers. “You’ve an extra pair in your panniers. Give them to this man as a token of our gratitude.”

The knight’s expression darkened. He retrieved the boots and rode his horse close to Arnaud’s mule.

“These were hand-plucked from the feet of a dead Italian soldier on a battlefield near Naples.” He thrust the boots at Arnaud. “Soft as kidskin. I was saving them for home.”

Arnaud clutched the boots to his chest and bowed his head in thanks.

But the man was not done speaking. He leaned closer still. “If it turns out you’ve been lying to us,” he hissed, “I’ll find you again. I’ll take these boots back—and your head along with them.”

“Enough!” Pelegrín fixed Arnaud with a measured stare. “If my sister yet draws breath, I will know it.”

He cantered away, his men racing to keep abreast of him. Thin plumes of dust rose in their wake. Arnaud sat unmoving in the saddle until the sound of the horses’ hooves on the road faded into silence.

Pelegrín was nothing like he’d imagined. He had behaved honorably toward Arnaud. Could the son truly be as cruel as the father? Arnaud contemplated the question, uncomfortably aware he had no proof that Pelegrín meant to kill his own sister.

Any man can feign honor to impress a stranger, he reminded himself.

Dismounting, he slid his feet into his new boots. They fit perfectly.

Mira was likely still abed. Had the nuns told her of his departure? Was she now consumed by worry? Was she sinking into despair? His impulse to lead Pelegrín away from her had seemed the right decision. But now his confidence wavered.

Arnaud shook his head to clear the doubts from it. He swung himself back into the saddle and pressed the heels of his new boots into the mule’s belly. The sun heated his back as he rode, but the warmth did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders.

Though he longed to return to Mira without delay, this journey of deceit was not quite over. He would follow Pelegrín and his men back to Perpignan, watch them enter the walled city, and then hasten back to the convent. It was better to be certain they were gone than to endure constant fear that Mira was being stalked by a vengeful man.

Somewhere to the east, Pelegrín de Oto was likely turning these events over in his mind, parsing Arnaud’s words, evaluating his actions. Somewhere to the west, Mira would wake and read his note, or not, and decide what it meant that he had not returned.

Arnaud had traveled many roads with Mira at his side, and when life’s hazards flung them apart, he always found his way back to her. She was his North Star. Holding her image in his heart, he rode on.

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“The men liked to put me down as the best woman painter. I think I’m one of the best painters.”—Georgia O’Keeffe

The problem of the woman artist

My historical fiction is about the gaps in history, the silenced stories, the holes that riddle our past. I chose to look at this topic through the lens of art. My subjects? Women artists in Europe who lived and worked 500 years ago, during the Renaissance era. I’ve spent several years delving into the problem of the woman artist, and what I’ve found is astonishing.

The bad old days

First, many people are surprised to learn that there actually were women artists back then. Most of them worked under the radar. They were usually the wives, sisters, or daughters of artists. Sometimes they were nuns. If they sold their work, it was often unsigned, or attributed to the male artists in their lives—because women’s work was not valued. Women at the time were seen as inferior to men both in mind and body, and nothing they created could ever achieve the same level of greatness as the work of their male counterparts. That’s why the great masters of the past were all men.

The greatness gap

Good thing those days are over, right? Well, not quite. The greatness gap persists. Women artists receive the vast majority of art degrees, but are underrepresented in galleries and museums (in 2019, a joint investigation by Artnet News and In Other Words found that just 11 percent of all acquisitions and 14 percent of exhibitions at 26 prominent American museums over the past decade were of work by female artists). And their work still doesn’t fetch the prices that the art of men commands. In academic circles, debates have still raged in the not-too-distant past over whether women artists truly are capable of greatness.

When I read H.W. Janson’s History of Art for an intro to art history class in the 1980s, there were zero women artists in the book. ZERO. Today, out of the 318 artists represented in the book, just 27 are women. This book is mandatory reading for many college students of the arts. It tells us that throughout history, important art has been the realm of male artists. After learning this “truth” in my college days, imagine how astonished I was to learn while researching The Girl from Oto that in fact history is rich with many talented women artists who mostly worked anonymously and whose stories were simply never told.

Hmm, could greatness be linked to opportunity?

There have been lots of obstacles standing in the way of women artists’ greatness. For example, Da Vinci was celebrated for his anatomically precise work. His expertise stemmed from prolonged observation of naked bodies. His female contemporaries, on the other hand, were barred from observing nude models. One of the critiques of women artists of the past was that they weren’t very good at figurative work. Gosh, I wonder why? From the Renaissance through the 19th century, women weren’t allowed to draw from live models. That’s why so many of them focused on—and excelled at—the still life. It was simply a matter of what subject matter was available to them, not a question of their inherent ability to draw a human body.

One of the other challenges facing women artists of the past is that they’ve been stuffed into basements and attics, relegated to the dusty archives of Europe’s great museums. Even if museums own work by women, they rarely show it. That’s why the Prado’s show featuring Clara Peeters in 2016 was so groundbreaking. The Prado (in Madrid) had never showcased a female artist before, despite its 200-year-old history. It was only after a curator’s wife asked him if there were any paintings in the place by female artists that Flemish artist Clara Peeters’ work was retrieved from the basement and dusted off. Here’s a link to the post I wrote about Golden-age artist Peeters last year.

Chipping away at the problem of the woman artist—for the next generation

In the United States, we have a museum dedicated to women artists in Washington, D.C.: The National Museum of Women in the Arts. The museum (NMWA) showcases women’s art and educates the public about female artists of the past and present. Hopefully this will inspire more girls to take heart from examples of female greatness and become artists themselves. Here’s an eye-opening fact sheet published by the museum about gender disparity in the arts.

Progress, slow but steady

I originally posted this on my blog several years ago. In the meantime, women artists of early modern Europe have been getting more attention. Major museums are exhibiting their work, both within their collections and by hosting blockbuster shows (case in point: NMWA is hosting an exhibit this fall of 40 Dutch and Flemish women artists in Women Artists from Antwerp to Amsterdam, 1600-1750.)

Scholars are delving into these artists’ lives and works; research papers and books are being published about them; and fiction writers are amplifying their stories to the world. What’s more, their work is fetching higher and higher prices at auction.

In future posts, I’ll highlight individual women artists of the Renaissance and Golden Age in Europe, and share images of their astonishing art. To fully nerd out on this topic, please visit ArtHerstory.net, one of my favorite resources for information about women artists of Europe’s past.

I named this Substack The Story Compass because while my writing journey is never linear, I’m always seeking my creative True North. The following people, books, and experiences have been my guideposts, my mile markers, my map-makers along the way.

I’m sure I’ll forget some important influences here, but the beauty of Substack is I can always write another post, edit this one, continue to hone and reflect, and release whatever’s next into this vibrant writers’ world.

A reader’s apprenticeship

My parents are journalists and lifelong readers with an abiding love of the outdoors. From them, I learned the quiet joy of reading, the wonders of hiking through ancient forests and mountains forged by fire, the discipline to finish a task once started, and to think critically about what I read. They supported my wildly imaginative inner life—even if they didn’t always understand it. They showed me how good editing can elevate writing exponentially.

I took my parents to see migrating sandhill cranes recently and the birds obliged with a serenade. Video by Amy Wilson Maroney.

The library as labyrinth

My aunt, a former children’s librarian, helped forge my identity as a writer, too. She gave my brother and I an endless stream of books for our birthdays and Christmas. She shares my father’s dry wit, and the book choices she made reflect the humor they both cherish. As a child, I checked out the maximum number of books each week from my town’s library. I loved walking there from school or our house and getting lost in the aisles, pulled in a million directions by the tantalizing choices on each shelf.

A teacher’s map to narrative structure

In middle school, our family moved to Germany for two years. I did not want to go. I hated the idea of being pulled out of my cozy Northern California world and thrust into a foreign environment against my will. However, during those two years, the forces that would shape my future as a historical novelist converged.

My brother and I attended a private international school in Germany that served a diverse population of kids and offered a rigorous curriculum that included multiple language offerings. We visited castles, museums, and countless medieval towns.

My 8th-grade English teacher (whose name I can’t remember, sadly) introduced me to the concepts of narrative structure and taught me to write a compelling essay. From him, I learned the meanings of ‘protagonist’, ‘antagonist’, ‘foil,’ ‘dramatic irony’, ‘climax’, ‘resolution’, etc. We studied classic short stories by the likes of Edgar Allen Poe, O. Henry, and Shirley Jackson.

Photo by Cederec Vanderberghe, Unsplash.

England by bookshop light

As voracious readers, we were all starved for English-language content (this was the early 80s). We visited England and stocked up on books in second-hand shops. It was there that I discovered historical fiction and historical romance. Many of the books I read featured members of English royalty. As my roots are mostly English, this confirmed the hunch I’d had for years that I was probably somehow a princess or at least a countess.

When we returned to the U.S. from Germany, I experienced a different kind of ‘otherness’. In Germany, I had succeeded socially at school, but I rebelled against learning German and did not try to integrate into the social fabric of our tiny agricultural village. (Meanwhile, my brother dedicated himself to learning German and befriended local kids in our community). Instead, I studied French and soaked up all the opportunities to travel that came my way. I longed for my California friends and counted the days until our return. But I soon learned that everything had changed—including me.

Otherness, recalibrated

During high school, I struggled academically with anything requiring math. To my surprise, I was a standout student in freshman English class. I found essay writing easy. I also failed photography that year. Anyone who has failed a class, please know that it doesn’t define you. I now take great photos with my iPhone just like anyone else with a smart phone, so the fact that I never mastered darkroom photography skills is meaningless today.

Thank you, technology, for allowing me to overcome my F in freshman photography

My writerly compass spun wildly as I grappled with my return to the U.S., navigated a large high school, and stumbled often as I tried to balance the social whirl with studying and working part time jobs.

Senior year, my talented AP English teacher, Ms. Young, offered a creative writing workshop course that we were required to attend with a parent or other adult. My father was my companion for the class. The dual influences of Ms. Young and my dad helped me cement my love of creative writing and deepened my skill at identifying problems in the work, then fixing them.

Despite my academic struggles, I succeeded in getting into a few colleges and ended up at Boston University, where I majored in English.

Mentors who lit the way

Back in California after graduation, I was determined to work as a writer. I got a job as an administrative assistant and started writing quarterly reports for the organization, then branched out by volunteering at various nonprofits and adding random writing and editing gigs to my portfolio. At 23, I landed my dream job as a staff writer for the Sierra Club’s national headquarters in San Francisco. There, I honed my craft of mission-driven storytelling alongside much more experienced writers and editors. I churned out marketing copy, wrote grants and reports to funders, edited a 30,000-circulation newsletter, and wrote occasional pieces for Sierra Magazine.

I longed for an ‘official’ mentor, but I was too shy to ask anyone. Looking back, I know now that the senior staff was mentoring me. Every hour spent with an editor discussing ways to fix or improve a feature story or a volunteer profile was an investment in my future. In much the same way, the hours I spent reading novels and books on writing craft served as building blocks to get to my True North.

Lodestars on the shelf

During high school and early adulthood, my biggest writerly influences were Barbara Kingsolver, Isabel Allende, Wallace Stegner, Amy Tan, and Anne Lamott. The writing and style books I returned to again and again included Lamott’s Bird by Bird, The Elements of Style by Strunk and White, Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones. I also loved John McPhee’s work, both his long-form writing like Coming Into The Country and his essays for The New Yorker.

My literary map-makers, explained

Natalie Goldberg’s example of sustained practice even if it’s messy was a way for me to let go of rules and allow words to tumble out on the page with abandon. Anne Lamott’s razor-sharp humor and her willingness to be raw and vulnerable on the page were revelations to me. Isabel Allende’s masterful use of magic realism made me see the world in new ways. Amy Tan’s propulsive narratives, multiple points of view, and deeply wrought characters kept me up way past my bedtime on many occasions. Barbara Kingsolver possessed what I considered the apex of writerly genius: a science background and a poet’s way with words. With his novel Angle of Repose, Wallace Stegner taught me to love historical fiction that did not feature English royalty. And John McPhee’s mastery of creative nonfiction and subject-led storytelling was endlessly fascinating to me.

Photo by Blues Lee, Unsplash.

The path wanders, the direction never wavers

All of these early lodestars shaped my creative journey and gave me the tools to become the writer and editor I am today.

The way forward is still messy; there are storms to endure, places so clouded by mist that the starlight is blotted out. Yet I keep plodding on through the dark, hoping another guidepost is just around the bend.

The compass spins. I follow. Eventually, the skies clear to reveal dazzling stars, and my pace quickens.

This fall, I was lucky enough to spend a few quiet hours with Jean Clouet: Complete Edition of the Drawings, Miniatures, and Paintings by Peter Mellon—a rare volume tucked away in a library reading room.

Holding it felt like opening a portal into the 16th century.

The rare book that started it all: Peter Mellen’s Jean Clouet: Complete Edition of the Drawings, Miniatures, and Paintings. (photo by Amy Wilson Maroney).

Jean Clouet is one of those figures whose brilliance was nearly smudged out by time. A painter of likely Flemish origin, he served as a court artist to King François I of France, creating works at the dawn of the French Renaissance. Yet after his death in 1541, he slipped into obscurity for generations.

For centuries, scholars confused him with his son, François Clouet, conflating them into a single man known as “Janet.” So simple. And so wrong.

Only in the 19th century did art historians begin untangling this knot.

Jean Clouet: Drawing a Lost World

This is the only known image of Jean Clouet himself (photo by Amy Wilson Maroney)

Jean’s artistry is evident in his preparatory portrait drawings—stunningly lifelike sketches of French courtiers from the 1500s.

These drawings were never meant for public display. They were working tools, created to guide his painted portraits. And yet, they dazzle with:

• informal poses

• reserved or dreamy or amused expressions

• hints of personality rising through the page

Many sitters remain anonymous, labeled simply:
“Unknown Gentleman.”
“Unknown Lady.”

Which somehow makes them even more tantalizing.

Madame de Lestrange looks like she has tales to tell. Photo by Amy Wilson Maroney

Jean overlapped with Leonardo da Vinci at the French court for about three years, and his drawings echo Leonardo’s through the ability to render the human face with both stunning realism and tender sensitivity. The cross-hatching technique made famous by Leonardo was not exhibited by other northern European painters at the time. But Jean adapted it into his own work.

Did the artists share studio time at court? Did Jean Clouet have one-on-one sessions on drawing techniques from the great Leonardo? It gives me chills to imagine the possibilities. Let’s look at a drawing by Leonardo for comparison.

Hmmm. Methinks Jean was a fanboy of Leonardo’s. Photo by Amy Wilson Maroney.

A Family Workshop—And a Family Mystery

The more I read about Jean Clouet, the clearer it became that this wasn’t the story of one painter, but a dynasty.

François Clouet, the son

Brilliant, precise, and gifted in his own right—he learned directly from his father and inherited the role of court artist.

François Clouet, drawing of Elisabeth of Valois. Photo by Amy Wilson Maroney.

A mother who may have been an artist

Jean married a French woman whose father was also a painter. In families like this, women often participated fully in the workshop, even though their names rarely appeared on the work.

I found a reference to a Clouet woman delivering paintings to the king. To me, this opened up infinite scenarios about her work and her world. Many paintings of the era were joint efforts: often the star artist drew the “cartoons” that served as the foundational underpinning. Then assistants filled in backgrounds and portions of figures, and the master stepped in to render hands, faces, light, fabric, jewels.

Had Madame Clouet played any of these roles? It’s entirely possible.

A possible third Clouet

Some sources point to a brother of Jean’s who may have served in the household of Marguerite of Navarre, the king’s formidable sister. I found a snippet of a letter written by Marguerite herself about hiring this mysterious Clouet brother, but I have yet to discover his name or any work directly attributed to him.

This preparatory sketch by Jean Clouet of Marguerite of Navarre, sister of King François I, looks like it was hurried and unfinished. Don’t worry, because there’s a magnificent portrait of her coming up in a future post.

A crossroads of great artists

The Clouet family lived for a time in Tours, France—the same place where Hans Holbein worked during one of his periods at the French court. Their paths may well have crossed.

The Clouets were masters of the miniature and seemed to have sparked a trend in France for small, intimate paintings cherished as personal treasures. Holbein was not known for miniatures before he went to the French court—but when he later took Henry VIII’s Tudor court by storm, he produced miniatures for wealthy patrons with dazzling speed and skill.

Had he learned the technique from the Clouets?

Jean Clouet, Portrait of François I, 1516, miniature on vellum, diam. 4.8 cm. Photo by Amy Wilson Maroney.

Why This Matters (and Why I’m Obsessed)

I’ve been researching the Clouets for my next novel (a dual-timeline Tudor art history mystery), and the deeper I go, the more compelling the mystery becomes:

• How much of the Clouet oeuvre belongs to the father vs. the sons?

• How much may have been painted by the unnamed women in their family workshop?

• What did the Renaissance look like through the eyes of artists who were not working in Italy?

These are the kinds of rabbit holes that fuel my writing.

If you’re curious, I’ve explored this mystery in more depth here:

👉 My full blog post:
The Clouets: An Astonishing Renaissance Art Mystery Revealed
https://amymaroney.com/2024/10/29/the-clouets-an-astonishing-renaissance-art-mystery-revealed/

What’s Next

I’ll be sharing more about the Clouets and their links to various Renaissance luminariesin an upcoming post.

There’s also a good chance a Clouet or two may wander into the fictional worlds I’m building…

Stay tuned.

It was not long after sunrise. In other words, I’d been up for hours. I made myself a latte with an obscene layer of foam piled atop it like a snowdrift. I reheated it twice, because my coffee has to be gates-of-hell hot and I drink it very, very slowly.

The dog gobbled down her breakfast as only a dog can, then regarded me with expectant eyes, head cocked to the side. Are we going out now? she asked me telepathically. I shrugged on my jacket, grabbed my crossbody bag with the damn EpiPens taking up most of the precious real estate, and clipped on her harness.

Outside, the bright sun bouncing off the water made my eyes ache. But I was glad for the light. The usual gloom had lifted. As much as I hated to admit it, I had a mild case of seasonal affective disorder. I felt drugged, droopy, wrapped in cotton wool when the grayness enveloped Portland. Now, under an expansive blue sky with the sun warming my face, I felt a rising sense of anticipation and ease. Something exciting would surely happen on this walk.

Because rivers always hold surprises.

We ambled along the water’s edge with our usual odd-couple vibe. Kona, with no spatial awareness whatsoever, rushed ahead, doubled back, crossed in front of me, backtracked, then stopped abruptly in my path, tangling herself in her leash.

“She’s a victim of her nose,” I muttered, freeing her. “She can’t help it. She’s bewitched.”

Kona lunged toward the shallows, lapping at the superfund-site-level microbes that teemed in the glittering water, and I pulled her away reflexively. But what I spied just beyond her made me pause.

It was a single flip flop. Drifting with the current toward a stumpy concrete pillar crowned by a lone seagull. It was black, the flip flop. Its wide straps looked like satin ribbons with a grosgrain pattern. It was elegant as flip flops go. Sleek and—as far as I could tell—unblemished. And it was pointed toward the Columbia. Once it reached its destination, it would sail all the way to the sea.

The seagull made a strangled, guttural sound. Not exactly a cry—more of a warning cackle. As the flip flop approached, the bird sidled nervously to the edge of the pillar, then spread its wings and flung itself aloft. The flip flop slipped past, unperturbed by the near miss. It had places to go. And it was gaining speed.

I urged Kona along, following the flip flop on its steady course. We kept pace for a while. Occasionally I lost sight of it, distracted by the dog’s relentless sniffing and meandering. We paused near a man walking two microscopic dogs whose combined weight might have equaled a throw pillow. They viciously barked at my 65-pound muppet of a canine, ready to rip her to shreds. She gazed at them in bafflement, then glanced at me with a quizzical look. Were they even dogs? Even I, a telepathy newbie, understood her silent query.

Then the droning mechanical grind of a tugboat created a new distraction. I watched it roar along the dead center of the river, its black paint glinting in the sun. A flag rippled from its crow’s nest (or whatever you call the glassed-in cabin atop a tug). It wasn’t an American flag. It was black to match the boat’s body paint—and I sucked in a breath—the motif on the flag was white. A skull and crossbones.

“Oh my God,” I said to the dog. “It’s a pirate tug.”

She stared at it too, as if she’d understood. Her expression was serious—and troubled. What could it mean? A pirate tugboat? A lone flip flop headed to sea? My stomach tightened. Something was about to happen. Something that could only happen on open water.

The two small dogs quieted as if they’d also seen the pirate tug. They’d taken in the significance of the moment. Their owner, a wiry man in his seventies with white hair and wire-rimmed glasses, turned to me.

“There’s so much garbage in this river,” he said glumly, gesturing at the flip flop with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Look at that. A shoe. Just floating along. The things on the surface—they’re the tip of the iceberg. It’s what lies underneath that scares me. People treat this river like a garbage dump.”

We locked eyes for a moment.

“Is that flip flop garbage, though?” I asked. “Or is it a clue? Did someone toss it into the river as a cry for help? Maybe someone was running from danger, then lost their flip flop in the chaos.”

Silently, I added: Is this flip flop the last vestige of an innocent life, pointing us to justice?

The man looked doubtful. “I think you’ve got quite an imagination, young lady.”

I loved that he called me “young lady,” even though I was well into my fifties. He didn’t need to know that.

“The odds are, it’s garbage,” he added.

I pulled the dog away from a muddy clump of grass that had suddenly taken on tremendous symbolic meaning for her nose—the Rosetta Stone of scents.

“Why would anyone throw away such a nice, high-quality flip flop?” I challenged him. “It’s not garbage. It probably cost fifty dollars. It’s probably from a hipster surfing catalog.”

He frowned.
“But that’s all conjecture,” he said. “You’re imagining a scenario.”

“Garbage is a scenario,” I countered. “For every five pieces of garbage floating by, there’s something of value. Something important. Something that’s lost its way, but is trying to tell us its story.”

His dogs were growling now, staring down at the waterline, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

Kona settled on her haunches, impassive—the Dalai Lama of doodles.

The flip flop eased to a stop in an eddy by a snagged log, as if listening. It still pointed north. In all the time I’d been watching it, it had never changed course.

Then, without warning, the wake from the tugboat swamped it. A swirl of whitewater churned around the submerged log. When the waves subsided, the flip flop was gone.

My breath hitched in my throat. The man’s dogs were silent now, studying Kona—engaged in a staring contest that felt hostile on their end, deeply Zen on hers.

“See? Garbage. And now it’s hidden. No one but us will ever know it’s down there. But let me tell you something.” The man’s shoulders rose and fell, the wind ruffling his white hair. “The whole concept of throwing something away? A load of shit. There is no away.”

He tugged on his dogs’ leashes and shuffled off.

I regarded the river again, the sun warming my face. At that moment, the flip flop shot back to the surface, glistening, as serene as ever. Once again, it set a course for the north.

We may have disagreed about what counts as garbage, but the dog-walker was right about one thing: I did have quite an imagination.

I couldn’t think of a higher compliment.

Writer’s Notes

A quick inside look at what I did here:

This piece is creative nonfiction—a way of saying “mostly true but with flair.” The flip flop? Real, but as you can tell from the photo, it’s just an average flip flop, nothing special. I gave it some extra pizzazz for this piece. The pirate tugboat? Also real (this is Portland, after all). Kona’s constant zigzagging? True to life.

The man and his microscopic dogs? Real… ish. I did speak to him, and his dogs did want to destroy mine. But I took some liberties with our conversation for the sake of drama and humor.

If my supermoon-buoy essay was classic nonfiction, this piece leans more toward humor writing with nonfiction bones. I like letting this series shapeshift. The river transforms every day—why shouldn’t the writing?

Behind-the-scenes secrets: I realized afterward that my throwaway reference to the EpiPens would have made an excellent springboard for a twistier, more suspenseful tale. Because it makes the reader a promise and doesn’t deliver, I should have taken it out of this piece. But I’m leaving it in to make a point. In one of my next River Notes pieces, I’ll return to the EpiPens and let them have their moment.

In straight nonfiction writing, I would have taken care to describe the glassed-in top section of the tugboat as the wheelhouse or pilothouse. But here I’m loosening the rules for humor’s sake, and that’s why I left in the deliberately wrong reference to a “crow’s nest.” Sometimes a slightly incorrect word delivers a better laugh than the technically accurate one.