The case of the spoilery prologue

A few months ago, another historical fiction reader and I were exchanging thoughts via email about prologues. Such as: why do so many books have them? Are they that helpful in hooking readers into a story? A special case is when (gasp) the prologue reveals the ending.

The novel she’d just read was A Poisoner’s Tale by Cathryn Kemp, which is biographical fiction about Giulia Tofana, an herbalist and professional poisoner in 17th-century Rome billed as (per the novel) perhaps “the first female serial killer in history.”

Pub. by Union Square (Feb. 2025). The UK publisher is Penguin.

 
“This novel is an example of what I call to myself a prologue giveaway,” she told me, explaining how she isn't keen on prologues in general, especially when they reveal the ending, but enjoyed the novel as a whole very much. “In the case of A Poisoner’s Tale," she wondered, "why do you think Kemp used a prologue telling the ending of the story?”

In the very first sentence of the book, which opens in Rome in 1659, it’s clear that our heroine’s story won’t end happily.

At first, I thought this would annoy me, knowing in advance how Giulia’s story would conclude; I had heard of her before, but hadn't read much about her life. Then I got to thinking about it more.

After the prologue, we jump back to the year 1632 in Palermo, as Giulia, just thirteen, is introduced to her lethal trade by her mother, who dispenses poisons to women of the city desperate to free themselves from horrible physical abuse and potential death at the hands of men in their lives.

This discussion also called to mind an older novel I’d come across while putting together my first Historical Fiction: A Guide to the Genre twenty years ago. I’d skimmed the book for the purpose of summarizing it and remember glancing through the final pages and author’s note. At the time I was aghast to learn that the heroine died at the end. What a disappointment to spend 300 pages invested in her life only to see her killed off. There was no hint about this beforehand. The novel was loosely based in history/legend, and the main character was fictional. And I never did go back and read it in full, even though the setting had intrigued me.

I won’t mention the title or author so as not to spoil the experience for anyone who picks up the book!

But if I had known in advance that this heroine’s tale would end tragically? I may not have minded the finale so much, since it wouldn’t have come as a shock. Hmmm.

Which brings us back to A Poisoner’s Tale. The author’s decision to add a spoilery prologue, which addresses Giulia’s final fate, provokes a shift in the reader’s focus. Knowing how it ends, the overall story then becomes a deep dive into character development, motive, and unthinkable choices. What spurred Giulia to take the risks she did? What obstacles did she encounter and overcome, and what circumstances led her to that ultimate point?

Even more, the novel serves to grant a much-maligned character (a historical figure) a voice, exploring the complex moral questions she must have faced. I’m partway through reading it, and don’t think the prologue hindered the reading experience in any way.

In addition, as my fellow HF fan agreed, anyone googling the character’s name will know the outcome. Look at all the historical fiction about Anne Boleyn, whose fate is hardly a secret.

While I was conceptualizing this post in recent weeks, a post from Martha Jean Johnson’s Substack dropped into my inbox, and it covered similar ground. I recommend checking it out! Her protagonist is Tudor musician Mark Smeaton, and if you know Anne Boleyn’s history, you’ll recognize his name. One good point Johnson makes among many is that “the outline isn’t the story.”

Having pondered these authorial decisions, would I go back now and read that older novel, now that I know how it ends? Maybe I would.