“Can anyone tell me what this is?” Mr. Z asked. Blank stares. He answered his own question: “The Princes in the Tower.”

Oh, thought Rosemary, so they’re boys.

“This was painted by Delaroche in 1830 and it now hangs in the Louvre museum in Paris.” He turned back to the image. “Can anyone guess what’s going on here? Come on, people. This is not an art history class. I want your emotional response, not your intellectual response. Remember, heart, not head.”

“Are they . . . lovers?” a boy named Arik asked. Nervous giggles.

“Are you saying that because they’re sitting on an unmade bed?”

Arik shrugged.

“Good guess, though, because something unholy is definitely going on here. One of these boys is Edward V, aged twelve, and the other one’s his nine-year-old brother, Richard, the Duke of York. They’re in the Tower of London because why? Anyone?”

“Somebody put them there.” Smart-ass laughter.

“That’s right, Charles. Someone did put them there. And that someone was their uncle, Richard III. Edward was made king of England when he was twelve and his wicked uncle didn’t think a kid deserved that title. So he decided to get rid of him. By the way, you may know Richard III as the hunchbacked king from Shakespeare.”

Murmurs of recognition. Alicia Hwang raised her hand:

“He was played by Ian McKellen in that movie.”

“Yes, Alicia. Very good.” Mr. Z turned back to the screen. “Look at this. The tension in the frame. At any moment now, some muscly henchman is going to come up those stairs, burst through the door and haul them away to have their heads chopped off.”

With his laser pointer, Mr. Z brought attention to the boys’ faces: “Deep anxiety here in little Richard. Resignation in Edward—in fact, he looks like he’s falling asleep. The different ways we deal with trauma.” He pointed at the lapdog. “And of course, here you have the silly pup who gazes directly into the darkness, with no conception of fear. Just look at the tension in the scene. The drama.”

“How do you know which boy’s which?” someone asked.

“I assume that Edward is the resigned-looking one wearing the rings and stockings of royalty. As the older child, he had to know that resistance was futile.” Mr. Z paused, pursing his lips. “In the end, nobody ever knew what really happened to the boys. If they were killed, their murders were never recorded. And if they were freed . . . Well, there was no way their uncle would have let them live.”

A hush. Mr. Z clicked on the next slide.

“On to something jollier . . .”