“Ow,” said Frankie, as I pressed the thin blade into her heel until blood flowed in a slow but steady stream into the letting bowl. She was settled in a great leather chair, Brutus in her lap, taking care not to move her foot from its position on the stool. All the windows of the apartment were open to catch the breeze.

“Where is Purkoy?”

“Essex has taken him to Chartley,” said Frankie. Her husband’s appetite for the education of his wife had been blunted by the months they had spent together away from Court; Purkoy, however, had become very obedient.

“Does he suspect anything?”

“He has always suspected everything since the day we married. Fortunately, he is not interested enough to notice any change in me. He has gone to Chartley simply because he prefers the country.”

That summer, my home and a farm at Hammersmith, easily reached by boat, had become trysting places for Frankie and Carr. She was cured of greensickness but her menses were twice late. I gave her strong brews of boiled fern root, savin, mint and Cover Shame, to unblock the womb. When it failed, I let blood in the foot.

“I hate this,” she said.

Indeed, it felt strange to be emptying her womb when she wanted a child above anything else.

“Until a child is quick there is no life nor soul in it,” I said. I had not been sad when her menses flowed again but Frankie was quiet for a few days.

The ever-present need to keep Frankie without child had led me to strange quarters the previous few months. When I too often asked for herbs to avoid pregnancy, my usual apothecary in Bucklersbury pretended to have none. I trawled instead those hidden in squalid courtyards, littered with the cages of filthy animals whose parts or blood were used in preparations. I was grateful for Weston’s company. The badges of these “guild members” were counterfeit; they were frauds and thieves in the main. If they had the ingredients I sought, I oversaw the entire decoction, to their annoyance, so little trust had I in their talents. At these times I missed Simon Forman terribly. His fondness for George and me was an assurance that his angelic intercessions and brews would work to our mutual benefit and not solely for his profit. In the dark alleys and courts, I had no such privilege.

“I cannot stomach this for long,” Frankie said. “We must find another who can work with angels. I have heard of a certain Dr. Savery and of a Mary Woods who do the work we need.”