“Six weeks is an eternity at Court,” said Frankie, kicking at the litter around her. “Other countesses, younger ones, are paraded before Robin while my family do nothing. My great-uncle will not even inquire whether an unconsummated marriage can be dissolved; Essex must ask him to do so first! My family say I will show myself disobedient and lustful if I do anything at all.” With the care of someone who knows they are drunk, she placed her empty glass on the table. “While they fret over my honor, I grow old. I must do something for myself, Anne. I have asked someone to come who can help.”

“Help how?” I asked, a momentary vision of sham apothecaries in their stinking shops forcing its way into my mind.

“In the same manner as Simon Forman.”

“No one is as trustworthy.”

“Trustworthy?” she said, rather loudly. “It is not even safe to keep these.” She picked up what scrolls she could and tossed them into the fire. It was a few moments before brown patches bloomed across the words of love. The skin did not blaze but darkened and fell apart.

We both started at a knock on the door. I left the stifling cabinet and saw a barrel-like woman standing in the doorway to the bed chamber, the custodian just visible behind her bulk.

“Am I to come in or not?” she said, resting her weight on one leg.

“Yes, do,” said Frankie, who had followed me. The woman turned and shut the door in the retainer’s face. I looked pointedly at Frankie but was ignored.

“You must be Mary Woods? Would you care for anything?” asked Frankie.

“Ale and cakes, if you please,” said Mary, plonking herself on the only chair without invitation. Frankie’s look of astonishment made me smile. She would as much know how to procure ale and cakes as to raise a corpse.

“Forgive me,” said Frankie, waving her arm about vaguely, “but we are alone. Next time I shall ensure that there is plentiful ale and cakes. I have wine?”

“I don’t touch spirits,” grunted Mary Woods. Frankie turned her back and made a face at me that said “What a character!” but I did not smile back. The woman was ignorant.

“What are your talents?” I asked.

The washerwoman looked at Frankie as she answered. “Finding lost valuables, damping or increasing men’s ardor, untying marriage vows, predicting the sex of babies, the time of going to childbed and death.” She folded strong arms under the shelf of her chest.

“Your methods?” I asked. The malapert ignored me. “How do you ‘untie marriage vows’?” I insisted.

The woman turned from Frankie to me, running her eyes over my plain attire with utmost insolence.

“Prayers to small devils and, if a woman can give it to him, a potion. The prayers work without, but it’s slower.”