“To be held close, forbidden letters and visitors—Robin must have asked that of the King,” Frankie said, turning to me. I heard, but to my increasing distress, I could not respond; I was locked inside my body. Frankie let out a sharp sigh, impatient with my self-absorption, but I swear I could do no other. She began to pace, muttering, enacting in her mind’s eye all the possible consequences of Overbury’s incarceration. Suddenly she stopped.

“Weston, I need a new service of you. If my great-uncle can get you the position, would you act as Overbury’s jailer? Someone we trust absolutely must guard him, to be sure he steals out no letters.”

I could see wisdom in the idea; a written accusation from him would immediately halt the annulment. Frankie would pay Weston, which I could not, but I felt his reluctance and I did not like the proposal either. He was old and should have easier employment. I often needed him at home, not merely for his service but for his unfailing loyalty and steady company. This would be another sacrifice I made for Frankie’s happiness.

Weston was silent a long while, waiting, I think for me to find a pretext to excuse him from this task. But I could not rouse myself. How to shield Weston when I could not protect my own children from want and harm? He glanced at me, but I failed him.

I failed him.

He did not look at Frankie but at his hands as he nodded. I am sure he agreed only to protect me from Overbury’s spite, which would damage me as much as Frankie.

After Weston left, I turned my face to the wall and drifted off. I did not seek death; rather I sensed that life was drowning me. I do not remember how long I lay that way as there was nothing to which memory could cling, but at some point I became aware of pain. It disturbed my stupor at the bottom of the deepest, blackest, coldest sea. A spiteful imp tormented me with pins and sharp pinches that made me wriggle and squirm until I was forced to surface. I flailed at the devil who tortured me but by the light of a single candle, opening my eyes, I saw Frankie standing over me brandishing a needle.

“She wakes!” shouted Frankie, flushed from her attack. She hauled me up, propping me on a cushion, and washed my face with a wet cloth. Old Maggie hovered beside her with a hot posset that she put to my lips before I could sink again. Her face was a breath away from mine and I saw tears streaming along her wrinkles. I stroked the glistening drops that fell on her hands, spotted with age, and the gratitude I felt warmed me a little.

Frankie took the cup and raised it.