“Sir Arthur did not attend Dr. Turner’s funeral, nor send servants to help you move; strange carry-on for a man who promised to look after you. Does he know you’ve little money?”

“He’s away with the Prince’s household,” I said, piqued that Weston felt it his place to comment on a knight and courtier to the Prince of Wales. He shrugged, which also annoyed me, because I agreed that Arthur’s travels were no excuse for not helping me to move. There was a long pause, during which Weston made it plain he wanted to say something but awaited my invitation. I did not give it.

Moments later, Frankie arrived.

“You look worried,” she said when finally we released each other.

“I thought your husband had forbidden you to leave,” I lied. Most people fear poverty as they do sickness and I did not want to test whether Frankie was among them. I needed her invitation to Court so that I could continue to offer fashioning ideas to women who would bestow gifts on me in return, which I could pawn or sell. Her family were denying her funds until she settled in her marriage and returned to behaving as she should: silent and uncomplaining. Yet she had never known scarcity and would not understand my present position.

Frankie sent her maid back to Whitehall and we descended the river stair, Weston going ahead. The wherryman helped us into the boat and we rowed across a strong current.

“I am sorry to be late. My maid promised to wake me, but she conspires against me. All my servants do. They are either in the pay of my husband or my mother. I am the last person they have to obey.” Despite her words, Frankie appeared surprisingly content. She was looking about as if the world had been made anew that evening for her. The skin of the Thames was alive with craft of all sizes; the bricks of Whitehall and Lambeth Palaces pulsed red in the setting sun. Smoke from hearths was snatched from chimneys before it could rise and on the far bank fishermen hauled their nets into pitching skiffs, watched by herons, their feathers sharp in the thundery light.

“Some say Dr. Forman is a charlatan,” said Frankie.

“He sees a thousand patients a year. Would so many see a charlatan?”

“Yes.”

“He caught and survived the plague of ’ninety-four—do you know any other physician who can claim that? He does not flee from it, like most doctors, and helps both rich and poor. For that alone, I trust him. He is a true magus but a dreadful gossip. Be discreet.”

“You have kept me from him so long because you think I cannot hold my tongue?”

“You could have gone to your mother. Does she not dabble in alchemy?”