“Ah!” he cried, as if seeing us made his joy complete. Forman’s manner of dressing always made me blink. That evening he was tricked out in a doublet of crimson, covered by a gown of turquoise lined with yellow shag. Green hose and blue stockings adorned his thin legs, and on his left hand he wore an immense ring. His dark eyes, already large, were outlined like those of a black-and-white creature in the King’s menagerie called a lemur. Forman’s wrinkles were white in their depths against a complexion burned chestnut from his many hours of gardening; any shift in his expression was shouted out by the stripes on his face. He had the same twitchy curiosity as that creature, the same haughty rump.

“My dear Mistress Turner, I miss George. How he loved you,” he sighed, as if his own conquests of women were attempts to reach the level of affection George and I had attained. “As you know, I am no stranger to the pain of a broken heart. There is help for those in grief.” He patted my hand, unaware that I was there only to accompany Frankie. I handed him a French Baby I had sewn with a design for his wife, requested before George’s death. He eyed it with dislike, as if remembering why he had to mollify her. He shoved the poppet inside his open doublet, then turned and bowed deeply to Frankie, his hair flopping forward as if it also wanted to please. I had not told him her name but as I had only one friend among the high nobility, he would know who she was. Frankie waved vaguely at the bright little conjuror that he might sit, but he walked to the door.

“Follow me!” he cried.

George had told me that Forman only invited women to his study with whom he wished to fornicate, but even he could not hope to tumble us together. He showed us into a large, dimly lit corner chamber, crammed with tables, stools, boxes, strange stuffed creatures and pale forms in glass jars. He sat and opened a ledger on his desk, waving Frankie toward the chair in front of him.

“Your name?” he asked, charging his quill with ink.

“You write?” she said, sitting. I was surprised too. I had never consulted a physician who wrote before he smelt the piss-pot and I had kept my motions back for the purpose. I was discomfited by his unprofessional behavior.

“Urine and stool tell me nothing of the mind or the heart,” he explained. “For physick to work you must trust the physician. The unity of mind, heart and body renders the cure efficacious.”

“I am not sick,” said Frankie.