I nodded. Don’t come too close.

“I have a sister,” she said. “But I married John and came up here, and she stayed at home. It’s a long way. I haven’t seen her these two years, not since…” Not since you lost your babe, I thought. Now was the time to ask. But I could not talk without my hands, and she held them captive until the job was done, and the healing mixture of comfrey and dewcup, with beeswax and an aromatic oil, was well massaged into my damaged skin.

“I’ll do this every afternoon for you,” she said. “No need to let them get any worse than they must.” She gave a sudden wide yawn. “Oh dear. Sorry. I do seem to be getting a little tired these days.”

I gestured as clearly as I could. You should rest. Child—very big now. Rest, sleep. Margery chuckled.

“Not much chance of that! I have too many things to do, what with running around for Lady Anne, and keeping John happy. He’s a good man; it was hard, when he was away. Now I don’t want to waste a single moment.”

I tried again, indicating that I would like to touch her, to feel how it was with the child. She became serious, all in an instant.

“If you like,” she said, and there was a touch of anxiety in her voice. “You know more of these matters than I do, I expect, even though you’re such a little thing. There is a midwife here; she’ll do well enough, I suppose, when the time comes.” The babe was still high in the womb, and its head was tight under her breasts. There was time yet for it to turn, but not much time. It kicked and strained, growing too large for its own comfort. I gave Margery my best attempt at a reassuring smile. The babe is well. This much was true, for now at least. But you—you must rest. Rest. Sleep. It was easy enough to show her this with hands and eyes. Whether she would do it was another matter.

I had my work bag with me, and now I drew out the small bundle of starwort fibers which was all I had left. I tugged at her arm, pointed to what I held, then tried to show her a plant growing, knee high or a little taller. Strong stems spreading. Then I went to the window, gestured out into the valley, turned back with a question in my eyes. Where? Where does it grow?

“Oh, Jenny,” she said reproachfully. “You cannot surely want to go on with this? It hurts you so badly.”

I gripped her shoulders and nodded. Yes. Oh yes. Help me.

“I would rather not be the one to tell you this,” she said, and for a moment my heart stopped, for I thought she was going to say it did not grow there at all. “I’m not happy with what you are doing to yourself, and nor is Red. But this plant, we call it spindlebush, does grow here in abundance. Not near the house; further north up the valley, across the river and up a gully where a stream flows down. There is a bridge. It’s quite a long way. If you must have more, you’d be better to send John or Ben to fetch it for you. If you like, I’ll ask John.”