If only I didn’t have to return to Ohio in a matter of days. “I wish I could,” I said, “but I’ve quite the mess to sort out back home...starting with my husband.”

Gaynor took a breath. “Look, we’re new friends, and I won’t offer advice on your marriage. Though if we go for cocktails, I’ll start in on that without issue.” She chuckled. “But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s the importance of chasing dreams. Believe me, if you want something different, the only person holding you back is you. What is it you love to do?”

I blurted it out without missing a beat. “Dig into the past—dig into the lives of real people. Their secrets, their experiences. In fact, I almost applied to Cambridge after graduation to study history...”

“Cambridge?” Gaynor gasped. “Like, the university an hour from here?”

“One and the same.”

“And you almost applied but didn’t, why?” Her tone was gentle, inquisitive.

I gritted my teeth, then forced the words out. “Because I got married, and my husband had a job back in Ohio.”

Gaynor clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Well, you might not be able to see it, but I do—you’re talented, you’re intelligent, you’re capable. You also have a new friend in London.” She paused, and I imagined her crossing her arms, a determined look on her face. “You’re cut out for more. And I think you know it.”

35

Nella

February 12, 1791

As I approached the Amwell estate, my vision began to twist and spin, colors bright like a child’s toy, the city of London unsteady around me. I tucked a bloodied rag into the pocket of my skirt and looked at the faces walking past—some sharp with concern about the dried blood on my lips, others hazy and obscure and unseeing, as though I did not exist at all. I wondered if I’d entered a realm of ghosts. Was there such thing as a half world, an in-between place, where the dead and the living mingled together?

In another pocket of my skirt was the package: the skullcap tincture and a short letter, in which I’d explained to Mrs. Amwell that Eliza would not be returning—and not for a lack of affection, but because of a heroic act in which Eliza was selfless and brave. I also advised the mistress of the suggested dosage of the skullcap, just as I did when she came to my shop long ago, seeking a remedy for her trembling hands. I would have written more—oh, how much I could have written! But time did not permit, as indicated by a smudge of my blood at the corner of the letter. I hadn’t even had time to record the skullcap, my last remedy, in my register.