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Rowena looks up at him now in the lowlight. For the briefest moment Henry wonders if she might refuse him as she did the other day, but then she gives a small shaky nod.

‘All right. Henry.’

He wants to draw her into an embrace and, yes, yes, to kiss her, feels sure that this time she would not rebuff him if he did. Instead, reluctantly, he lets her go, and Rowena steps back from him as if released from a trap.

‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Rowena.’

Their eyes linger on each other for what feels like endless seconds. Then Rowena turns and walks down the corridor, pale skirts swinging in the wake of her hurried steps.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The old housekeeper does not try to thwart him when Henry knocks on Gwen Tresilian’s door the next morning. Instead she leads him without a word into the bedroom.

His patient is only just stirring. Henry goes to the window and opens the curtains by half, then turns to the housekeeper who stands at the doorway twisting a soiled handkerchief between her withered hands.

‘A glass of water, if you please, Mrs Evans.’

She has not slept, that much is clear. Her wrinkled face is haggard, white hair poking out from her mobcap at odd angles, eyes red-rimmed. Gravely he takes one of the saved vials from his pocket.

‘I shall administer five drops of this into a glass of water for her to drink every morning. In a week I shall reduce it to four drops, then three, and so on and so forth. While I would of course prefer her ladyship did not have the tincture at all, it is safer to acclimatise her body slowly. Only time will tell how much damage has been done. In the meantime you can expect vomiting, cold sweats, shivering. Aches and pains, irritability.’ Henry glances at her. ‘I trust you’ll be able to manage? She’ll be quite trying the next couple of days. For safety, keep Lady Gwen in these rooms. No daily walks, for now. Supervision, always.’

The old woman nods. Licks her lips.

‘You think I’m wicked,’ she whispers.

Henry only blinks. ‘The water, Mrs Evans.’

Defeated, the housekeeper goes to the small table next to Gwen’s bed and pours a glass from the carafe that sits there. She passes the glass to Henry with a tremor.

‘I do not think you’re wicked,’ he says finally, pouring the tincture in drop by drop. ‘But you’re lucky the truth was discovered, before further damage could be done.’

‘And my brother? Do you know …?’

‘Not yet. I’m sorry.’

Mrs Evans does not respond. Henry places the glass on the table, props up the pillows behind her mistress’ back.

‘Good morning, my lady,’ he murmurs. ‘How do you feel?’

Lady Gwen swallows, looks up at him weakly from the bed.

‘My head hurts.’

Her voice is hoarse and papery. Henry takes out his pocketwatch, measures her pulse. Fast as to be expected, but not erratically so.

‘Do you remember anything?’

Lady Gwen draws her eyebrows together as if trying, but then she sighs, shakes her head.

‘Here,’ he says, handing her the water. ‘Drink this. All of it.’

Diligently she drinks. When she is done Henry checks her pupils (still dilated) then instructs Mrs Evans to ensure she takes a turn about the room three times that day and he will check on her later on. He leaves them then, and in the corridor knocks on Linette’s door.

‘Linette? Are you there?’

Within, there is silence, but in the strip of light shining beneath the closed door the shadow of Merlin sniffs at the gap.