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He has known his fair share of women in his time, of course; he has his needs. Still, it has seldom been Henry’s habit to indulge in such things – often his role at the hospital meant he scarce had opportunity – but when he did, he chose respectable houses. The women he partnered only ever evoked in him a sense of release and polite consideration. Some of them had been pretty, some plain. But none of them looked like this one, and never did they make him nervous and hot-skinned the way this one does now.

‘Miss Tresilian!’ Miss Carew exclaims. ‘Dr Talbot.’ She hesitates at the threshold, looks between them both. ‘Am I needed in the village?’

Again it is Linette who answers, and Henry is glad for it allows him to catch his breath.

‘Miss Carew,’ she says, ‘I apologise for visiting unannounced. We were hoping you might identify something for us.’

She frowns. ‘Identify something?’

Henry clears his throat. ‘An ingredient. It is not one I recognise, and we …’

Miss Carew opens the door wide. Merlin sneaks his way through.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Do come in.’

As pretty as the outside of the cottage is, Henry is surprised at the interior. Serviceable, yes, as Linette said, but simple. A little too simple, even for him.

It is an open room – no internal walls divide the space – and upon the earthen floor lies a large reed mat, some worn Indian rugs. At the back of one wall is a single bed with a lumpy mattress, next to it a basket of blankets, a battered chamberstick holding a candle nub resting on top. On another wall stands a large stone hearth, its fire lit and low despite the warmth outside, an iron kettle hanging from a spit. A threadbare armchair is positioned close to the fire. On the far wall a long table is home to flowers and leaves in various stages of preparation, stone bowls, a pestle and mortar, glass bottles and jars. Next to it stands a Welsh dresser, its cavernous doors tied shut with twine. To hold Miss Carew’s ingredients, Henry supposes, though the ceiling itself seems to be its own store – dried bunches of lavender hang from the eaves, other clumps of foliage with woody stems that again Henry does not recognise, and it gives him confidence that Miss Carew might be able to answer their question.

‘Forgive me,’ she says, wiping her hands on the apron she wears. ‘I’m preparing a tincture for Bronwen Lewis’ baby to help her sleep, so I’m afraid I cannot offer refreshment. The kettle, you see—’

Linette is shaking her head. ‘We shall not keep you, Miss Carew.’

Miss Carew nods, looks relieved. Henry retrieves the vial from his pocket.

‘It is this,’ he says, handing it to her. Her fingertips graze his. Henry pulls back as if stung.

Confound it man, control yourself!

‘There’s not a lot left,’ he adds, flushing, ‘but if you could give us an idea of what it might be we’d be very grateful.’

Miss Carew hesitates. Then she takes the vial, sniffs it. A frown mars her forehead, and she crosses the room to the small window set back behind the armchair, raises the bottle to the light. Linette – a pinch having formed about her mouth – watches the young woman like a hawk.

‘Well?’

‘Wait a moment.’

This time Miss Carew crosses to the table of herbs, begins to sift through the bowls and jars.

Henry is fascinated, cannot take his eyes off her. She moves like water in a gentle stream, her skirts whispering along the reed mat, and he is inordinately glad the dimness of the cottage hides the blush he is sure has appeared on his cheeks.

Linette steps forward.

‘Well, Miss Carew?’

Her tone is insistent. If it were not for the seriousness of the situation, Henry might ask Linette to show a little bit of patience, but he too is anxious for the answer. If he is right …

Miss Carew has selected a glass pipette from the table. Very carefully she inserts it into the vial, removes a tiny drop of the brown liquid from its depths. Then – before Henry can prevent her – she has placed it on the tip of her tongue.

He watches, heart in mouth. What if it harms her? But a contemplative look has crossed her face, and she takes a handkerchief from her sleeve, spits into it hard.

‘Deadly nightshade,’ Miss Carew announces.

She holds out the vial. Henry takes it.

‘Are you sure?’

Miss Carew nods.