“Phoebe is a very accomplished poet,” Olivia declared. “I dare swear no c-court poet would be ashamed to acknowledge her writing.”

“Indeed.” Brian’s eyebrows rose. “I hadn’t realized you had frequented court circles.”

“Phoebe has and she told me about the empty-headed courtiers,” Olivia said.

Brian ignored this. “Maybe you would show me some of your work, Lady Granville. I have, after all, some experience of what’s considered good poetry at court. And, of course, you must please the court if you are to succeed.”

“I write to please myself, sir,” Phoebe said with unconscious hauteur. “I have no particular desire to shine at court, if indeed the court is ever reinstated. Indeed, as Olivia said, my few visits there at the beginning of the war gave me a great dislike for its posturing and pretensions.”

Brian recognized a snub when he heard one. Strangely, instead of infuriating him, it piqued his interest. Little sister had nothing at all in common with big sister, it seemed. He regarded her over the lip of his glass. Her hair was rumbling from its pins; the upstanding collar of the blue gown was rather limp. In fact, it almost looked as if she’d slept in it. It hadn’t looked quite so bad earlier that morning before the trip to church. He wondered what on earth she could have been doing in it.

“Perhaps you didn’t meet James Shirley,” he suggested. “A man of little or no pretension.”

“Oh, yes, I most particularly admire Mr. Shirley’s dramas,” Phoebe interrupted, forgetting her moment of irritation. “He has no pretension at all.”

“You’ll need music for your pageant, Phoebe,” Olivia said, refusing to be shut out of the conversation by Brian. “Have you thought about it?”

“Not really. I wish I could find a composer like Henry Lawes.” Phoebe passed Olivia a dish of buttered salsify.

“Ah, the incomparable Mr. Lawes,” Brian murmured. “I saw him at a performance of Comus once with John Milton.”

“Oh… you’ve met John Milton?” Phoebe’s fork hung neglected halfway to her mouth.

“The gentleman has a great conceit of himself,” Cato observed.

“Well, he’s a very fine poet,” Phoebe’s fork continued its journey. “That must be some excuse.”

“But I hardly think you’re aspiring to such exalted literary circles,” Cato commented with a slight smile.

“I might be,” Phoebe muttered.

Cato raised his eyebrows incredulously. “I confess my interest in this pageant grows apace. Perhaps I could persuade Henry Lawes to cast a glance over it with an eye to composing the music.”

“Do you know him, sir?” Phoebe regarded him across the table with a distinctly martial gleam in her eye. She had heard the sardonic note.

“Actually, quite well,” Cato said. “Before the war, I met him many times at court. I also have some acquaintance with Mr. Milton these days. He is now staunchly for Parliament.”

“Well, you may rest assured, my lord, that I have no inflated sense of my own poetic abilities,” Phoebe stated, taking up her glass and drinking deeply.

Cato contented himself with a nod. He tossed his napkin to the table and pushed back his chair. Giles with clear relief followed suit. Talk of poets and composers was way outside his sphere of interest.

“We should be on our way, Brian. It’s an hour’s ride,” Cato said.

“Yes, of course.” Brian bowed his head in agreement. Things were moving swiftly but he was under no illusion that Cato trusted his change of heart. He would be interrogated this afternoon, but he had every confidence that he would convince his interrogators.

It was close to two o’clock that afternoon when Phoebe and Olivia left the house. The sky was heavy, a black-edged gray that looked as if it held more snow. Phoebe, mindful of the morning’s accident, had changed into one of her old woolen gowns and armed herself with a stout stick with which to test out snowdrifts. They took the road into the village. It was longer than across the fields, but the fields were impassable.

The snow was thick in the woods and Phoebe plowed ahead, plunging her stick into the snow before each step. Olivia followed, carefully stepping into Phoebe’s footprints, until they emerged in the small clearing.

“Meg’s at home.” Phoebe pointed to the smoke curling from the cottage chimney.

“She hasn’t been out at all.” Olivia gestured to the virgin expanse of snow leading from the gate to the front door. Cat prints zigzagged among the bushes, but there was no other indication that anyone had been around. “Although of c-course a broomstick wouldn’t leave tracks,” she added mischievously.

It was not a successful joke. Phoebe glared at her and stalked off up the path.

Olivia stumbled after her. “Oh, c-come on, Phoebe. It was in jest.”

“I didn’t think it was funny.” Phoebe raised her stick to bang on the door.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said. “Forgive me?”

Phoebe glanced at her and then smiled. “Of course. Come on, let’s go in before we turn into icicles.” She banged on the door with her stick.

It was a minute or two before they heard the bar being lifted and the door creaked open. Meg, wrapped in a thick blanket, her head swathed in flannel, tried to smile and grimaced instead. She stood back, gesturing that they should come in.

“What is it? Are you ill?” Phoebe asked in concern.

“Toothache,” Meg mumbled. “You have to help me draw it.” She laid a hand to her flannel-wrapped cheek. “I’ve tried everything. Oil of cloves, witch hazel. It has to come out.”

“My father pulled one of my teeth when I was little,” Olivia remarked. “He tied string around the door latch and slammed the door. It hurt,” she added rather doubtfully.

“It won’t hurt as much as it does now,” Meg declared. “Come now, Phoebe, put me out of my misery.” She sat on a small stool beside the fire, and the one-eared cat jumped onto her lap.

Meg’s teeth were a constant source of trouble for her. Phoebe had performed this service for her friend before and knew how to be both swift and gentle. She found the string, located the rotten tooth, and the task was over in a second. Meg rushed to the basin in the corner of the cottage, while Phoebe stared at the tooth dangling from the string. The cat jumped onto the windowsill and began to wash himself.

“What a lot of blood,” Olivia observed with habitual curiosity. “You wouldn’t think such a small thing could c-cause so much.”

“You wouldn’t think it could cause so much pain,” Meg said thickly, raising her head from the basin and reaching up for a vial on the shelf above. She rinsed out her mouth with the contents and then sighed with relief. “Such agony… you can’t believe.”

“Do you want the tooth?” Phoebe handed it to her.

Meg took it and tied a knot in the string, slipping it over her head. “Maybe it’ll act as a talisman against future toothache.” She grimaced and touched her still-swollen face. “Thank heavens you came.”

“There’s something I came to tell you.” Phoebe’s face was suddenly very grave. “There’s talk of a witch in the village. The vicar was raving this morning.”

Meg nodded slowly. “That’s no surprise. You remember when you were here last I was called to a sick child?”

“Yes.” Phoebe perched on the edge of the table.

“Well, the child died soon after I physicked him.”

Olivia ceased her examination of Meg’s alabaster jars and glass vials of potions. “What of?”

Meg shrugged and drew her blanket closer around her. “I can’t say. He was fine when I left, but according to his mother fell into convulsions an hour later. He was dead when I reached him.”

“Sometimes there’s nothing you can do,” Phoebe said hesitantly.

“You and I know that,” Meg said dourly. “The child’s mother cursed me. The father spat at me. There was a crowd there, murmuring and whispering.”

Phoebe crossed her arms over her breast with an involuntary shudder. There was a jolt of fear deep in her belly. “What were they saying?”