“She was pushed. She came back here in the evening when she had closed the wash house, and found a man in the house, looking through our chest. You know her well enough to realize she would not run away. He got a black eye, I think, but she was pushed to the ground and kicked. One of the blows broke her leg. She is old and frail and her bones are not strong any more.”

“Why did you not say so? Make a complaint?”

“She knew him.”

“All the more reason.”

“All the less. He is a man who worked once for John Thurloe’s office, as did my father. Even now he will never be caught or punished for anything he might do.”

“But what…?”

“We have nothing, as you know. Nothing that could interest him, at any rate. Except those papers of my father’s, which I gave to you. I said they were dangerous. Do you have them safe still?”

I assured her it would take many hours to find them in my room, even if someone knew they were there.

Then I told her of what I had seen that evening, and said that Cola also had made a thorough search. She shook her head sadly. “Lord, why dost Thou persecute Thy servant so?”

I wrapped my arms around her and we lay there together, I stroking her hair and giving what comfort I could. It was not much.

“I ought to tell you about Jack Prestcott,” she began eventually, but I hushed her.

“I do not want, or need, to hear anything,” I said.

Better that it should be forgotten, whatever it was; I did not want to hear, and she was grateful to be spared the humiliation of having to speak.

“Will you return to work for us?” I asked. “It is not much to offer, but if it becomes known in the town that the Woods will admit you into their house, it will begin to mend your reputation, quite apart from giving you money.”

“Will your mother have me?”

“Oh, yes. She was very angry when you left, and has never stopped complaining how much better the housework was done when you were there.”

She smiled at that, for I knew my mother had never once allowed herself to issue even the faintest word of praise in Sarah’s hearing, lest it make her grow proud.

“Perhaps I will. Although as it seems I am not to pay for doctors now. then my need for money is the less.”

“That,” I said, “is carrying submission to divine will too far. If it can be done, then your mother must have attention. How do you know this is not a test of your love for your mother, and that she is meant to survive? Her death would be punishment for your negligence otherwise. You must have treatment for her.”

“All I can afford is a barber, and even they might refuse. She has refused any treatment I can give her, and I could not help in any case.”

“Why?”

“She is old, and it is her time to die, I think. I can do nothing.”

“Perhaps Lower could.”

“He can try, if he will, and I would be happy if he succeeded.”

“I will ask him. If this Cola will say she is no longer his patient, then he might be prevailed upon. He will not abuse a colleague by doing so without his leave, but it sounds as though there should be no trouble gaining that.”

“I cannot pay.”

“I will see to that, somehow. Don’t you worry.”

With the very greatest reluctance I pulled myself up. For all the world, I would have stayed there all night, something I had never done before, and which I found strangely enticing; to hear her heart beat against mine and feel her breath against my cheek were the sweetest sensations. But it would have been an imposition and would also have been noticed the next day. She had a reputation to rebuild, and I had one to preserve. Oxford then was not like the king’s court, nor even had it the laxity of the town now. All had ears, and too many were swift to condemn. I was myself.

My mother presented only the most cursory of objections when I announced that Sarah had repented of her sins and added that, in any case, they were smaller than common tittle-tattle pronounced. It was a mark of charity to forgive the sinner if regret was genuine, and I concluded that I was sure this was the case.

“And she is a good worker, who might, perhaps, now accept a ha’penny less a week,” she said shrewdly. “We’ll certainly get none better at that wage.”

So it was agreed, with yet another ha’penny earmarked from my pocket to make up the difference, and Sarah was reengaged. There then followed the problem of her mother, and I talked to Lower about it a few days later, when I had the opportunity. He was a difficult man to get hold of then, for he was hard at work on his fine examination of the brain, the dedication of which made him most anxious.

“To whom should I address it?” he asked me with a worried frown before I could speak. “It is a most delicate matter, and by far the most concerning part of the whole enterprise.”

“Surely not,” I said. “The work itself…”

He waved his hand dismissively. “The work is nothing,” he said. “Pure labor and applied concentration. The expense of publication is worse than that. Do you know how much a good engraver costs? I must have high-quality illustrations; the whole point is lost if the drawings are botched, and with some of these people you can’t tell a human brain from a sheep’s once they are done. I need at least twenty, all done by a London engraver.” He sighed deeply. “I envy you, Wood. You can produce all the books you want and not pay attention to these questions.”

“I would like many engravings,” I said. “It is very important that readers see the representation of the people I mention, so they can judge for themselves that my account of their characters is accurate, by comparing deeds and features.”

“True, true. My point is that your words can stand on their own if need be. In my case, the book is all but incomprehensible if there are not illustrations of great expense.”

“So worry about that, not the dedication.”

“The illustrations,” he said gravely, resuming the worried look, “are mere money. A nightmare, but a straightforward one. The dedication is my entire future. Am I ambitious, and risk aiming too high? Or modest, aim too low and waste my effort for no gain?”

“The book must be its own reward, I think.”

“Spoken like a true scholar,” he replied testily. “All very well for you, with no family to provide for, and content to remain here forever.”

“I am as jealous of fame as the next man,” I said. “But that will come from admiration of the book, not by using it as a weapon to bludgeon your way into the favor of the mighty. To whom do you consider giving it?”

“In my dreams, when I think of glory, I naturally think of giving it to the king. After all, that Galileo man in Italy addressed one piece of work to the Medici, and was given a rich court position for life as a result. I imagine His Majesty being so impressed that he straightaway appoints me royal physician. Except,” he said bitterly, “that there is one already, and his gracious Majesty is too hard up for two.”

“Why not be more imaginative? There are so many addressed to him already and he cannot be grateful to every author in England; you would merely be lost in the melee.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. Someone who is rich, would appreciate the gesture, and whose name would attract attention. How about the Duchess of Newcastle?”

Lower cackled. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Very funny. I might as well dedicate it to the memory of Oliver Cromwell. A fine way, if I may say so, to ensure that the world of curiosity never takes me seriously again. A woman experimentalist, indeed; an embarrassment to her family and her sex. Come now, Wood, be serious.”

I grinned. “Lord Clarendon?”

“Too predictable and might fall from power, or die from a seizure, before it came out.”

“A rival? The Earl of Bristol?”

“Dedicate a book to a professing Catholic? Do you want me to starve to death?”