‘What?’ Friday said.

  ‘She is becoming worrying close to bleeding to death. So, clearly, bleeding her is not my preference, though that is what I would normally recommend.’

  ‘I should bloody well think not,’ Friday said. ‘You’d finish her off completely. You quack!’

  ‘What do you recommend, then?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Bed rest, gruel and mutton broth, a good general tonic, no bathing in any form for a fortnight, and she should be kept warm.’ Dr Poole opened his bag and retrieved a sheet of paper. ‘I shall write a receipt for medicants. Take it to the chemist and have him dispense them.’

  ‘Hold on, what are you prescribing?’ Sarah asked. The man was mashed. He could be writing out a receipt for anything.

  ‘Preparations for alum boluses to be taken internally to stem the bleeding, enough to last a week. Dandelion tonic for the liver, and citrate of iron for the debilitating effects of blood loss, to be taken in watered wine. And she may, of course, have tincture of opium for menstrual cramps.’

  They all stared at him in silence as he got a bottle of ink out of his bag, fumbled a nib into a holder, perched on the end of Harrie’s bed and scratched out the receipt, then flapped it in the air to dry. He handed it to Nora, then placed everything back in his bag and fetched his hat, now covered with Angus’s white and black fur.

  Nora handed him his fee. ‘Will you come back if she doesn’t improve?’

  ‘If necessary.’

  ‘Well, don’t turn up mashed next time. You stink of booze,’ Friday said.

  Dr Poole examined the fur on his hat, placed it on his head, then opened the bedroom door. ‘That makes two of us, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That doctor cove could do with a good kick up the arse, turning up drunk like that,’ Friday grumbled.

  ‘You’re just shitty because he knew you’d been drinking,’ Sarah said. ‘And it serves you right. It’s not even nine in the morning.’

  ‘He was a quack anyway. He couldn’t even tell what was wrong with her.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sarah said thoughtfully. ‘What if he could tell, but just didn’t say so? He must see the results of quite a few abortions. They all must, even James.’

  ‘Aren’t they supposed to report it?’

  ‘What would be the point? Just because something’s against the law doesn’t mean it’s always a bad thing.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Friday agreed. ‘We could have saved our money, though, and just asked the chemist for everything he prescribed. We don’t need a receipt for any of this.’

  ‘Nora’s money, you mean,’ Sarah said. ‘But what if we hadn’t got him in, and Harrie had died? He said she was close to bleeding to death. You’d be sorry then, wouldn’t you?’

  Friday didn’t even need to answer that. They stood on George Street outside the gaol, waiting to cross on their way to the chemist, but the street was bustling this morning. There were half a dozen new ships in the cove, and the road was jammed with wagons and drays piled high with goods either just unloaded or about to be taken aboard for the next voyage. When the harbour was busy, so was the town, from the administrators to the bureaucrats, to the businessmen to the shopkeepers, to the street vendors and the whores.

  Friday spotted a gap in the traffic and darted across the street, Sarah right behind her, both hoisting their skirts above the slurry of mud and horse and bullock shit stirred up by the previous night’s rain. There was an apothecary on Cambridge Street but his prices were very high, and chemists carried a much larger range of products.

  Once across the road it was a short walk south to the chemist near the intersection with Bridge Street. In the mullioned shop window was a display of various-sized carboys filled with emerald, blue, amethyst and red liquid, glittering like enormous jewels. A sign on the footway advertised that the chemist or his assistants would bleed for a penny, and cup or draw a tooth for tuppence. The bell over the door chimed as they entered.

  ‘I love the smell of this shop,’ Friday said, inhaling so deeply she snorted.

  ‘You’ll turn into a drug inebriate next,’ Sarah warned, only half in jest.

  The smell was unique — a mix of lavender and iodine and carbolic. A wooden counter ran all the way around the store; in the rear wall a door opened onto a storeroom for bulk raw ingredients such as herbs and minerals. Behind the counter, tiers of labelled wooden drawers and shelves rose from floor to ceiling, the shelves home to many hundreds of glass and ceramic jars and bottles containing a cornucopia of pharmaceutical ingredients. Antimony and arsenic; borax and blistering plasters; calomel and chamomile flowers; dragon’s blood and digitalis; Friar’s balsam and frankincense; hellebore powder and henbane; ipecacuanha; juniper berries; laudanum, lavender drops and lunar caustic; myrrh, mercury and milk of sulphur; oxymel of squills; pennyroyal, paregoric elixir, and poppy heads; Spanish fly, senna, snake root and slippery elm; vitriolic acid; worm powders; zinc, etc.

  On the counter sat smaller sets of drawers, glass cabinets, two brass beam scales, and five mortars and pestles, three of which were currently in use by the chemist and his two assistants. Also on display were medicinal and cosmetic preparations such as proprietary cordials, ginger beers, tooth powders and brushes, hair powder (scented and plain), flavoured breath pastilles, Castile, Windsor and Naples soaps, smelling salts and smelling bottles (cut glass and plain).

  There were already seven customers in the shop, one of whom Friday — to her horror — recognised.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she swore under her breath as she grabbed Sarah’s arm.

  ‘Ow. What?’

  Friday hissed, ‘Shut up!’ and inclined her head towards the woman standing at the front of the queue.

  Sarah moved so she could see properly, and paled slightly as she recognised Becky Hoddle. ‘Shit! Shall we come back?’ she whispered.

  Friday shook her head, and tilted her hat to such an angle that her face was almost completely hidden. Sarah followed suit, yanking the brim of her bonnet down to her slightly prominent nose and completely covering her eyes. Friday, tired and feeling worn down by worry over Harrie, snorted out a laugh and had to quickly examine a tin of violet-scented hair powder on the counter when customers in front of her turned to look.

  ‘I wonder what she’s here for?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Medicine for Bella’s syphilis,’ Friday whispered back.

  ‘Has she got syphilis?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably. She’s such an old slag.’

  ‘I’m going up to eavesdrop,’ Sarah said.

  Friday nodded. She wouldn’t get away with it — Becky would recognise her copper-red hair. Sarah, on the other hand, had that knack for making herself look as inconsequential as a mouse when she wanted to.

  As the chemist began to stack bottles and packets into Becky’s basket, Sarah stepped out of the queue of chattering customers and peered interestedly into a glass cabinet on the counter, carefully keeping her head down. Then, sidling ever closer to Becky, she picked up a jar of skin cream, took off the lid and sniffed appreciatively. By the time she reached a display of rose-scented soap prettily displayed in a basket, she was in a perfect position to listen in on the chemist’s instructions.

  ‘Can you read?’ he asked Becky.

  ‘Some,’ she replied.

  ‘Can your mistress?’

  Sarah stifled a snort of derision. By law Bella Shand wasn’t Becky Hoddle’s mistress — they were both assigned to Clarence Shand, Bella’s husband, and Louisa Coutts would be, too. A convict herself, Bella couldn’t be anyone’s mistress, but Sarah supposed that in practice she was, and no doubt a hard one at that.

  ‘Of course she can,’ Becky said.

  ‘I mean, is she still able to read?’ the chemist asked. ‘People with this condition do sometimes find they can’t.’

  ‘I dunno. I s’pose. She got spectacles a while ago.’

  ‘Well, listen carefully while I explain. This one,’ the man said, indicating a large brown bottle, ‘is tincture of opium for the headaches and the stomach pain. She may have one to two measures per hour, more if the pain is severe. The powders …’ here he tapped a white paper packet sealed with wax ‘… contain bismuth, tannin and ipecac for the bowel complaint. I’ve not added extra opium, as that’s already been prescribed. The ipecac, however, may worsen the vomiting. The doctor has therefore prescribed an anti-emetic, which is this packet here.’ He leant forwards and whispered, but not so quietly that Sarah couldn’t hear, ‘The big pot contains the hair restoration cream. You can tell your mistress I’ve doubled the nux vomica this time. The smaller pot is the skin balm. It’s a new receipt with chloride of mercury and it’s stronger than the last one the doctor prescribed. Tell her to use both every day as usual, but sparingly. And to store the balm somewhere cool, or it will spoil. Do you think you can remember all that?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Becky said, a trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  The chemist gave her a hard look. ‘Yes, you do that. Mrs Shand is your employer, not mine.’

  Becky lifted the basket off the counter. ‘She says to send the account to the house again. Mr Shand will see to it.’

  ‘As she wishes. Good day.’ The chemist was already moving on to the next receipt requiring his attention.

  Sarah turned her back as Becky swept past, hoping Friday had her head down. Unfortunately, she didn’t.

  ‘Bitch,’ Becky whispered loudly as she marched towards the door, clearly recognising Friday.

  ‘Slut,’ Friday shot back.

  The remaining women and one gentleman in the queue stared at her, shocked and open-mouthed.

  Rearranging her hat as Becky exited the shop, making the doorbell jangle like mad, Friday glared back. ‘What?’

  All quickly looked away again. Sarah joined the end of the queue.

  ‘Headaches, stomachache, the shits, vomiting, bad skin and hair loss,’ she said to Friday under her breath. ‘What does all that add up to?’

  ‘Is that what she’s got wrong with her?’

  ‘Sounds like it. That’s what all the medicine was for.’

  ‘I don’t know. The Black Death?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Sarah said. ‘She’d be dead, wouldn’t she? And if she had the plague, wouldn’t everyone?’

  Friday shrugged. ‘She didn’t look sick enough to have all that, last time I saw her. Skinny, yes, but not at death’s door.’

  ‘She might be, by now. When did we last see her?’

  ‘When we told her about Gellar. Four months ago?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Plenty of time to get sick. Plenty of time to die, in fact.’

  Friday’s eyes lit up. ‘Wouldn’t it be perfect if she did? That would fix everything.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Sarah said gloomily. ‘She isn’t going to die just because we want her to.’

  ‘Still, fingers crossed, eh?’

  October 1831, Sydney Town

  Friday lay on her belly, topless, as Leo bent over her.

  ‘How’s Harrie?’ he asked. ‘I’m hoping she’ll feel well enough soon to come and say hello.’

  ‘Well enough to bring you some lovely new flash, you mean,’ Friday mumbled, her face squashed against her arm.

  ‘You’re a cynical piece of work sometimes, aren’t you?’ Leo said mildly. ‘For your information, not that it is any business of yours, I told Nora Barrett that Harrie can have all the time she needs. I’m not desperate for new flash.’

  ‘Did Nora come and see you?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Did she tell you what’s wrong with Harrie?’

  She hadn’t needed to, Leo thought, and when I next see my son I’m going to beat the living shit out of him. ‘No, and I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Women’s problems,’ Friday said. ‘Pretty serious ones. She nearly died.’

  Leo went still. Did that mean the abortion hadn’t been a success? Had it been botched? It had been over a week and he should have gone to see Harrie, but to be honest he couldn’t face it, he felt that ashamed of Mick’s behaviour. ‘But she’s all right now, isn’t she?’

  Friday propped herself up on one elbow to see his face. ‘She’s coming right. The quack prescribed a whole lot of shite and it seems to be doing the trick. She nearly bled to death, you know.’

  The pigment brush in Leo’s hand snapped. He put the pieces aside. ‘But everything’s fine now? She’s as good as new?’

  Friday’s eyes narrowed and she studied him thoughtfully, and for a second Leo wondered if she’d worked out that he knew. But so what if he did?

  ‘More or less,’ she said. ‘She’s very melancholy, but. She needs something to take her mind off the … everything that’s happened.’

  ‘Aye, well, I said not long ago I wanted to start her on the needles, so I believe I will.’

  ‘Good. She can practise on my phoenix.’

  Leo grunted. ‘You sure you want a beginner’s mistakes right in the middle of your back?’

  ‘She won’t make mistakes. You’ve seen how good her drawings are.’

  Leo didn’t respond; it was a statement, not a question.

  ‘And her needlework’s even better. I don’t think she’ll go wrong just because she’s poking needles into me rather than a piece of material. Have faith, Leo.’

  Leo wasn’t so sure. ‘She was a bag of nerves just drawing the outline of the bat on your leg, remember. I was thinking of starting her off on some old bits of parchment.’

  Friday waved away his protests and rested her head on her arm again. ‘Leo, I said have faith.’

  After a few more days resting in bed, Harrie felt well enough to return to her normal duties except for heavy lifting, which Nora insisted on doing for another week. Harrie knew she was underweight and that she’d bled far too much after the … after her visit to Mrs Turner, but physically she was fairly strong. She always had been. She still felt light-headed if she stood too quickly, but expected that a few decent feeds and some more of Dr Poole’s tonic would fix that. The trouble was, she had no appetite, and hadn’t for some time — well before she’d ever set eyes on Mick Doyle. It was as though someone had turned off the lever inside her that made her want to eat.

  Sometimes she had no vitality at all, and craved nothing more than to lie down and sink into a dark and dreamless sleep, but couldn’t because the endlessly babbling voices in her head wouldn’t leave her alone. At other times, though, she felt galvanised by a wild energy that compelled her to rush around, leaving no surface undusted or unwiped, no article of clothing unfolded, and not a single inch of floor unswept. She liked that state best because she was so tired when she finally did get to bed that the incessant chatter would subside and she could sleep.

  But now there was a new voice to add to the clamour — that of a child not born, and who now never would be. She lay awake at night wondering what he or she might have looked like, what colour his or her hair may have been, and who he or she might have grown up to become. She had to know and it was nudging her closer and closer to insanity, and that was terrifying because she realised she possibly didn’t have far to go now anyway. Not far at all.

  Twelve days after the abortion she visited Sarah and told her she wanted to see Serafina Fortune.

  Two days after that, Serafina Fortune said, ‘Good evening, ladies,’ and stood aside to let Friday, Sarah and Harrie into her little house on Essex Street. ‘Nice to see you again.’

  ‘Nice to fleece us again, you mean,’ Sarah muttered. She wasn’t particularly happy about Harrie seeing Serafina a second time, not after what had happened during their first visit.

  Serafina smiled wryly as she closed the door. They all knew Sarah steadfastly professed not to believe in second sight, scrying, ghosts, or indeed anything remotely other-worldly, but Serafina had proved she had the ability to see the past, and, even more unnervingly, the future. Some of her predictions for Sarah had already come to pass — Adam had come home, hadn’t he? — and it seemed that several of her prophecies for Harrie had, too. She’d warned that Harrie’s mental health could be at risk, and that a pregnancy was a possibility, which they’d all thought was amusing at the time. It wasn’t so funny now.

  She asked, ‘Are you all wanting readings? It’s not two-for-three Tuesday, so you’ll all have to pay, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Just Harrie this time,’ Sarah said, which was what she and Friday had agreed earlier.

  ‘As you wish. Please take a seat at the table.’

  As she opened the wooden box containing her assortment of cards, Sarah eyed Friday watching Serafina. Was she admiring Serafina’s finely tailored dress and long gold earrings, perhaps? Or was it something else? Her pretty red-gold hair; her striking facial features; her trim but firm-breasted figure? She seemed really quite mesmerised.

  Serafina hesitated, then said to Harrie, ‘Would you prefer the cards or a straight reading?’

  Sarah had wondered if this would happen. During their last visit, she’d very reluctantly accused Serafina of having the second sight, suspecting she’d merely been using the tarot cards to conceal her true ability. She’d been right.

  ‘A straight reading, please,’ Harrie said. ‘Unless you’d rather use the cards.’

  ‘Up to you.’ Serafina opened the battered tin in which she kept her money. ‘It’s your session. The fee’s the same as last time, thank you.’

  Harrie passed over four one-shilling coins. Serafina dropped them into the tin. ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like to know?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not to say what, though, am I?’

  Serafina shook her head. She clasped her hands on the table and lowered her eyes without quite closing them. Shifting in her seat slightly, after a long moment she raised her eyes. ‘A boy. It was a boy.’

  Harrie gasped, then burst into tears, her hands over her mouth. ‘Oh! Oh, I wanted him so much! I didn’t want to get rid of him, I didn’t!’

  Serafina lifted a hand. ‘Wait. I haven’t finished. He was never going to live long. You would have lost him anyway. He would have died at six or seven months of some, I don’t know, some sort of constitutional affliction.’