When Elspet went in to ask Martha how she fared, Martha wept at her out of terrified eyes. ‘Help me, mistress, I don’t want to die. Take me home, I beg you, don’t make me—’ She leaned over to retch piteously, her body racked with the force of it. The house slave brought some Spanish port mixed with watered ale and Elspet made Martha down a good measure of it in a drench, though Martha pleaded with her to leave her be; she did not want it all to come back up again. Thanks be to God, it worked and Martha fell to sleeping at last. Elspet was desperate to rest herself, for she was near dropping with tiredness. It was all she could do to kneel and make her prayers. When she climbed into the creaking bed she tossed and turned, her thoughts jumbled together. She recalled the strange effect of Agrippa’s diagram, the snatched phrases of Zachary’s dismissive words, both caught in the memory of the uneasy rattle of Mr Wilmot’s breath.
