Laboratories of the Esoteric Brotherhood, 1701
Ordinarily, at this time of afternoon the place would have been bustling with activity. There would have been a knot of gentlemen just inside the gate, wearing red robes and talking about planets and/or metals with some ambiguity. Windows would have borne faces and the serpentine paths would have been cluttered with errand boys and particularly absent-minded alchemists. Today, there was no one.
"Where are they all?" I asked, more to the air than to my father. It was just the sort of idle question that he discouraged; but, to my surprise, he answered it.
"Gresham's College, I would expect."
I had been to Gresham's College before, and I was aware that it was home to the Royal Society. Therefore, this statement piqued my interest. "Gresham!" I might have shouted if I'd been a different sort of child, but the word left my mouth in a shocked gasp.
"All wanting to be closer to Mr. Newton," my father added.
Jim Holly made a disgusting noise, and spat onto the cobbles at our feet. "Nice o' them t' clear the place out fer us," he replied, and began limping toward the gate.
The compound was not entirely deserted, but it was close enough. Holly's mask had been replaced, and if anyone thought it odd that my father and I were escorting an obvious syphilitic into the bowels of the laboratories, they exhibited no outward sign of it. It became clearer to me as we descended into the cellars (via the traditional way, this time) that this sort of thing was rather ordinary in my father's life. It was a realization that settled in my gut like the sediments of a riverbank, and filled me with dread.
We came to a workshop that was far more austere than most of the others I had seen. There were no rows of ornate glassware, no star charts or mash-ups of alchemical symbols tacked to the walls. It took me some small amount of time to figure out that this had once been my father's office.
What disturbed me more than anything that day so far had were the implements that hung from tidy hooks in one corner. I had seen nothing like them before. Wicked spikes and hooks, hammers and chains, and I somehow knew instantly their purpose, despite my naivete. That realization, piled on top of the day's other revelations, Holly's stench, and a life that had until that moment ill-prepared me for any of it, caused a wave of nausea to finally overcome me. My stomach heaved and the contents of my gut emptied onto the packed dirt floor.
"Where are they all?" I asked, more to the air than to my father. It was just the sort of idle question that he discouraged; but, to my surprise, he answered it.
"Gresham's College, I would expect."
I had been to Gresham's College before, and I was aware that it was home to the Royal Society. Therefore, this statement piqued my interest. "Gresham!" I might have shouted if I'd been a different sort of child, but the word left my mouth in a shocked gasp.
"All wanting to be closer to Mr. Newton," my father added.
Jim Holly made a disgusting noise, and spat onto the cobbles at our feet. "Nice o' them t' clear the place out fer us," he replied, and began limping toward the gate.
The compound was not entirely deserted, but it was close enough. Holly's mask had been replaced, and if anyone thought it odd that my father and I were escorting an obvious syphilitic into the bowels of the laboratories, they exhibited no outward sign of it. It became clearer to me as we descended into the cellars (via the traditional way, this time) that this sort of thing was rather ordinary in my father's life. It was a realization that settled in my gut like the sediments of a riverbank, and filled me with dread.
We came to a workshop that was far more austere than most of the others I had seen. There were no rows of ornate glassware, no star charts or mash-ups of alchemical symbols tacked to the walls. It took me some small amount of time to figure out that this had once been my father's office.
What disturbed me more than anything that day so far had were the implements that hung from tidy hooks in one corner. I had seen nothing like them before. Wicked spikes and hooks, hammers and chains, and I somehow knew instantly their purpose, despite my naivete. That realization, piled on top of the day's other revelations, Holly's stench, and a life that had until that moment ill-prepared me for any of it, caused a wave of nausea to finally overcome me. My stomach heaved and the contents of my gut emptied onto the packed dirt floor.