you would not believe how long it has taken me to write this.
The next three days passed more or less in bland tranquility. That was well with me, as in one day I had experienced enough moving about and shifting of emotion to last me a lifetime. If my father seemed more anxious than usual, it barely registered. My own anxiety had settled in my gut in the form of a bezoar which grew every hour and crowded my stomach so that I did not eat more than a couple of mouthfuls of bread.
I still didn't understand what was happening, and I dared not ask my father. He hadn't brought any of it up to me since we'd left Holly and the mysterious woman back at the labs, and I had no illusions that he intended to explain anything else. He had shown me what he had out of necessity, because he feared that his own life would end. For my own part, I spent the next three days wondering what would become of me, should my father meet his end. I devised a set of possible scenarios, each with outcomes more unfavorable than the last. More than anything, I prayed as I never had before.
The Royal Opera House at Covent Garden was a somewhat spectacular building, though not nearly so sensational as Newgate Prison. It's facade was an absurdly large and white structure that towered over us as we drew nearer. Outside, knots of aristocrats had gathered, and a miasma of French perfume and body odor hung over the group like gathering rain clouds.
My father and I were, as always, dressed head to toe in black. We were undoubtedly the odd ones here, among the fops and dandies in their cascading wigs and expensive shoe buckles.
There were not many children present. In fact, it would be fair to say that I was the only one; in the somber garb of a Nonconformist it hardly semed strange that I attracted many confused looks.
"Make eye contact with no one," my father instructed me. It was unnecessary. Since our arrival, my eyes had not left the ground beneath my feet. I practically had to be dragged through the doors of the opera house, since my consciousness seemed to have separated itself from my body, floating around ten paces behind the rest of me.
From the outside, the building had seemed huge and impressive. Once inside its size was considerably diminished, but it didn't make it any less daunting. The atmosphere was heavier still than it had been outside, and the combination of the odor and the angles of the aisles and seats leading to the vanishing point of the proscenium arch inspired in me a powerful vertigo.
My father led me through a series of winding corridors until we emerged above the auditorium in one of the private boxes. I was barely able to suppress a gasp when I recognized the box's other inhabitants.
They were not the sorts of people with whom I would normally have occasioned to socialize. A man whom I recognized from wood-cuttings on Ned Ward's libels as a Privy Counciller by the name of Charles Montagu sat with a pleasant-faced young lady at his side. There were two gentlemen I had difficulty recognizing simply because I had never seen them wearing anything but red alchemist's robes. Of course, none of them really even registered as soon as I laid eyes on the white and drawn face of Isaac Newton.
"Good evening," said Newton, turning his philosopher's eyes upon my father and myself. An involuntary chill shot down my spine.
I still didn't understand what was happening, and I dared not ask my father. He hadn't brought any of it up to me since we'd left Holly and the mysterious woman back at the labs, and I had no illusions that he intended to explain anything else. He had shown me what he had out of necessity, because he feared that his own life would end. For my own part, I spent the next three days wondering what would become of me, should my father meet his end. I devised a set of possible scenarios, each with outcomes more unfavorable than the last. More than anything, I prayed as I never had before.
The Royal Opera House at Covent Garden was a somewhat spectacular building, though not nearly so sensational as Newgate Prison. It's facade was an absurdly large and white structure that towered over us as we drew nearer. Outside, knots of aristocrats had gathered, and a miasma of French perfume and body odor hung over the group like gathering rain clouds.
My father and I were, as always, dressed head to toe in black. We were undoubtedly the odd ones here, among the fops and dandies in their cascading wigs and expensive shoe buckles.
There were not many children present. In fact, it would be fair to say that I was the only one; in the somber garb of a Nonconformist it hardly semed strange that I attracted many confused looks.
"Make eye contact with no one," my father instructed me. It was unnecessary. Since our arrival, my eyes had not left the ground beneath my feet. I practically had to be dragged through the doors of the opera house, since my consciousness seemed to have separated itself from my body, floating around ten paces behind the rest of me.
From the outside, the building had seemed huge and impressive. Once inside its size was considerably diminished, but it didn't make it any less daunting. The atmosphere was heavier still than it had been outside, and the combination of the odor and the angles of the aisles and seats leading to the vanishing point of the proscenium arch inspired in me a powerful vertigo.
My father led me through a series of winding corridors until we emerged above the auditorium in one of the private boxes. I was barely able to suppress a gasp when I recognized the box's other inhabitants.
They were not the sorts of people with whom I would normally have occasioned to socialize. A man whom I recognized from wood-cuttings on Ned Ward's libels as a Privy Counciller by the name of Charles Montagu sat with a pleasant-faced young lady at his side. There were two gentlemen I had difficulty recognizing simply because I had never seen them wearing anything but red alchemist's robes. Of course, none of them really even registered as soon as I laid eyes on the white and drawn face of Isaac Newton.
"Good evening," said Newton, turning his philosopher's eyes upon my father and myself. An involuntary chill shot down my spine.