Steve Ruskin's Blog - Posts Tagged "newton-cipher"
Newton Cipher—Excerpt #3
For the next week or so, at the request of the publisher, I'll be posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. Enjoy! And if they whet your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher
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Excerpt #3
ESPRESSO
University of Notre Dame South Bend, Indiana
...
“Please, Ekaterina, sit!” the old professor said, indicating the chair she just abandoned, even as most of the 1985s tumbled onto the floor.
“I’m good,” Trina said, raising the cup to her mouth. The smell was incredible, rich and earthy. And the first sip, despite the bitterness, was thick and warm—almost chewy—and sweet enough for her to down in two gulps.
“Just like Italians,” Edelstein said, downing his as quickly, pipe still dangling from one corner of his mouth.
“So,” Trina said, setting her empty cup down next to the grinder. “Inviting me for espresso usually means you’ve something to discuss.”
Edelstein took it upon himself to remove the remaining journals from Trina’s chair and then settled into his own chair behind the large desk—she was sure there was still a desk under there somewhere—in the center of the room.
“How’s life, Ekaterina? You’re enjoying teaching my old seminar here in the Institute?”
“Absolutely. Most of the kids are just in it for the credits, but as always, there are a few who make it worthwhile.”
“Indeed, indeed. You’re still with that boy? Gary? It’s going well?”
“Gavin,” she said. Edelstein never forgot names. And she and Gavin weren’t fine. What was with all the small talk? “We’re fine.”
“I understand you are still working as a forensic document analyst?” He plowed ahead, clearly aiming at something. “How’s that going?”
“Fine,” she said again. And this time she meant it. “The past year I became a member of the International Questioned Document Examiners Association. Really helped me land more gigs, especially with my subspecialty.”
“Ah, the IQDEA,” he said, pronouncing it eye-queue-dee-ah. “A mouthful, that one. What kind of temporary employments have you landed?”
She laughed. It was a mouthful. “Mostly giving my professional opinion on forged documents. In court, or depositions, for cases like divorces and inheritances. Haven’t had much proper historical work, unfortunately. The few I did get mostly involved disputed nineteenth- century land contracts. Not quite the jet-setting lifestyle I’d hoped. My passport is just collecting dust. The most exotic place I’ve been to all year was Paris.”
“France?”
“Texas.”
“Intoxicating!”
“It pays the bills. Until I can find a proper archivist position, or
maybe a full-time teaching job somewhere, that is.”
“Ah, well,” he paused. Here we go. “Speaking of jobs ...”
“Yes?”
“You know I’ve authenticated a fair share of historical documents
in my time.”
“Of course. You’ve been my role model in more ways than one. I
still want to be you when I grow up.”
“Well, you’d best get started, then. Unlike me, you’re not getting any
younger.”
“Ha,” she said. “You don’t look a day over seventy-five.”
“You’re too kind, Ekaterina. Add ten years, give or take, and you’re
not far off.”
“You look great for your age, Alasdair.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. But looking good and feeling good are not
the same thing. Milan was nice, but I’m not going back. Italy, Europe, anywhere. The travel, the flights, the trains ... too much. I have my little house here, above the river. It needs a good cleaning. And paint. And come spring, the garden will need some serious work.”
“You deserve a quiet retirement, Alasdair.”
“And I intend to have one. But,” he waved his pipe around, “as you can see, I hate leaving things so ... untidy.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Don’t mock me. I’m not talking about my office. I’m talking about the past.”
“Huh?”
“The past is a messy place. I did what I could to tidy it up, but I’m afraid there is work yet to be done.”
“I guess so,” Trina said. “Scholarship is a lifetime vocation.”
“Oh, I’m not referring to scholarship or teaching or publishing. Academia has enough damn journals full of articles nobody reads written by assistant professors so they can get tenure and end up with an office like mine. Look around, is this really such a prize? I’m talking about protecting the past, Ekaterina.”
“I’m afraid you lost me.”
He tented his fingers and rested his chin on the tips. Then he looked her in the eye.
“Do you really want to have a career like mine?”
“Didn’t I just say I did?”
His fingers separated, the pipe came out, and he leaned forward. “I
received a message from England today. Seems the British Library has need of an outside expert who does what I do—what we do. To look at some very important, very sensitive, documents. The gentleman who called got my name from an old friend of mine at Cambridge, Fiona McFee, who told him I was in Italy. He was disappointed to learn I had already flown home.”
“And?”
“And? Oh, yes. He asked if I could recommend anyone else.” “And ...?”
“I said I could.”
Trina hoped this was going where she thought it was going. “Me?” Please, oh please.
He paused ... then nodded.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, jumping out of her chair. “Thank you, Alasdair! The British Library ... I can’t believe it. Whose documents am I looking at?”
“Newton.”
She gasped. “You mean Sir Isaac Newton?”
“The same. If legitimate, these documents will be the first Newton
papers discovered in over a century. But there’s one caveat.” “What is it?” Trina was positively buzzing now.
“They appear to be written in some kind of code.”
-------
Excerpt #3
ESPRESSO
University of Notre Dame South Bend, Indiana
...
“Please, Ekaterina, sit!” the old professor said, indicating the chair she just abandoned, even as most of the 1985s tumbled onto the floor.
“I’m good,” Trina said, raising the cup to her mouth. The smell was incredible, rich and earthy. And the first sip, despite the bitterness, was thick and warm—almost chewy—and sweet enough for her to down in two gulps.
“Just like Italians,” Edelstein said, downing his as quickly, pipe still dangling from one corner of his mouth.
“So,” Trina said, setting her empty cup down next to the grinder. “Inviting me for espresso usually means you’ve something to discuss.”
Edelstein took it upon himself to remove the remaining journals from Trina’s chair and then settled into his own chair behind the large desk—she was sure there was still a desk under there somewhere—in the center of the room.
“How’s life, Ekaterina? You’re enjoying teaching my old seminar here in the Institute?”
“Absolutely. Most of the kids are just in it for the credits, but as always, there are a few who make it worthwhile.”
“Indeed, indeed. You’re still with that boy? Gary? It’s going well?”
“Gavin,” she said. Edelstein never forgot names. And she and Gavin weren’t fine. What was with all the small talk? “We’re fine.”
“I understand you are still working as a forensic document analyst?” He plowed ahead, clearly aiming at something. “How’s that going?”
“Fine,” she said again. And this time she meant it. “The past year I became a member of the International Questioned Document Examiners Association. Really helped me land more gigs, especially with my subspecialty.”
“Ah, the IQDEA,” he said, pronouncing it eye-queue-dee-ah. “A mouthful, that one. What kind of temporary employments have you landed?”
She laughed. It was a mouthful. “Mostly giving my professional opinion on forged documents. In court, or depositions, for cases like divorces and inheritances. Haven’t had much proper historical work, unfortunately. The few I did get mostly involved disputed nineteenth- century land contracts. Not quite the jet-setting lifestyle I’d hoped. My passport is just collecting dust. The most exotic place I’ve been to all year was Paris.”
“France?”
“Texas.”
“Intoxicating!”
“It pays the bills. Until I can find a proper archivist position, or
maybe a full-time teaching job somewhere, that is.”
“Ah, well,” he paused. Here we go. “Speaking of jobs ...”
“Yes?”
“You know I’ve authenticated a fair share of historical documents
in my time.”
“Of course. You’ve been my role model in more ways than one. I
still want to be you when I grow up.”
“Well, you’d best get started, then. Unlike me, you’re not getting any
younger.”
“Ha,” she said. “You don’t look a day over seventy-five.”
“You’re too kind, Ekaterina. Add ten years, give or take, and you’re
not far off.”
“You look great for your age, Alasdair.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. But looking good and feeling good are not
the same thing. Milan was nice, but I’m not going back. Italy, Europe, anywhere. The travel, the flights, the trains ... too much. I have my little house here, above the river. It needs a good cleaning. And paint. And come spring, the garden will need some serious work.”
“You deserve a quiet retirement, Alasdair.”
“And I intend to have one. But,” he waved his pipe around, “as you can see, I hate leaving things so ... untidy.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Don’t mock me. I’m not talking about my office. I’m talking about the past.”
“Huh?”
“The past is a messy place. I did what I could to tidy it up, but I’m afraid there is work yet to be done.”
“I guess so,” Trina said. “Scholarship is a lifetime vocation.”
“Oh, I’m not referring to scholarship or teaching or publishing. Academia has enough damn journals full of articles nobody reads written by assistant professors so they can get tenure and end up with an office like mine. Look around, is this really such a prize? I’m talking about protecting the past, Ekaterina.”
“I’m afraid you lost me.”
He tented his fingers and rested his chin on the tips. Then he looked her in the eye.
“Do you really want to have a career like mine?”
“Didn’t I just say I did?”
His fingers separated, the pipe came out, and he leaned forward. “I
received a message from England today. Seems the British Library has need of an outside expert who does what I do—what we do. To look at some very important, very sensitive, documents. The gentleman who called got my name from an old friend of mine at Cambridge, Fiona McFee, who told him I was in Italy. He was disappointed to learn I had already flown home.”
“And?”
“And? Oh, yes. He asked if I could recommend anyone else.” “And ...?”
“I said I could.”
Trina hoped this was going where she thought it was going. “Me?” Please, oh please.
He paused ... then nodded.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, jumping out of her chair. “Thank you, Alasdair! The British Library ... I can’t believe it. Whose documents am I looking at?”
“Newton.”
She gasped. “You mean Sir Isaac Newton?”
“The same. If legitimate, these documents will be the first Newton
papers discovered in over a century. But there’s one caveat.” “What is it?” Trina was positively buzzing now.
“They appear to be written in some kind of code.”
Newton Cipher—Excerpt #4
For the next week or so, at the request of the publisher, I'll be posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. Enjoy! And if they whet your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher
EXCERPT #4
-------
HOUSE ON THE HILL
South Bend, Indiana
Alasdair Edelstein’s house sat at the top of a small hill in an old South Bend neighborhood. Last month, the neighborhood would still have been described as leafy. Now, at the end of November, it was merely icy.
He steered his old Volvo slowly along the winding neighborhood street, peering through the thickly falling snow. The windshield wipers jerked back and forth, feebly flicking away the flakes half melted by his defroster.
His old eyes had enough difficulty in good visibility. In the darkness and in the snow, he was unable to see any further ahead than the next faint sphere of light cast by the irregularly spaced streetlights on either side of the curving road.
Finally, where the street ended in a cul-de-sac, he aimed the Volvo between the two brick pillars that marked the sides of his driveway. The pillar on the left doubled as his mailbox, and he stopped long enough to roll down the window and collect its contents.
The snow had already covered the driveway ahead, but decades of experience coming home in inclement weather took over. He revved the engine, turned the wheel just past the first big oak on the right, and gunned it again to make it up the second switchback.
In hindsight, he knew should have left his office at the University much earlier, but he wanted to finish Trina’s letter of recommendation, as well as send a few emails. And do a quick bit of research on sixteenth- century occultism.
He’d been thinking ...
A weather-beaten birdbath suddenly appeared in the headlights, looking like a giant snow-capped mushroom. The bath marked his next turn, and he swung the Volvo to the left, accelerating to get the momentum he needed to make it up the final—and steepest—part of the driveway.
When he was younger, he’d loved the long approach to his house. In fact, that was what first sold him on it—a tottering old Victorian, in need of a good coat of paint, perched high atop four acres of heavily treed hill. Behind it, a three-tiered garden stepped down to the slow- moving Saint Joseph river. As a bonus, the twisting driveway that led up from the cul-de-sac below was daunting enough to turn away most unwanted guests.
Once he moved in, however, his house and its eccentric occupant were intriguing enough to entice adventurous trick-or-treaters and Christmas carolers, who soon learned that Edelstein was eccentric but quite generous. Those who did make the climb up the driveway were rewarded with extra-large candy bars, or, during the week before Christmas, his own special wassail blended with Saigon cinnamon and French armagnac.
In short, he was the kind of quirky old man his neighbors rather liked, rather than shunned, even if they only saw him occasionally. And that was how he liked it.
But he was in his 80s now, and the neighbors came by less and less. At this age, the driveway was a challenge on good days and a downright menace on bad ones. His driving skill simply wasn’t what it used to be, and, for that matter, neither was his old Volvo.
When the engine revved around the final turn, the Volvo’s back end fishtailed, the tires spinning in the heavy snow. The car slipped left and then, with a jolt, skidded off the driveway.
Thud.
Edelstein winced as the side of car hit the birdbath. He pressed the gas again, but the wheels just spun, causing the Volvo to shimmy and then, alarmingly, begin to slide backward.
“Damn,” Edelstein muttered. The only forward progress now would be on his own two feet.
He turned off the ignition, yanked on the emergency brake, and grabbed his leather satchel off the passenger seat, first stuffing the mail inside. He put on his gloves, set his tweed cap on his head, and flicked on the tiny flashlight that dangled on the end of his keychain. Then he opened the door and carefully stepped out.
The last few yards were relatively steep, and he took slow, sideways steps to keep his footing, aiming the light ahead of him as he made his way to where the driveway leveled off.
That was when he noticed the faint impressions in the snow, only partly covered by fresh flakes.
Footsteps, going to his front door.
Someone had been here. And not long ago.
The front door was closed, but unlocked. Edelstein pretended not
to notice the small puddles of water on the mat inside as he turned the knob and pushed the door open fully. He flicked on the light and set his gloves and keys on the round table in the center of the foyer.
Old floorboards creaked as he walked down the hallway to the kitchen. It was not a particularly large house, but it contained such a variety of little rooms and passages that it felt much bigger than it was.
He filled a glass with tap water in the kitchen, and then made his way through the old butler’s pantry to his office, a converted scullery at the back of the house. Former pantry shelves were now stocked with books, and a large window looked out on the back gardens and down to the river. The view was dark—all he could see were the accumulations of snow in the corners of the old window panes.
Edelstein set down his satchel, took out the mail, and placed it alongside the glass of water on top of his scuffed wooden desk.
He turned on a small lamp. Soft yellow light reached the spines of old books and scholarly journals crammed onto the shelves around him. On one wall, a faded print of Teniers the Younger’s The Alchemist hung in a cheap frame. Edelstein peered at it: an old man, hunched over a bellows to heat a crucible, transmuting one metal into another; behind him hovered his acolytes, discussing their own decoctions, seemingly oblivious to the magical transformation the alchemist was about to produce.
But he was their teacher. Their turn would come.
Edelstein looked at the glass of water, still untouched, then idly patted the pocket of his coat.
Outside the wind blew, rattling the panes and pushing against the outer walls. The old house creaked. In the front hall, the grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour, a distant echo from the far side of the house.
He almost didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.
Almost.
Edelstein held his hand to the glass on his desk, palm outward. The
water within trembled, sending slight ripples up against the rim.
“I wondered if you’d come,” Edelstein said. Then he added, “I
won’t let you harm her.”
The man’s accent was thick.
“We shall see. Why do you not drink your water?”
Edelstein laughed. “Have you ever tasted South Bend tap water?
Even you wouldn’t drink it.”
“Now it will be harder to kill you.”
“Impossible, I should think.” Slowly, almost arthritically, Edelstein
sat back into the chair behind his desk.
The shadow stepped forward into the lamplight, resolving into a big man in a dark coat.
“Perhaps. But I shall try.”
EXCERPT #4
-------
HOUSE ON THE HILL
South Bend, Indiana
Alasdair Edelstein’s house sat at the top of a small hill in an old South Bend neighborhood. Last month, the neighborhood would still have been described as leafy. Now, at the end of November, it was merely icy.
He steered his old Volvo slowly along the winding neighborhood street, peering through the thickly falling snow. The windshield wipers jerked back and forth, feebly flicking away the flakes half melted by his defroster.
His old eyes had enough difficulty in good visibility. In the darkness and in the snow, he was unable to see any further ahead than the next faint sphere of light cast by the irregularly spaced streetlights on either side of the curving road.
Finally, where the street ended in a cul-de-sac, he aimed the Volvo between the two brick pillars that marked the sides of his driveway. The pillar on the left doubled as his mailbox, and he stopped long enough to roll down the window and collect its contents.
The snow had already covered the driveway ahead, but decades of experience coming home in inclement weather took over. He revved the engine, turned the wheel just past the first big oak on the right, and gunned it again to make it up the second switchback.
In hindsight, he knew should have left his office at the University much earlier, but he wanted to finish Trina’s letter of recommendation, as well as send a few emails. And do a quick bit of research on sixteenth- century occultism.
He’d been thinking ...
A weather-beaten birdbath suddenly appeared in the headlights, looking like a giant snow-capped mushroom. The bath marked his next turn, and he swung the Volvo to the left, accelerating to get the momentum he needed to make it up the final—and steepest—part of the driveway.
When he was younger, he’d loved the long approach to his house. In fact, that was what first sold him on it—a tottering old Victorian, in need of a good coat of paint, perched high atop four acres of heavily treed hill. Behind it, a three-tiered garden stepped down to the slow- moving Saint Joseph river. As a bonus, the twisting driveway that led up from the cul-de-sac below was daunting enough to turn away most unwanted guests.
Once he moved in, however, his house and its eccentric occupant were intriguing enough to entice adventurous trick-or-treaters and Christmas carolers, who soon learned that Edelstein was eccentric but quite generous. Those who did make the climb up the driveway were rewarded with extra-large candy bars, or, during the week before Christmas, his own special wassail blended with Saigon cinnamon and French armagnac.
In short, he was the kind of quirky old man his neighbors rather liked, rather than shunned, even if they only saw him occasionally. And that was how he liked it.
But he was in his 80s now, and the neighbors came by less and less. At this age, the driveway was a challenge on good days and a downright menace on bad ones. His driving skill simply wasn’t what it used to be, and, for that matter, neither was his old Volvo.
When the engine revved around the final turn, the Volvo’s back end fishtailed, the tires spinning in the heavy snow. The car slipped left and then, with a jolt, skidded off the driveway.
Thud.
Edelstein winced as the side of car hit the birdbath. He pressed the gas again, but the wheels just spun, causing the Volvo to shimmy and then, alarmingly, begin to slide backward.
“Damn,” Edelstein muttered. The only forward progress now would be on his own two feet.
He turned off the ignition, yanked on the emergency brake, and grabbed his leather satchel off the passenger seat, first stuffing the mail inside. He put on his gloves, set his tweed cap on his head, and flicked on the tiny flashlight that dangled on the end of his keychain. Then he opened the door and carefully stepped out.
The last few yards were relatively steep, and he took slow, sideways steps to keep his footing, aiming the light ahead of him as he made his way to where the driveway leveled off.
That was when he noticed the faint impressions in the snow, only partly covered by fresh flakes.
Footsteps, going to his front door.
Someone had been here. And not long ago.
The front door was closed, but unlocked. Edelstein pretended not
to notice the small puddles of water on the mat inside as he turned the knob and pushed the door open fully. He flicked on the light and set his gloves and keys on the round table in the center of the foyer.
Old floorboards creaked as he walked down the hallway to the kitchen. It was not a particularly large house, but it contained such a variety of little rooms and passages that it felt much bigger than it was.
He filled a glass with tap water in the kitchen, and then made his way through the old butler’s pantry to his office, a converted scullery at the back of the house. Former pantry shelves were now stocked with books, and a large window looked out on the back gardens and down to the river. The view was dark—all he could see were the accumulations of snow in the corners of the old window panes.
Edelstein set down his satchel, took out the mail, and placed it alongside the glass of water on top of his scuffed wooden desk.
He turned on a small lamp. Soft yellow light reached the spines of old books and scholarly journals crammed onto the shelves around him. On one wall, a faded print of Teniers the Younger’s The Alchemist hung in a cheap frame. Edelstein peered at it: an old man, hunched over a bellows to heat a crucible, transmuting one metal into another; behind him hovered his acolytes, discussing their own decoctions, seemingly oblivious to the magical transformation the alchemist was about to produce.
But he was their teacher. Their turn would come.
Edelstein looked at the glass of water, still untouched, then idly patted the pocket of his coat.
Outside the wind blew, rattling the panes and pushing against the outer walls. The old house creaked. In the front hall, the grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour, a distant echo from the far side of the house.
He almost didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.
Almost.
Edelstein held his hand to the glass on his desk, palm outward. The
water within trembled, sending slight ripples up against the rim.
“I wondered if you’d come,” Edelstein said. Then he added, “I
won’t let you harm her.”
The man’s accent was thick.
“We shall see. Why do you not drink your water?”
Edelstein laughed. “Have you ever tasted South Bend tap water?
Even you wouldn’t drink it.”
“Now it will be harder to kill you.”
“Impossible, I should think.” Slowly, almost arthritically, Edelstein
sat back into the chair behind his desk.
The shadow stepped forward into the lamplight, resolving into a big man in a dark coat.
“Perhaps. But I shall try.”
Newton Cipher—Excerpt #5
For the next week or so, at the request of the publisher, I'll be posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. Enjoy! And if they whet your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher
EXCERPT #5
-------
THE GRECIAN
The Grecian Coffee House London
Late January, 1683
Isaac settled onto the wooden bench at the back of the room, resting his elbows on the table. The Grecian Coffee House was a small yellow building in Devereux Court, just off Fleet Street near the Strand. It was popular with members of the Royal Society, but today’s meeting was not on Society business. Across the room he caught the stares of men he knew, but they quickly looked away.
“Coffee?” A woman stopped at his table by with a stack of clay cups and a steaming jug.
He shook his head, no.
Isaac was not one for the hot-steeped Arabian berry. The liquid it produced was all blackness and bitterness, a taste that others, but not he, had acquired. With thousands of coffee shops in England, it seemed that all of London had taken to the intoxicating effects of the strange drink. They were not the same effects as gin or other alcohols of grain, but a kind of intoxication none the less: enhancing the senses and intensifying the thoughts of the mind.
Isaac could respect the enhancing benefits of coffee, but disliked the other effects: the jitteriness that enflamed the yellow bile, making him agitated and choleric. He drank the stuff sparingly.
Minutes went by, and he remained alone, listening only vaguely to the din of conversation around him, smelling the scent of tobacco and newsprint.
He reached into his pocket and flipped the little card onto the table, the one that had come to him in Cambridge a few days earlier.
The Grecian, London. Wednesday, after the noon. —♄
Like most requests for his time, he would have ignored it had not been for the signature: not a name, a symbol.
♄, the alchemical symbol for lead, the basest of metals. But also, the metal with the greatest potential for transformation.
In Latin, plumbum.
Plumbago.
Isaac always wondered if, or rather when, this day would come. They
day they would meet again, face to face, instead of Plumbago sending him instructions and Newton complying, creating the formulas and elixirs Plumbago demanded, all in exchange for the man’s silence.
He tapped the table with fingers burned black by caustic chemicals. The tips were cracked, the nails bitten to the quick.
Then the man himself was there, sliding into the opposite bench and setting his hat on the table between them. He’d changed little in the two decades since Isaac had seen him, back in his undergraduate rooms at Cambridge during the time of the plague.
“Isaac Newton,” Plumbago said. “God save the King.”
If Plumbago was a day older than when he saw him last, Isaac couldn’t tell. But the man’s fashion had changed even if his well- groomed mustache had not: the velvet coat remained, but the lace at his cuffs and collar was shorter, and the brim of his hat was upturned on three sides, following the current fashion.
“God save the King,” Isaac said automatically.
“You look ... more mature.”
Isaac’s hair had gone prematurely white. Not the white of an old
man, but silvery-pale, the shimmering color of the philosophick mercury, Quicksilver. Travel from Cambridge had dulled that sheen to a dingy gray, but still remarkable for one whose face and features clearly marked him as a young man.
“I should hope so. It’s been twenty years.”
Plumbago motioned for coffee.
“Your fame as a natural philosopher is known far and wide, Isaac.
When I first approached you, I had heard you were gifted. But even I had no idea: mechanickal philosophy? something called the binomial calculus of fluxions, which, despite my own considerable intellect, I am at a loss to understand? Oh, and the very nature of light! They say you have a book in the works, a book that will change our understanding of the laws of the heavens. A new celestial mechanics? You are indeed a wonder, Mister Newton.”
The coffee came, two steaming ceramic cups rattling on saucers. Isaac didn’t refuse it this time.
Plumbago sipped with evident pleasure, while Isaac watched the steam rise and curl, half of his mind unconsciously calculating the areas traced by their fluctuating curves.
“They say each of London’s coffee houses have different clientele,” Plumbago said, after a time. “Some are frequented by the bankers, others by the insurers. Some, even, by conspirators and radicals.”
Newton knew this already. “I understand Lloyd’s is quite popular. Could we have not met there?”
“Lloyd’s?” Plumbago set his cup down, now half empty. “That is the coffee house for the shipping merchants, just as Jonathan’s is the house for the stock brokers. And this, the Grecian, is the coffee house of the philosophers. England is coffee-mad, Isaac. There’s a coffee house for everyone, and everyone in their proper house. The cosmos itself could not have ordered it better.”
“How very Aristotelian.”
“Don’t overthink it, Isaac. I simply thought you would feel more at home at the Grecian.”
“Nonsense. You wanted me in a public place, one where I am known. Presumably so I will not act out of turn.”
“A safe deduction,” Plumbago said, shrugging. “You do have something of a reputation. You and Mr. Hooke had quite a dispute over the nature of light, I understand? Poor old Hooke. I have no desire to cross swords with you, Isaac. The last time we met, I relied on your ignorance. I misjudged you.”
Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “And now?”
“I rely instead upon your evident genius.”
“Flattery?” Isaac shook his head. “After you’ve spent the past twenty years blackmailing me?”
EXCERPT #5
-------
THE GRECIAN
The Grecian Coffee House London
Late January, 1683
Isaac settled onto the wooden bench at the back of the room, resting his elbows on the table. The Grecian Coffee House was a small yellow building in Devereux Court, just off Fleet Street near the Strand. It was popular with members of the Royal Society, but today’s meeting was not on Society business. Across the room he caught the stares of men he knew, but they quickly looked away.
“Coffee?” A woman stopped at his table by with a stack of clay cups and a steaming jug.
He shook his head, no.
Isaac was not one for the hot-steeped Arabian berry. The liquid it produced was all blackness and bitterness, a taste that others, but not he, had acquired. With thousands of coffee shops in England, it seemed that all of London had taken to the intoxicating effects of the strange drink. They were not the same effects as gin or other alcohols of grain, but a kind of intoxication none the less: enhancing the senses and intensifying the thoughts of the mind.
Isaac could respect the enhancing benefits of coffee, but disliked the other effects: the jitteriness that enflamed the yellow bile, making him agitated and choleric. He drank the stuff sparingly.
Minutes went by, and he remained alone, listening only vaguely to the din of conversation around him, smelling the scent of tobacco and newsprint.
He reached into his pocket and flipped the little card onto the table, the one that had come to him in Cambridge a few days earlier.
The Grecian, London. Wednesday, after the noon. —♄
Like most requests for his time, he would have ignored it had not been for the signature: not a name, a symbol.
♄, the alchemical symbol for lead, the basest of metals. But also, the metal with the greatest potential for transformation.
In Latin, plumbum.
Plumbago.
Isaac always wondered if, or rather when, this day would come. They
day they would meet again, face to face, instead of Plumbago sending him instructions and Newton complying, creating the formulas and elixirs Plumbago demanded, all in exchange for the man’s silence.
He tapped the table with fingers burned black by caustic chemicals. The tips were cracked, the nails bitten to the quick.
Then the man himself was there, sliding into the opposite bench and setting his hat on the table between them. He’d changed little in the two decades since Isaac had seen him, back in his undergraduate rooms at Cambridge during the time of the plague.
“Isaac Newton,” Plumbago said. “God save the King.”
If Plumbago was a day older than when he saw him last, Isaac couldn’t tell. But the man’s fashion had changed even if his well- groomed mustache had not: the velvet coat remained, but the lace at his cuffs and collar was shorter, and the brim of his hat was upturned on three sides, following the current fashion.
“God save the King,” Isaac said automatically.
“You look ... more mature.”
Isaac’s hair had gone prematurely white. Not the white of an old
man, but silvery-pale, the shimmering color of the philosophick mercury, Quicksilver. Travel from Cambridge had dulled that sheen to a dingy gray, but still remarkable for one whose face and features clearly marked him as a young man.
“I should hope so. It’s been twenty years.”
Plumbago motioned for coffee.
“Your fame as a natural philosopher is known far and wide, Isaac.
When I first approached you, I had heard you were gifted. But even I had no idea: mechanickal philosophy? something called the binomial calculus of fluxions, which, despite my own considerable intellect, I am at a loss to understand? Oh, and the very nature of light! They say you have a book in the works, a book that will change our understanding of the laws of the heavens. A new celestial mechanics? You are indeed a wonder, Mister Newton.”
The coffee came, two steaming ceramic cups rattling on saucers. Isaac didn’t refuse it this time.
Plumbago sipped with evident pleasure, while Isaac watched the steam rise and curl, half of his mind unconsciously calculating the areas traced by their fluctuating curves.
“They say each of London’s coffee houses have different clientele,” Plumbago said, after a time. “Some are frequented by the bankers, others by the insurers. Some, even, by conspirators and radicals.”
Newton knew this already. “I understand Lloyd’s is quite popular. Could we have not met there?”
“Lloyd’s?” Plumbago set his cup down, now half empty. “That is the coffee house for the shipping merchants, just as Jonathan’s is the house for the stock brokers. And this, the Grecian, is the coffee house of the philosophers. England is coffee-mad, Isaac. There’s a coffee house for everyone, and everyone in their proper house. The cosmos itself could not have ordered it better.”
“How very Aristotelian.”
“Don’t overthink it, Isaac. I simply thought you would feel more at home at the Grecian.”
“Nonsense. You wanted me in a public place, one where I am known. Presumably so I will not act out of turn.”
“A safe deduction,” Plumbago said, shrugging. “You do have something of a reputation. You and Mr. Hooke had quite a dispute over the nature of light, I understand? Poor old Hooke. I have no desire to cross swords with you, Isaac. The last time we met, I relied on your ignorance. I misjudged you.”
Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “And now?”
“I rely instead upon your evident genius.”
“Flattery?” Isaac shook his head. “After you’ve spent the past twenty years blackmailing me?”
Newton Cipher—Excerpt #6
For the next week or so, at the request of the publisher, I'll be posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. Enjoy! And if they whet your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher
EXCERPT #6
-------
ALFIE GILL
British Library
London
The guard buzzed them through the Staff Only door, and Trina followed Alfie Gill into the bowels of the British Library. They passed narrow rows of shelves stacked with books ten-feet high, ducked behind heavy, fireproof doors and down hallways, making their way into the bowels of one of the world’s largest libraries. Gill chattered the entire time.
“... Edelstein came highly recommended by Professor McFee. But then he recommended you just as highly. I cannot tell you how happy we are to have someone with your expertise to look at these pages.”
“Why me—or Edelstein?” she said. “Surely there must be a dozen British scholars who can authenticate a Newton manuscript?”
“True, true,” he said, leading her to a locked door. Fishing a key out of his pocket, he opened it and ushered her through with a gentlemanly sweep of his arm. Their labyrinthine journey had ended in a small room. Trina looked around. There was a table with a gray archival box and two sets of white cotton gloves; two simple chairs were nearby. Gill closed the door and offered her one of the chairs.
“British scholars will of course make the official announcement. But, as I’m sure you can understand, before we make a public statement we want to make sure what we’ve found is indeed authentic. Imagine: never-before discovered papers of Sir Isaac Newton! It will be the historical discovery of the decade. But should we announce such a thing too quickly and they turn out to be forgeries, we would look ridiculous. The concern of our director is that British scholars would not be impartial in this matter. They might ... jump the gun. So we turned to Edelstein, and now, to you.”
“But what about Professor McFee, at Cambridge? She must know about this. After all, you said she was the one who first recommended Edelstein.”
“I only told her that we needed some seventeenth-century documents authenticated and asked if she could recommend someone— someone outside Britain. And of course, I must insist you not take any photos of these documents during your investigation. I’m sure you understand. Shall we get started?”
“I understand. And yes, lets.”
He pulled on a pair of gloves and she did the same. Oils from their skin, or dirt from their hands, could damage the old, fragile documents.
“Are they all paper?” she asked. “Rag or some sort of flax pulp?”
“Partly,” Gill said, taking the lid off the box. “The bundle we found contained documents that seem to have been produced at different times. Two have been identified as standard paper pulp, beaten from combed flax.”
“Stamper?” she said, referring to the type of large wooden press used in the Middle Ages and Renaissance to help flatten wet pulp into sheets of paper.
“Yes. They bear the standard, pre-Hollander beater marks.”
Trina was thrilled to be talking shop with a fellow expert. “That certainly fits with the late-seventeenth, early eighteenth century time frame. Well within the parameters of Newton’s life.”
“Yes.”
“You mentioned that they were partly paper. Was there vellum as well?”
“Indeed,” Gill said. He dipped into the box and pulled out the first of the documents, a broad sheet that bore multiple fold marks. At the bottom was an attached ribbon, affixed with a wax seal. “This one is vellum parchment.”
“Thin sheepskin,” Trina said. “Far more expensive back then, but made to last a very long time. And reusable—you could just scrape the ink off and write over it today, if you wanted to.”
“I can’t tell you how many vellum parchments we have in our collection that look like they were just written a few decades ago, if not yesterday. Astounding stuff.”
“Is that a royal seal?” Trina reached forward and gently lifted the hard, coin-shaped blob of red wax that dangled at the bottom of the parchment’s ribbon. It looked like a polished stone—it was almost certainly hundreds of years old. Impressed into the wax on one side was an image of a seated ruler holding an orb and scepter—the standard symbology of a king. On the other was an image of a galloping horse and a rider holding a sword. Around the edges was an inscription in Latin.
“Regius Caroli II ... King Charles the Second. That also checks out.”
“This is a contract,” Gill said. “I’ve gone over it. My Latin is rusty, but it contains multiple provisions for some kind of work-for-hire. In addition to a lot of what we would call boilerplate, it specifies the delivery of two products. One is referred to as the ‘medicine,’ medicinae, and the other as the ‘cleanser,’ or purgo. You are welcome to review it at your convenience. But here ...” he pointed to the bottom of the contract “... is the signature.”
*Is. Newton, baccalaureus artium.
EXCERPT #6
-------
ALFIE GILL
British Library
London
The guard buzzed them through the Staff Only door, and Trina followed Alfie Gill into the bowels of the British Library. They passed narrow rows of shelves stacked with books ten-feet high, ducked behind heavy, fireproof doors and down hallways, making their way into the bowels of one of the world’s largest libraries. Gill chattered the entire time.
“... Edelstein came highly recommended by Professor McFee. But then he recommended you just as highly. I cannot tell you how happy we are to have someone with your expertise to look at these pages.”
“Why me—or Edelstein?” she said. “Surely there must be a dozen British scholars who can authenticate a Newton manuscript?”
“True, true,” he said, leading her to a locked door. Fishing a key out of his pocket, he opened it and ushered her through with a gentlemanly sweep of his arm. Their labyrinthine journey had ended in a small room. Trina looked around. There was a table with a gray archival box and two sets of white cotton gloves; two simple chairs were nearby. Gill closed the door and offered her one of the chairs.
“British scholars will of course make the official announcement. But, as I’m sure you can understand, before we make a public statement we want to make sure what we’ve found is indeed authentic. Imagine: never-before discovered papers of Sir Isaac Newton! It will be the historical discovery of the decade. But should we announce such a thing too quickly and they turn out to be forgeries, we would look ridiculous. The concern of our director is that British scholars would not be impartial in this matter. They might ... jump the gun. So we turned to Edelstein, and now, to you.”
“But what about Professor McFee, at Cambridge? She must know about this. After all, you said she was the one who first recommended Edelstein.”
“I only told her that we needed some seventeenth-century documents authenticated and asked if she could recommend someone— someone outside Britain. And of course, I must insist you not take any photos of these documents during your investigation. I’m sure you understand. Shall we get started?”
“I understand. And yes, lets.”
He pulled on a pair of gloves and she did the same. Oils from their skin, or dirt from their hands, could damage the old, fragile documents.
“Are they all paper?” she asked. “Rag or some sort of flax pulp?”
“Partly,” Gill said, taking the lid off the box. “The bundle we found contained documents that seem to have been produced at different times. Two have been identified as standard paper pulp, beaten from combed flax.”
“Stamper?” she said, referring to the type of large wooden press used in the Middle Ages and Renaissance to help flatten wet pulp into sheets of paper.
“Yes. They bear the standard, pre-Hollander beater marks.”
Trina was thrilled to be talking shop with a fellow expert. “That certainly fits with the late-seventeenth, early eighteenth century time frame. Well within the parameters of Newton’s life.”
“Yes.”
“You mentioned that they were partly paper. Was there vellum as well?”
“Indeed,” Gill said. He dipped into the box and pulled out the first of the documents, a broad sheet that bore multiple fold marks. At the bottom was an attached ribbon, affixed with a wax seal. “This one is vellum parchment.”
“Thin sheepskin,” Trina said. “Far more expensive back then, but made to last a very long time. And reusable—you could just scrape the ink off and write over it today, if you wanted to.”
“I can’t tell you how many vellum parchments we have in our collection that look like they were just written a few decades ago, if not yesterday. Astounding stuff.”
“Is that a royal seal?” Trina reached forward and gently lifted the hard, coin-shaped blob of red wax that dangled at the bottom of the parchment’s ribbon. It looked like a polished stone—it was almost certainly hundreds of years old. Impressed into the wax on one side was an image of a seated ruler holding an orb and scepter—the standard symbology of a king. On the other was an image of a galloping horse and a rider holding a sword. Around the edges was an inscription in Latin.
“Regius Caroli II ... King Charles the Second. That also checks out.”
“This is a contract,” Gill said. “I’ve gone over it. My Latin is rusty, but it contains multiple provisions for some kind of work-for-hire. In addition to a lot of what we would call boilerplate, it specifies the delivery of two products. One is referred to as the ‘medicine,’ medicinae, and the other as the ‘cleanser,’ or purgo. You are welcome to review it at your convenience. But here ...” he pointed to the bottom of the contract “... is the signature.”
*Is. Newton, baccalaureus artium.
Newton Cipher—Excerpt #7
For the next week or so, at the request of the publisher, I'll be posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. Enjoy! And if they whet your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher
---------
Excerpt #7
REPLACED
British Library, London
Sunday Morning
Trina was at the entrance of the British Library promptly at nine the next morning, passing again beneath the statue of Newton. The sculpture seemed less welcoming today, distracted and focused on his measurements.
She greeted him anyway. “Morning, Mister Newton.”
The doors were locked, but through the glass she saw the guard who had checked her in the day before.
He looked half asleep.
She rapped the glass with her knuckles. At first he ignored her, and then, when she was persistent, he held his two forefingers up next to each other and mouthed “open at eleven.”
“Alfie Gill!” she shouted. Then, with exaggerated lip movements, mouthed “ALFIE GILL!”
That seemed to jog a memory in the guard, and he stood slowly, consulted a clipboard, then came to the door.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Trina Piper. Mr. Gill said I could come after nine.”
“Right,” the guard said, ushering her into the foyer and locking the door behind them. “Mr. Gill has other visitors this morning, and I forgot you were on the list.”
She signed in and followed him through the silent library. Lights were off in many of the offices. It was Sunday, after all. The guard’s keys jangled in his fingers with each door they passed through, until finally she recognized the small hallway with the room she’d occupied the day before.
The guard’s keys jangled one final time as he unlocked the door. “Mr. Gill requests you wait in here, please.”
At the far end of the hall, in what must have been someone’s office, she heard raised voices. One was Gill’s voice, and he sounded frustrated.
“... being entirely unreasonable!”
Trina only heard part of the response, as there seemed to be a few other voices as well, some in another language.
“... decision was over my head, Alfie.” The guard cleared his throat.
“In here, Miss Piper.”
“Sorry.”
The guard closed the door. The room was as she’d left it yesterday— the manuscripts were still out on the table, the still chairs angled slightly out from under the table.
She had just powered up the computer when the door opened and Gill came in, looking flustered.
“Alfie,” Trina said, turning. “I’ve got exciting news! The symbols of Manuscript B are Enochian, and I’ve—”
She stopped short as two more men, and then a woman, appeared in the doorway as well. One of the men had wire-rimmed glasses that pinched his nose, giving him the appearance of a weasel. That man, and the woman, were both of average height, and both had cropped hair and wore dark clothes.
But they were mostly hidden—dwarfed would be the more appropriate term—by the third man, who looked to be well over six- and-a-half feet tall. His dark hair was parted over his high, pronounced brow, and a well-manicured mustache and beard framed the bemused expression on his face. He was staring at Trina with contempt.
Gill shot her a warning glance—shhh!—and positioned himself between her and the three strangers.
“A few moments, please,” he said to them, “while I explain the situation to Miss Piper here. You can wait in my office.”
Gill practically had to push the tall man back out the door, who moved back into the hallway reluctantly. When the door was finally closed, Gill leaned his back against it and closed his eyes, as if he’d just eluded a pursuer.
“Is everything okay?” Trina said.
“Miss Piper—ah, I, um ...” Gill began. “I’m afraid there’s been an unfortunate change of plans.”
---------
Excerpt #7
REPLACED
British Library, London
Sunday Morning
Trina was at the entrance of the British Library promptly at nine the next morning, passing again beneath the statue of Newton. The sculpture seemed less welcoming today, distracted and focused on his measurements.
She greeted him anyway. “Morning, Mister Newton.”
The doors were locked, but through the glass she saw the guard who had checked her in the day before.
He looked half asleep.
She rapped the glass with her knuckles. At first he ignored her, and then, when she was persistent, he held his two forefingers up next to each other and mouthed “open at eleven.”
“Alfie Gill!” she shouted. Then, with exaggerated lip movements, mouthed “ALFIE GILL!”
That seemed to jog a memory in the guard, and he stood slowly, consulted a clipboard, then came to the door.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Trina Piper. Mr. Gill said I could come after nine.”
“Right,” the guard said, ushering her into the foyer and locking the door behind them. “Mr. Gill has other visitors this morning, and I forgot you were on the list.”
She signed in and followed him through the silent library. Lights were off in many of the offices. It was Sunday, after all. The guard’s keys jangled in his fingers with each door they passed through, until finally she recognized the small hallway with the room she’d occupied the day before.
The guard’s keys jangled one final time as he unlocked the door. “Mr. Gill requests you wait in here, please.”
At the far end of the hall, in what must have been someone’s office, she heard raised voices. One was Gill’s voice, and he sounded frustrated.
“... being entirely unreasonable!”
Trina only heard part of the response, as there seemed to be a few other voices as well, some in another language.
“... decision was over my head, Alfie.” The guard cleared his throat.
“In here, Miss Piper.”
“Sorry.”
The guard closed the door. The room was as she’d left it yesterday— the manuscripts were still out on the table, the still chairs angled slightly out from under the table.
She had just powered up the computer when the door opened and Gill came in, looking flustered.
“Alfie,” Trina said, turning. “I’ve got exciting news! The symbols of Manuscript B are Enochian, and I’ve—”
She stopped short as two more men, and then a woman, appeared in the doorway as well. One of the men had wire-rimmed glasses that pinched his nose, giving him the appearance of a weasel. That man, and the woman, were both of average height, and both had cropped hair and wore dark clothes.
But they were mostly hidden—dwarfed would be the more appropriate term—by the third man, who looked to be well over six- and-a-half feet tall. His dark hair was parted over his high, pronounced brow, and a well-manicured mustache and beard framed the bemused expression on his face. He was staring at Trina with contempt.
Gill shot her a warning glance—shhh!—and positioned himself between her and the three strangers.
“A few moments, please,” he said to them, “while I explain the situation to Miss Piper here. You can wait in my office.”
Gill practically had to push the tall man back out the door, who moved back into the hallway reluctantly. When the door was finally closed, Gill leaned his back against it and closed his eyes, as if he’d just eluded a pursuer.
“Is everything okay?” Trina said.
“Miss Piper—ah, I, um ...” Gill began. “I’m afraid there’s been an unfortunate change of plans.”
Newton Cipher—Excerpt #8 (Last one!)
For the past week or so, at the request of the publisher, I've been posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. I hope you've enjoyed them! And if they've whetted your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher
------
Excerpt #8
NEWTON’S TOMB
Westminster, London
After lunch, the Tube’s Jubilee line deposited her at the Westminster stop, right in the heart of London’s tourist district. If she needed proof she was in London, this was it. The buildings of Parliament were there, with the massive Gothic clock tower that tourists called Big Ben—although, as Trina read in a guidebook she downloaded to her phone, Big Ben wasn’t the name of the tower itself, but rather the nickname of large bell inside the tower. The tower everyone called Big Ben was actually called the Elizabeth Tower.
You learn something new every day.
The river Thames flowed slow and wide behind Parliament, and across Westminster Bridge she saw the London Eye, a huge ferris wheel. Unlike the tiny, two-person seats on the ferris wheels she’d ridden at the Wyoming state fair as a kid, the London Eye had thirty or so glass- enclosed capsules that could hold over twenty people each. And they could stand and walk around inside, too.
Trina stared at the wheel, wondering if she had enough time for a ride. The views from the top must be magnificent. The guidebook said it rose four hundred feet in the air.
But it was past three o’clock now, and the sun was close to setting. Reluctantly she turned away and walked past the buildings of Parliament, toward the beautiful, thousand-year old collection of religious buildings known as Westminster Abbey.
The biggest of the Abbey’s buildings was the main church. As she approached the tourist entrance she noted with pleasure there were no lines waiting to get inside.
Until she got closer ... and her heart sank. The ticket office was closed. The church itself was closed; opening hours were Monday through Saturday only.
“Shit,” she said aloud. An elderly couple walking by glared. “Ah ... sorry.”
She scurried around to the front of the church and was surprised to see the doors open, a man in a suit and overcoat standing at the main door. He had the door open a crack, and was peeking inside. There was no one waiting to get in. A limo was parked nearby, in the semi-circular drive that came off Victoria Street, and suddenly Trina recognized where she was from the televised royal weddings she’d seen—it was the same place the crowds had watched as Diana and Charles, and much later Kate and William, arrived and departed for their own weddings in horse- drawn carriages.
And now it was nearly empty, just another old church on a blustery November afternoon.
A placard nearby said: No Entry. Wedding in Progress.
Clearly whatever ceremony was going on inside was no royal wedding, given the lone usher out front and the single waiting limo. Then she saw a discarded invitation on the ground nearby, and picked it up.
-----
Mr. & Mrs. Francis Carlisle, of Chelsea, London Request the Honor of your Presence
at the Marriage of their Son
Rupert Frederick
to
Ms. Emma Mary Hobarth, of Houston, Texas at the Church of the Abbey of Westminster
On Sunday, November ...
at 3 o’clock
-----
Trina did a double take as her memory flashed back to breakfast. Hobarth ... Texas .... Wasn’t that the name of the family she’d overheard at the cafe that morning? The one planning their day, and with the sick family member in the hotel?
She glanced at her phone. It was 3:23 p.m. The usher was still peering into the church. Outside the limo was idling quietly, its driver reading a paper in the warmth of the front seat.
A few tourists were walking by, taking pictures in the fading light. At the far end of the semi-circular drive, past the waiting limo, Trina saw a man, quite tall, in the shadow of an arched stone doorway. His dark hair was parted, and she caught a glimpse of his moustache and beard, a darkness that framed the rest of his face. But it was the cruel, amber eyes she instantly recognized from earlier that morning.
The tall Russian.
Trina turned, eager to leave, and saw, across the road, a man and a woman strolling slowly toward her. Both had short, cropped hair, and she saw the glint of streetlights reflecting off the smaller man’s spectacles.
Shit.
Behind the limo, the tall man had stepped down onto the sidewalk and was coming her way. He moved his hand in a circular motion between them, and at first Trina thought he was giving her some sort of wave. But then his face set in a scowl, and he pushed his hand toward her. The air around her was suddenly freezing. Or maybe it was her blood. He increased his pace, as she suddenly began to feel weak ... slow ... cold ...
Shit!
Suddenly her chest felt hot, and she inhaled rapidly. Energy rushed back. Instinct, or fear, or panic—maybe all three—urged her to act, to do something, anything to get away. Trina jogged up the steps and approached the usher.
“Hey, um, I’m so sorry I’m late—cough, cough. I’ve been sick and was supposed to stay in the room, but I simply couldn’t stand to miss, uh, Ella’s wedding.”
“Emma?”
“Right, Emma,” Trina said, leaning in. Achoo! “My head’s a little foggy. All that cold medicine.” Sniffle.
The usher backed away, and pulled a list from his coat pocket. “And you are?”
“Jenn—Julie Hobarth,” she corrected quickly. Please be Julie, please be Julie.
He looked her over, clearly unimpressed by her attire: jeans, running shoes, and a Notre Dame sweatshirt (“Go Irish!” it said, which could mean something very different on this side of the Atlantic), and her puffy coat.
“I know, I know, but I’ve been sick, like really sick. Never had a chance to get my, uh, dress fitted.”
“I’m quite sure no one has ever worn denim to a Westminster wedding,” he scoffed. “What exactly is your relation to the bride?”
“I’m Emma’s, ah, aunt.”
“It says here you’re one of her cousins.”
“Ha!” Trina laughed, then feigned a spasm of coughing to cover her sheer panic. “Whoops! It’s so hard to keep track. You know us Texas Hobarths, there’s so dang many of us.”
“I’m quite sure I do not,” the usher said.
She hawked a faux wad of phlegm and spat it at his feet. He jumped back.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Trina said. “They say it’s best to get rid of the gunk right away. So, can I go in or what?”
“You’re rather late. It started half an hour ago.”
“Oh, come on, please?” she glanced around. The tall Russian was still there, watching her intently from the sidewalk beyond the limo. The other two were pretending to take pictures of a nearby ceremonial column, but they were inching closer. “Please? Emma would kill me if I missed her special day, with, um, Roger.”
“Rupert,” the usher said, icily.
“Oh, so you know him?”
“We were at Oxford together.”
“Oxford! I hear that place is off the hook! And so full of well-
dressed men, too.” She reached in, as if to stroke the lapels of his coat, then suddenly tripped forward, right into his chest, while letting loose with the wettest Ahh-choo! she could muster.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, regarding her with a look of utter revulsion. “Fine. But for God’s sake, be quiet. Go through the Nave, the ceremony is in the Choir. Bride’s family on the left.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.
“Such a gentleman,” she said. “But don’t let Emma’s daddy hear you goin’ and cussin’ like that. We Baptists don’t take kindly to hearing the Lord’s name taken in vain. Especially at church.”
Trina gave him her cheeriest smile and ducked into the church’s dark interior.
“Americans,” she heard him mutter as he closed the door behind her.
✽✽✽
The Nave of the church rose high overhead, delicate stone columns merging into pointed Gothic arches that hung like stone curtains draped high above. It was astounding to think that stone could be made to appear so weightless, like fabric, especially having been crafted so many centuries ago. Between each column, on the outside walls, stained-glass windows that depicted kings and queens, and bishops and saints, turned the last light of day into rainbow shadows that tinted the tile floor.
It was quiet, and Trina took a breath to calm her nerves. What the hell were the Russians doing here? It was Sunday. Maybe Alfie Gill kicked them out of the library early. But why come here? Were they following her?
Toward the front of the Nave, in a space enclosed by elaborately carved wooden screens, she heard the rustle of a seated crowed and the amplified voice of someone leading a ceremony.
The wedding was still going on, which meant she had time.
Walking quietly, thankful for the rubber soles of her running shoes, she crept from column to column until, in an alcove near the choir, she found—
Isaac Newton.
Not the real Isaac Newton, of course, but a Greek-god-like version, sculpted in marble, draped in rippling stone robes, all muscled and square-jawed and serene. He was reclining on four carved-marble books, representing his most important publications, including the Principia Mathematica and Optiks. His work on alchemy was, Trina noticed, conspicuously absent.
------
Excerpt #8
NEWTON’S TOMB
Westminster, London
After lunch, the Tube’s Jubilee line deposited her at the Westminster stop, right in the heart of London’s tourist district. If she needed proof she was in London, this was it. The buildings of Parliament were there, with the massive Gothic clock tower that tourists called Big Ben—although, as Trina read in a guidebook she downloaded to her phone, Big Ben wasn’t the name of the tower itself, but rather the nickname of large bell inside the tower. The tower everyone called Big Ben was actually called the Elizabeth Tower.
You learn something new every day.
The river Thames flowed slow and wide behind Parliament, and across Westminster Bridge she saw the London Eye, a huge ferris wheel. Unlike the tiny, two-person seats on the ferris wheels she’d ridden at the Wyoming state fair as a kid, the London Eye had thirty or so glass- enclosed capsules that could hold over twenty people each. And they could stand and walk around inside, too.
Trina stared at the wheel, wondering if she had enough time for a ride. The views from the top must be magnificent. The guidebook said it rose four hundred feet in the air.
But it was past three o’clock now, and the sun was close to setting. Reluctantly she turned away and walked past the buildings of Parliament, toward the beautiful, thousand-year old collection of religious buildings known as Westminster Abbey.
The biggest of the Abbey’s buildings was the main church. As she approached the tourist entrance she noted with pleasure there were no lines waiting to get inside.
Until she got closer ... and her heart sank. The ticket office was closed. The church itself was closed; opening hours were Monday through Saturday only.
“Shit,” she said aloud. An elderly couple walking by glared. “Ah ... sorry.”
She scurried around to the front of the church and was surprised to see the doors open, a man in a suit and overcoat standing at the main door. He had the door open a crack, and was peeking inside. There was no one waiting to get in. A limo was parked nearby, in the semi-circular drive that came off Victoria Street, and suddenly Trina recognized where she was from the televised royal weddings she’d seen—it was the same place the crowds had watched as Diana and Charles, and much later Kate and William, arrived and departed for their own weddings in horse- drawn carriages.
And now it was nearly empty, just another old church on a blustery November afternoon.
A placard nearby said: No Entry. Wedding in Progress.
Clearly whatever ceremony was going on inside was no royal wedding, given the lone usher out front and the single waiting limo. Then she saw a discarded invitation on the ground nearby, and picked it up.
-----
Mr. & Mrs. Francis Carlisle, of Chelsea, London Request the Honor of your Presence
at the Marriage of their Son
Rupert Frederick
to
Ms. Emma Mary Hobarth, of Houston, Texas at the Church of the Abbey of Westminster
On Sunday, November ...
at 3 o’clock
-----
Trina did a double take as her memory flashed back to breakfast. Hobarth ... Texas .... Wasn’t that the name of the family she’d overheard at the cafe that morning? The one planning their day, and with the sick family member in the hotel?
She glanced at her phone. It was 3:23 p.m. The usher was still peering into the church. Outside the limo was idling quietly, its driver reading a paper in the warmth of the front seat.
A few tourists were walking by, taking pictures in the fading light. At the far end of the semi-circular drive, past the waiting limo, Trina saw a man, quite tall, in the shadow of an arched stone doorway. His dark hair was parted, and she caught a glimpse of his moustache and beard, a darkness that framed the rest of his face. But it was the cruel, amber eyes she instantly recognized from earlier that morning.
The tall Russian.
Trina turned, eager to leave, and saw, across the road, a man and a woman strolling slowly toward her. Both had short, cropped hair, and she saw the glint of streetlights reflecting off the smaller man’s spectacles.
Shit.
Behind the limo, the tall man had stepped down onto the sidewalk and was coming her way. He moved his hand in a circular motion between them, and at first Trina thought he was giving her some sort of wave. But then his face set in a scowl, and he pushed his hand toward her. The air around her was suddenly freezing. Or maybe it was her blood. He increased his pace, as she suddenly began to feel weak ... slow ... cold ...
Shit!
Suddenly her chest felt hot, and she inhaled rapidly. Energy rushed back. Instinct, or fear, or panic—maybe all three—urged her to act, to do something, anything to get away. Trina jogged up the steps and approached the usher.
“Hey, um, I’m so sorry I’m late—cough, cough. I’ve been sick and was supposed to stay in the room, but I simply couldn’t stand to miss, uh, Ella’s wedding.”
“Emma?”
“Right, Emma,” Trina said, leaning in. Achoo! “My head’s a little foggy. All that cold medicine.” Sniffle.
The usher backed away, and pulled a list from his coat pocket. “And you are?”
“Jenn—Julie Hobarth,” she corrected quickly. Please be Julie, please be Julie.
He looked her over, clearly unimpressed by her attire: jeans, running shoes, and a Notre Dame sweatshirt (“Go Irish!” it said, which could mean something very different on this side of the Atlantic), and her puffy coat.
“I know, I know, but I’ve been sick, like really sick. Never had a chance to get my, uh, dress fitted.”
“I’m quite sure no one has ever worn denim to a Westminster wedding,” he scoffed. “What exactly is your relation to the bride?”
“I’m Emma’s, ah, aunt.”
“It says here you’re one of her cousins.”
“Ha!” Trina laughed, then feigned a spasm of coughing to cover her sheer panic. “Whoops! It’s so hard to keep track. You know us Texas Hobarths, there’s so dang many of us.”
“I’m quite sure I do not,” the usher said.
She hawked a faux wad of phlegm and spat it at his feet. He jumped back.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Trina said. “They say it’s best to get rid of the gunk right away. So, can I go in or what?”
“You’re rather late. It started half an hour ago.”
“Oh, come on, please?” she glanced around. The tall Russian was still there, watching her intently from the sidewalk beyond the limo. The other two were pretending to take pictures of a nearby ceremonial column, but they were inching closer. “Please? Emma would kill me if I missed her special day, with, um, Roger.”
“Rupert,” the usher said, icily.
“Oh, so you know him?”
“We were at Oxford together.”
“Oxford! I hear that place is off the hook! And so full of well-
dressed men, too.” She reached in, as if to stroke the lapels of his coat, then suddenly tripped forward, right into his chest, while letting loose with the wettest Ahh-choo! she could muster.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, regarding her with a look of utter revulsion. “Fine. But for God’s sake, be quiet. Go through the Nave, the ceremony is in the Choir. Bride’s family on the left.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.
“Such a gentleman,” she said. “But don’t let Emma’s daddy hear you goin’ and cussin’ like that. We Baptists don’t take kindly to hearing the Lord’s name taken in vain. Especially at church.”
Trina gave him her cheeriest smile and ducked into the church’s dark interior.
“Americans,” she heard him mutter as he closed the door behind her.
✽✽✽
The Nave of the church rose high overhead, delicate stone columns merging into pointed Gothic arches that hung like stone curtains draped high above. It was astounding to think that stone could be made to appear so weightless, like fabric, especially having been crafted so many centuries ago. Between each column, on the outside walls, stained-glass windows that depicted kings and queens, and bishops and saints, turned the last light of day into rainbow shadows that tinted the tile floor.
It was quiet, and Trina took a breath to calm her nerves. What the hell were the Russians doing here? It was Sunday. Maybe Alfie Gill kicked them out of the library early. But why come here? Were they following her?
Toward the front of the Nave, in a space enclosed by elaborately carved wooden screens, she heard the rustle of a seated crowed and the amplified voice of someone leading a ceremony.
The wedding was still going on, which meant she had time.
Walking quietly, thankful for the rubber soles of her running shoes, she crept from column to column until, in an alcove near the choir, she found—
Isaac Newton.
Not the real Isaac Newton, of course, but a Greek-god-like version, sculpted in marble, draped in rippling stone robes, all muscled and square-jawed and serene. He was reclining on four carved-marble books, representing his most important publications, including the Principia Mathematica and Optiks. His work on alchemy was, Trina noticed, conspicuously absent.
