PROLOGUE
“Damnation!” Hair spiking up in disarray, spectacles sliding down the slope of his beaky nose, the man glanced up from the work papers strewn across his desk and stared at the clock with a look of dawning horror. “What pernicious quirk of the cosmos has made six hours fly by in the space of one?”
It was, of course, an absurd question. He of all people knew that the laws of the universe were governed by a mathematical precision.That was the beauty of the world and how it worked. It was astounding how often one could understand so many elemental scientific truths if only one was skilled enough with numbers to figure out the complex equations that revealed the hidden secrets.
“Equations that can be put to practical use in bettering the lives of countless people,” he whispered, his gaze returning for a moment to his scribblings.
But for now, the grand scheme of abstract problem-solving would have to wait. He was late—horribly late—for a very important engagement.
“I tend to lose myself in all the possibilities when I’m caught up in the excitement of discovery, but there is still time . . .”
The man gave a rueful grimace at the piece of paper pinned above his worktable. The reminder, written in giant, bold-faced letters by his good friend, stared back in stern reproach.
“But even though the hour at which I should have departed has long since passed, if I ride hard through the night and take the shortcut of North Abbey Road to King’s Crossing, I can make it to the junction of the Cambridgeshire Turnpike before dawn . . .”
He was already stuffing a notebook—he called it his scribbling book—into his coat. He added the handful of papers on which he had been working to an oilskin portfolio, which he then carefully placed in the leather satchel lying beside the valise holding his clothing for the trip. “Which means that I can still arrive at close to the appointed time.”
A smaller packet lay on his blotter. The man hesitated.
Choices, choices.
A recent unsettling incident had made him cautious. He knew that his fellow members of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society—all fine fellows but limited in their imagination—were curious about his latest innovations. But they wouldn’t comprehend his reasoning, even if he took the trouble to explain. Only Hypatia, his childhood comrade-in-exploration, understood that transcending the ordinary required a willingness to be bold, no matter the consequences. He couldn’t wait to pay her a visit and explain all about his new calculations and what he intended to do with them.
But in the meantime . . .
The ticking of the mantel clock warned that there was no time left for dithering. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to focus. And then, as often happened when he put his mind to a conundrum, the solution flashed into his head with startling clarity.
Smiling, he picked up the packet and threw it into the banked coals of his tiny hearth, then picked up the poker and stirred up flames, watching in satisfaction as the packet was quickly reduced to ashes.
The man turned back to his worktable for one last look. A good thing, for he spotted a sheet of folded stationery half hidden among his pens. “Thank God that I didn’t forget this,” he said, and shoved it in his pocket.
“Now, Imustbe off.”
Grabbing up his bags, he hurried to the livery stable where he kept his horse and was soon galloping out of town in a cloud of dust.
At first, luck was with him. But the wind soon kicked up, fitful gusts bringing a damp chill to the late summer evening. The man looked up and muttered an oath. Iron-grey storm clouds were blowing in from the west, causing the light to fade quicker than he expected. A prick of his spurs urged his horse onward in an effort to outrace the rain. Though the North Abbey Road would shorten his journey considerably, it was a miserable excuse for a thoroughfare, unfit for man or beast when the weather turned foul.
As for the rickety wooden structure spanning the river gorge at King’s Crossing . . .
“Bloody hell.” Wincing in dismay as the first drops of rain spattered against his hat, he tugged his oilskin cloak from his saddlebags and put it on, hoping for the best.
But darkness soon swallowed the road, forcing him to slow his horse to a walk. Thunder rumbled, and before the echo died away, the skies shuddered and suddenly released a torrential downpour. Shrieking like banshees, the accompanying high winds forced him to shelter for a time within a copse of pine trees.
The minutes ticked by with maddening slowness.
When at last the storm abated, allowing him to continue, he found the ruts in the road were growing deeper and deeper as water sluiced through the mud, creating a helter-pelter swirling of pebbles and rocks.
His horse stumbled as the footing turned treacherous. Swinging down from the saddle, the man grasped the reins and led the way up the winding road, anger making his blood boil. He had warned the authorities on numerous occasions that neglect of the region’s roadways was not only foolhardy but shortsighted. The world was changing, and forward-thinking men understood the key to progress was—
A flicker of moonlight interrupted his thoughts.
“Thank heaven,” muttered the man, gazing up at the night sky, where a twinkling of stars was beginning to show through the mist. The storm looked to be scudding off to the south.
As the wind settled, the roar of the river just over the crest of the hill further buoyed his spirits. Once he traversed King’s Crossing, the worst of the journey would be over.
However, his optimism proved short-lived, for when he approached the primitive bridge—it was little more than roughhewn planking laid across two massive oak and iron support beams that spanned the ravine—he saw that the heavy downpour and high winds had caused a section of rotting planking to fall away into the ravine, leaving a gaping hole across the entire middle of the bridge.
No, no, no—I must get across!
