The School of Night by Louis Bayard

Author:Louis Bayard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Company

—The challenge lies in determining what the area of such a triangle should be.

Having voiced the problem, he then proceeds to ignore it. But it won’t release him. Over the next few hours, it catches him in the act of pouring, in the middle of measuring; it stops his brain mid-motion; it teases the very life from his eyes.

Then, just as the first streaks of light are appearing over the river, the master rises from his chair, very deliberately, in the manner of a man who’s stayed too long at a tavern.

With the quill, he delineates three points on the bladder. Then, with the measuring edge, he draws a near-perfect scalene triangle.

—We take the sum of all three angles.

His index finger jumps from corner to corner.

—From this sum we subtract 180 degrees. The remainder is then set as the numerator, with a denominator of 360.

He nods. Once. Twice.

—The resulting fraction tells us—yes—what portion of the hemisphere’s surface is occupied by our—our most elusive triangle.

He looks up at her. His smile is oblique, but his eyes are not.

—Shall we test it, Margaret?

* * *

The cock is already crowing when she drops onto her pallet. She is spent, yes, but she is more awake than anyone else in Syon Park.

Numbers. Figures. Angles. These are the last lovers she expected to follow her to bed. When she closes her eyes, they grow only more importunate. A ravishment of rises and runs. They follow her into her dreams, they sing to her, caress her neck, they lift her from her bed, they enter her, every last willing part of her.

Waking the next morning, she is startled to feel the dampness between her legs. Her phantom lovers, come and gone.

* * *

Later, coming down the steps, she sees Harriot staggering through the door, his hand pressed to his eyes.

—Master?

—I am not injured.

—But you are!

It is several minutes before he confesses how he has been celebrating last night’s achievement.

—Measuring the sun, sir?

—Well, naturally, I waited until it had passed beyond a thin cloud, so that its diameter remained distinct. After some minutes of observation, I noticed the cloud darkening. I turned around to face Syon House … and the whole world was dark.

By now, he’s sitting in a chair, and she’s fussing over him like an old nursemaid, fetching him beer, wrapping linen around his eyes.

—You must take greater care, sir.

—Oh, I doubt not but that the damage is fleeting. I am most curious, I confess, to observe those spots on the sun’s surface of which John of Worcester has written. I should like also to calculate the axial rotation. A measurement which I believe may be—may best be effected by—

He pries the bandage off his right eye, peers into the room’s shadows.

—Crows.

—Sir?

—I see a company of crows. Flying all together. At a great distance.

Margaret glances toward the windows. The curtains are drawn.

—Never mind, sir.

The crows stay with him for two days. He lies in bed, a cool towel draped across his face. With his blessing,

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