The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [44]
“Sire,” Sterne began again, in a more humble voice, “my sovereign has the pressing matter of the rebellion to occupy him, else he most assuredly would be here.”
“Of course he would— eating my food and drinking my wine as he and his father did for decades at my uncle's court. Yet when has he invited me to dine at his?”
“Sire—”
“Hush, Mr. Sterne. This will be a pleasant evening, even if you must spend it in irons.”
“Your Majesty would not dare.”
Another dead silence, and this one stretched long, until the king lifted a single finger. Immediately, from the wings, two guards appeared and grabbed Sterne by the shoulders.
“See here!” he shouted.
“Gag him and put him in irons,” the king said, “but leave him at the table. I would not have my cousin say I did not re ceive his envoy as honorably as I could.”
And it was done.
“Now, Mr. Franklin. I have often wondered on the nature of colors and what their origins might be. I recall in his Optics, Sir Isaac did some experiments using thin films …”
And they talked, as they say, of quinces, bears, and cabbages, but not of politics. Franklin found it immensely cheering and stimulating to his conversation to glance— every now and then—at Sterne's flushed face, and wink.
That night he dreamed of Vasilisa, of their first dinner together, in which she proffered cup after cup of Portuguese wine, and with each sip her face grew more beautiful. He dreamed of her naked limbs, wrapped about him, of her sleeping face the next morning.
He dreamed of the nightmare sky, after she had kidnapped him, of her grip on his hand as the horizon vomited toward heaven.
He dreamed of a magnetism that connected them, that had never let him think she was dead. And in his dream, he loved her as only a boy in love for the first time can love, a love as full of fear as of hope, brittle and beautiful as a snowflake— and as impermanent.
Or was it? he thought, on waking. It was still in him, wasn't it? Not really gone, just buried.
He lay in the dark and forced thoughts of his wife, Lenka, instead, of how he had felt when he thought she was dying, of the joys he had known in her embrace. Solid joys, dependable ones.
Of course, Lenka had as much as threatened divorce last time he had seen her …
This was stupid. He would go back to sleep and wake with no thoughts of women at all. That was the very last thing he needed on his mind right now. Or on any other part of him, for that matter.
But when he finally did sleep again, it was to dream of bodies in motion, and not those of the celestial sort.
* * *
Franklin came out of his restless sleep almost instantly when Robert tapped him. In light of the lanthorn his friend's face looked drawn.
“What is it?”
“There's news of Carolina.”
“How's that?”
“I don't know. I got word from the Junto fellows here. They want a meeting.”
Franklin sat up, rubbing grit out of his eyes. “Show me to 'em,” he said.
Penigault was waiting outside. “It's this way,” he told them.
Once again, Franklin found himself twisting through the maze of the palace until at last a ladder was climbed, a trapdoor lifted, and they were outside. The air stank of swamp, decay, and salt.
They followed Penigault out, into the muddy streets of the town, twisting through narrow alleys paved with night soil and offal, until at last they came to the door of a largish house. The fellow rapped thrice, then again, paused, and rapped twice more.
Bolts slid, locks ticked, and someone opened the door a crack and peeked through.
“Mr. Franklin?”
“At your service.”
The door opened fully, and the man stepped back into the lighted room. He wore a plain cotton shirt and knee breeches. He wore no hat or wig, but his dark curly hair was pulled in a queue. A second man stood in the room, his eyes distant, unfocused. He was a little older, with little more than a fringe of iron around his mostly bald head.
“Sir, I am Antoine Simon le Page Du Pratz, and this is my friend André Penigault, whose son consented to guide you here. We are