An Elegant Solution(96)

Daniel and Gustavus had left the Square entirely into the inn. They were together as the minutes passed, and it was time for me to return with my grandmother’s water. Then finally just Daniel came out the door and took his horse. He was jaunty and as assured as he’d ever been. He took a deep, satisfied breath and swung himself into his saddle and made a quick and easy gait across the Sqaure. The collapsed gate had been cleared enough to let him by.

I looked to the Barefoot Church. The angel was still there, but the horse was not. Then I saw it passing the ruined gate after Daniel, following.



Mistress Dorothea’s speech that morning was a wall, endless with no opening, which I’d learned meant that her mind was not on her words. She was the only of the family that I saw. Her only mention of the day before’s affairs was as I was leaving, and she said to me, “And Leonhard. Do you remember what I’ve asked you?”

There were always many things that she had. But I answered, “I haven’t seen the remorse that you asked of. Not yet.”



When I was finished there, I went to see Lieber the bookbinder. His games and quarrels at the Boot and Thorn with Lithicus had been as much a part of the Common Room as the hearth.

I watched him at his book press. He’d allowed me before to pull its lever and press the inked type into the paper. I’d rather have set the type. It must have been like writing: it would be much slower, yet the letters were beautifully shaped and the whole set page was such perfection: considered, ordered, arranged, squared, and final. But lives were lived by the quill and inkbottle, instead of carefully chosen from drawer cases and laid straight.

“Young Master Leonhard,” he said when he came to me. “You’re not torn.”

“No, though I nearly was yesterday. Just scratched.”

“And Lithicus is rent. Who’ll carve a stone for him, I wonder?”

“Someone new will,” I said. “And there are no books to remember him by.”

“Not him. It’s not many who’ve written books. But I’ll remember him.”

“Lieber, do you remember when Master Gottlieb brought you the Ars Conjectandi to be printed?”

“Well enough,” he said. “That one I’ll always remember.”

“What did he give you? Was it his finished manuscript? Did you see anything of Master Jacob’s papers he wrote from?”

“Only Master Gottlieb’s own written papers,” Lieber said. “Very neat he is, though he angles his lines to the bottom of the page. But the drawings were from old Master Jacob.”

“Who carved them into the printing plates?”

“I did that.”

“I didn’t know you were an etcher.”

“I apprenticed under Meynenden in Frankfurt, and he was a hard Master. He had me learn every skill of making a book.”

“They’re excellent figures. Did Lithicus ever see them? He’d have appreciated good etching.”

He lowered his forehead and looked at me through narrowed eyes. “And why are you asking, young Master Leonhard? Yes, I showed him the figures. I wanted him to see what could be done with the printing press.”

“Surely you would,” I said.

“And he didn’t like what he saw. He would have torn the pages out if I’d let him.”

I nodded. “It was the spiral, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, it was the spiral.”

“He carved a spiral for Master Jacob’s epitaph stone. But it wasn’t the kind he’d been meant to carve. I think Master Johann wasn’t pleased with it.”

“Lithicus wasn’t much pleased, either. And he wanted to know where I’d got the drawing that I made that etching from. He said he’d been looking years for that figure.”

“You had them from Master Gottlieb,” I said.

“Oh, I told him that, but I told him if he wanted to see it himself, he’d just need to visit Master Huldrych.”

“Master Huldrych!” I said. “Why him?”

“Master Gottlieb didn’t keep all those papers of Master Jacob’s. Master Huldrych kept them.”

“Why did he?”

“I don’t know the affairs of University men. That’s not my place!”

“But how did you know that he had them?”

“Master Huldrych came and stood just where you’re standing, to tell me to take care of the papers that Master Gottlieb had given me. He said he had them in his charge and he wanted them held safe. And I told him they would be.”



I was a gentleman now, and of substance, and from speaking with Lieber, I took it upon myself to call on Cousin Gottlieb. I chose ten thirty in the morning as a respectable time to knock on his door. I was in complete black and white. All traces of anxiety and grief were cleared from my face. He answered the door himself. He saw me and understood that I was presenting myself as respectable, and accepted me as such, although it was a thin claim; he’d been the one to place the tricorne on my head. But we’d spoken as equals over Mathematics, and that alone was sufficient.