9 June 1692, Thursday
The trials continue. The same, and the same, and the same. People cannot get enough of them. I want to tell the spectators, some of whom have come from far away, to go to London to see real theater. Though this is as real as it gets, I reckon. Poor Goody Bishop will learn as much soon enough.
Father and I returned to work this day. He has finally seen enough and we are back to business. I took one ledger, he another, and together we added, subtracted, multiplied, and divided, calculating percentages and other necessaries until we knew our income and expenditures, who we owe and who owes us. Father laughed at the creases between my brows as I concentrated on the numbers dancing circles before my eyes.
“Really, James. For a scholar you’re so easily puzzled by maths.”
