InterludeVienna, Austria, April 2, 1882
The diagram blurred before his dry and burning eyes, and no amount of blinking would make it come clear. He lifted his eyes from the notebook for the first time in hours, casting an irritated glance in the direction of the window, expecting to see an inconvenient fog rolling in.
To his surprise, he beheld a darkening sky. Evening? How long had he been hunched over the workbench, then? As if in answer, the bells of St. Clement’s began to toll, low and melodic. He shifted in impatience as they told the quarter-chime, the half-chime, and the three-quarter chime. Finally they moved into the information he cared about, and he counted the strokes. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
Six. Six o’clock in the evening. Which meant a few things. One, he had be
