Sky's Dark Labyrinth by Stuart Clark

fingers. ‘Sit down, please, Herr Ulmer.’
    From across the table, Kepler explained, ‘Inside us all is an imprint of the heavens at the moment of our birth. When this is matched by a similar aspect in the heavens, so our souls resonate and our true natures are brought to the fore.’
    â€˜But is that good or bad?’
    Barbara was watching her husband almost as intently as Ulmer as he set down his paper and writing tools.
    â€˜It depends upon the aspects at the moment of your birth. If the natal arrangement was less than propitious, you are better to wait until the alignment tempers your natural inclinations.’
    â€˜How are we to know?’
    â€˜That is what I can help you with.’
    Ulmer nodded emphatically. ‘Then let us begin.’
    â€˜I’ll fetch wine,’ said Barbara, calling for Frau Bezold.
    Kepler reached for his quill, flipped open the ink well and looked at the boy. ‘Date of birth, please?’
    â€˜The eighth of August, 1582,’ the father answered.
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    Ulmer and his hapless son departed some time later carrying Kepler’s assessment. As the astronomer had thought, there was little opportunity for greatness but in three years’ time there would be a small window of opportunity, when Jupiter would fall into conjunction with Mars.
    Kepler hoped that the red planet would muster some energy in the boy and Jupiter’s influence would steer him to a modicum of leadership , probably through marriage and taking control of an estate. Kepler had talked up the possibility, and the father had bounced out of the house upon the news.
    As soon as the door was shut, Barbara threw her arms around Kepler. ‘Two whole gulden for a few hours’ work!’
    Kepler silently wished he could share her enthusiasm.
    â€˜I have more good news for us,’ she said, dragging her words as if unsure about how to phrase her revelation. ‘We are to be parents again.’
    â€˜Truly?’
    She nodded, her cheeks rosy.
    â€˜We must praise God.’ He clasped her tightly as though he would never let her go.
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    The rancid smell of burning tallow filled the little study. Kepler had grown accustomed to the odour, insisting that the expensive beeswax candles were kept solely in the front room, and then only lit when they had supper guests. Now, the unpleasant tang of tallow was integral to setting his mood for work.
    He looked once more at Copernicus’s calculations and pushed them around the page. He added them, subtracted them, multiplied and divided them in his attempt to wring out some more meaning from the chimeric figures. But it was no use, the measurements had been forced together from such disparate sources that Copernicus himself had doubted their veracity and even dropped the figures that did not serve his purposes.
    Kepler reinstated those outliers, unwilling to doubt them on someone else’s say-so. Yet, even putting them back in, he made no headway. Each number was the eye of a needle; the correct orbit would thread every single one. Copernicus had threaded some, missed most. Even Ptolemy and his ugly Earth-centred universe could do better. But how could that be right – how could the entire vault of Heaven turn once a day while the puny Earth remained stock still? It was absurd; it put everything backwards. So why could he not prove it? What was wrong with him? Kepler found himself watching the flecks of soot as they danced in eddies above the candle and thinking of Tycho.
    The door shot open, rocking on its hinges. ‘We must talk. The housekeeper is being insolent again.’
    â€˜I’m busy, Barbara.’
    â€˜She claims not to have enough money to buy food.’
    â€˜Is she right?’
    â€˜We have the Dietrichs coming on Friday – we cannot give them bread and sausage.’
    â€˜Quite.’
    â€˜I want a sheep’s head for the centrepiece, decorated with the