Nicholas – or anyone who had Nicholas – couldn’t have got any further in this direction in the time. The other direction needed to be checked, double-quick. He began barging his way back, aiming to sneak past Cecily so that she couldn’t see that he hadn’t yet found her son. But when he got close to where he’d left her, he saw she wasn’t there. She wasn’t there . He glanced around, checking. Definitely not there. But the panic he’d so feared didn’t come. He’d wait for her; he’d suspend his search because someone had to be here for Nicholas if he found his own way back. She must’ve reached the same conclusion as he had: that she could search better. He took up his post by the stall. She’d recovered her wits and set off, and good luck to her. She’d find him, Rafael suddenly knew she would. And only then did the blindingly obvious occur to him: Nicholas wasn’t a child to get lost. Nicholas, of all children. If he’d gone, it wasdeliberate. And if he’d gone somewhere, the chances were that Cecily – when she’d had a moment to think about it – would know where.
And she must’ve done because – thank God, thank God – they were back within minutes and Nicholas looked fine. There was no triumph in Cecily’s expression, though, nor relief. Only weariness, as if she’d been having to do something she really hadn’t enjoyed. Fetching him, that’s what she’d been doing. Not finding him, but fetching him from somewhere. The child stared at Rafael as he usually did, and took a bite – his first, Rafael saw – of the gingerbread man’s head. Nothing was said by way of explanation.
Later, though, back at home, Rafael asked her, or tried to: ‘Nicholas …’ at the market ‘… where ? ’ How he hoped to understand her reply, he didn’t know. Not that it was a problem, because all she did was shrug. Implying that Nicholas had been nowhere in particular and she’d been lucky enough to come across him. Rafael didn’t believe her.
By his sixth week in England, at the end of September, his design was long finished but there was still no word on the likelihood of future payment nor, at the very least, the covering of the costs of stone, brass, wood, paints and goldleaf that he and Antonio needed if they were to go ahead with construction. He was visiting the Spanish office daily, but it was besieged with complaints and disputes between Spaniards and Englishmen. In any case, numerous officials had claimed to have no record of his ever being contracted to produce asundial, and his original contact was in Spain. He demanded to speak with someone – anyone – more senior, but assurances that this would be arranged had so far come to nothing. He had a letter from his original contact but no one at the office ever showed much interest in reading it. The implication of their indifference was that circumstances weren’t as had been envisaged and what might have held, back in Spain, no longer held now, here, in England.
He didn’t know if he should give up and press instead, now, for his passage home. The promised six weeks were up. But these relatively junior officials, distracted and exhausted, might well be mistaken and, if and when the situation calmed down, it was Rafael who’d have to answer for the sundial project having been abandoned. He didn’t know if he could leave Antonio to build it later if called upon – he didn’t know if Antonio would agree and, if so, what retainer he’d expect from Rafael, nor, crucially, if he would be capable of the work. Antonio was an excellent stonemason, but Rafael had had an unexpectedly long time to work on this design and it surpassed anything he’d ever produced. He’d planned a structure as tall as a man, comprising eighteen hollowed scaphe dials: horizontal, equinoctial, polar and vertical; inclining, reclining and deinclining. Antonio would have to be trusted to select and spend wisely on a range of materials, and to subcontract the
And she must’ve done because – thank God, thank God – they were back within minutes and Nicholas looked fine. There was no triumph in Cecily’s expression, though, nor relief. Only weariness, as if she’d been having to do something she really hadn’t enjoyed. Fetching him, that’s what she’d been doing. Not finding him, but fetching him from somewhere. The child stared at Rafael as he usually did, and took a bite – his first, Rafael saw – of the gingerbread man’s head. Nothing was said by way of explanation.
Later, though, back at home, Rafael asked her, or tried to: ‘Nicholas …’ at the market ‘… where ? ’ How he hoped to understand her reply, he didn’t know. Not that it was a problem, because all she did was shrug. Implying that Nicholas had been nowhere in particular and she’d been lucky enough to come across him. Rafael didn’t believe her.
By his sixth week in England, at the end of September, his design was long finished but there was still no word on the likelihood of future payment nor, at the very least, the covering of the costs of stone, brass, wood, paints and goldleaf that he and Antonio needed if they were to go ahead with construction. He was visiting the Spanish office daily, but it was besieged with complaints and disputes between Spaniards and Englishmen. In any case, numerous officials had claimed to have no record of his ever being contracted to produce asundial, and his original contact was in Spain. He demanded to speak with someone – anyone – more senior, but assurances that this would be arranged had so far come to nothing. He had a letter from his original contact but no one at the office ever showed much interest in reading it. The implication of their indifference was that circumstances weren’t as had been envisaged and what might have held, back in Spain, no longer held now, here, in England.
He didn’t know if he should give up and press instead, now, for his passage home. The promised six weeks were up. But these relatively junior officials, distracted and exhausted, might well be mistaken and, if and when the situation calmed down, it was Rafael who’d have to answer for the sundial project having been abandoned. He didn’t know if he could leave Antonio to build it later if called upon – he didn’t know if Antonio would agree and, if so, what retainer he’d expect from Rafael, nor, crucially, if he would be capable of the work. Antonio was an excellent stonemason, but Rafael had had an unexpectedly long time to work on this design and it surpassed anything he’d ever produced. He’d planned a structure as tall as a man, comprising eighteen hollowed scaphe dials: horizontal, equinoctial, polar and vertical; inclining, reclining and deinclining. Antonio would have to be trusted to select and spend wisely on a range of materials, and to subcontract the
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