October 17, 1882
St. James Hospital
London
The great wooden box was being loaded on the cart: it was his greatest success, humbly transported. The nurses had commented gratefully and most of the doctors nodded in full agreement. Pierce’s medical trolley was a triumph. Oh, of course there were suggestions and some criticisms, but on the whole it was a day well spent.
Pierce was feeling rather satisfied with himself. This was a giant leap forward for the trolley and it would now leave him more time to work on Miss Gantry’s project.
His heart stopped briefly, or so it felt, as the box nearly slipped out of the grip of the workmen. But it did not fall and he took a deep, satisfying, calming breath and his head became too light. Adjusting his scarf up his throat a bit more, to both warm himself and to protect the silk cravat he’d worn, he decided to walk home in triumph. The brisk air would do him good.
The sky was alive with flashes of light and loud thunder. It had driven off the bulk of the fog for now. But none of it compared to the freakish storm above the Paris rail station or the one that had cost him twelve shillings to replace his workshop windows. This was much too beautiful a display of electricity to be the work of - what had she called him - Robur. Putting up his umbrella and keeping close to the buildings, he strolled the mile home, stopping only to purchase a packet of excellent writing paper and a pound of coffee, ground finely. The bundle of brown, waxed paper smelled wonderful. But he needed to keep it apart from his new paper or every letter would smell of roasting beans and old tea leaves.
As he stepped from the tea and coffee shop into a low-lying mist of steam and aggressive fog, he passed a man who’d turned the notched lapels of his short wool coat up around his ears and wrapped his head in a scarf. The man walked past him, narrowly missing him by an inch and without slowing down or saying something polite.
“My apologies,” Pierce quickly offered.
The man waved him off curtly and continued on his way down the street.
Pierce retreated a step, restraining the urge to comment on the man’s rudeness. His day would not be ruined by something so common. He closed his eyes, took a good breath, and let go the anger.
Looking down the lane, after the man, Pierce was surprised to see him standing at the crossing, looking back. The man glared angrily, as though it was Pierce who had behaved offensively. A pair of black eyes: all that could be seen of the man’s face, stared, unblinking.
It was possible Pierce was about to be confronted, something he loathed.
For a good four minutes they watched each other. Finally, Pierce took a step toward him, hoping perhaps the man had not heard the apology that had been given and that any insult might be reduced if it were offered again.
A moment later, the man disappeared around the corner.