My glum thoughts were interrupted by a loud shriek, then the window-panes hummed and the timbers of the shop trembled in anticipation beneath my feet. I squinted through the slats and saw the drawbridge rising skywards like a piece of enormous clockwork, casting its arm of shadow across the front of the shop. A familiar hush descended over the carriageway. Carts and wagons grouped outside my shop, while a dozen buff-coloured sails gathered the wind and drifted, rippling, through the gap. A few more minutes and the last of them had sauntered past the window. Then the ropes slipped and strained in their pulleys, the wooden cogs ground together, the floor timbers trembled, and the bridge lowered into place with a few more geriatric groans. The traffic in front of Nonsuch Books came back to life and surged across the cobbles, as it did every day at this hour, with its din of creaks and curses.

Yes, all of the familiar rituals had begun. But I knew, suddenly, that I would not be a part of them this morning, that I would not be opening the shop, that for the first time in my professional life I would be turning my back on my duties. For my little ship was not sailing homeward, as I had thought, but careering wildly off course, into unknown waters, without maps or compasses. As I climbed the turnpike stairway a few moments later, clutching at the wall for support, I knew that Nonsuch House, my refuge for the past twenty years, was no longer safe.

III. The Labyrinth of the World

Chapter One

So began my harassed and vagabond life, my tumultuous exile from Nonsuch House. I had no idea, at first, where I might flee. As I climbed the stairs to my bedchamber I contemplated leaving London altogether, but soon I thought better of it. I had set foot outside of the city on barely more than a half-dozen occasions: twice to the book fair in Ely, three times to the one in Oxford, and once as far as Stourbridge, also for a book fair. Then, too, there had been the longer and much more arduous journey to Pontifex Hall, where it seemed that all of my problems had begun.

I thought of taking refuge in Wapping instead, but quickly decided against giving poor Biddulph any more grist for his mill, which already ground out quite enough fear and conspiracy on its own. So as I filled a small leather book bag with a change of clothing I thought next of a few of my other customers. There were several of them-quiet, gentle scholars-who would, I believe, gladly have taken me for a night or two, or even longer if I wished. But what excuses might I have offered them? I buckled the bag and slung it over my shoulder. No: there was only one place in London left for me to go; only one place for fugitives like me.

When I returned downstairs Monk had opened the shop, and several customers-cheery, familiar faces-were browsing among the shelves. I nodded to them and then whispered to Monk that I must leave Nonsuch House for a number of days and that the shop was once again in his hands. He glanced at my book bag but showed very little surprise. I supposed that after the events of the past few nights he had come to expect these sudden caprices from his master. I felt a pang of guilt at deserting him-as if I, of all people, might have saved or protected him. Then I took a last look round the shop and slipped outside, where I quickly lost myself among the thick crowds pressing five-deep along the footpaths of the bridge.

Five minutes later I had crossed under Southwark Gate, where the traffic was slightly thinner. After glancing over my shoulder I stumbled with my thorn-stick down the footpath to the landing-stairs along the river, where I engaged a sculler. The waterman grinned and asked me where I wished to go.

'Upriver,' I told him.

He watched me suspiciously as he unshipped his sculls and shoved off from the pier, no doubt because I had pulled the canvas tilt over the wooden hoops and now, despite the sunny weather, sat hunched under the canopy, which reeked of mildew. I peeped out from under this shroud to confirm that no one had followed me down to the landing-stairs. The river downstream was empty except for a couple of fishing smacks anchored in the shallows, busily shortening sail and awaiting the drawbridge's next ascent. Beyond their masts Nonsuch House rose above the piers, before dwindling into the soft haze as if disappearing into thin air.

'What's your pleasure, sir? Where shall I take you?'

'Alsatia,' I replied. Then I ducked back inside the canopy and didn't emerge until our bow had scraped against the landing-steps of the coal-wharves beneath the Golden Horn.

I took a room at the Half Moon Tavern, which stood in Abbey Court, more or less the centre (as far as I could ever tell) of the labyrinth of courts and bystreets that was Alsatia. My room was on the topmost floor and could be reached only by means of a narrow, twisting staircase, up which I was guided by the proprietress, Mrs. Fawkes, a small, dark-haired woman whose quiet and gentle manner seemed more akin to a nunnery than a tavern in the middle of Alsatia. I had signed her guest-book as 'Silas Cobb', then paid a shilling for two nights in advance, which entitled me, she explained in her soft voice, to breakfast and supper as well as a bed. And should I require anything else for my pleasure-ale, tobacco, the services of a chambermaid-I must not hesitate to let her know immediately. Her sloe-coloured eyes had been modestly lowered as she made the allusion to the young ladies whose faces had peered at us from curtained doorways as I followed her upstairs. I assured her that I anticipated no such needs.

'In fact…' I was fishing in my pocket for another shilling, which I slipped into her palm. 'It is urgent that I not be disturbed during the course of my stay. Not by anyone, day or night. Do you understand?'

I suspected from Mrs. Fawkes's reaction that such requests were not unusual among her guests.

'Of course, Mr. Cobb,' she whispered, smiling at me before shyly dropping her eyes to the chatelaine at her waist, then to the black cat that had followed us up the stairs. 'Not a soul shall disturb you. Not as long as you reside under my roof. You have my word.'

Once she and the cat had departed I placed my bag on the bed and looked round the room. It was as small and Spartan as a monk's cell, furnished with nothing more than a ladder-back chair, a table and a four-post bed with a fatigued mattress. But it was clean enough and would suit me perfectly well. Through its tiny window I could see the bell-tower of Bridewell Prison and, far beyond it, the north end of London Bridge, a sight that cheered me greatly and seemed to make my exile-as I already thought of it-slightly more bearable. I sat down on the bed, drew a shaky breath and congratulated myself on my choice.

I had been depressed and utterly baffled when I arrived in Alsatia an hour earlier. I was exhausted after the ordeal of the night and possessed no plan other than to seek refuge, like so many others, in its precincts. I first considered taking a room at the Golden Horn, then at the Saracen's Head, but each time I ruled it out. In either place I might have encountered Dr. Pickvance, and I didn't yet know the nature of his relationship with Henry Monboddo. Besides, the Half Moon Tavern looked slightly more respectable-if that was the word-than either of the other establishments. It had just opened its doors when I arrived, and Mrs. Fawkes was bidding farewell to several richly dressed gentlemen, attended by the black cat that followed her everywhere like a witch's familiar.

The premises otherwise seemed empty except for the young ladies who peered at us from their curtained-off rooms.