It was one of those vile London mornings that I loathed so much. I had spent the night behind closed curtains working on my calculations and had not been aware of the abominable peasoup fog enveloping the city. In these cold and wet circumstances I really had little sympathy for the vice-ridden city. Below my window, even in the upscale neighborhood that I had taken residence, the streets seemed filled with loathesome creatures.

But even though the morning was ghastly, the night had been thoroughly thrilling. My spirits were high because I had finally finished my calculations. Before me, in untidy stacks, were parchments filled with my own writing. The neat rows of equations and, most importantly, diagrams were satisfying to the eye and soothing to my mind. For this was the culmination of many years of searching for the true nature of the universe. These were my own rendition of the creation of the world, and one in wich God had no place but the most passive part.

I was feeling tired, however, since I had worked all night without stopping once. The final stages of my computations had been extremely difficult and I had felt in my heart that halting the momentum I had gained at any time would have adversely affected my ability to continue them, perhaps even to the point where my progress would have been completely halted. There was therefore only one course of action, to finish them outright.

During these moments, all thoughts of sleep had been driven from my mind. I was focused on a singular goal and had little time to register any extraeneous circumstances I might find myself in. But now that my mind had worked through the problem at hand, I was made very much aware of my own fatigue. Barely being able to keep my eyelids open, I made my way toward my bedding, yawning until my jaws creaked the whole way. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I lost conciousness and I was awakened only later the same evening by my woman friend Miss Charlotte Gray.

"Excuse me, Nathaniel. Wake up!"

It was, of course, completely inappropriate for Charlotte to be in my rooms at this hour, and in my bedchamber as well. But this was her ways, and our friendship extended so far back in my life that I could hardly muster up any anger at her behaviour any longer. But for a woman she was extremely handy and her father had been the best clockmaker in all of greater London. If she had not been a woman, she would have inherited the business after him when he died, for her skills could match her father's almost every step of the way. In some ways she even surpassed him, something that had infuriated him on occasion. He was, like her, a sore looser and prone to fits of anger when faced with such a situation.

As for Charlottes appearance at my rooms, I could not really blame her. It was in fact me who had called upon her to visit me, for I had plans to put use to her nible fingers. I had made designs and calculations for a machine that would prove my theories once and for all and needed her to construct it.

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