Chapter Two

T he interior of the townhome continued with the theme of ostentatious luxury. The walls of the airy hallway were inset with sculpted Roman columns. A chandelier hung, brass and gold-plate looming radiantly overhead. Everything smelled faintly of citrus and marble. It was an impressive house, but cold. The elegant furnishings and elaborate window dressings gave the feel of a showroom, not a home. Home was red-bricked buildings covered in ivy, the smell of dust and books, the echoing footsteps and exuberant voices of students. Home was his college, and Peter was in exile. Apparently, fistfights between professors were frowned upon by the administration.

Peter walked faster, gritting his teeth at the memory of that day. If only Professor Williams had been a little less of a smug bastard. The man was head of the school of philosophy and considered himself a master beyond reproach. Peter considered him a relic. The first time Peter had questioned one of Williams' theories, as an eager first-year, the older man had simply glared with hateful, piggish eyes. But when Peter was granted his professorship, Williams could no longer ignore him. Peter could not keep from baiting the man, and they would argue until Williams grew incensed, his bald head mottled with rage.

Their final debate had spilled out onto the emerald grass of the quad. Spittle flying from his lips, Williams had sneered that a professor only thirty years of age, whose parents were shopkeepers, ought to know his place. Peter replied that the degree of overlap in Williams' parents' ancestry had likely contributed to his enfeebled intellect. Williams lunged, Peter put up his fists, and it took five students to pry them apart. Peter had returned to his room with a bloody nose and was woken in the morning by the provost, who announced Peter's dismissal, and a constable, who marched him off the property.

Having little money saved, Peter could scarcely afford another week at the boarding house. Then, posted outside a bookshop, he'd seen a notice advertising for a tutor. Now, here he was, newly employed and wandering the hall of a grand townhouse. He would collect his salary, get his bearings, and come up with a plan.

As he turned the corner, the hall ended in a heavy door. Peter opened it, stepped through, and gave a low whistle. He was in a handsome and well-appointed library. Dark-stained bookshelves ran the length of the walls, rising floor to ceiling and equipped with rolling ladders set on tracks. There was a collection of mismatched furniture; upholstered armchairs, a burgundy chaise, and a leather Chesterfield sofa that looked as though it had been liberated from a gentleman's club. In the center of the room, a dining table was covered with loose papers, an inkwell, assorted quills, a penknife, and a blotter. The room had a warm, lived-in feel, unlike the rest of the house.

The library was hushed, still and apparently empty. Peter took a few cautious steps forward. There were books everywhere. They overflowed shelves and were stacked on tables, brown spines bearing gold-tooled lettering and stripes of red and blue. Peter inhaled the soothing, musty aroma of paper and leather. He crossed to the nearest shelf and moved down the row, idly perusing titles. Then his mouth dropped open. With shaking hands, he took down a book and stared at it in disbelief.

"You never had much talent for diplomacy, Mr. Abelard." The provost had said this, not unkindly, at the gate on the morning of Peter's ouster. Peter, unshaven and bearing a hastily packed suitcase, had snapped, "I should rather be judged by my theories than my ability to flatter the egos of lesser thinkers."

The provost had laughed, his black robes rippling in the morning breeze. "Your theories are peerless. There are many on the academic council who believe you should be leading the school of philosophy." When Peter's eyes widened, the provost had added, "But you won't win by shouting insults on the quad."

"How, then?"

"Write a peerless treatise." The provost had kept his voice low. "Make it convincing. Make it undeniable. If you do, I dare say the council will reconsider. They prize scholarship above all else. Not even Williams will be able to dismiss you, then."

Peter had left the college with very little hope. How on Earth was he to write a treatise with no access to books for his research? But here, in his sweating hands, was Summa Logicae . The essay by Ockham had inspired Peter's own views on conceptualism. Upon quick inspection, this shelf, in the flashy townhouse of a crass businessman, held a treasure trove of philosophical texts. Everything he needed was here. Peter was considering kissing Summa Logicae 's tanned cover when a rustle and thump sounded from the rear of the library. He shoved the book back in place with a guilty start. There was another thump, followed by a muffled curse. Peter crept forward, until he arrived at a far shelf and peered up at the source of the commotion.