There were roughly twelve entries each year, beginning in 1716. The numbers were low that year. But even a dullard like me could see the numbers were consistently going up each year, if not each entry.

‘It’s getting faster,’ I said, stating the obvious.

‘And we don’t know why.’ Patrik lowered his voice. ‘That is to say, we can’t find a natural reason for it to do so.’

I thought back to my recent revelations of Marcus’ paintings and the Dreken river. ‘But 1717 was the year the river’s course was altered.’

‘That might explain the increase for that year, or even the next. But four years in a row?’

‘Something else happened in 1717,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘Something that many people here think defies logic.’

Patrik closed the notebook. ‘Do you know what my night-brother and I argue about the most, Alexsander?’

A number of facile responses occurred to me, but for once I kept them to myself.

‘We argue between determinism and causality. Do you know what that means?’ he asked, without even a hint of mockery or condescension.

‘No.’

‘Victor believes there is a chain of events stretching back to the beginning of time. That one event begets the next, and so on, until here we are, talking here in the square, right now. That all these events are linked.’

I frowned, struggling to follow this young boy. ‘And you do not believe this?’

‘I believe that what I believe doesn’t matter. What matters is individual causality which can be observed, quantified, and proven. And so we argue.’

‘But you can’t prove why the river is still getting faster,’ I said.

‘No, I can’t. There is no clear cause, just the effect. So, I leave it to Victor and his chain of events. I leave it to you and your night-brother, who also see a chain of events.’

‘1717, the year the river changed course, and the year Olesca came into your home.’

Patrik stood and pulled his little jacket straight. ‘Enjoy your lunch, Alexsander. The potatoes there are very good.’

I was still so occupied with the boy’s science lesson, I didn’t realise his implication before it was too late and he was off across the square. I sat there for some time, on the edge of the fountain, trying to understand the swirling eddies around me: the speed of the river, the pricked candles, the boy from the southern tribes, and so much more besides. How did Christophor do it? How did he stand it with each and every case? I should have kept to my instruments, or just drunk away my days with Marcus. I used to be a simple creature, in the pursuit of pleasure.

Fortunately, my growling stomach reminded me of my main purpose that day.

*

I arrived at The Orangery before Rebecca and found it quite an unexpected delight. A little under half the tables were occupied, and were so taken by a rather refined sort of patron. More than one woman was engrossed in a book, reading without interruption even when sipping their infusions. A pair of gentlemen conversed on occasion over their broadsheets. As I waited for Rebecca I felt at quite the disadvantage, un-assailed as I was by the printed word.