Several people were passed out on the sectional sofa, and muffled noises emanated from other rooms indicating that the party’s embers were still smoldering, but John was nowhere to be seen. Twenty guineas, mind. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong. We’re closer than you think.
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