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took a deep breath and pulled himself straighter. Alongside Jessenius was a young man, tall and well built, with intense pale eyes and a walk that bordered on a swagger. He was dressed in green velvet with black hose and held steady a long sword, sheathed at his side.
    â€˜Johannes, allow me introduce the Junker Franz Tengnagel, one of Tycho’s assistants. He brings word from Benátky Castle.’
    â€˜Herr Kepler,’ said the young man in clipped tones, thrusting forth a sealed letter.
    Hesitating at first, Kepler took the letter and slipped a finger under the seal. Blinking to clear his vision, it was difficult to read Tycho’s extravagant handwriting despite the mass of candles that poured light around the room.
    â€˜Well, let us share in your news,’ Hewart encouraged.
    Kepler skimmed the words again, took a deep breath. ‘I am welcome to be his companion in observing the heavens.’
    â€˜Then we recharge our glasses,’ said Hewart, ‘and drink in your honour.’
    â€˜We ride to Benátky the day after tomorrow,’ said Tengnagel. It sounded like an order.
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    After the toast, Kepler slipped out to read the letter more carefully. His surroundings had begun to assume an unreal edge, as if he were looking at them through old panes of glass. Yet Tycho’s words were imprinted on his mind. You will come not so much as a guest but as a very welcome friend and highly desirable participant and companion in our observations of the heavens . Kepler’s cheeks became suddenly damp with tears, and his body began to tremble. He leaned back against the wall, feeling the corner of an ornate mirror-frame press into his back.
    When the peculiar exorcism had run it course, he wiped his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall. His mind was clear. The hallway looked normal again. Then a labouring voice caught his attention. It called his name, though more in statement than in greeting. A large man was tottering near the staircase. He was bound into a suit of silver-grey cloth, rolls of fat bulging between the strapping that held the seams closed. His bald head emerged from a ring of blubber.
    â€˜I am Nicholas Reimers Ursus, Mathematicus to his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Rudolph. You perhaps know me best as The Bear.’
    Kepler caught his breath. Ursus, The Bear. ‘You caused me trouble, sir, publishing my private letter as if I sided with you against Tycho Brahe, the prince of astronomers.’
    Ursus snorted, seemingly amused. ‘The prince of astronomers, you say? I worked as one of your “prince’s” subjects, just as I hear you are about to do. Be warned, he is not what you think.’
    â€˜He has gathered the finest astronomical observations in the history of mankind.’
    â€˜For all his work, Tycho is an anchor to progress. Who cares about his arrangement of the planets – or my one? Both are wrong. You know that as well as I do.’
    Kepler nodded cautiously.
    The Bear squeezed out his words between ragged gasps. ‘I’m under no illusion about my worth as an astronomer. I’m no great asset to history. Neither is Tycho. He will squander the measurements, if you let him, and the new thinking will never come. You’re his best hope for immortality. Examine everything you thought you knew; leave no assumption unchallenged. If it cannot be proved, it can be changed. I’m too old to put this insight to use but you … you are different from any man I have encountered before. You are original. Your Mysterium proves that. I published your letter without your consent – that is true – but not to cause you trouble. It was so that those yet to come will see the praise you once lavished on me.’
    With a grunt of exertion, The Bear lumbered into motion, headed for the front door and, all too soon, was gone into the night. Only then did Kepler’s mind fill with the questions he should have