In which Coleridge's not-quite-so-terrible not-so-secret comes to a vague kind of light and not much else.
Having gathered only what little ready money he had (Machiavelli had stressed the immediacy of their departure), Samuel stood outside his house, looking about confusedly. He had left a short note on his writing table:
Have been suddenly called away. Please do not worry. Return date unknown. Signed, STC
Honestly, he wondered why he had bothered. Who would worry over his departure? Certainly not William. William would just think he was frittering away his money in some low place, high on his laudanum without a care in the world...Samuel automatically reached into his coat pocket, and finding the comforting bottle within, withdrew it. He eyed the level, glad he had thought to refill it in those last hurried moments in the house, and, noting that Machiavelli had not yet re-appeared, raised it to his lips and drank. It was at this precise moment that Machiavelli materialized from the darkness. Samuel jumped back with a cry, nearly dropping the bottle as Machiavelli approached curiously, wrinkling his nose.
“What's that?” he asked.
“It's...medicine.” Samuel answered cautiously. “A kind of medicine I take.”
Machiavelli looked a bit concerned.
“Are you ill, Samuel?”
“No..not really...it's just-” Samuel floundered. “it's good for me.” he finished firmly.
“Wise, then.” Machiavelli nodded approvingly.
“Wise.” Samuel agreed with a brave smile.
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