***
Later — much later — Francis stumbled across the yard to his chambers. His head buzzed as if colonized by a swarm of angry bees. Too much wine, too much talk, too much noise. Too many people.
He knew that buzzing. He would be sick in the morning. In fact, he would probably be in bed for the better part of the week. Whitt would have to attend him in Pinnock's absence. How would he manage to summon him?
As he reached a weary hand for the door, a flash of movement caught his eye. He turned his head and saw Thomas Clarady bounding out of a door to the Gallery, a lute strung across his back. He sprang across the yard and into a waiting coach.
Ah, the energy of youth! Francis was too exhausted to envy him. He trudged up the stairs to the blessed silence of his solitary room.