Daniel sighed, forsook his dram, clamped his temples between the thumb and fingertips of one hand. All he could see now was his pink palm – cratered from smallpox, now. The disease had converted perhaps a quarter of Tess's body to pustules, and removed most of the skin from her face and torso, before she'd finally given up the ghost. 'To be quite honest with you, I do not care,' he said. 'I tried to hold him back. Tried to turn his attention toward astronomy, dynamics, physics – natural philosophy as opposed to unnatural theology. I failed; I left; here I am.'