Recently he had spent a lot of time at Whitehall. The King had decided to relax his grip just a bit, and had begun letting a few Barkers and Quakers out of prison, and had decided to nominate Daniel as a sort of unofficial secretary for all matters having to do with mad Puritans: Knott Bolstrood's successor, that is, with all the same burdens, but much less power. Of Whitehall's two thousand or so rooms, Daniel had probably set foot in a few hundred – enough to know that it was a dirty, mildewed jumble, like the map of the inside of a courtier's mind, a slum in all but name. Whole sections had been taken over by the King's pack of semi-feral spaniels, who'd become inbred even by Royal standards and thus hare-brained even by Spaniel standards. Whitehall Palace was, in the end, a House: the house of a Family. It was a very strange old family. As of one week ago Daniel had already been somewhat better acquainted with that Family than anyone in his right mind would want to be. And now, Daniel was waiting here on the Privy Stairs only as an excuse to get out of the King's bedchamber – nay, his very bed :and to breathe some air that did not smell like the royal body fluids.