maneuvering so much as slow down, and that only for the odd request that I kindly repeat myself, or the odd chuckle.
As you might expect, I undertook none of the actions suggested by the Aldermen as the next hanging day approached, nor any others in that vein. Susan and her friends, who soon took to calling themselves Adjoints à la Recherché as the details of my meeting spread through the ranks, grew even more energized and enthusiastic. La recherché vigoreaux began on the criminals most likely to swing on the next hanging day, which by then was more than two months hence. By the time three men and three women were officially sentenced to hang on that day, the Adjoints had full stories for me about the six, and enough to work with on six more, had there been a need.
During this time Susan and I had not grown closer, if I am being honest. Rather, we had become familiar to one another in the way spouses often are. (Marriage was rarely discussed. When it was, it was obvious that Susan was too busy, and I left our conversations convinced I was not yet ready. Not for re-marriage, and not for marriage to Susan.) We became more perfunctory. We worked well together, we fucked well together, and we made one another, if not happy, then comfortable – literally, we were comforts for one another, when our days became hectic, overfilled, overwhelming, anxious.
And there was no shortage of anxiety. My press license was revoked a month before the hanging day. Susan convinced me to publish anyway. My friend, Robert Spencer, proprietor of the press which printed my Accounts, agreed to go ahead with the publication of the next six – more at Susan’s insistence than at mine. He had been duly notified of the revocation of my license, but was prepared to forget he had or to claim he misunderstood. It was a touching gesture of friendship. Bonds of friendship are