rule, or risk sacrificing themselves for the sake of the orthodox ethic. -from "Muad'Dib: The Religious Issues" by the Princess Irulan Paul waited on the sand outside the gigantic maker's line of approach. I must not wait like a smuggler -- impatient and jittering, he reminded himself. I must be part of the desert. The thing was only minutes away now, filling the morning with the friction-hissing of its passage. Its great teeth within the cavern-circle of its mouth spread like some enormous flower. The spice odor from it dominated the air. Paul's stillsuit rode easily on his body and he was only distantly aware of his nose plugs, the breathing mask. Stilgar's teaching, the painstaking hours on the sand, overshadowed all else. "How far outside the maker's radius must you stand in pea sand?" Stilgar had asked him. And he had answered correctly: "Half a meter for every meter of the maker's diameter." "Why?" "To avoid the vortex of its passage and still have time to run in and mount it." "You've ridden the little ones bred for the seed and the Water of Life," Stilgar had said. "But what you'll summon for your test is a wild maker, an old man of the desert. You must have proper respect for such a one." Now the thumper's deep drumming blended with the hiss of the approaching worm. Paul breathed deeply, smelling mineral bitterness of sand even through his filters. The wild maker, the old man of the desert, loomed, almost on him. Its cresting front segments threw a sandwave that would sweep across his knees. Come up, you lovely monster, he thought. Up. You hear me calling. Come up. Come up. The wave lifted his feet. Surface dust swept across him. He steadied himself, his world dominated by the passage of that sand-clouded curving wall, that segmented cliff, the ring lines sharply defined in it. Paul lifted his hooks, sighted along them, leaned in. He felt them bite and pull. He leaped upward, planting his feet against that wall, leaning out against the clinging barbs. This was the true instant of the testing: if he had planted the hooks correctly at the leading edge of a ring segment, opening the segment, the worm would not roll down and crush him. The worm slowed. It glided across the thumper, silencing it. Slowly, it began to roll -- up, up -- bringing those irritant barbs as high as possible, away from the sand that threatened the soft inner lapping of its ring segment. Paul found himself riding upright atop the worm. He felt exultant, like an emperor surveying his world. He suppressed a sudden urge to cavort there, to turn the worm, to show off his mastery of this creature. Suddenly he understood why Stilgar had warned him once about brash young men who danced and played with these monsters, doing handstands on their backs, removing both hooks and replanting them before the worm could spill them. Leaving one hook in place, Paul released the other and planted it lower down the side.


so well at the widow's, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and have old Miss Watson pecking at you all the time. I didn't want to go back no more. I had stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now I took to it again because pap hadn't no objec- tions. It was pretty good times up in the woods there, take it all around. But by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and I couldn't stand it. I was all over welts. He got to going away so much, too, and locking me in. Once he locked me in and was gone three days. It was dreadful lonesome. I judged he had got drowned, and I wasn't ever going to get out any more. I was scared. I made up my mind I would fix up some way to leave there. I had tried to get out of that cabin many a time, but I couldn't find no way. There warn't a window to it big enough for a dog to get through. I couldn't get up the chimbly; it was too narrow. The door was thick, solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty careful not to leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was away; I reckon I had hunted the place over as much as a hundred times; well, I was most all the time at it, because it was about the only way to put in the time. But this time I found something at last; I found an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in between a rafter and the clapboards of the roof. I greased it up and went to work. There was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the far end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing through the chinks and putting the candle out. I got under the table and raised the blanket, and went to work to saw a section of the big bottom log out -- big enough to let me through. Well, it was a good long job, but I was getting towards the end of it when I heard pap's gun in the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in. Pap warn't in a good humor -- so he was his natural self. He said he was down town, and everything was going wrong. His lawyer said he reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do it And he said people allowed there'd be another trial to get me away from him and give me to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

way he was so excited to meet everyone who stopped us on our way out to the garden. The way he puts his whole self into whatever he does and lets himself be emotional when he talks about his daughter. Connor Prince III should be awarded a gold medal in the Active Listening event at the Romance Olympics. It’s hard to believe I looked at him months ago and saw a plastic hero archetype. He’s no longer Hot Millionaire Executive or Hot Brit or Soft Lumberjack or even DILF… he’s just Connor. How did I once find him boring and unpleasant and cliché? Now I’m struggling to not think of him as soulmate material. And it’s good that I’m succeeding, because by the time I reach him, he’s standing with one of Peter’s high school friends, a petite blonde named—I kid you not—Ashley Simpson. When I say Ashley is hanging on Connor’s arm, I mean this: imagine a giant rock, and then imagine a barnacle. I like Ashley well enough—even though she toyed with Peter’s heart for years when he believed looks were more important than brains, and then chased him relentlessly once he figured out that brains were more important than looks—but I step up behind them right as she asks Connor if she can steal him away for the first dance, and my gut fills with a shimmering, violent heat. I jerk to a stop. He hasn’t seen me. He should accept. I won’t like it, but it would be a good way out of this weird, inappropriate, untenable thing we have going on. I’m supposed to like Isaac or Dax or Nick. (Maybe Jude. I think we can all agree Evan isn’t it. But Connor is definitely not it.) But then Connor says only a gentle “Sorry, tonight these dancing feet belong to Fizzy,” and my heart takes a gasping, free-falling tumble into my stomach. At Jess’s bachelorette party, we were doing the drunk yet predictable swoon over all the big and small ways River is perfect for her. Given that everyone else was married, inevitably the topic turned to me, and the disaster of my love affair with Rob. The group was small—only about six of us—but everyone fell into overlapping reassurance that I’m amazing, that I deserve the best man alive, that whoever this magical human is, he’s still out there for me. I didn’t believe it at the time, and despite doing this show, I’m not sure I totally believe it now. In the past couple of decades, I’ve dated a lot. I always assumed I wasn’t picky; I liked to brag that I didn’t have a type. I’ve had a thousand awesome first dates, and a handful of fun second dates. And then, that’s it. I’m attracted to a lot of people, but rarely do emotions get involved. In hindsight, my feelings for Rob benefitted from standing in the residual glow of Jess and River. But truthfully, the relationship was embarrassingly superficial. I didn’t know anything about his life (obviously), and he certainly never made


in my life, felt this way, never been so into a woman that I considered risking my livelihood to be with her. And I hate how last night went, hate that she now feels like she can’t be straight with me if she’s panicked, that she can’t fuck up, too. I hate most of all that none of it matters anyway after Blaine’s ultimatum this morning. Ash ducks, trying to catch my attention. “Conn.” Meeting his eyes, I give a small “Yeah?” “You know what Fizzy would say right now?” “I’m dying to hear it.” “It’s only hot for a hero to brood for, like, three-quarters of a book.” A real laugh bursts out of me. “That is exactly what she would say.” He grins at the compliment. “And you’re ignoring the very obvious silver lining,” he says brightly. “Which is?” “That now you know you’re ready for a relationship.” I laugh again, but it’s back to sardonic. I can’t blame him for trying. Finding Ella was the best thing to ever happen to Ash. “There’s not a solid batch of evidence, Ash. Fizzy and I had a seesaw fling for a few weeks and then it ended before it even began.” “But you were open to it.” I lift the spoon to my lips, murmuring, “I fell for her against my will,” before taking a bite. “But yeah. I suppose.” “Maybe this time you try DNADuo,” he says, slicing neatly into his omelet. “There are so many more users in the system now that it sounds like people are getting lots of good matches. A Gold Match isn’t rare anymore—one of the teachers at school even got two! He can meet them both, find the perfect fit. Can you imagine just being handed a list?” He takes a bite and stares at me with unmasked curiosity. “I’d love to see who your perfect fit is.” I shove Fizzy’s face out of my thoughts and give a noncommittal hum. A few months ago, I would have described her as loud and unrelenting. Now I can’t imagine using those qualities as insults. “Besides, now you’re a hot commodity, Connor.” He takes another bite and chews. I’m still daydreaming about Fizzy’s loud mouth and what she did with it, so this takes a second to penetrate. “You mean the confessionals? Ah, that’s just a small bit.” “That small bit is likely a huge part of the reason Blaine’s trying to put some fear in you.” I still, looking up at him. “What are you talking about?” Ash appears to do a mental obstacle course before he carefully puts his fork and knife down. He lifts his napkin to his lips, tapping gingerly. “Are you unaware of what’s happening online?” “You mean our ratings?” I nod as I say it because Brenna sends them to me every morning. “They’re great.” “No, I mean your fan base.” “I’ve had a few people stop me, but that’s just because they recognize someone from TV.” “A few?” he says pointedly, and I follow his gaze to a group


done in the matter. I have the honor to wish you a very good-morning." He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers. And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman. ADVENTURE II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said cordially. "I was afraid that you were engaged." "So I am. Very much so." "Then I can wait in the next room." "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also." The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes. "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures." "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I observed. "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination." "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting." "You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest


door from the galley quarters where the Dentrassis prepared his meals. A meal would be most welcome. A huge furry creature bounded through the door with his lunch tray. It was grinning like a maniac. Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was delighted. He knew that when a Dentrassi looked that pleased with itself there was something going on somewhere on the ship that he could get very angry indeed about. Ford and Arthur stared about them. "Well, what do you think?" said Ford. "It's a bit squalid, isn't it?" Ford frowned at the grubby mattress, unwashed cups and unidentifiable bits of smelly alien underwear that lay around the cramped cabin. "Well, this is a working ship, you see," said Ford. "These are the Dentrassi sleeping quarters." "I thought you said they were called Vogons or something." "Yes," said Ford, "the Vogons run the ship, the Dentrassis are the cooks, they let us on board." "I'm confused," said Arthur. "Here, have a look at this," said Ford. He sat down on one of the mattresses and rummaged about in his satchel. Arthur prodded the mattress nervously and then sat on it himself: in fact he had very little to be nervous about, because all mattresses grown in the swamps of Squornshellous Zeta are very thoroughly killed and dried before being put to service. Very few have ever come to life again. Ford handed the book to Arthur. "What is it?" asked Arthur. "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It's a sort of electronic book. It tells you everything you need to know about anything. That's its job." Arthur turned it over nervously in his hands. "I like the cover," he said. "Don't Panic. It's the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody's said to me all day." "I'll show you how it works," said Ford. He snatched it from Arthur who was still holding it as if it was a two-week-dead lark and pulled it out of its cover. "You press this button here you see and the screen lights up giving you the index." A screen, about three inches by four, lit up and characters began to flicker across the surface. "You want to know about Vogons, so I enter that name so." His fingers tapped some more keys. "And there we are." The words Vogon Constructor Fleets flared in green across the screen. Ford pressed a large red button at the bottom of the screen and words began to undulate across it. At the same time, the book began to speak the entry as well in a still quiet measured voice. This is what the book said. "Vogon Constructor Fleets. Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: forget it. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy -- not actually evil, but bad tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn't even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost


react with alarm. He went buzzing off and moments later

returned with Pa, who sat beside me. Immediately after him came Willy,

who looked at me as if he planned to murder me. Hello, Harold. He sat

across from me. Separate entities indeed.

When all participants had arrived, we shifted to a long conference table,

with Granny at the head. Before each chair was a royal notepad and pencil.

The Bee and the Wasp conducted a quick summary of where we were.

The subject of the press came up pretty quickly. I referenced their cruel

and criminal behavior, but said they’d had a ton of help. This family had

enabled the papers by looking the other way, or by actively courting them,

and some of the staff had worked directly with the press, briefing them,

planting stories, occasionally rewarding and féting them. The press was a

big part of why we’d come to this crisis—their business model demanded

that we be in constant conflict—but they weren’t the only culprits.

I looked at Willy. This was his moment to jump in, echo what I was

saying, talk about his maddening experiences with Pa and Camilla. Instead

he complained about a story in the morning papers suggesting that he was

the reason we were leaving.

I’m now being accused of bullying you and Meg out of the family!

410

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.me/Afghansalarlibrary

I wanted to say: We had nothing to do with that story... but imagine how

you might feel if we had leaked it. Then you’ll know how Meg and I have

felt the last three years.

The private secretaries began to address Granny about the Five Options.

Your Majesty, you’ve seen the Five Options.

Yes, she said.

We all had. They’d been emailed to us, five different ways of

proceeding. Option | was continuance of the status quo: Meg and I don’t

leave, everyone tries to go back to normal. Option 5 was full severance, no

royal role, no working for Granny, and total loss of security.

Option 3 was somewhere in between.


fixed upon the three-dimensional projection, a window into the past, as it played the fateful log entries of Captain Glenn Stone, commander of the ill-fated USS Lincoln. The lost ship, adrift here in the merciless expanse of space, held the secrets of a tragedy that only now was becoming evident. Glenn Stone’s weathered face appeared before me, his voice filled with a mix of resignation and determination. “The red ships, colossal monstrosities of alien origin, have descended upon us … an overwhelming force. The magnitude of their presence, their sheer size dwarfing any vessel in our own fleet, is a testament to the danger that lurked beyond the stars.” My eyes traced the haunted contours of Stone’s features, the evidence of his desperate struggle etched into every line on his face. Stained and tattered, his uniform bore witness to the relentless battles fought on Lincoln. The weariness in his eyes mirrored my own, a shared burden of responsibility and loss. As Stone’s raspy voice filled the room, a shiver coursed down my spine. “The Liquilids, the alien menace, have breached Lincoln’s hull. Now, beetle-like nanite constructs have been unleashed upon the ship, tearing through our defenses and attacking the crew.” I could see the anger in Stone’s eyes. “I’ve heard the cries, the distant, desperate pleas for survival, echoing through darkened passageways. Not being able to save those poor souls will haunt me till my dying breath.” I clenched my fists, my knuckles turning white as my own surge of anger and frustration swept through me. “Look, whoever you are watching this, watching me … The Liquilids’ strength and ruthlessness have grown with each previous encounter. And yeah, I knew they were battles we couldn’t afford to lose, not if Lincoln was to survive. But know this: we fought with everything we had. I could not be any prouder of the men and women who have sacrificed everything to defend this vessel.” Now, his face seemed to slacken with the weight of an impossible situation. “With that said, Lincoln’s self-destruct codes have already been entered. All that is needed … is my final input. I have erased any trace of our navigation records, denying the Liquilids access to crucial information about Earth’s location as well as her allies.” I blinked away the moisture in my eyes. Stone’s impending sacrifice was beyond words. I could see the finality of his decision etched into every fiber of his being. A sense of profound respect and admiration welled up within me. Captain Glenn Stone had exemplified the unwavering resolve that defined us as US Space-Navy officers, as leaders. He had faced the horrors of the Liquilids head-on, his crew fighting valiantly until the bitter end. It was a reminder of the price we paid for the freedoms we held dear, the sacrifices made in pursuit of Earth’s, humanity’s, survival. As the screen faded to black, leaving me in a void of darkness, a surge of determination pulsed through my veins. I would not allow Captain Stone’s sacrifice to be in vain. USS Adams, my ship,


at it as he does. “You think I’m ready to be a father?” His voice catches, and it’s a mixture of rage and panic. And it all becomes clear, the fear and loathing writ large in his eyes—his rage is that of a powerless adolescent. Oh, Fifty, I am so sorry. It’s a shock for me, too. “I know neither one of us is ready for this, but I think you’ll make a wonder- ful father,” I choke. “We’ll figure it out.” “How the fuck do you know!” he shouts, louder this time. “Tell me how!” His gray eyes burn, and so many emotions cross his face. It’s fear that’s most prominent. “Oh fuck this!” Christian bellows dismissively and holds his hands up in a gesture of defeat. He turns on his heel and stalks toward the foyer, grabbing his jacket as he leaves the great room. His footsteps echo off the wooden floor, and he disappears through the double doors into the foyer, slamming the door behind him and making me jump once more. I am alone with the silence—the still, silent emptiness of the great room. I shudder involuntarily as I gaze numbly at the closed doors. He’s walked out on me. Shit! His reaction is far worse than I could ever have imagined. I push my plate away and fold my arms on the table, letting my head sink into them while I weep. “Ana, dear.” Mrs. Jones is hovering beside me. I sit up quickly, dashing the tears from my face. “I heard. I’m sorry,” she says gently. “Would you like an herbal tea or something?” “I’d like a glass of white wine.” Mrs. Jones pauses for a fraction of a second, and I remember Blip. Now I can’t drink alcohol. Can I? I must study the dos and don’ts Dr. Greene gave me. “I’ll get you a glass.” “Actually, I’ll have a cup of tea, please.” I wipe my nose. She smiles kindly. 402/551 “Cup of tea coming up.” She clears our plates and heads over to the kitchen area. I follow her and perch on a stool, watching her prepare my tea. She places a steaming mug in front of me. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Ana?” “No, this is fine, thank you.” “Are you sure? You didn’t eat much.” I gaze up at her. “I’m just not hungry.” “Ana, you should eat. It’s not just you anymore. Please let me fix you something. What would you like?” She looks so hopefully at me. But really, I can’t face anything. My husband has just walked out on me because I’m pregnant, my father has been in a major car accident, and there’s Jack Hyde the nutcase trying to make out that I sexually harassed him. I suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to giggle. See what you’ve done to me, Little Blip! I caress my belly. Mrs. Jones smiles indulgently at me. “Do you know how far you are?” she asks softly. “Very newly pregnant. Four or five weeks, the doctor isn’t sure.”


hands against the glass. His torso expands and contracts like he’s taking long, slow breaths. In and out, in and out. And then, after a moment, he disappears from the skylight, and his steps retreat down the opposite side of the roof. “Did he see us?” Bezi asks, panic invading her voice. “I—I don’t think so,” I stammer. But we can’t chance staying here. I yank Bezi toward the hatch in the kitchen floor, and we lower ourselves down just as the sound of glass shattering breaks the silence. I pull the hatch closed above us and sprint down the tunnel. I fumble with my flashlight but can’t get it to turn on while I’m running and dragging Bezi along behind me. I stumble over my own feet as we reach the end. From behind us, the hatch creaks open. I climb up the ladder under the boathouse, and Bezi scrambles up after me as footsteps echo down the tunnel, rumbling toward us. Bezi moves to the door, but I stop. “Wait,” I say, panting. “For what?” Bezi shrieks. I grab an oar from the rack beside the stacked-up canoes and hold it high above my head. There’s a scuffling at the bottom of the ladder, and then the blond woman I saw in the woods sticks her head out of the hatch. I bring the oar down as hard as I can, and it lands right on the top of her head with a sickening crack. She slumps forward, her torso on the ground in the boathouse, her legs hanging down the hatch. She groans and then lapses into unconsciousness as blood pools on the dusty floor under her head. “Oh my god!” Bezi screams. I lift the oar again, preparing to bring it down on the next person who pops up, but there’s no one. It’s quiet. I toss the oar aside and loop my arms under the woman’s armpits. “Help me, Bezi!” Bezi grabs the woman’s collar, and we wrench her up and out of the hatch. Bezi slams the trapdoor closed and slides a canoe over it as I tie the woman’s hands and feet with a length of 550 cord we keep in the boathouse. She’s breathing, but the blood is still flowing from her head in crimson rivulets. I move to the door and peer out. The front doors of the Western Lodge are sitting open and the window overlooking the front porch is shattered. I cup my hand over my earpiece. “Kyle?” The static crackles and pops, and then Kyle’s voice comes out. “I’m here.” “Is the generator working? Can you see anything on the cameras?” “Yeah,” he says. “And somebody was in here when I showed up.” “What? Are you okay?” “No,” Kyle says, his voice trembling. “I—I had to hurt him. He jumped on me and—and . . .” “Kyle, listen to me,” I say. “It’s not your fault. You did what you had to do.” He sighs into the mic. “I don’t think he’s dead, but I used my knife. Charity, am


Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street: he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent their erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers; Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the difference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to church, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of going for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat was, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often stopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager, who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish church, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led was the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit from the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory consultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish. Mr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in the practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged himself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back. Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate had announced his intention


at my plate. “I was headed over when Blaine found me. I just needed to get my head on straight. I’ll head over in a bit. Shooting starts around three. Rory and Brenna’ve got things handled.” “Ah. You’re avoiding her.” I take a bite of melon instead of answering. “What you ought to do is go home and sleep. You look like crap.” I grunt in response, though I know I should do better. Ash has the day off for a teacher development thing that doesn’t start until this afternoon, and instead of lounging in bed with his wife, he’s here with me at brunch, listening to me explain again how my life is in the toilet. I know it’s a good thing I ended my relationship with Fizzy, but a part of me was hoping Ash would say what I know deep down, that I needed to give her time to work through what was probably the hardest thing for her to hear me say. Unfortunately, after hearing the entire story—the hotel drama, Fizzy’s confession, and the situation with Trent’s show—Ash agrees that I probably did the right thing. But I’ve never, not once in my life, felt this way, never been so into a woman that I considered risking my livelihood to be with her. And I hate how last night went, hate that she now feels like she can’t be straight with me if she’s panicked, that she can’t fuck up, too. I hate most of all that none of it matters anyway after Blaine’s ultimatum this morning. Ash ducks, trying to catch my attention. “Conn.” Meeting his eyes, I give a small “Yeah?” “You know what Fizzy would say right now?” “I’m dying to hear it.” “It’s only hot for a hero to brood for, like, three-quarters of a book.” A real laugh bursts out of me. “That is exactly what she would say.” He grins at the compliment. “And you’re ignoring the very obvious silver lining,” he says brightly. “Which is?” “That now you know you’re ready for a relationship.” I laugh again, but it’s back to sardonic. I can’t blame him for trying. Finding Ella was the best thing to ever happen to Ash. “There’s not a solid batch of evidence, Ash. Fizzy and I had a seesaw fling for a few weeks and then it ended before it even began.” “But you were open to it.” I lift the spoon to my lips, murmuring, “I fell for her against my will,” before taking a bite. “But yeah. I suppose.” “Maybe this time you try DNADuo,” he says, slicing neatly into his omelet. “There are so many more users in the system now that it sounds like people are getting lots of good matches. A Gold Match isn’t rare anymore—one of the teachers at school even got two! He can meet them both, find the perfect fit. Can you imagine just being handed a list?” He takes a bite and stares at me with unmasked curiosity. “I’d love to see who your perfect fit is.” I


“Yeeeahh.” It was a question. And as she blinked, she saw the beam of a flashlight cutting across the still water thick with duckweed and spider lilies. Panic shot through her. She tried to move, to get away, but she was tangled against the rotting wood of some pier, her hair and some fishing wire holding her fast, choking her. “Hey, there, now . . . don’t you move . . . we gotcha,” the deep voice said, as if she could trust him. Her memory was hazy, clouded, but she had to get away, couldn’t trust these faceless men. Couldn’t trust anyone. She jerked upward and whatever was caught in her hair held her fast. No, no, no! Her heart was a drum, beating a wild tattoo. Again, she tried to remember how she’d gotten here. Why she was in the swamp as the boat came closer, the sound of oars dipping in water drawing near. She reached up to wrench her hair and throat free of the noose and saw the prow of a boat reach the rotting dock and two men climb onto the slippery boards. “You’ll be okay, now,” the huge man said. “We gotcha. We’ll take you to a doctor.” His companion, older and hunched over, a wiry man, was a step behind. “Careful, Clive, this here dock’s ’bout rotted clean through.” Could she trust them? No! Even in her foggy state, she knew she couldn’t trust anyone. She tried to get away but whatever was holding her fast wouldn’t budge. She kicked and yanked at the thing around her neck. “Hey, hey there. Don’t struggle. Oh, Jesus-God, what the hell’s she got around her neck?” “What’re ya talkin’ . . . oh, man, oh, man, oh, man.” She felt big hands at her throat and she struggled, trying to get away. “Hell-fire, girl, you’re just makin’ it worse.” She swung up at him and he pulled back, staring her straight in the eyes. His hands went up to his sides. “Hey—look it. We’re just here to help you. Get you to a doc. Now, come on. Bobby, you got your cell phone? Call nine-one-one.” “No signal,” Bobby said, his voice a crackle. “Oh, shit man, there’s a gator!” the big man said. “You got your gun?” What? An alligator? In the water? Next to her? Oh. God. She froze. A scream died in her throat. Frantically she searched the dark water and she saw it, small eyes catching the flashlight’s beam. The little man scrambled back to the boat. She felt something move against her leg and screamed, just as Bobby-Dean pulled a long gun from the boat and took aim. The light played over the water, swinging in an arc. The swamp went silent. Something moved. Inches from her. The water swirled. A snout appeared. “Got him!” Bobby-Dean said. “No!” she yelled, seeing the double-barrel. “Noooo!” Blam! The blast echoed through the swamp and Luna sank gratefully back into oblivion. * * * Stupid, stupid, stupid! By the dimmed light of the lantern, he nursed


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

"Didn't I hear the window?" "What window?" asked Mrs. Hall. "Parlour window," said Henfrey. Every one stood listening intently. Mrs. Hall's eyes, directed straight before her, saw without seeing the brilliant oblong of the inn door, the road white and vivid, and Huxter's shop-front blistering in the June sun. Abruptly Huxter's door opened and Huxter appeared, eyes staring with excitement, arms gesticulating. "Yap!" cried Huxter. "Stop thief!" and he ran obliquely across the oblong towards the yard gates, and vanished. Simultaneously came a tumult from the parlour, and a sound of windows being closed. Hall, Henfrey, and the human contents of the Tap rushed out at once pell-mell into the street. They saw some one whisk round the corner towards the down road, and Mr. Huxter executing a complicated leap in the air that ended on his face and shoulder. Down the street people were standing astonished or running towards them. Mr. Huxter was stunned. Henfrey stopped to discover this, but Hall and the two labourers from the Tap rushed at once to the corner, shouting incoherent things, and saw Mr. Marvel vanishing by the corner of the church wall. They appear to have jumped to the impossible conclusion that this was the Invisible Man suddenly become visible, and set off at once along the lane in pursuit. But Hall had hardly run a dozen yards before he gave a loud shout of astonishment and went flying headlong sideways, clutching one of the labourers and bringing him to the ground. He had been charged just as one charges a man at football. The second labourer came round in a circle, stared, and conceiving that Hall had tumbled over of his own accord, turned to resume the pursuit, only to be tripped by the ankle just as Huxter had been. Then, as the first labourer struggled to his feet, he was kicked sideways by a blow that might have felled an ox. As he went down, the rush from the direction of the village green came round the corner. The first to appear was the proprietor of the cocoanut shy, a burly man in a blue jersey. He was astonished to see the lane empty save for three men sprawling absurdly on the ground. And then something happened to his rear-most foot, and he went headlong and rolled sideways just in time to graze the feet of his brother and partner, following headlong. The two were then kicked, knelt on, fallen over, and cursed by quite a number of over- hasty people. Now when Hall and Henfrey and the labourers ran out of the house, Mrs. Hall, who had been disciplined by years of experience, remained in the bar next the till. And suddenly the parlour door was opened, and Mr. Cuss appeared, and without glancing at her rushed at once down the steps towards the corner. "Hold him!" he cried. "Don't let him drop that parcel! You can see him so long as he holds the parcel." He knew nothing of the existence of Marvel. For the Invisible Man had handed over


already shaking her head. “We’ve been over this before,” she said, remembering the night the cops had come by with the devastating news that another woman had been killed in the same manner as had Father John’s victims so long ago. “I thought he was dead. That he died in the swamp. That you shot him.” Montoya said, “His body was never recovered. And we talked to you about the recent homicides that we think he might have committed.” Bentz flinched. She knew that many had been fascinated by all news of her attacker, had pored over reports of the search of the bayou where the killer had been shot. The cops had done their due diligence, the theory being that the murderer had been eaten by alligators or other swamp creatures or washed out to sea. “He hasn’t contacted me.” Bentz raised an eyebrow, his stare intent. “You’re sure?” “Yes—well, no, not a hundred percent, but I don’t think so.” As a radio psychologist, she accepted on-air questions during her program, Midnight Confessions, and that’s where Father John first connected with her. Since that time security had been beefed up, every phone call, e-mail, text, or other communication double-checked, and then there was the chilling fact that she was certain she would recognize his voice, that it was forever etched in her memory, that she would never forget it. “So what happened?” she asked, but knew with dead certainty that someone had been killed, probably another prostitute strangled by a rosary. Sam’s blood curdled at the thought, her heartbeat accelerated. He had to be dead. The monster had to have been killed in the bayou that night; he couldn’t be alive. Her lungs constricted and she clenched her coffee cup so hard her fingers began to ache. “Another murder?” She set her cup onto the counter. Montoya was nodding. “Yeah, but we’re not sure it’s connected to the Rosary Killer,” he said. Bentz’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly while Montoya explained about the homicide in Pirate’s Alley. “I read about that,” she said, and to Bentz, “I’m sorry for your loss. That’s rough. Is your daughter okay?” What a dumb question. She saw the answer in Bentz’s eyes. Could almost hear his thoughts: No. Of course not. Who knows if she’ll ever be “okay” again. She lost her husband and nearly her own life in a brutal attack. So, no, she’s definitely not okay. But he said, “She’s still working through it.” “She’s been through a lot of trauma,” Samantha said, silently adding, and so have you, Rick Bentz. So have you. “She’ll probably need grief counseling. I can recommend someone.” “I’ll let her know,” Bentz said as the dog scratched at the door and she let him in. Rambo, the traitor, sidled up to the spot between the two bar stools where the cops were sitting and, nose in the air, hoped for attention, or more likely some morsel of food to drop. “You here alone?” Bentz asked. “Kids are in school. Ty’s out of town.” She explained that her husband,


they don’t already know.” He sighed thoughtfully, as though we were extremely lucky to be in his presence. “Not health stuff—there are tons of apps for that—but behavioral stuff. Like, ‘What should I do on this day to make my life better?’ ” “Wouldn’t that be health stuff?” Delpy asked. Dexter frowned. “Not necessarily. You’ve got this voice recognition technology, right? How about people speak to it and it speaks back?” I felt Brianna tapping my shoulder, leaning in next to me. “Ez, can I talk to you in the hall?” The question was so unexpected, such an overstepping of bounds, that I didn’t know what to say. “After the meeting,” I told her, and watched her face fall. We had legal draw up a contract for Dexter to sign and he hunched over it, pen nearly touching paper, and then looked up at me. “I want a clause in here,” he said. “That Orson has to do a photo shoot with me.” I shifted in my seat. “A photo shoot?” “For Maskelyne and STARS. I’m developing drones for both companies, domestic and combat. I want the New York Times to do a profile about the two of us when this whole thing gets up and running. About this partnership.” “With Orson?” I didn’t like the idea of Orson posing with drones. Or with Ellhorn, who seemed prematurely possessive of him. “He’s already a recognizable face in the tech world. Everyone’s talking about him—you know that.” Of course I knew that. “I’ll ask him.” Dexter shook his head. “Uh-uh. I need approval right now or else I’m not gonna sign.” I could feel the executives’ eyes on my back. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll make it happen.” “Great!” He signed gamely: his signature was weirdly elegant, the outline of a D encircled by an arc that suggested a planetary orbit. “This is going to be really fucking cool, you guys.” We stood to shake hands when Brianna tapped me on the shoulder again. “Ez?” “Yes, yes,” I said, trying not to sound too affable, and waved as Dexter and the executives departed, Elaine bringing up the rear with her steady plod. “What is it?” Brianna waited for me to sit down and then opened her laptop. “I think I missed a few notes from the beginning?” “You didn’t miss anything,” I said, annoyed. “Oh, right—okay. I guess then, um, I guess I might just want to ask you a question?” I made a get on with it motion with my hand. “Um, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but it’s about Dexter. He doesn’t really deliver on the things he promises. His companies are all in debt to each other: Maskelyne owes STARS money and STARS owes NeuroTech money and NeuroTech owes Maskelyne money.” “How do you know this?” “I did some research on it at Harvard. He came to talk once and I, um, wanted to get some background.” “This isn’t Harvard, though. This is the actual business world.” “Right, right. I just thought it was a little worrying. I


“Have your ankles ever touched the ankles of anyone you were not sexually involved with?” “Not in that particular way,” I managed. “And what was that particular way?” “Their legs were . . . entangled. And they were leaning together.” “And based on this one incident of their ankles touching—which you perceived from across a crowded public space—you assumed a sexual relationship?” “That was one of many indicators.” My voice was thin. It dawned on me, sickeningly, that my saying your name in court might make absolutely nothing happen. Whatever fire I started might be immediately squelched. “So based on this assumption, and based on your theory of these small marks in Thalia’s planner, you feel you could have contributed more to the initial investigation?” Could I have? Would I have managed, at eighteen, to say any of this to investigators—about periods, about sex with a teacher? Would I have implicated you, my favorite teacher, in a murder? But I knew the correct answer: “Yes.” “In fact this hearing has a lot to do with your intervention in the case, does it not?” “I can’t speak to that.” “You’ve certainly spoken plenty about the case publicly, haven’t you?” Liz was leaning into this, to the point that I was starting to think she genuinely hated me, that she’d never believed a word I’d said. “What I’ve spoken about publicly, and here in court, are the same things I knew in 1995, and these are the things I would have told investigators had I been asked.” I said this with a good show of the certainty I lacked. “That’s good,” Hector said. “Remember how you phrased that.” “But you were not asked,” Liz said. “Did you approach investigators with the information?” “No. I was sent to meet with them because I’d been Thalia’s roommate the previous year. But they didn’t ask about her love life. And I never saw the planner. Their focus was entirely on whether I knew anything about the night she died. And I hadn’t seen her that night, except onstage.” Hector nodded vigorously. Liz said, “It was on your suggestion that Britt Gwynne instigated the search of the athletic equipment shed on the Granby campus, was it not?” “Yes.” “That’s awfully specific. Did you suggest any other place to search?” “I suggested the equipment shed, the press box on top of that same building, and the bleachers serving the track and the lacrosse field, which used to be the football field.” “Those are all quite close together. You just happened to suggest that they look in the one place where there was indeed blood evidence?” My mouth fell open. I said, “Are they really going to do that?” Liz shrugged. “They could.” “But if they imply that I had some knowledge of what happened, wouldn’t that mean they definitely should have questioned me back in ’95?” “They could imply that the evidence was planted there later. Staged.” “That makes no sense. Does it? Is that even possible?” “All they need to do is vaguely suggest it. They’re likely to


of his skin in place of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he was also suffering under some grief that was genuine and unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old man loved--a little granddaughter, perhaps--had been killed. Every few minutes the old man kept repeating: 'We didn't ought to 'ave trusted 'em. I said so, Ma, didn't I? That's what comes of trusting 'em. I said so all along. We didn't ought to 'ave trusted the buggers.' But which buggers they didn't ought to have trusted Winston could not now remember. Since about that time, war had been literally continuous, though strictly speaking it had not always been the same war. For several months during his childhood there had been confused street fighting in London itself, some of which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any given moment, would have been utterly impossible, since no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention of any other alignment than the existing one. At this moment, for example, in 1984 (if it was 1984), Oceania was at war with Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia. In no public or private utterance was it ever admitted that the three powers had at any time been grouped along different lines. Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four years since Oceania had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge which he happened to possess because his memory was not satisfactorily under control. Officially the change of partners had never happened. Oceania was at war with Eurasia: therefore Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and it followed that any past or future agreement with him was impossible. The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were gyrating their bodies from the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be good for the back muscles)--the frightening thing was that it might all be true. If the Party could thrust its hand into the past and say of this or that event, IT NEVER HAPPENED--that, surely, was more terrifying than mere torture and death? The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance with Eurasia. He, Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had been in alliance with Eurasia as short a time as four years ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed--if all records told the same tale--then the lie passed into history and became truth.


she looked up at Janie. “Whut’s de matter, sugar? You ain’t none too spry dis mornin’.” “Oh, nothin’ much, Ah reckon. Ah come to get a lil infor- mation from you.” The old woman looked amazed, then gave a big clatter of laughter. “Don’t tell me you done got knocked up already, less see—dis Saturday it’s two month and two weeks.” “No’m, Ah don’t think so anyhow.” Janie blushed a little. “You ain’t got nothin’ to be shamed of, honey, youse uh Their Eyes Were Watching God 27 married ’oman. You got yo’ lawful husband same as Mis’ Washburn or anybody else!” “Ah’m all right dat way. Ah know ’tain’t nothin’ dere.” “You and Logan been fussin’? Lawd, Ah know dat grassgut, liver-lipted nigger ain’t done took and beat mah baby already! Ah’ll take a stick and salivate ’im!” “No’m, he ain’t even talked ’bout hittin’ me. He says he never mean to lay de weight uh his hand on me in malice. He chops all de wood he think Ah wants and den he totes it inside de kitchen for me. Keeps both water buckets full.” “Humph! don’t ’spect all dat tuh keep up. He ain’t kissin’ yo’ mouf when he carry on over yuh lak dat. He’s kissin’ yo’ foot and ’tain’t in uh man tuh kiss foot long. Mouf kissin’ is on uh equal and dat’s natural but when dey got to bow down tuh love, dey soon straightens up.” “Yes’m.” “Well, if he do all dat whut you come in heah wid uh face long as mah arm for?” “’Cause you told me Ah mus gointer love him, and, and Ah don’t. Maybe if somebody was to tell me how, Ah could do it.” “You come heah wid yo’ mouf full uh foolishness on uh busy day. Heah you got uh prop tuh lean on all yo’ bawn days, and big protection, and everybody got tuh tip dey hat tuh you and call you Mis’ Killicks, and you come worryin’ me ’bout love.” “But Nanny, Ah wants to want him sometimes. Ah don’t want him to do all de wantin’.” 28 Zora Neale Hurston “If you don’t want him, you sho oughta. Heah you is wid de onliest organ in town, amongst colored folks, in yo’ par- lor. Got a house bought and paid for and sixty acres uh land right on de big road and . . . Lawd have mussy! Dat’s de very prong all us black women gits hung on. Dis love! Dat’s just whut’s got us uh pullin’ and uh haulin’ and sweatin’ and doin’ from can’t see in de mornin’ till can’t see at night. Dat’s how come de ole folks say dat bein’ uh fool don’t kill nobody. It jus’ makes you sweat. Ah betcha you wants some dressed up dude dat got to look at de sole of his shoe everytime he cross de street tuh see whether he got enough leather dere tuh make it across. You can buy and sell such as dem wid what you got. In fact


very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath. 'Now, my boy, which house is it?' inquired Mr. Losberne. 'That! That!' replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. 'The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so.' 'Come, come!' said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder. 'You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well.' 'Oh! I hope so!' cried Oliver. 'They were so good to me; so very, very good to me.' The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. 'To Let.' 'Knock at the next door,' cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. 'What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?' The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward. 'Has his housekeeper gone too?' inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause. 'Yes, sir'; replied the servant. 'The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together. 'Then turn towards home again,' said Mr. Losberne to the driver; 'and don't stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!' 'The book-stall keeper, sir?' said Oliver. 'I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!' 'My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day,' said the doctor. 'Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!' And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home they went. This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had


the village green, she was perspiring. She saw herself as others might see her, a woman in her seventies, past her prime. She felt no longer elegant or attractive or interesting: Lin wondered what she was achieving in her life. She couldn’t think of a good reason to keep going, she felt unwanted. Even Debbie rarely had time for her – they’d spoken a fortnight ago on the phone, and Lin had asked how the grandchildren were, but Debbie explained that they were always so busy. She thought about her friends: Josie, widowed and alone, Minnie, single and always active, and it was easy to compare herself with them unfavourably. They were strong, independent, fun. Lin felt shabby and boring. She stepped off the kerb, intending to cross the road to Cecily’s bungalow, tears blinding her vision, and almost walked into a silver car as it sped by. It was a Porsche Boxster, Darryl Featherstone at the wheel. She recognised him but not the passenger with him. Lin caught her breath; she could have been knocked down, killed. That would have ended it all. She shuddered with the horror of the thought. Then common sense came flooding back and she pulled herself together. Life was precious. She was precious. Lin looked both ways and crossed the road, walking briskly to Cecily’s door, knocking twice. She listened, wondering if Cecily was inside, playing the guitar, but there was no sound so she knocked again and waited. A moment later, the door opened and Cecily stood facing her, wearing red lipstick and light loose clothes, waving a hand in front of her face to cool herself down. She took in Lin’s flushed face and smiled. ‘It’s good to see you, Lin. I’ve been in the garden, watering my tomatoes. It’s so hot. Come in – let’s have a glass of cool lemonade and sit outside under a shady tree.’ 30 Lin and Cecily sat in the garden drinking pink lemonade, gazing at the flowers. Lin wasn’t ready to say what was on her mind, so she said, ‘The clematis looks lovely.’ ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Cecily turned to her with keen eyes: her instincts were sharp as ever. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Lin. Since the picnic.’ ‘Oh…’ Lin examined her fingers and brightened deliberately. ‘Florence loved the baby shower. And your singing with Jack was so much fun.’ ‘It was a wonderful day.’ Cecily smiled. ‘But you appeared to be having too much fun, or perhaps not enough…’ She leaned forward and pressed Lin’s hand. ‘Tell me, is everything all right?’ ‘Oh, it’s all fine,’ Lin said. Cecily looked at her levelly, then Lin’s face fell. ‘No, it’s not. I think Neil’s having an affair.’ Cecily raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? You’ve been married for fifty years.’ ‘Almost.’ The words fell from Lin’s lips. ‘I found a piece of paper in his pocket. It was a woman’s name, Carole, and her phone number.’ ‘There may be a completely innocent explanation.’ ‘But he’s always going out, Cecily. He wears his best jacket. He’s


right, and that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we were so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very meanly of me." Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long narrative. "Excuse me," he said, "but it is not my custom to discuss my most intimate personal affairs in this public manner." "Then you won't forgive me? You won't shake hands before I go?" "Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure." He put out his hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him. "I had hoped," suggested Holmes, "that you would have joined us in a friendly supper." "I think that there you ask a little too much," responded his Lordship. "I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments, but I can hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that with your permission I will now wish you all a very good-night." He included us all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room. "Then I trust that you at least will honor me with your company," said Sherlock Holmes. "It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the folly of a monarch and the blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not prevent our children from being some day citizens of the same world-wide country under a flag which shall be a quartering of the Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes." "The case has been an interesting one," remarked Holmes when our visitors had left us, "because it serves to show very clearly how simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger than the result when viewed, for instance by Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard." "You were not yourself at fault at all, then?" "From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the other that she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning home. Obviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to cause her to change her mind. What could that something be? She could not have spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the company of the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it must be someone from America because she had spent so short a time in this country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so deep an


the most sensitive part of my body. And he shows no mercy, teasing and taunting, worshipping me. My body tenses and my arms start to tremble from the strain of staying upright. “No . . . ah,” I murmur. Gently, he eases one long finger inside me, and I can bear it no more, collapsing back onto the bed, relishing this mouth and fingers on 252/551 and in me. Slowly and gently, he massages that sweet, sweet spot deep inside me. And that’s it—I’m gone. I explode around him, crying out an incoherent rendition of his name as my intense orgasm arches my back off the bed. I think I see stars it’s such a visceral primal feeling . . . Vaguely I’m aware that he’s nuzzling my belly, giving me soft, sweet kisses. Reaching down, I caress his hair. “I’m not finished with you yet,” he murmurs. And before I’ve fully come back to Seattle, Planet Earth, he’s reaching for me, grasping my hips and pulling me off the bed to where’s he’s kneeling, and into his waiting lap and onto his waiting erection. I gasp as he fills me. Holy cow . . . “Oh, baby,” he breathes as he wraps his arms around me and stills, cradling my head and kissing my face. He flexes his hips, and pleasure spikes hot and hard from deep within me. He reaches for my behind and lifts me, rocking his groin upward. “Ah,” I moan, and his lips are on mine again as he slowly, oh so slowly, lifts and rocks . . . lifts and rocks. I throw my arms around his neck, surrendering to his gentle rhythm and to wherever he’ll take me. I flex my thighs, riding him . . . he feels so good. Leaning backward, I tilt my head back, my mouth open wide in a silent expression of my pleasure, reveling in his sweet lovemaking. “Ana,” he breathes, and he leans down, kissing my throat. Holding me tight, slowly easing in and out, pushing me . . . higher and higher . . . so exquisitely timed—a fluid carnal force. Blissful pleasure radiates outward from deep, deep in- side me as he holds me so intimately. “I love you, Ana,” he whispers close to my ear, his voice low and harsh, and he lifts me again—up, down, up, down. I curl my hands back around his neck into his hair. “I love you, too, Christian.” Opening my eyes, I find he’s gazing at me, and all I see is his love, shining bright and bold in the soft glow of the playroom light, his nightmare seemingly forgotten. And as I feel my body build toward my release, I realize this is what I wanted—this connection, this demonstration of our love. “Come for me, baby,” he whispers, his voice low. I screw my eyes shut as my body tightens at the low sound of his voice, and I come loudly, spiraling into an intense climax. He stills, his forehead against mine, as he softly whispers my name,


forever. And the rates they have now! It’s armed robbery.” A waiter made the mistake of heading toward their table. Cornelia immediately turned to the poor kid and began talking at a brisk speed. “I’d like tuna on lettuce. No, no mayo, no mustard, no tomato, just tuna on lettuce. Okay, maybe tomato. Yes, one little tomato. I’ll have a Diet Coke with a twist of lemon and a cup of coffee. Forget the coffee, I drink too much coffee. Mineral water and a twist of lemon. Can you bring everything out at the same time? You know what, make it a chicken breast with a salad on the side.” Montserrat had already ordered, so she simply raised her glass of water at the waiter in solidarity. He turned around in silence, with the professionalism of a man who had seen his share of eccentric customers and was not fazed by anything anymore. Cornelia was, as Tristán liked to put it, an acquired taste. “I’m trying this nicotine patch, and all it does is piss me off,” Cornelia said as she leaned forward and set her elbows on the table. “What about you? I was going to phone you last month but then I got stuck with an assignment and how have you been?” Montserrat informed Cornelia that she was doing fine, and Cornelia replied by beginning a long story about a mole on her back that she was having checked. Conversations with Cornelia were never linear. They diverged, her thoughts doubling back then steamrolling forward, but she was a decent friend and a good production assistant. Finally, Montserrat was able to guide Cornelia toward the topic of Enigma and their current episode lineup. “My hours at Antares are getting cut all the time.” “I told you if you trained that kid, soon they’d have him doing your job in no time. Never teach anyone anything! How long have you been there? For years and years! It’s because you’re not in the union. Leeches. That’s what these people are.” “If the owner even heard the word ‘union’ he’d fire us on the spot. Which brings me to Enigma: I have an idea for an episode.” “Finally! I told you to get out of the sound business. It pays peanuts. What’s the idea, then?” “I met this director, Abel Urueta. He used to make horror movies back in the day and turns out he worked on a film that was written by an occultist: Wilhelm Ewers.” “They don’t ring a bell,” Cornelia said, scratching the spot on her arm where she wore her nicotine patch. Montserrat talked about Urueta’s filmography and explained she could get an interview with him. By the time their food arrived, and Cornelia began picking at her chicken, Montserrat suspected she was fighting a losing battle. “I thought you said you might have something for me if I came up with ideas for the show,” Montserrat said. “Get into production, you said.” “Yes, but I was thinking something more like finding the Mexican Amityville. Haunted houses. Lloronas and chaneques.


same day they entered into possession of their new and happy home. Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law, to enjoy, during the tranquil remainder of her days, the greatest felicity that age and worth can know--the contemplation of the happiness of those on whom the warmest affections and tenderest cares of a well-spent life, have been unceasingly bestowed. It appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of property remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered either in his hands or in those of his mother) were equally divided between himself and Oliver, it would yield, to each, little more than three thousand pounds. By the provisions of his father's will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole; but Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to deprive the elder son of the opportunity of retrieving his former vices and pursuing an honest career, proposed this mode of distribution, to which his young charge joyfully acceded. Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a distant part of the New World; where, having quickly squandered it, he once more fell into his old courses, and, after undergoing a long confinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length sunk under an attack of his old disorder, and died in prison. As far from home, died the chief remaining members of his friend Fagin's gang. Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Removing with him and the old housekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house, where his dear friends resided, he gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver's warm and earnest heart, and thus linked together a little society, whose condition approached as nearly to one of perfect happiness as can ever be known in this changing world. Soon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor returned to Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old friends, he would have been discontented if his temperament had admitted of such a feeling; and would have turned quite peevish if he had known how. For two or three months, he contented himself with hinting that he feared the air began to disagree with him; then, finding that the place really no longer was, to him, what it had been, he settled his business on his assistant, took a bachelor's cottage outside the village of which his young friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered. Here he took to gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other pursuits of a similar kind: all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity. In each and all he has since become famous throughout the neighborhood, as a most profound authority. Before his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship for Mr. Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated. He is accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many times in the course of the year. On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes, and carpenters, with great ardour; doing everything in a very singular and unprecedented manner, but always maintaining with his favourite asseveration,


Geldschrank bank offering the full modern array of anonymous services in the tradition of the Swiss numbered account. Maintaining offices in Zurich, Kuala Lumpur, New York, and Paris, the bank had expanded its services in recent years to offer anonymous computer source code escrow services and faceless digitized backup. The bread and butter of its operation was by far its oldest and simplest offering-the anonyme Lager-blind drop services, otherwise known as anonymous safe-deposit boxes. Clients wishing to store anything from stock certificates to valuable paintings could deposit their belongings anonymously, through a series of high-tech veils of privacy, withdrawing items at any time, also in total anonymity. As Sophie pulled the taxi to a stop in front of their destination, Langdon gazed out at the building's uncompromising architecture and sensed the Depository Bank of Zurich was a firm with little sense of humor. The building was a windowless rectangle that seemed to be forged entirely of dull steel. Resembling an enormous metal brick, the edifice sat back from the road with a fifteen-foot-tall, neon, equilateral cross glowing over its facade. Switzerland's reputation for secrecy in banking had become one of the country's most lucrative exports. Facilities like this had become controversial in the art community because they provided a perfect place for art thieves to hide stolen goods, for years if necessary, until the heat was off. Because deposits were protected from police inspection by privacy laws and were attached to numbered accounts rather than people's names, thieves could rest easily knowing their stolen goods were safe and could never be traced to them. Sophie stopped the taxi at an imposing gate that blocked the bank's driveway-a cement-lined ramp that descended beneath the building. A video camera overhead was aimed directly at them, and Langdon had the feeling that this camera, unlike those at the Louvre, was authentic. Sophie rolled down the window and surveyed the electronic podium on the driver's side. An LCD screen provided directions in seven languages. Topping the list was English. INSERT KEY. Sophie took the gold laser-pocked key from her pocket and turned her attention back to the podium. Below the screen was a triangular hole. "Something tells me it will fit," Langdon said. Sophie aligned the key's triangular shaft with the hole and inserted it, sliding it in until the entire shaft had disappeared. This key apparently required no turning. Instantly, the gate began to swing open. Sophie took her foot off the brake and coasted down to a second gate and podium. Behind her, the first gate closed, trapping them like a ship in a lock. Langdon disliked the constricted sensation. Let's hope this second gate works too. This second podium bore familiar directions. INSERT KEY. When Sophie inserted the key, the second gate immediately opened. Moments later they were winding down the ramp into the belly of the structure. 120 The private garage was small and dim, with spaces for about a dozen cars. At the far end, Langdon spied the building's main entrance. A red carpet stretched across the cement floor, welcoming visitors


Liquid courage. It is in that moment that I hear the front doorbell ring. I should not be diverted from my plan—who knows when I will have another opportunity. I should swallow these pills, wash them down with more vodka, and climb into the tub. But Nate’s muffled voice travels through the floorboards, followed by the voice of a woman. My curiosity is piqued. Unannounced guests are rare at our house, female ones even more so. Could it be Lee? Come to confront me for double-crossing her? Or to thank me for saving her? Dumping the medication back into its bottle, I grab a floral silk robe off the hook on the back of the door and slip into it. Tentatively, I move into the hallway. The voices are clearer now. I hear the woman again and perhaps an unknown man. Benjamin has joined them, too. His anger and belligerence travel up the staircase. “This is a fucking outrage,” he bellows, and the female voice responds, inaudibly. If it’s Lee at the door, I must protect her. She is no match for an angry Benjamin. Wrapping my thin robe tighter around me, I hurry down the stairs in bare feet. As I scurry toward the entryway, it becomes clear that the female interloper is not Lee. Her voice is calm, authoritarian, and her words are just audible. She is reading the Miranda rights. But to whom? I burst into the foyer. “What the hell is going on?” But it is obvious. My husband is being arrested. A muscular uniformed officer is cuffing Benjamin’s hands behind his back. Like he is a common criminal. Like he is a threat to society. My chest flutters with a combination of shock, elation, and hope. The woman, a detective I assume, given her no-nonsense blazer and slacks ensemble, approaches me. “Are you Hazel Laval?” “Yes.” “My name is Detective French. We’re arresting your husband for conspiracy to commit murder.” “Murder?” I feel chilled and exposed in my thin silk robe, my teeth chattering through my words. “Whose murder?” Her face is grave, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yours,” she says. 50 I STAGGER BACK AS IF shoved. French reaches out, cups my elbow for support, but I don’t collapse. Somehow I remain upright, though my mind is reeling with the news. And the logistics of it. Had Benjamin and I been simultaneously plotting each other’s deaths? Or had he found out about Jesse’s and my plan to get rid of him and decided I needed to die? I almost saved him the trouble. If the police had arrived an hour later, I’d have been dead. The detective’s hand is steady on my arm. “Would you like to sit down?” I nod, let her lead me to the living room, where I sink into the sofa. Behind me, I hear Benjamin instructing Nate. “Call David Vega. Get him to meet me at the station.” And then he addresses the cops. “We’ll have this dismissed at arraignment, and you’ll have egg on your face.” I turn


waited, to channel it through her body and make it do her bidding. Resisting made her head light, her breathing shallow. Half the bloodcoats went for the spilled mandrake, but their leader was focused only on Jean-Paul. He caught him by the arm; Jean-Paul tried to go for the hidden dagger in his coat, hands stained with Horse’s viscera—poor Horse—but the bloodcoat brought the bayonet end to his throat before he could reach it. “Don’t make me fire,” the bloodcoat snarled through his bloody mustache. “They could use someone like you in the mines on the Burnt Isles.” A guttural laugh. “Your girl, too. She looks strong enough for a shovel.” A bullet would be preferable to the mines. Lore had heard of more than one poison runner who slit their own throat rather than be made to live the rest of a cut-short life in the dark and dust of the Burnt Isles. Dark. Dust. Death. All of it swirled around her, coppery blood and an emptiness that abraded her sinuses. Black mist rose from Horse’s body, coalescing into dark threads that only a channeler could see, seeping from the eyes, the slack mouth. Mortem. Calling to her. Use it. Lore didn’t know if it was truly a voice she heard, or just the firing of her own brain, desperate to do something, to use whatever it could. A distraction, that’s what they needed. Something that would allow her to run, something awful enough to pull the bloodcoats’ focus so Jean-Paul could escape. It was too late for her. Lore was caught, and what she did in these next few moments wouldn’t change that. The choice was between the Burnt Isles or a pyre. In the end, it didn’t make that much difference, if it meant Jean-Paul could go back to his family. Distraction it was, then. And as soon as Lore made the decision, her body went to work. She took a deep breath and held it in her lungs, letting instinct take over, drive her as it had before. She’d been born to this, to the magic and the dark, and every part of her but her mind was eager. One moment everything was bright and lurid, and the next she saw only the barest impression of her surroundings, the world cloaked in grayscale as her lungs began to burn, her body tipped toward death. The bloodcoats and Jean-Paul and the living bodies of the crowd were all surrounded in auras of white light. The outline around Horse’s corpse leaked slowly from white to black, life leaving as death took over. Threads of Mortem waved in the air like spider legs, the black corona of an inverted sun. Lore didn’t look down at herself as she slowly let her breath out, keeping her grip on Mortem strong, because she was in it now and the current of instinct had pulled her under. She knew what she looked like—her fingers cold and corpse-pale, her eyes shifting from hazel to opaque white. On her palm, the moon-shaped scar blazed like a


Alumni Weekend was coming up, I think that next weekend. The last thing they wanted was yellow tape around the gym.” Leave it to Granby to schedule Alumni Weekend not for a gorgeous spring day but for the end of ski season, so alumni could day-drink at the Granby Invitational. I said, “You’d think they might have canceled the weekend, but they went right ahead. They strung up those Welcome Back banners. I remember they had the State Police park behind the gym so no one would see.” We’d rolled our eyes at the time, but saying it aloud in 2018, I found myself kind of shocked. By the school’s callousness, but also by the way the police apparently just did whatever Dr. Calahan asked. “So that same weekend,” Britt said, “that’s when they started interviewing students. A whole week after her death.” Was that right? I remembered people missing class right away, but maybe that was to meet with counselors rather than detectives. I wouldn’t have dared to sign up for counseling on the bulletin board. Nor was I one of the girls with just enough claim to Thalia that I could walk around the next few weeks collapsing whenever I wanted out of a test. Perhaps that’s unkind, but really—there were a few girls vying for Oscars that spring. I was on the detectives’ list, though, and one night I was called into Miss Vogel’s apartment to sit at her table with two men from the Major Crimes Unit, Miss Vogel’s parakeet chirping in a cage over the sink. The detectives were both tall—one beefy, one gray-haired. They were far too loud for that little kitchen. I told Britt, “They interviewed me for maybe ten minutes. I remember they asked if I knew of anyone she was fighting with. In the past few days I’d heard other kids talk about Omar, but it was secondhand so I didn’t bring that up. I did tell them this random story, and I thought it was surreal how they wrote down whatever I said. It made me feel important.” I’d felt at the time like it was at least something to give them, and I felt the same way with Britt now. At least I had one story no one else would have. I said, “That past September, I was babysitting for a family in one of those stone houses.” It was the one to the right of Fran and Anne’s. The Pelonis’ house, if you remember them. Three obnoxious kids who thought it was funny to spin each other in Mr. Peloni’s desk chair till they were sick. “There were a couple dumpsters behind those houses, between their backyards and the loading dock of the dining hall.” Britt nodded. “That’s all still there.” “So the kids had gone to bed, but it was still light out, and I was on their back porch doing homework. I looked up and Thalia was by the dumpsters, wearing pajamas. I mean, bare feet, boxers, a T-shirt. She didn’t see me. There were shrubs between us.”


outrow an Oxford man at Henley?" Langdon had no idea, but he could imagine only one reason the question had been asked. "Surely such a travesty has never occurred." The gate clicked open. "Your heart is true, my friend. You may pass." 150 CHAPTER 53 "Monsieur Vernet!" The night manager of the Depository Bank of Zurich felt relieved to hear the bank president's voice on the phone. "Where did you go, sir? The police are here, everyone is waiting for you!" "I have a little problem," the bank president said, sounding distressed. "I need your help right away." You have more than a little problem, the manager thought. The police had entirely surrounded the bank and were threatening to have the DCPJ captain himself show up with the warrant the bank had demanded. "How can I help you, sir?" "Armored truck number three. I need to find it." Puzzled, the manager checked his delivery schedule. "It's here. Downstairs at the loading dock." "Actually, no. The truck was stolen by the two individuals the police are tracking." "What? How did they drive out?" "I can't go into the specifics on the phone, but we have a situation here that could potentially be extremely unfortunate for the bank." "What do you need me to do, sir?" "I'd like you to activate the truck's emergency transponder." The night manager's eyes moved to the LoJack control box across the room. Like many armored cars, each of the bank's trucks had been equipped with a radio-controlled homing device, which could be activated remotely from the bank. The manager had only used the emergency system once, after a hijacking, and it had worked flawlessly- locating the truck and transmitting the coordinates to the authorities automatically. Tonight, however, the manager had the impression the president was hoping for a bit more prudence. "Sir, you are aware that if I activate the LoJack system, the transponder will simultaneously inform the authorities that we have a problem." Vernet was silent for several seconds. "Yes, I know. Do it anyway. Truck number three. I'll hold. I need the exact location of that truck the instant you have it." "Right away, sir." Thirty seconds later, forty kilometers away, hidden in the undercarriage of the armored truck, a tiny transponder blinked to life. 151 CHAPTER 54 As Langdon and Sophie drove the armored truck up the winding, poplar-lined driveway toward the house, Sophie could already feel her muscles relaxing. It was a relief to be off the road, and she could think of few safer places to get their feet under them than this private, gated estate owned by a good-natured foreigner. They turned into the sweeping circular driveway, and Chteau Villette came into view on their right. Three stories tall and at least sixty meters long, the edifice had gray stone facing illuminated by outside spotlights. The coarse facade stood in stark juxtaposition to the immaculately landscaped gardens and glassy pond. The inside lights were just now coming on. Rather than driving to the front door, Langdon pulled into a parking area nestled


would arrive today.” Grace moved in for a hug while Tifẹ́ stayed seated, sipping a glass of wine. “I hope we are welcome,” Tifẹ́ said. “Of course, why would you not be welcome here?” Wúràọlá sat beside Tifẹ́ and squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you so much, babes. How have you been? How is Ifẹ̀? You were both able to get away? Neither of you is on call tonight, àbí?” “Which question do you want answered first, madam?” Grace asked. “Where are you going to sleep tonight? This house is so full I have to share my room with Mọ́tárá, my aunties have taken almost every room. Maybe we can find a hotel?” Grace grinned. “Kúnlé already took care of us.” “My Kúnlé?” “He made all the arrangements, booked the hotel, paid for everything. Such a sweetheart.” “Ehen? We spoke just before I left the hospital, and he didn’t tell me about this.” “I’m changing my opinion about that boy o.” Tifẹ́ swirled her wine. “And which opinion did you have before?” Wúràọlá asked. “Say na fuckboy now,” Tifẹ́ said. Grace scoffed. “You think every guy is a fuckboy.” “And when have I been wrong?” Tifẹ́ asked. “Abeg, abeg, don’t start this one now,” Grace said. Tifẹ́ set her wineglass on a stool. “The truth is bitter, babes.” “Have you been given something to eat?” “Kúnlé took us out once we arrived. We went to that pepper soup place around Akewusola. I’m not ashamed to say I had three plates,” Tifẹ́ said. “You’ve seen him? He didn’t mention this at all when we spoke.” “That would have ruined the surprise,” Grace said. “So you don’t need anything? Kúnlé has already taken care of you?” Tifẹ́ rubbed her belly. “Good care, sef. That guy, he might be one of the better fuckboys. You know, fuckboy lite. Mo wà impressed, sha, just a little bit.” * * * Kúnlé and his parents joined them for dinner that night. Six plastic tables were set up outside to make a long dining table that had Wúràọlá’s father at the head at one end. Yèyé, Kúnlé’s parents and Láyí sat next to him while Grace, Tifẹ́ and Kúnlé flanked Wúràọlá at the other end of the table. The aunties sat in the middle with Láyí’s pregnant wife, Ọdúnayọ̀, telling her all about the ever-dwindling proceeds from the palm oil trees they had inherited from their grandfather. For some reason, Mọ́tárá had decided to set her chair closer to the canopies, far away from everyone else. Grace was barely touching her food. She wanted to write her primaries before the national youth service but couldn’t decide between internal medicine and paediatrics. “It’s not as if you can start working when you pass,” Tifẹ́ said, spilling grains of rice from her mouth as she spoke. “You still have to serve Nigeria first, so calm down and think it through before you decide.” “It’ll most likely be internal medicine. I just have to decide soon, I’m going to register for the exam next week.” “Why the rush?” Tifẹ́ asked. Grace shrugged.


frizzle, which, unlike the head that it once adorned, was in very satisfactory preservation. But, on examining the papers which the parchment commission served to envelop, I found more traces of Mr. Pue's mental part, and the internal operations of his head, than the frizzled wig had contained of the venerable skull itself.% They were documents, in short, not official, but of a private nature, or, at least, written in his private capacity, and apparently with his own hand. I could account for their being included in the heap of Custom-House lumber only by the fact that Mr. Pine's death had happened suddenly, and that these papers, which he probably kept in his official desk, had never come to the knowledge of his heirs, or were supposed to relate to the business of the revenue. On the transfer of the archives to Halifax, this package, proving to be of no public concern, was left behind, and had remained ever since unopened. The ancient Surveyor--being little molested, suppose, at that early day with business pertaining to his office--seems to have devoted some of his many leisure hours to researches as a local antiquarian, and other inquisitions of a similar nature. These supplied material for petty activity to a mind that would otherwise have been eaten up with rust. A portion of his facts, by-the-by, did me good service in the preparation of the article entitled "MAIN STREET," included in the present volume. The remainder may perhaps be applied to purposes equally valuable hereafter, or not impossibly may be worked up, so far as they go, into a regular history of Salem, should my veneration for the natal soil ever impel me to so pious a task. Meanwhile, they shall be at the command of any gentleman, inclined and Thesaurus antiquarian: (adj) antique, ancient. enclose, wrap, encircle, conceal, (v) restrain, discourage, prevent. ANTONYMS: (adj) young, modern, embrace, beset, hide; (n) envelope. lumber: (n) timber, wood; (adj, n) new. ANTONYMS: (v) reveal, release, jumble, rubbish; (v) log, trail; (adv, v) apparel: (n, v) garb, attire, garment, open, unwrap, expose. plod; (adj) junk, litter, huddle, array, vesture; (n) clothing, finery, frizzle: (v) crimp, frizz, fry, crinkle, disarray. costume, clothes; (v) adorn, clothe. crape, crumple, wrinkle, plicate; (n) molested: (adj) assaulted, disordered, decease: (v) go, die, perish, pass, pass friz; (adj) bow, recurve. abused, badly treated, battered, away, exit, expire; (n) demise, frizzled: (adj) kinky. harmed, injured, maltreated, passing, departure, expiration. heirs: (n) family, posterity, issue. neglected, physically abused, raped. ANTONYMS: (n) nascency; (v) impel: (v) coerce, constrain, force, pertaining: (adj) relative, concerning, survive. carry, compel, goad, urge, stimulate, belonging, apposite, material, not envelop: (v) fold, enfold, encase, actuate, animate, push. ANTONYMS: absolute. Nathaniel Hawthorne 31 competent, to take the unprofitable labour off my hands. As a final disposition I contemplate depositing them with the Essex Historical Society. But the object that most drew my attention to the mysterious package was a certain affair of fine red cloth, much worn and faded, There were traces about it of gold embroidery, which, however, was greatly frayed and defaced,


“If you keep repeating that, I’ll figure that you don’t want to hang out with me.” I don’t. But I’d love to hang you. He pushes me down the hallway with a hand between my shoulder blades, and for a second his many feet and inches and pounds feel tantalizingly, inexplicably inviting. I’m tired. A little weary. I could sink against him and . . . Whoa. I think I’m getting woozy. Maybe I need to eat. I shouldn’t, though. I had vitamin-enriched gummy rabbits between interviews to keep my blood sugar from dropping—unwise, letting yourself get hangry when you’re with someone you daydream of slaughtering at baseline. I take out my phone, meaning to check my glycemic levels. Except Jack is staring at it, eyes on the crack splitting the lock screen. (A selfie of Cece and me laughing as we hold up a block of cranberry goat cheese. It was on New Year’s Eve, before we spent four hours watching a Belgian movie about cannibalism, then one more hour discussing its emotional throughline. I wanted to die. The cheese was good, though.) My glucose monitor looks fine, but I want to check my pod. I need a minute alone. Maybe I can pretend I forgot something in Jack’s office? I turn around to give the door one longing look, and my eyes fall on his nameplate. “Where’s the Turner from, anyway?” Jack gives me a curious glance. I suspect that his leisure pace is faster than my full-on sprint, but he slows down to match me. How gracious. “Greg’s last name is just Smith.” “Turner’s my mom’s last name.” “And Greg didn’t take it?” “See, this seems like the exact type of information that someone who’s in a loving relationship with my brother would already have.” Okay. That’s not untrue. “Where was Volkov supposed to take you?” I take my itinerary out of my minuscule pocket. I have to unfold it about twenty times, which seems to amuse Jack. Dick. “Wait. It says here that Dr. Crowley was going to give me the tour.” I look up, hopeful. “You don’t need to—” “Crowley—and Pereira—are no longer on the search committee.” “What?” The very two assholes I overheard in the bathroom? “Why?” “Something came up. They had to step back.” He says it in a monotone, like it’s not weird that two faculty members would pull out in the middle of a search. “But I’m happy to take over.” He holds my eyes, final, bluequartered. “What does the schedule say?” Dammit. “Tour of the labs.” He huffs a laugh. “You sure you want to see those? They’re crawling with experimentalists.” I stifle an eye roll. “I’d love to see the labs. Like I said, I firmly believe in the collaboration between experimental and theoretical physics, and I value . . .” Jack’s eyebrow lifts (subtext: You’re full of shit), and I trail off. “Should I just show you the offices, Elsie?” I press my lips together (subtext: Stop saying my name). “Yes, please.” The thing about theoretical physics is, it mostly


stronger of the two. "It is our own little Phoebe!--Ah! and Holgrave with, her" exclaimed he, with a glance of keen and delicate insight, and a smile, beautiful, kind, but melancholy. "I thought of you both, as we came down the street, and beheld Alice's Posies in full bloom. And so the flower of Eden has bloomed, likewise, in this old, darksome house to-day." XXI The Departure THE sudden death of so prominent a member of the social world as the Honorable Judge Jaffrey Pyncheon created a sensation (at least, in the circles more immediately connected with the deceased) which had hardly quite subsided in a fortnight. It may be remarked, however, that, of all the events which constitute a person's biography, there is scarcely one--none, certainly, of anything like a similar importance--to which the world so easily reconciles itself as to his death. In most other cases and contingencies, the individual is present among us, mixed up with the daily revolution of affairs, and affording a definite point for observation. At his decease, there is only a vacancy, and a momentary eddy,--very small, as compared with the apparent magnitude of the ingurgitated object,--and a bubble or two, ascending out of the black depth and bursting at the surface. As regarded Judge Pyncheon, it seemed probable, at first blush, that the mode of his final departure might give him a larger and longer posthumous vogue than ordinarily attends the memory of a distinguished man. But when it came to be understood, on the highest professional authority, that the event was a natural, and--except for some unimportant particulars, denoting a slight idiosyncrasy--by no means an unusual form of death, the public, with its customary alacrity, proceeded to forget that he had ever lived. In short, the honorable Judge was beginning to be a stale subject before half the country newspapers had found time to put their columns in mourning, and publish his exceedingly eulogistic obituary. Nevertheless, creeping darkly through the places which this excellent person had haunted in his lifetime, there was a hidden stream of private talk, such as it would have shocked all decency to speak loudly at the street-corners. It is very singular, how the fact of a man's death often seems to give people a truer idea of his character, whether for good or evil, than they have ever possessed while he was living and acting among them. Death is so genuine a fact that it excludes falsehood, or betrays its emptiness; it is a touchstone that proves the gold, and dishonors the baser metal. Could the departed, whoever he may be, return in a week after his decease, he would almost invariably find himself at a higher or lower point than he had formerly occupied, on the scale of public appreciation. But the talk, or scandal, to which we now allude, had reference to matters of no less old a date than the supposed murder, thirty or forty years ago, of the late Judge Pyncheon's uncle. The medical opinion with regard to his own recent and regretted decease


uplifted in broad day, you would not be able to see him, any more than if he were stealing upon you from behind. In a word, you would have two backs, so to speak; but, at the same time, also, two fronts (side fronts): for what is it that makes the front of a man --what, indeed, but his eyes? Moreover, while in most other animals that I can now think of, the eyes are so planted as imperceptibly to blend their visual power, so as to produce one picture and not two to the brain; the peculiar position of the whale's eyes, effectually divided as they are by many cubic feet of solid head, which towers between them like a great mountain separating two lakes in valleys; this, of course, must wholly separate the impressions which each independent organ imparts. The whale, therefore, must see one distinct picture on this side, and another distinct picture on that side; while all between must be profound darkness and nothingness to him. Man may, in effect, be said to look out on the world from a sentry-box with two joined sashes for his window. But with the whale, these two sashes are separately inserted, making two distinct windows, but sadly impairing the view. This peculiarity of the whale's eyes is a thing always to be borne in mind in the fishery; and to be remembered by the reader in some subsequent scenes. A curious and most puzzling question might be started concerning .. <p 329 > this visual matter as touching the Leviathan. But I must be content with a hint. so long as a man's eyes are open in the light, the act of seeing is involuntary; that is, he cannot then help mechanically seeing whatever objects are before him. Nevertheless, any one's experience will teach him, that though he can take in an undiscriminating sweep of things at one glance, it is quite impossible for him, attentively, and completely, to examine any two things --however large or however small --at one and the same instant of time; never mind if they lie side by side and touch each other. But if you now come to separate these two objects, and surround each by a circle of profound darkness; then, in order to see one of them, in such a manner as to bring your mind to bear on it, the other will be utterly excluded from your contemporary consciousness. How is it, then, with the whale? True, both his eyes, in themselves, must simultaneously act; but is his brain so much more comprehensive, combining, and subtle than man's, that he can at the same moment of time attentively examine two distinct prospects, one on one side of him, and the other in an exactly opposite direction? If he can, then is it as marvellous a thing in him, as if a man were able simultaneously to go through the demonstrations of two distinct problems in Euclid. Nor, strictly investigated, is there any incongruity in this comparison. It may be but an idle