school--young as he was to be sent, but what else could be done?--and who, as the holidays were about to begin, would be back from one day to the other. There had been for the two children at first a young lady whom they had had the misfortune to lose. She had done for them quite beautifully--she was a most respectable person-- till her death, the great awkwardness of which had, precisely, left no alternative but the school for little Miles. Mrs. Grose, since then, in the way of manners and things, had done as she could for Flora; and there were, further, a cook, a housemaid, a dairywoman, an old pony, an old groom, and an old gardener, all likewise thoroughly respectable. So far had Douglas presented his picture when someone put a question. "And what did the former governess die of?--of so much respectability?" Our friend's answer was prompt. "That will come out. I don't anticipate." "Excuse me--I thought that was just what you ARE doing." "In her successor's place," I suggested, "I should have wished to learn if the office brought with it--" "Necessary danger to life?" Douglas completed my thought. "She did wish to learn, and she did learn. You shall hear tomorrow what she learned. Meanwhile, of course, the prospect struck her as slightly grim. She was young, untried, nervous: it was a vision of serious duties and little company, of really great loneliness. She hesitated--took a couple of days to consult and consider. But the salary offered much exceeded her modest measure, and on a second interview she faced the music, she engaged." And Douglas, with this, made a pause that, for the benefit of the company, moved me to throw in-- "The moral of which was of course the seduction exercised by the splendid young man. She succumbed to it." He got up and, as he had done the night before, went to the fire, gave a stir to a log with his foot, then stood a moment with his back to us. "She saw him only twice." "Yes, but that's just the beauty of her passion." A little to my surprise, on this, Douglas turned round to me. "It WAS the beauty of it. There were others," he went on, "who hadn't succumbed. He told her frankly all his difficulty-- that for several applicants the conditions had been prohibitive. They were, somehow, simply afraid. It sounded dull--it sounded strange; and all the more so because of his main condition." "Which was--?" "That she should never trouble him--but never, never: neither appeal nor complain nor write about anything; only meet all questions herself, receive all moneys from his solicitor, take the whole thing over and let him alone. She promised to do this, and she mentioned to me that when, for a moment, disburdened, delighted, he held her hand, thanking her for the sacrifice, she already felt rewarded." "But was that all her reward?" one of the ladies asked. "She never saw him again." "Oh!" said the lady; which, as our friend immediately left us


just used to it.' 'I think it's a fine name,' said Bond. An idea struck him. 'Can I borrow it?' He explained about the special martini he had invented and his search for a name for it. 'The Vesper,' he said. 'It sounds perfect and it's very appropriate to the violet hour when my cocktail will now be drunk all over the world. Can I have it?' 'So long as I can try one first,' she promised. 'It sounds a drink to be proud of.' 'We'll have one together when all this is finished,' said Bond. 'Win or lose. And now have you decided what you would like to have for dinner? Please be expensive,' he added as he sensed her hesitation, 'or you'll let down that beautiful frock.' 'I'd made two choices,' she laughed, 'and either would have been delicious, but behaving like a millionaire occasionally is a wonderful treat and if you're sure . . . well, I'd like to start with caviar and then have a plain grilled rognon de veau with pommes souffls. And then I'd like to have fraises des bois with a lot of cream. Is it very shameless to be so certain and so expensive?' She smiled at him inquiringly. 'It's a virtue, and anyway it's only a good plain wholesome meal.' He turned to the matre d'htel, 'and bring plenty of toast.' 'The trouble always is,' he explained to Vesper, 'not how to get enough caviar, but how to get enough toast with it.' 'Now,' he turned back to the menu, 'I myself will accompany Mademoiselle with the caviar, but then I would like a very small tournedos, underdone, with sauce Barnaise and a coeur d'artichaut. While Mademoiselle is enjoying the strawberries, I will have half an avocado pear with a little French dressing. Do you approve?' The matre d'htel bowed. 'My compliments, mademoiselle and monsieur. Monsieur George,' he turned to the sommelier and repeated the two dinners for his benefit. 'Parfait,' said the sommelier, proffering the leather-bound wine list. 'If you agree,' said Bond, 'I would prefer to drink champagne with you tonight. It is a cheerful wine and it suits the occasion - I hope' he added. 'Yes I would like champagne,' she said. With his finger on the page, Bond turned to the sommelier: 'The Taittinger 45?' 'A fine wine, monsieur,' said the sommelier. But if Monsieur will permit,' he pointed with his pencil, 'the Blanc de Blanc Brut 1943 of The same marque is without equal.' Bond smiled. 'So be it,' he said. 'That is not a well-known brand,' Bond explained to his companion, 'but it is probably the finest champagne in the world.' He grinned suddenly at the touch of pretension in his remark. 'You must forgive me,' he said. 'I take a ridiculous pleasure in what I eat and drink. It comes partly from being a bachelor, but mostly from a habit of taking a lot of trouble over details. It's very pernickety and old-maidish really, but then when I'm working I generally have to eat my meals


the stream. She went in and knocked at his door and he came out. Even in those days he was not a man of many words. He just carried her into his bed and in the darkness began to feel around her waist for the loose end of her cloth. CHAPTER TWELVE On the following morning the entire neighbourhood wore a festive air because Okonkwo's friend, Obierika, was celebrating his daughter's uri. It was the day on which her suitor (having already paid the greater part of her bride-price) would bring palm-wine not only to her parents and immediate relatives but to the wide and extensive group of kinsmen called umunna. Everybody had been invited--men, women and children. But it was really a woman's ceremony and the central figures were the bride and her mother. As soon as day broke, breakfast was hastily eaten and women and children began to gather at Obierika's compound to help the bride's mother in her difficult but happy task of cooking for a whole village. Okonkwo's family was astir like any other family in the neighbourhood. Nwoye's mother and Okonkwo's youngest wife were ready to set out for Obierika's compound with all their children. Nwoye's mother carried a basket of coco-yams, a cake of salt and smoked fish which she would present to Obierika's wife. Okonkwo's youngest wife, Ojiugo, also had a basket of plantains and coco-yams and a small pot of palm-oil. Their children carried pots of water. Ekwefi was tired and sleepy from the exhausting experiences of the previous night. It was not very long since they had returned. The priestess, with Ezinma sleeping on her back, had crawled out of the shrine on her belly like a snake. She had not as much as looked at Okonkwo and Ekwefi or shown any surprise at finding them at the mouth of the cave. She looked straight ahead of her and walked back to the village. Okonkwo and his wife followed at a respectful distance. They thought the priestess might be going to her house, but she went to Okonkwo's compound, passed through his obi and into Ekwefi's hut and walked into her bedroom. She placed Ezinma carefully on the bed and went away without saying a word to anybody. Ezinma was still sleeping when everyone else was astir, and Ekwefi asked Nwoye's mother and Ojiugo to explain to Obierika's wife that she would be late. She had got ready her basket of coco-yams and fish, but she must wait for Ezinma to wake. "You need some sleep yourself," said Nwoye's mother. "You look very tired." As they spoke Ezinma emerged from the hut, rubbing her eyes and stretching her spare frame. She saw the other children with their waterpots and remembered that they were going to fetch water for Obierika's wife. She went back to the hut and brought her pot. "Have you slept enough?" asked her mother. "Yes," she replied. "Let us go." "Not before you have had your breakfast," said Ekwefi. And she went into her hut to warm the vegetable soup


picture of them dancing platonically in the Post.” “You read terrible newspapers.” “It’s my job.” “That’s the other thing. Stefan’s pissed you didn’t call right off.” “How is he?” “He doesn’t change, Cal.” I don’t think that’s true. Stefan Tonfamecasca is a four-dose Titan. In some sense, changing is the essence of what he does, even as he remains the same ruthless bastard he’s always been. The cumulative increase in height and mass takes him beyond the merely human into some new territory I don’t understand. No one understands. Not even Athena, his youngest and best beloved daughter, and probably the last natural child he will ever have. I say: “Nor do you.” She looks away, leaning back into the dark. The chair creaks. Athena was five feet five and twenty-nine years old when she was crushed under a collapsing wall. She lay in hospital in a coma for two weeks, something like seventy of the bones in her body broken into more than one fragment, most of her organs on the brink of shutting down. She and Stefan weren’t talking. He’d cut her off and she’d told him where to shove it. She was living a normal life. With me. I sat with her every hour of that coma, and the doctors came every day and told me it was never going to change. So I called Stefan, and he came. Now she’s just over seven feet tall, and weighs in excess of one hundred and thirty kilos. She is the notional heir to the Tonfamecasca family company—not that Stefan ever proposes to step down. But what she isn’t, any more, is mine. And though I try to take care of her, the truth is she doesn’t need it, and I do need her help. So I swallow my pride and I ask her again what Roddy Tebbit was doing for Tonfamecasca. “We honestly don’t know,” Athena says. “Stefan can’t find him anywhere. He just appeared out of the air.” “Would he tell you?” “He tells me everything.” “I hope that isn’t true.” Huge eyes look into mine across the desk. She finally has a body big enough for the soul within. “I’ll call you, Cal, if I get anything more. Say you’ll do the same.” “I’ll do the same.” “Now mean it.” “I’ll do the same.” The floor creaks as she leaves, huge hand trailing across my shoulder for just an instant, soft like snow. * * * — I’m calling it, or maybe my bed is calling me. My apartment is tucked away next to the office; most people think the plain little door just alongside the one with my name stencilled on it is a closet, but it’s a nice, cosy space: a galley kitchen dining, and a bedroom with a glass roof section like a little greenhouse that looks straight up into the sky. I can lie down and watch the storms as they roll off the mountains and pass overhead. In summer I have to pull the blind across or the sunrise wakes me almost before


Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

hazel eyes that matched her own. So when Lore opened her eyes and saw a cell, it was almost a relief. Someone had stuffed a gag in her mouth—it tasted sour, like it’d been used to clean up spilled wine. One rope bound her ankles to the legs of the chair where she sat, another bound her wrists together behind her back, and yet another connected the two. Whoever had tied her up had left enough slack that she wasn’t painfully contorted, but there was no chance in any of the myriad hells that she could get out of the chair unassisted. And all of it—the chair, the bindings, the stone walls—all of it felt like death. Lore gasped against her gag, pulling the fabric farther back in her throat, making her choke as she pressed her eyes closed. Usually, she could deal with her awareness of Mortem in dead matter. She had to; there was no escaping it. But something had changed when she raised Horse, and now it pressed in on her from all sides, heavy and thick, bearing down with a suffocating weight. Worse than the rock and rope, things that had never lived, were the things that did. The minuscule threads of grass pushing against the cracks in the floor, the people close enough for her senses to pick them up, her own body—alive, for now, but she could feel each individual cell as it collapsed, an eternity in microcosm— Had this happened after Cedric? If it had, she didn’t remember it. It seemed like getting older had made the raising easier and the side effects worse. Swallowing hard, Lore opened her eyes again, making herself actually look at her surroundings. Not a cell, technically. Just a bare stone room, with the chair she was bound to and a wooden table as the only furniture. On the wall hung a tapestry, its vibrancy made garish for being the only spot of color. The tapestry depicted a man with gleaming brown hair and milk-pale skin, blood-smeared hands outstretched, blood seeping from a gaping wound in His chest and dripping into the mass of darkness below Him. In the background was something that looked like a fountain, edged in gold, and above the man’s head, a message was picked out in silver-gilt thread. Apollius, may we hold fast Your Citadel, protecting the world from Death and living in purity until Your return, when the world shall rise in the Light of a New Age. The nebulous form below Apollius’s feet appeared to be a shadow at first glance. But if you looked closely, you could almost pick out the shape of a woman, see where the weaver had used threads of varying darkness to suggest a moon-crowned head, feminine curves. The Bleeding God’s feet were directly above the points of the vague woman-shape’s crescent crown, turned on Her forehead so the points speared up like horns. It gave the impression of the god stomping Her into the earth. The Buried Goddess, Nyxara. The Church, then. Of course the Presque Mort


features. Despite the clarity of Saunire's final revelation, Langdon had been left feeling more off balance than enlightened. To him, Rosslyn Chapel seemed far too obvious a location. For centuries, this stone chapel had echoed with whispers of the Holy Grail's presence. The whispers had turned to shouts in recent decades when ground-penetrating radar revealed the presence of an astonishing structure beneath the chapel-a massive subterranean chamber. Not only did this deep vault dwarf the chapel atop it, but it appeared to have no entrance or exit. Archaeologists petitioned to begin blasting through the bedrock to reach the mysterious chamber, but the Rosslyn Trust expressly forbade any excavation of the sacred site. Of course, this only fueled the fires of speculation. What was the Rosslyn Trust trying to hide? Rosslyn had now become a pilgrimage site for mystery seekers. Some claimed they were drawn here by the powerful magnetic field that emanated inexplicably from these coordinates, some claimed they came to search the hillside for a hidden entrance to the vault, but most admitted they had come simply to wander the grounds and absorb the lore of the Holy Grail. Although Langdon had never been to Rosslyn before now, he always chuckled when he heard the chapel described as the current home of the Holy Grail. Admittedly, Rosslyn once might have been home to the Grail, long ago... but certainly no longer. Far too much attention had been drawn to Rosslyn in past decades, and sooner or later someone would find a way to break into the vault. True Grail academics agreed that Rosslyn was a decoy-one of the devious dead ends the Priory crafted so convincingly. Tonight, however, with the Priory's keystone offering a verse that pointed directly to this spot, Langdon no longer felt so smug. A perplexing question had been running through his mind all day: Why would Saunire go to such effort to guide us to so obvious a location? There seemed only one logical answer. 290 There is something about Rosslyn we have yet to understand. "Robert?" Sophie was standing outside the car, looking back at him. "Are you corning?" She was holding the rosewood box, which Captain Fache had returned to them. Inside, both cryptexes had been reassembled and nested as they had been found. The papyrus verse was locked safely at its core-minus the shattered vial of vinegar. Making their way up the long gravel path, Langdon and Sophie passed the famous west wall of the chapel. Casual visitors assumed this oddly protruding wall was a section of the chapel that had not been finished. The truth, Langdon recalled, was far more intriguing. The west wall of Solomon's Temple. The Knights Templar had designed Rosslyn Chapel as an exact architectural blueprint of Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem-complete with a west wall, a narrow rectangular sanctuary, and a subterranean vault like the Holy of Holies, in which the original nine knights had first unearthed their priceless treasure. Langdon had to admit, there existed an intriguing symmetry in the idea of the Templars building a modern Grail repository


dark and ominous thundercloud—one readying to burst with unspeakable devastation. Even now, he could see burgeoning silhouetted outlines of small somethings starting to take shape, then, just as quickly, fading away into the vapor. Probably just my imagination … he mused. It wouldn’t be long before the cloud had moved on, adrift for eternity, little more than a bad memory. His Arrow was running on fumes as, he knew, were the rest of his squad’s fighters. They had done all that they could. He keyed his comms. “J-Dog requesting permission to RTB … Over.” Chapter 36 Liquilid Empire Star System Asteroid Compound Commander Lu-puk Lu-puk watched as the formation of enhanced Liquilid fighters streaked through distant space, their sleek forms seemingly dominating the space around them with their sheer presence. Once they had deployed from their respective frigates, they’d become Lu-puk’s responsibility. A responsibility that both thrilled and petrified him. Was this a test? Of course it was. One that provided the admiral deniability in case of failure, praise in case of success. The battle unfolded with calculated precision as the Liquilid forces unleashed a coordinated assault upon the human Arrow fighters. Having an in-cockpit feed from one of the lead dragonflies, Lu-puk watched the air crackle with the discharge of energy weapons, creating a kaleidoscope of dazzling lights against the backdrop of the void. The commander’s heart pounded in his chest, matching the rhythm of the battle unfolding before him. Lu-puk knew that every maneuver, every decision, held the weight of the admiral’s expectations. Failure was not an option, for it would bring not only personal disgrace but also jeopardize the future of his post. Minutes felt like hours as the conflict raged on. Lu-puk’s mind raced, analyzing the shifting dynamics of the battle, adjusting strategies on the fly. He issued commands with unwavering authority, his voice echoing through the command center, driving his nanite pilot constructs forward. As the battle reached its climax, the tides began to turn. The Liquilid forces, fueled by his unwavering resolve, seemed to be gaining the upper hand. Their coordinated attacks overwhelmed the human fighters, exploiting the weaknesses that had been meticulously identified earlier and capitalized upon. Lu-puk chuckled to himself. The once seemingly invincible Arrow fighters were now finding themselves outmatched, their defensive maneuvers growing increasingly desperate. A surge of elation coursed through Lu-puk’s veins as he witnessed the impact of his unmatched tactical skills. Victory seemed within his grasp; the taste of redemption was tantalizingly close. But he knew better than to let complacency seep in. The battle was far from won, and he remained vigilant, his senses attuned to every shift in the conflict. Time seemed to stretch as the battle reached its crescendo. Explosions rocked the battlefield, lighting up the darkness of space with bursts of fire and shrapnel. The Liquilid fighters fought with tenacity and ferocity … Yes, their loyalty to their commander and their empire was unyielding. And then he sensed there had been a subtle change. No, no, no … Something was amiss … Lu-puk watched with a


for anything—this proclaims you are neutral in the war—that you are only reporting what you see and should not be perceived as a threat. You understand?” “Yes,” Iris said, but her mind was whirling. “Food rations are also in the bag,” Helena said, tossing the jumpsuit onto the table again. “In case you need them, but you’ll be assigned to a house, which will feed you and give you a safe place to sleep. Now, may I look at your typewriter?” Iris unlatched the locks and lifted the lid to the case. And she didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t for Helena to go wide-eyed and let out a whistle. “This is your typewriter?” she asked, inclining her head so her fringe would shift out of her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.” “Where did you get it?” “It was my grandmother’s.” “May I touch it?” Iris nodded, puzzled. But she watched as Helena reverently traced the lines of her old typewriter. Touching the keys, the carriage return, the roller knob. She let out another disbelieving whistle. “An Alouette! Do you even know what you have here, kid?” Iris held her tongue, uncertain how to answer. “This typewriter is a very rare beast,” Helena said, leaning closer to admire it. “Only three were made just like it. Haven’t you heard the old story?” “No.” “Then I should tell you, so you know exactly how precious this relic is. Decades ago, there was a rich man in the city named Richard Stone. He was a widower and had only one daughter, who was his pride and joy. Her name was Alouette, and she loved to write. Well, she fell sick with tuberculosis when she was only fifteen. Because of that, her two dearest friends could no longer visit her. Alouette was despondent. And Mr. Stone was driven to find a way for his daughter to communicate with her chums, and he found an old, cranky inventor who specialized in typewriters. Mr. Stone went into debt to allow three to be uniquely assembled. The legends claim the typewriters were constructed in a magical house on a magical street of Oath by a man with a magical monocle that could discern magical bonds—who soon vanished, by the way. But regardless … the typewriters were named after Alouette. She was given one, of course. And then her father gifted the other two to her friends. They sent letters and stories and poetry to each other for a full year, up until the night Alouette passed away. Shortly after that, Mr. Stone donated her typewriter to the museum, to be displayed with a few of her letters.” “And the other two typewriters?” Iris asked quietly. Helena cocked her brow. “They remained with her two friends, of course.” She lifted the typewriter and found the silver engraving. The one that Iris had spent years tracing and wondering about. “You said this belonged to your nan, correct? And were her initials by any chance D.E.W.?” “They were,” Iris said. Daisy Elizabeth Winnow had been a reserved woman, but she had


the whole story from Lucinda.” “I’m sure you did,” I said. “You’re going to need to get the surgery, Sadie,” he said next. I looked around to see if someone heard. That felt like an awfully private thing to just say at full volume in a public place. I guess this was what the whole elbow-grabbing thing had been about. “I will,” I said, stepping closer and leading by example by lowering my voice. “I’m just … processing for a minute.” “You don’t need to process,” my dad said. “Just get it done.” “It’s complicated,” I said. “No,” my dad said. “It’s simple.” My quiet voice hadn’t worked. Instead, my dad went the other way and used his doctor voice—which is even louder than his usual one—on me: “Do the surgery right away. As soon as possible.” The ground floor of my building had a really great coffee shop called Bean Street that fronted to the street but also connected to our lobby. “Can I…” It felt so weird to say this: “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” My dad shoved his hand in his hair and looked evaluatively over toward the Bean Street logo—hand-painted on the glass doors by a hipster sign painter. Then he said, “Okay,” and walked over without waiting for me. The place was almost empty. We sat facing each other in a booth, and I shifted gears, now trying to counter his doctor voice with an improvised unflappable-professional voice of my own. “I already told the surgeon that I preferred to wait,” I said. “I have a project that can’t be postponed.” “Lucinda told me. Your big break.” Of course she’d told him. What else did she have to talk about? “One of them,” I said. “One of many. I get big breaks all the time.” Then maybe one sentence too far: “My whole life is big breaks.” He flared his nostrils. “The point is, you can’t wait.” I tilted my head. “This is uncharacteristically bossy of you, Richard.” “Don’t call me Richard. Dad will do.” “What’s the rush, exactly? The doctor said it wasn’t urgent.” “You need to get it taken care of.” As I looked closer at my dad, he seemed atypically rumpled. Tie askew. Wrinkles in his Oxford cloth. He always traveled in a business suit. Formal guy. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Singapore?” “I came home early from my conference.” “For this?” I asked. It had to be for something else. “This couldn’t wait,” he said. That sounded like a yes. Was this all it took to get his attention? “Wow. I should have gotten a cavernoma years ago.” “You’ve always had it. It’s congenital.” “I was joking.” But he was in no mood to joke. He actually looked … worried. Huh. Worried about his daughter. Was this a first? “It’s fine,” I said next. “I’ll handle it.” But he shook his head. “It’s done. I’ve already scheduled you for Wednesday.” At that, I just frowned. “This Wednesday?” He nodded, like, Affirmative. I tried to think if my dad had


Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting `Off with his head!' or `Off with her head!' Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, `Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?' `No,' said Alice. `I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is.' `It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,' said the Queen. `I never saw one, or heard of one,' said Alice. `Come on, then,' said the Queen, `and he shall tell you his history,' As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, `You are all pardoned.' `Come, THAT'S a good thing!' she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (IF you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) `Up, lazy thing!' said the Queen, `and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered'; and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. `What fun!' said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. `What IS the fun?' said Alice. `Why, SHE,' said the Gryphon. `It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!' `Everybody says "come on!" here,' thought Alice, as she went slowly after it: `I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!' They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. `What is his sorrow?' she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, `It's all


exchange sorrows with. --------------------------------------------------------- -91- Chapter VIII TOM dodged hither and thither through lanes until he was well out of the track of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody jog. He crossed a small "branch" two or three times, because of a prevailing juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled pursuit. Half an hour later he was disappearing behind the Douglas mansion on the summit of Cardiff Hill, and the school-house was hardly distinguishable away off in the valley behind him. He entered a dense wood, picked his pathless way to the centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak. There was not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had even stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a wood-pecker, and this seemed to render the pervading silence and sense of loneliness the more profound. The boy's soul was steeped in melancholy; his feelings were in happy accord with his surroundings. He sat long with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, meditating. It seemed to him that life was but a trouble, at best, --------------------------------------------------------- -92- and he more than half envied Jimmy Hodges, so lately released; it must be very peaceful, he thought, to lie and slumber and dream forever and ever, with the wind whispering through the trees and caressing the grass and the flowers over the grave, and nothing to bother and grieve about, ever any more. If he only had a clean Sunday-school record he could be willing to go, and be done with it all. Now as to this girl. What had he done? Nothing. He had meant the best in the world, and been treated like a dog -- like a very dog. She would be sorry some day -- maybe when it was too late. Ah, if he could only die temporarily! But the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained shape long at a time. Tom presently began to drift insensibly back into the concerns of this life again. What if he turned his back, now, and disappeared mysteriously? What if he went away -- ever so far away, into unknown countries beyond the seas -- and never came back any more! How would she feel then! The idea of being a clown recurred to him now, only to fill him with disgust. For frivolity and jokes and spotted tights were an offense, when they intruded themselves upon a spirit that was exalted into the vague august realm of the romantic. No, he would be a soldier, and return after long years, all war-worn and illustrious. No -- better still, he would join the Indians, and hunt buffaloes and go on the warpath in the mountain ranges and the trackless great plains of --------------------------------------------------------- -93- the Far West, and away in the future come back a great chief, bristling with feathers, hideous with paint, and prance into Sunday-school, some drowsy


calculating .. <p 212 > attention to every minute atmospheric influence which it was possible for his crew to be subjected to. For all these reasons then, and others perhaps too analytic to be verbally developed here, Ahab plainly saw that he must still in a good degree continue true to the natural, nominal purpose of the Pequod's voyage; observe all customary usages; and not only that, but force himself to evince all his well known passionate interest in the general pursuit of his profession. be all this as it may, his voice was now often heard hailing the three mast-heads and admonishing them to keep a bright look-out, and not omit reporting even a porpoise. This vigilance was not long without reward. .. <p 212 > .. < chapter xlvii 14 THE MAT-MAKER > It was a cloudy, sultry afternoon; the seamen were lazily lounging about the decks, or vacantly gazing over into the lead-colored waters. Queequeg and I were mildly employed weaving what is called a sword-mat, for an additional lashing to our boat. So still and subdued and yet somehow preluding was all the scene, and such an incantation of revery lurked in the air, that each silent sailor seemed resolved into his own invisible self. I was the attendant or page of Queequeg, while busy at the mat. As I kept passing and repassing the filling or woof of marline between the long yarns of the warp, using my own hand for the shuttle, and as Queequeg, standing sideways, ever and anon slid his heavy oaken sword between the threads, and idly looking off upon the water, carelessly and unthinkingly drove home every yarn: I say so strange a dreaminess did there then reign all over the ship and all over the sea, only broken by the intermitting dull sound of the sword, that it seemed as if this were the Loom of Time, and I myself were a shuttle mechanically weaving and weaving away at the Fates. There lay the fixed .. <p 213 > threads of the warp subject to but one single, ever returning, unchanging vibration, and that vibration merely enough to admit of the crosswise interblending of other threads with its own. This warp seemed necessity; and here, thought I, with my own hand I ply my own shuttle and weave my own destiny into these unalterable threads. Meantime, Queequeg's impulsive, indifferent sword, sometimes hitting the woof slantingly, or crookedly, or strongly, or weakly, as the case might be; and by this difference in the concluding blow producing a corresponding contrast in the final aspect of the completed fabric; this savage's sword, thought I, which thus finally shapes and fashions both warp and woof; this easy, indifferent sword must be chance --aye, chance, free will, and necessity --no wise incompatible --all interweavingly working together. The straight warp of necessity, not to be swerved from its ultimate course --its every alternating vibration, indeed, only tending to that; free will still free to ply her shuttle between given threads; and chance, though restrained in its play


there is a break deep in the woods where the light from my flashlight cannot reach. I tell myself it’s a deer, a fox, something that belongs here and not the images my mind has conjured of some unnaturally large birdlike creature. Bezi is squeezing my hand so hard that my bones ache, but I don’t say anything. The pain keeps me alert, reminds me that I’m out here with one thing to do—find Porter and Paige. We trudge down the trail for thirty minutes before coming to another oak tree whose trunk has been painted black, a small owl carved at the base. Another trail extends beyond it, snaking off into the blackness. “Somebody put these carvings here,” Bezi whispers. “Why?” “I think they’re like the mile markers on the road,” I say as we push on down the new stretch of pathway. “Like guideposts or something.” “Leading where?” Bezi asks. I shrug. “I don’t know, but Tasha was out here, running from something, and she was terrified. She was injured so bad. Something happened. I just—” I suddenly feel like I can see a little farther into the trees. I can see a little more of the night sky overhead. “The trees are thinning.” Ahead, there’s a flickering orange light. I gently squeeze Bezi’s arm and quietly lead her off the path into the cover of the trees. I click off my flashlight and press my finger to my lips in a plea for silence. Bezi covers her mouth with her hands and crouches down as I switch off her flashlight for her. Just ahead, there is a clearing and what looks like some kind of wooden platform illuminated by a large torch. “Somebody is out here,” I whisper against Bezi’s ear. Keeping close to the ground, I inch forward, crawling on my stomach across the dirt and dead leaves. After a few minutes, I have a clear view of the opening among the trees. It’s a large open airspace. A wooden platform in the shape of a crescent stands beneath a massive oak tree. It reminds me of an outdoor amphitheater. Opposite the stagelike platform are three tiers of wooden risers—seating for at least a hundred people. I press myself flat against the ground as Bezi crawls up beside me. “What is this place?” I ask. Bezi shrugs and sinks lower in the brush. We watch in complete silence for several long minutes. There is no movement, no sound, and after a while, I slowly stand up. “What are you doing?” Bezi whisper-yells. “Get down!” I’m only thinking about how much time we’ve already wasted by hiding in the bushes. Porter and Paige can’t wait around for us to work up the courage to find them. “Come on.” The flashlight stays off as I lead Bezi out of the brush and into the open space ahead. The path leads us right into it. The blazing torch casts a hazy orange glow all around. I scan the area again, listening. There’s no one here, but somebody had to have been,


Dark threads of guilt spread inside me. Panic, the ever-present companion to it, crawled up my throat. I knew this feeling. Like I had failed a test designed for me to pass. This guilt had strangled me every day I lived with Hanim, and I had worked incredibly hard to leave it behind. Nizahl ruined our kingdom, but you stole its dignity, Hanim said. Do not pretend to care now. “Soraya will not survive the Alcalah,” I vowed. I had not given my people much, but I would give them my promise. I dug my nails into my palm. “I swear it.” It took less than an hour to pack and prepare the horses. Arin left the tent while I changed clothes. Sefa and Marek entered halfway through, and I reassured them I was all right. Since the brigade of soldiers accompanying us made anonymity impossible, Arin chose not to board us up in the carriages. The assembly formed a sprawling formation. Our horses ambled at a steady pace over the desert stretching between Lukub and Orban. Cracked yellow earth surrounded us, unraveling for miles on every side, broken only by the white-capped mountains in the horizon. A most bizarre landscape of seasons. I preferred the arid environment to the wet chill of Essam, but I hated how exposed we were. Up ahead, two soldiers spoke to Arin. Or tried to, anyway. The skinnier one seemed unable to drag his gaze higher than Arin’s chin. Why would Soraya try to kill the Nizahl Heir instead of the Supreme? “Stay away! I won’t let you touch her,” Niphran shouted. She swung my small frame into her arms, backing away. I twisted my neck to see Dawoud approach my mother with both hands raised. “The Malik and Malika want the second Heir to join them for supper. No harm will come to her. I promise you.” Sweat dripped onto the arms I’d wrapped around my mother’s neck. Her whisper was visceral with fear. “I know what they want to do to her.” Wes snapped his fingers inches from my face, startling me. “Sylvia?” Kapastra’s horned beasts, what was that? A memory or a dream? Soraya’s words echoed in my ears. Your mind is a maze of mirrors, reflecting only the memories you choose to save. A headache threatened at my temples. “How much longer?” I asked Wes. “Not much,” he said. “How do you feel?” “Hungry. I’m expecting a feast to rival all feasts upon our arrival.” Wes smirked. “The Champions do not gather after the Banquet. They’ll deliver trays to your accommodations.” I groaned. “Who knew I would long for your tooth-chipping bread, Wes?” “You can chew on your horse’s harness. It’s probably softer.” We rode in companionable silence. The soldiers near Arin strayed to the fringe of the assembly, leaving him solitary in the center. Surrounded by those who would die for their Heir, and yet few who could muster the nerve to speak to him. His hair shone near-white in the sun’s glare, tied neatly behind his head. “He went back,”


a choice of entrée and a movie to watch. ‘If we leave the car, we’ll never get it back.’ ‘The car is useless! The traffic isn’t going anywhere!’ Her little sister protested: ‘But… we’re safe… in here.’ Liza turned to Emma. ‘I know it feels that way but it’s not true. If we stay in here, we’ll die.’ Her mother looked back at her daughters. ‘I don’t want to hear that word again. No one is going to die. We’re going to get through this. We’re going to stay together, no matter what happens.’ Following on from her reassurance, their dad added: ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. We abandon the car. We leave the city on foot. We’ll walk to the countryside and wait there.’ Her mother pondered. ‘When we step out of the car, we take hold of each other’s hands. We do not let go, is that understood? I need you to tell me you understand. We will not let go. Say it.’ ‘We will not let go.’ With that promise, the family stepped out of the car. MARQUES DE POMBAL SAME DAY LIZA HAD NEVER SEEN A city like this, everyone abandoning their homes, funnelling into these ancient streets in search of safety or simply to gaze in amazement at the alien activity in the sky. In the hysterical intensity people were passing out, and if they weren’t caught by a friend or loved one, they slipped to the ground, never to stand up again. Children separated from their parents wept, but before anyone could ask their name they were gone, swept away. Looking up, Liza saw the alien armada had sunk through the atmosphere and was now only a few thousand metres above the ground, so close and so vivid she could see the surface of their hulls, which looked like fish-skin, silvery rhomboidal scales, entirely without the particulars of human machines; no engines or radars, no wings or weapons. Their shape was so simple it seemed improbable that they could fly, giving no clue how they moved so elegantly, more like clouds than machines, so stunning in form and peculiar in nature it was hard not to surrender to their magnificence. With her father in the lead, they climbed up onto the roof of a stationary taxi, trying to break free from the momentums of the crowd. Stranded in this sea of people, they searched for a possible route out, in the middle of a cityscape of unprecedented commotion, with every patch of street and sidewalk jammed with people, pets and possessions. Yet somehow one man caught her eye, someone running across the tops of the parked cars, jumping from hood to hood as if these cars were stepping-stones. It was Atto, no longer wearing his mock historic uniform but dressed in olive green slacks, bright orange sneakers and a white shirt. Though Liza had no rational reason to suppose he was looking for her, there was no doubt in her mind that he was doing exactly that. He was following the trail of traffic down


but God and Old Peter flew off on a flying race to Jericho and back and John de Conquer won the race; went on down to hell, beat the old devil and passed out ice water to everybody down there. Somebody tried to say that it was a mouth organ harp that John was playing, but the rest of them would not hear that. Don’t care how good anybody could play a harp, God would rather to hear a guitar. That brought them back to Tea Cake. How come he couldn’t hit that box a lick or two? Well, all right now, make us know it. 184 Zora Neale Hurston When it got good to everybody, Muck-Boy woke up and began to chant with the rhythm and everybody bore down on the last word of the line: Yo’ mama don’t wear no Draws Ah seen her when she took ’em Off She soaked ’em in alcoHol She sold ’em tuh de Santy Claus He told her ’twas aginst de Law To wear dem dirty Draws Then Muck-Boy went crazy through the feet and danced himself and everybody else crazy. When he finished he sat back down on the floor and went to sleep again. Then they got to playing Florida flip and coon-can. Then it was dice. Not for money. This was a show-off game. Everybody pos- ing his fancy shots. As always it broiled down to Tea Cake and Motor Boat. Tea Cake with his shy grin and Motor Boat with his face like a little black cherubim just from a church tower doing amazing things with anybody’s dice. The others forgot the work and the weather watching them throw. It was art. A thousand dollars a throw in Madison Square Gar- den wouldn’t have gotten any more breathless suspense. It would have just been more people holding in. After a while somebody looked out and said, “It ain’t git- ting no fairer out dere. B’lieve Ah’ll git on over tuh mah shack.” Motor Boat and Tea Cake were still playing so every- body left them at it. Sometime that night the winds came back. Everything in the world had a strong rattle, sharp and short like Stew Beef Their Eyes Were Watching God 185 vibrating the drum head near the edge with his fingers. By morning Gabriel was playing the deep tones in the center of the drum. So when Janie looked out of her door she saw the drifting mists gathered in the west—that cloud field of the sky—to arm themselves with thunders and march forth against the world. Louder and higher and lower and wider the sound and motion spread, mounting, sinking, darking. It woke up old Okechobee and the monster began to roll in his bed. Began to roll and complain like a peevish world on a grumble. The folks in the quarters and the people in the big houses further around the shore heard the big lake and wondered. The people felt uncomfortable but safe because there were the seawalls to chain the senseless monster in


the abstract. I had this vague idea we’d have a child sometime in the future.” Just one? No . . . Not an only child. Not like me. Perhaps now’s not the best time to bring that up. “You are still so young, and I know you’re quietly ambitious.” Ambitious? Me? “Well, you pulled the rug from under me. Christ, was that unexpected. Never in a million years, when I asked you what was wrong, did I expect you to be preg- nant.” He sighs. “I was so mad. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad at everyone. And it took me back, that feeling of nothing being in my control. I had to get out. I went to see Flynn, but he was at some school parents’ evening.” Christian pauses and arches an eyebrow. “Ironic,” I whisper. Christian smirks in agreement. “So I walked and walked and walked, and I just . . . found myself at the salon. Elena was leaving. She was surprised to see me. And, truth be told, I was surprised to find myself there. She could tell I was mad and asked me if I wanted a drink.” 485/551 Oh shit. We’ve cut to the chase. My heart doubles in speed. Do I really want to know this? My subconscious glares at me, a plucked eyebrow raised in warning. “We went to a quiet bar I know and had a bottle of wine. She apologized for the way she behaved the last time she saw us. She’s hurt that my mom will have nothing to do with her any more—it’s narrowed her social circle—but she under- stands. We talked about the business, which is doing fine, in spite of the reces- sion . . . I mentioned that you wanted kids.” I frown. “I thought you let her know I was pregnant.” He regards me, his face guileless. “No, I didn’t.” “Why didn’t you tell me that?” He shrugs. “I never got the chance.” “Yes, you did.” “I couldn’t find you the next morning, Ana. And when I did, you were so mad at me . . .” Oh, yes. “I was.” “Anyway, at some point in the evening—about halfway through the second bottle—she leaned over to touch me. And I froze,” he whispers, throwing his arm over his eyes. My scalp tingles. What’s this? “She saw that I recoiled from her. It shocked both of us.” His voice is low, too low. Christian look at me! I tug at his arm and he lowers it, turning to gaze into my eyes. Shit. His face is pale, his eyes wide. “What?” I breathe. He frowns, and swallows. Oh . . . what isn’t he telling me? Do I want to know? “She made a pass at me.” He’s shocked, I can tell. All the breath is sucked from my body. I feel winded, and I think my heart has stopped. That fucking bitch troll! “It was a moment, suspended in time. She saw my expression, and she real- ized how far she’d crossed the line. I


wish that his wife should be as worldly-wise and as eager to please as the married lady whose charms had held his fancy through two mildly agitated years; without, of course, any hint of the frailty which had so nearly marred that unhappy being's life, and had disarranged his own plans for a whole winter. How this miracle of fire and ice was to be created, and to sustain itself in a harsh world, he had never taken the time to think out; but he was content to hold his view without analysing it, since he knew it was that of all the carefully-brushed, white-waistcoated, button- hole-flowered gentlemen who succeeded each other in the club box, exchanged friendly greetings with him, and turned their opera-glasses critically on the circle of ladies who were the product of the system. In matters intellectual and artistic Newland Archer felt himself distinctly the superior of these chosen specimens of old New York gentility; he had probably read more, thought more, and even seen a good deal more of the world, than any other man of the number. Singly they betrayed their inferiority; but grouped together they represented "New York," and the habit of masculine solidarity made him accept their doctrine on all the issues called moral. He instinctively felt that in this respect it would be troublesome--and also rather bad form--to strike out for himself. "Well--upon my soul!" exclaimed Lawrence Lefferts, turning his opera-glass abruptly away from the stage. Lawrence Lefferts was, on the whole, the foremost authority on "form" in New York. He had probably devoted more time than any one else to the study of this intricate and fascinating question; but study alone could not account for his complete and easy competence. One had only to look at him, from the slant of his bald forehead and the curve of his beautiful fair moustache to the long patent-leather feet at the other end of his lean and elegant person, to feel that the knowledge of "form" must be congenital in any one who knew how to wear such good clothes so carelessly and carry such height with so much lounging grace. As a young admirer had once said of him: "If anybody can tell a fellow just when to wear a black tie with evening clothes and when not to, it's Larry Lefferts." And on the question of pumps versus patent-leather "Oxfords" his authority had never been disputed. "My God!" he said; and silently handed his glass to old Sillerton Jackson. Newland Archer, following Lefferts's glance, saw with surprise that his exclamation had been occasioned by the entry of a new figure into old Mrs. Mingott's box. It was that of a slim young woman, a little less tall than May Welland, with brown hair growing in close curls about her temples and held in place by a narrow band of diamonds. The suggestion of this headdress, which gave her what was then called a "Josephine look," was carried out in the cut of the dark blue velvet gown rather theatrically caught up under


do we look for her? The morgue! Listen!" The bombers crossed the sky and crossed the sky over the house, gasping, murmuring, whistling like an immense, invisible fan, circling in emptiness. "Jesus God," said Montag. "Every hour so many damn things in the sky! How in hell did those bombers get up there every single second of our lives! Why doesn't someone want to talk about it? We've started and won two atomic wars since 1960. Is it because we're having so much fun at home we've forgotten the world? Is it because we're so rich and the rest of the world's so poor and we just don't care if they are? I've heard rumours; the world is starving, but we're well-fed. Is it true, the world works hard and we play? Is that why we're hated so much? I've heard the rumours about hate, too, once in a long while, over the years. Do you know why? I don't, that's sure! Maybe the books can get us half out of the cave. They just might stop us from making the same damn insane mistakes! I don't hear those idiot bastards in your parlour talking about it. God, Millie, don't you see? An hour a day, two hours, with these books, and maybe..." The telephone rang. Mildred snatched the phone. "Ann!" She laughed. "Yes, the White Clown's on tonight!" Montag walked to the kitchen and threw the book down. "Montag," he said, "you're really stupid. Where do we go from here? Do we turn the books in, forget it?" He opened the book to read over Mildred's laughter. Poor Millie, he thought. Poor Montag, it's mud to you, too. But where do you get help, where do you find a teacher this late? Hold on. He shut his eyes. Yes, of course. Again he found himself thinking of the green park a year ago. The thought had been with him many times recently, but now he remembered how it was that day in the city park when he had seen that old man in the black suit hide something, quickly in his coat . ... The old man leapt up as if to run. And Montag said, "Wait ! " "I haven't done anything! " cried the old man trembling. "No one said you did." They had sat in the green soft light without saying a word for a moment, and then Montag talked about the weather, and then the old man responded with a pale voice. It was a strange quiet meeting. The old man admitted to being a retired English professor who had been thrown out upon the world forty years ago when the last liberal arts college shut for lack of students and patronage. His name was Faber, and when he finally lost his fear of Montag, he talked in a cadenced voice, looking at the sky and the trees and the green park, and when an hour had passed he said something to Montag and Montag sensed it was a rhymeless poem. Then the old man grew even


how many twins she has borne and thrown away. Have you not heard the song they sing when a woman dies? "'For whom is it well, for whom is it well? There is no one for whom it is well.' "I have no more to say to you." CHAPTER FIFTEEN It was in the second year of Okonkwo's exile that his friend, Obierika, came to visit him. He brought with him two young men, each of them carrying a heavy bag on his head. Okonkwo helped them put down their loads. It was clear that the bags were full of cowries. Okonkwo was very happy to receive his friend. His wives and children were very happy too, and so were his cousins and their wives when he sent for them and told them who his guest was. "You must take him to salute our father," said one of the cousins. "Yes," replied Okonkwo. "We are going directly." But before they went he whispered something to his first wife. She nodded, and soon the children were chasing one of their cocks. Uchendu had been told by one of his grandchildren that three strangers had come to Okonkwo's house. He was therefore waiting to receive them. He held out his hands to them when they came into his obi, and after they had shaken hands he asked Okonkwo who they were. "This is Obierika, my great friend. I have already spoken to you about him." "Yes," said the old man, turning to Obierika. "My son has told me about you, and I am happy you have come to see us. I knew your father, Iweka. He was a great man. He had many friends here and came to see them quite often. Those were good days when a man had friends in distant clans. Your generation does not know that. You stay at home, afraid of your next-door neighbour. Even a man's motherland is strange to him nowadays." He looked at Okonkwo. "I am an old man and I like to talk. That is all I am good for now." He got up painfully, went into an inner room and came back with a kola nut. "Who are the young men with you?" he asked as he sat down again on his goatskin. Okonkwo told him. "Ah," he said. "Welcome, my sons." He presented the kola nut to them, and when they had seen it and thanked him, he broke it and they ate. "Go into that room," he said to Okonkwo, pointing with his finger. "You will find a pot of wine there." Okonkwo brought the wine and they began to drink. It was a day old, and very strong. "Yes," said Uchendu after a long silence. "People travelled more in those days. There is not a single clan in these parts that I do not know very well. Aninta, Umuazu, Ikeocha, Elumelu, Abame--I know them all." "Have you heard," asked Obierika, "that Abame is no more?" "How is that?" asked Uchendu and Okonkwo together. "Abame has been wiped out," said Obierika. "It


snapping around his wrists. Honestly, he’s used to it. Fear of exposure has been a constant in his life; he doesn’t know how to stop being afraid any more than he knows how to stop his heart from beating. Sometimes he feels like the fear is crowding out everything else, though. He wants the good things in his life to take up the space they deserve, but he doesn’t know how to go about doing that, or even if it’s possible. * * * “It’s a dog and pony show,” Nick grumbles when he gets his assignment. “And we cover those, too,” says Jorgensen. Today’s the annual Operation Alert drill, a nationwide exercise in collectively engaging with the fiction that hiding under desks and avoiding elevators will do anything to help you survive a nuclear attack. That, and it’s a not-so-subtle reminder of the dangers of communists or Russians or not voting for Eisenhower—take your pick. Tomorrow, most papers will run the government’s accounting of how much death and destruction the fictional attack would have caused: millions dead, cities destroyed. “It’s pro-nuclear propaganda,” argues Nick. Jorgensen throws up his hands. “You’re covering the protests!” That’s not much better. Last year the protests consisted of a dozen or so tired picketers from the Catholic Workers and a couple of vagrants who didn’t want to leave their benches and take cover. They were all arrested, most sentenced to thirty days. It had been monumentally depressing. Still, Nick does what he’s told. The weather’s irritatingly sunny and Nick peels off his jacket on the way to City Hall Park. Lilian’s been assigned as the photographer, so he’s got that going for him, at least. She gauges Nick’s mood and doesn’t bother with small talk, wordlessly accepting Nick’s offer of a cigarette instead. The drill hasn’t started yet, so the protesters are marching with homemade signs; they’re nearly outnumbered by the cops who are hanging around, ready to arrest them as soon as the sirens sound. Nick checks his watch. They have twenty minutes to get their quotes and photographs, and then Lilian can get some shots of the creepily empty streets. He isn’t sure if it’s his imagination or if there are more protesters compared to last year. The nicely dressed middle-aged people are the Catholic Worker crowd—he’s pretty sure that lady in the black dress is actually Dorothy Day herself—but there are also a few young men with beards and overgrown hair and young women in trousers or with their hair down. It’s the Washington Square Park bongo demographic and they’re so young that Nick is torn between feeling jaded and optimistic. There’s also a woman with a stroller and two kids. The one in the stroller is still a baby and the older one is maybe four, with pigtails and scuffed saddle shoes and an expression of pure belligerence. He nudges Lilian and they head in that direction. When they get closer, he sees that the woman is younger than Nick by several years, but with purple smudges under her eyes that suggest


the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won’t talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush.” The next hours are agonizing. At once, it’s clear I cannot gush. We try me playing cocky, but I just don’t have the arrog- ance. Apparently, I’m too “vulnerable” for ferocity. I’m not wit- ty. Funny. Sexy. Or mysterious. By the end of the session, I am no one at all. Haymitch started drinking somewhere around witty, and a nasty edge has crept into his voice. “I give up, sweetheart. Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them.” I have dinner that night in my room, ordering an outra- geous number of delicacies, eating myself sick, and then tak- 118 ing out my anger at Haymitch, at the Hunger Games, at every living being in the Capitol by smashing dishes around my room. When the girl with the red hair comes in to turn down my bed, her eyes widen at the mess. “Just leave it!” I yell at her. “Just leave it alone!” I hate her, too, with her knowing reproachful eyes that call me a coward, a monster, a puppet of the Capitol, both now and then. For her, justice must finally be happening. At least my death will help pay for the life of the boy in the woods. But instead of fleeing the room, the girl closes the door be- hind her and goes to the bathroom. She comes back with a damp cloth and wipes my face gently then cleans the blood from a broken plate off my hands. Why is she doing this? Why am I letting her? “I should have tried to save you,” I whisper. She shakes her head. Does this mean we were right to stand by? That she has forgiven me? “No, it was wrong,” I say. She taps her lips with her fingers then points to my chest. I think she means that I would just have ended up an Avox, too. Probably would have. An Avox or dead. I spend the next hour helping the redheaded girl clean the room. When all the garbage has been dropped down a dispos- al and the food cleaned away, she turns down my bed. I crawl in between the sheets like a five-year-old and let her tuck me in. Then she goes. I want her to stay until I fall asleep. To be there when I wake up. I want the protection of this girl, even though she never had mine. 119 In the morning, it’s not the girl but my prep team who are hanging over me. My lessons with Effie and Haymitch are over. This day belongs to Cinna. He’s my last hope. Maybe he can make me look so wonderful, no one will care what comes out of my mouth. The team works on me until late afternoon, turning my skin to glowing satin, stenciling patterns on my arms, painting flame designs on


didn’t use that much.” The tall Presque Mort—Gabriel, apparently— looked curiously at her from his one working eye, then grimaced at the air. “It’s still so thick in here, even after a day.” A day? Gods dead and dying, she’d been knocked out for a whole day? “She channeled so much…” Gabriel turned to his companion. “Do you feel it?” The other’s expression darkened. “A bit,” he said, almost begrudgingly. “Not as much as you do. Some of us have to pay our dues in Dellaire, instead of out in one of the country monasteries. We’re used to Mortem being thick here.” There was a bite of defensiveness to his tone, for all that it sounded like he’d meant it as a joke. Gabriel raised a candle-inked hand. “I meant no offense, Malcolm.” “None taken,” Malcolm replied. He rubbed his scarred arms and scoffed good-naturedly, as if trying to lift the mood. “If I’d had to spend my entire training period in one of the country monasteries, I would’ve gone raving mad with boredom. I nearly did in just the two months a year I did have to spend there.” “They certainly aren’t barrels of fun,” Gabriel agreed. “Though the two days I’ve spent in the city have me wishing to return.” “You’re on your own there. The library in Dellaire is far superior.” “And we all know that’s what you care about,” Gabriel snorted. “Don’t worry, we’ll finish this quickly and you can get back to your true love.” “Good. I only agreed to come along since we’re short-staffed. Running about the Wards doesn’t agree with my constitution.” Gabriel turned his attention back to Lore, a thoughtful crease to his brow. “I think that’s the problem here,” he said softly, with an air that could be mistaken for sympathy if Lore didn’t know better. “If we can sense so much Mortem, imagine what she can sense.” “Too much,” Lore tried to say, though it came out garbled from behind her gag. It startled them both, made them flinch back, as if she were a piece of furniture that had suddenly decided to speak. For her part, Lore was barely aware that she’d managed to make a sound. Her head was full of death, her nerves vibrating against the onslaught of so much entropy. Gabriel nodded, as if something had been decided. Malcolm just looked more confused. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Does it… can it hurt you? Some of the others report discomfort, but all I ever get it a little numbness—” “It can hurt,” Gabriel said, almost rueful. “It can really, really hurt.” Something flashed across Malcolm’s face, halfway between fear and jealousy. He rubbed at his scarred arms again. Gabriel crossed the room and knelt by Lore’s chair. Even on his knees, the top of his head was nearly level with her nose, and his short hair wafted a scent of Church incense. That taut feeling in her middle pulled tight again, that sense that she knew him, somehow. Gently, he reached behind her head, untied the gag


in a straight line. “According to Javier’s grandma, there was a summer camp here in 1971. That’s twelve years before they shot The Curse of Camp Mirror Lake. And she’s saying six people died, but I’ve never heard of anything like that.” “I hate to be morbid, but you’d think if something like that really happened here, it might get mentioned more,” Bezi says. “I feel like it’d be a selling point for this place.” Kyle looks appalled. “Jesus.” “I’m not saying I agree,” Bezi says quickly. “I’m just sayin’.” She sits up straight. “What?” I ask. “What is it?” “I forgot—I meant to tell you.” She shakes her head. “When Ms. Keane was waving her gun around, me and Paige barricaded the door in the control center, but we still didn’t feel safe so we, uh—we kicked in that locked supply closet.” “What?” I ask. “Did you damage anything?” Bezi purses her lips. “Bezi, come on.” I sigh. “I gotta fix it if you broke something. There’s expensive equipment in there.” “No there isn’t,” she says. “That’s what I’m saying. There’s no equipment in there at all. Just boxes of junk. Mostly papers and folders from what we could see.” I pause. “Mr. Lamont said it was extra audio and video equipment. He said it was more valuable than anything else we have out here.” Bezi shrugs. “Maybe there’s something in there that your boss doesn’t want y’all to see.” I stand and pull Bezi up with me. “Come on. I want to go have a look.” I turn to Javier and Kyle. “Y’all coming?” “Nah,” Javier says. “I’m tired. I’m gonna take a nap until Tasha and them come back.” “I need to start cleaning out the kitchen,” Kyle says. “We’re still tryna get out of here tomorrow, right?” “Yeah,” I say. “As long as we get everything done. Day after tomorrow at the latest.” Kyle looks severely disappointed. “I’ll be back to help in a little bit,” I say. He gives me a smile, and Bezi and I head to the control center. The door to the supply closet in the control room is halfway off the hinges and the frame is cracked around the lock plate. I narrow my eyes at Bezi. “Y’all busted this thing wide open.” “We were scared,” Bezi says. “My adrenaline was pumping. Sorry. I think we can fix it, though.” I nudge the broken door open and glance inside the large closet. Bezi is right; there’s no extra equipment, just dozens of boxes filled with file folders and paper. A thick, musty odor lingers in the air and there’s a layer of gray dust on everything. A skitter of tiny feet tells me some mice have made this place their home. I grab one of the boxes nearest me and open its water-damaged flaps. Inside are a few folded shirts and red whistles on strings. I pull out one of the tops and hold it up. It’s filled with holes where mice or moths or some other creature ate their way through the


around the security guards, his face a hard mask. “Stop playing,” he told them. “This woman requires your help. Tell us how to save her and we will do whatever you ask.” The Muses slid to the edge of their seats, leaning to see around the security guards. Erato’s champagne sloshed over the brim of her glass, but none of them cared. Clio’s mouth stretched back over her teeth, showing all her gums. It was an ugly sight, like the snarl of a wild beast. “Who is that?” Clio asked. “What have you brought to us, girl?” Before Io could reply, Bianca began shaking. Edei and Io shared a look of alarm, clasping the mob queen’s arms tighter. Her shoulders were rolling with silent laughter, her head thrown back to face the gray sky. A haunting sound filled the greenhouse, the wild cackling of a demon, muffled by the makeshift gag Io had made from her scarf. The security guards reached for the guns on their hips. The Nine craned their necks, even more riveted than before. Clio spoke loudly to be heard over Bianca’s laughter. “Who are you?” The laughter snuffed out. Bianca leaned forward and spat the gag onto the Nine’s pristine tiles. Her eyes reflected the orange of burning flames—but there was no fire in the room. “I,” she said through a curtain of greasy blond locks, “am your gods-damned reckoning.” Io instinctively tightened her fist around the severed thread. I still have her, she thought as her panic spiked. I still hold the whip. But the mob queen didn’t need a weapon—she was a weapon herself. She yanked her arms free, landed a kick straight into Edei’s chest, took Io’s head between her hands, and kneed her hard in the face. Io’s vision went black, pain ricocheted through her skull, her ears pounded. For several moments—minutes? Hours?—she floated in a soundless, sightless void, unsure which way was up and which was down, nausea twisting her stomach, agony in her skull. Then she could feel gravel beneath her cheek, smell grass and wet soil, hear muffled sounds: screams of fear, cries of pain, bullets flying, and the unmistakable thud of bodies hitting the floor. She tried to crawl to her elbows, but the world shifted sideways, and she rolled to her back, the gray sky above her coming in and out of focus. Get up, she ordered herself. Stand up, Io. A face appeared through the haze: brown skin, sharp cheekbones, dark eyes. His mouth was moving in the shape of words, his hands cupping her face. It hurt so much, a torrent of wet pain down her nose. She was distantly aware that this was Edei and that Bianca was loose and that she had to get up, but her stupid body wouldn’t obey. She heaved herself to the side, gripped Edei’s arms with all her might, and let him pull her upright. Her head swam, shadows and lights dancing in front of her. She closed her eyes. Focused on the firm length of Edei’s body against hers.


same as that of the men, and they could not manage to get any very big stones across. They put three smaller ones, and Julian hoped the men would find them too difficult to move from below. "If only Dick has managed to bolt them into that room!" he said to the others. "Gome on, back to the well now. Dick will have to come up there, because he won't be able to get out of the entrance." They all went to the well. Dick had removed the old wooden cover, and it was lying on the ground. The children leaned over the hole of the well and waited anxiously. What was Dick doing? They could hear nothing from the well and they longed to know what was happening. There was plenty happening down below! The two men, and another, had gone down into the dungeons, expecting, of course, to find Julian, George and the dog still locked up in the store-room with the ingots. They passed the well-shaft not guessing that an excited small boy was hidden there, ready to slip out of the opening as soon as they had passed. Dick heard them pass. He slipped out of the well-opening and followed behind quietly, his feet making no sound. He could see the beams made by the men's powerful torches, and with his heart thumping loudly he crept along the smelly old passages, between great caves, until the men turned into the wide passage where the storecave lay. "Here it is," Dick heard one of the men say, as he flashed his torch on to the great door. "The gold's in there- so are the kids!" The man unbolted the door at top and bottom. Dick was glad that he had slipped along to bolt the door, for if he hadn't done that before the men had come they would have known that Julian and George had escaped, and would have been on their guard. The man opened the door and stepped inside. The second man followed him. Dick crept as close as he dared, waiting for the third man to go in too. Then he meant to slam the door and bolt it! The first man swung his torch round and gave a loud exclamation. "The children are gone! How strange! Where are they?" Two of the men were now in the cave- and the third stepped in at that moment. Dick darted forward and slammed the door. It made a crash that went echoing round and round the caves and passages. Dick fumbled with the bolts, his hand trembling. They were stiff and rusty. The boy found it hard to shoot them home in their sockets. And meanwhile the men were not idle! As soon as they heard the door slam they spun round. The third man put his shoulder to the door at once and heaved hard. Dick had just got one of the bolts almost into its socket. Then all three men forced their strength against the door, and the bolt gave way! Dick stared in


Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * `Come, my head's free at last!' said Alice in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. `What CAN all that green stuff be?' said Alice. `And where HAVE my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?' She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. `Serpent!' screamed the Pigeon. `I'm NOT a serpent!' said Alice indignantly. `Let me alone!' `Serpent, I say again!' repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, `I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!' `I haven't the least idea what you're talking about,' said Alice. `I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges,' the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; `but those serpents! There's no pleasing them!' Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished. `As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs,' said the Pigeon; `but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!' `I'm very sorry you've been annoyed,' said Alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. `And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood,' continued the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, `and just as I was thinking I should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!' `But I'm NOT a serpent, I tell you!' said Alice. `I'm a--I'm a--' `Well! WHAT are you?' said the Pigeon. `I can see you're trying to invent something!' `I--I'm a little girl,' said Alice,


only dates within Hollywood, I remind myself, because it seems worth remembering. If I ever feel myself wavering on the wrong side of casual, I’ll simply replay that conversation. I’m not in the industry. End of story. Still, I’m not sure why, but as I walk him to the door, I feel oddly grateful for the interruption. Or why, when we’ve already made substantial progress on both our outlines, I can’t stop thinking about that tender press of his lips on mine. FINN WALSH: YOUR ULTIMATE NERD CRUSH BuzzFeed Somehow, we kept watching The Nocturnals not for the gratuitous shirtless shots of Ethan Underwood, who plays alpha werewolf Caleb Rhodes, but for the sweet, determined, adorably geeky Oliver Huxley, aka Hux. And it turns out, he’s not too different from his real-life counterpart, Finn Walsh. As the story goes, Finn got the part because he actually spoke in Elvish during his audition—yes, the made-up language from Lord of the Rings. If that weren’t enough, we have it on good authority that he read from his character’s biology textbook between takes, and even consulted a real scientist to make sure Hux would sound as authentic as possible. Swoon! What do you think about Finn Walsh? Glasses or no glasses? And with all that red hair, do you think he blushes everywhere? chapter fifteen DENVER, CO Finn with you? Just got a call from con staff and he was supposed to check in twenty minutes ago. Not picking up his phone, either. I frown down at the text from Joe Kowalczyk, Finn’s manager. I’m in the hotel lobby, waiting for Finn to come downstairs so we can head to the convention center for Rocky Mountain Expo. He hasn’t answered the text I sent earlier this morning, either, the one about how apparently at this hotel, continental breakfast means plain yogurt and an unripe banana. I just assumed he ignored it because it wasn’t exactly thrilling commentary. Despite my debilitating millennial fear of phone calls, I call him. No answer. That’s odd. When we checked in last night, his room was right across the hall from mine. He seemed tired, which was fair, given we’d opted to go up five flights of stairs to our floor. A reasonable trade-off for waiting behind a family getting onto the elevator with their eight suitcases. He said he was turning in early, and I guess it wouldn’t be strange if he slept in, even unintentionally. Although my anxiety helpfully informs me there are a number of accidents that could befall him alone in a hotel room, several of which are now parading through my mind. The elevator isn’t fast enough, so I take the stairs again. Out of breath, I knock on the door gently at first. Probably too gently. “Finn?” I say, and then wait. Nothing. Surely, he’s just in the bathroom. Or still sleeping. Definitely not lying on the floor unconscious. No need to panic. Except the not-panic pitches my voice even higher as I start banging on the door. “Finn? Are you in there?” I


he kill old Hatfield jist the same way -- and don't he deserve it?" "But I don't WANT him killed, and I've got my reasons for it." "Bless yo' heart for them words, Jake Packard! I'll never forgit you long's I live!" says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering. Packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail and started towards where I was there in the dark, and motioned Bill to come. I crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but the boat slanted so that I couldn't make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. The man came a- pawing along in the dark, and when Packard got to my stateroom, he says: "Here -- come in here." And in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in I was up in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn't see them, but I could tell where they was by the whisky they'd been having. I was glad I didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn't a treed me because I didn't breathe. I was too scared. And, besides, a body COULDN'T breathe and hear such talk. They talked low and earnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says: "He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our shares to him NOW it wouldn't make no difference after the row and the way we've served him. Shore's you're born, he'll turn State's evidence; now you hear ME. I'm for putting him out of his troubles." "So'm I," says Packard, very quiet. "Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasn�t. Well, then, that's all right. Le's go and do it." "Hold on a minute; I hain't had my say yit. You listen to me. Shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the thing's GOT to be done. But what I say is this: it ain't good sense to go court'n around after a halter if you can git at what you're up to in some way that's jist as good and at the same time don't bring you into no resks. Ain't that so?" "You bet it is. But how you goin' to manage it this time?" "Well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather up whatever pickins we've overlooked in the state- rooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. Then we'll wait. Now I say it ain't a-goin' to be more'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. See? He'll be drownded, and won't have nobody to blame for it but his own self. I reckon that's a considerble sight better 'n killin' of him. I'm unfavorable to killin' a man as long as you can git aroun' it; it


with it. When he looked at me, there was an air of disappointment in his eyes that I had spoiled the moment with my question. I’m not sure I had ever observed him so keenly, but then, I was never carrying his child before. An uncomfortable truth formed first as a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and his lack of response confirmed it in my thoughts. ‘You weren’t going to tell me you were here, were you?’ He got up again, all charm. ‘It’s not that, Opaline. You know what it’s like, following a lead. I had not planned to come here, but a collector requested a very specific manuscript—’ I’d heard enough. I straightened my blouse and was struggling with the doors of the cage when I felt his arms around me. ‘Please, Mon Opale, there’s no need for such hysteria. I’m here now. Let’s not ruin it.’ I sighed deeply, then turned around to face him. ‘I have something to tell you,’ I said, unsure of how exactly I was going to do it. ‘Marvellous, we shall meet tonight for dinner. But now I have work to do.’ He looked so pleased with himself and I realised how much I liked being the one to make him happy. Perhaps he would want the baby after all. I arranged that he should come to the shop for an aperitif. My excitement made me giddy and ditsy – I dropped a glass and scratched one of my favourite records while preparing the shop for his arrival. It was overwhelming, Armand being in Ireland. I wanted him to love it as much as I did, so everything had to be exactly right. Not long after the cuckoo clock announced that it was eight o’clock, I heard the handle of the door opening and the sound of his shoes scuffing the tiles. Mother had always said that punctuality said a lot about a person. I smoothed my hair behind my ears and climbed the stairs to the shop. ‘Opaline?’ ‘Yes, j’arrive.’ I hadn’t spoken French in so long, it sounded strange and I blushed. When I reached the top of the stairs I saw him standing there in a dark suit, his hair damp from the rain outside. ‘Come in,’ I said, even though he was already inside. I was so nervous and I began rushing around and generally fussing with drinks and chairs and frothy conversation about the books on the shelves and Mr Fitzpatrick’s antiques. In a silly way, I suppose I wanted him to be proud of what I had accomplished. Eventually he put his hand on mine and asked me to sit beside him. I immediately filled the silence with yet more casual conversation, as though we were two complete strangers. ‘So where are you staying?’ ‘The Shelbourne.’ Of course. Only the best for Armand. Or rather his employers. ‘What is it? You are not yourself.’ I took a deep breath. I could no longer put it off. ‘There’s something important I have to tell you and


trip. The electroliers were popping and spitting overhead, and the crowd roared with pleasure as they swept past. Lord Ashley had led her inside to dance, as the news of their engagement swept through the house. “They’re offering us their congratulations,” she said in Lord Ashley’s ear as he hurtled her backward into the center of the room. Up close, she could see his curls were slick with grease, darker than his usual white blond. The waltz was the fastest of the night, the orchestra red-faced and exhausted. “Get your skirts out of the way,” he huffed, wrenching her waist. He wants to show off to the crowd, she thought. The room was spinning around them, all roaring salmon-painted pillars and the tang of sweat. But Miss de Vries made out two figures moving ponderously in her direction. Shepherd and Lockwood, making a beeline for her. She smiled, radiant, laughing, for the crowd. “May we stop,” she said, catching her breath, “my lord?” His hands came away so fast he nearly dropped her. He turned, arms aloft, hair askew, and the best families in London cheered for him. She tried not to stumble. Shepherd was on her, Lockwood right behind. “Her Royal Highness is here, Madam.” “What? Where?” “Her motor just pulled up at the front door.” Lockwood still looked pale. “Excellent news, Miss de Vries.” “Where’s Lady Montagu?” she asked. Shepherd frowned. “Indisposed, Madam. We took her to the Boiserie to—” “Ah, there she is,” said Miss de Vries. She saw a familiar gleam of pink satin, hoop skirts lurching through the crowd. A powdered wig bobbed furiously in the air. “Come.” They all followed the duchess, who was half running down the grand escalier. * * * Hephzibah thanked God for her hoop skirts. They kept people at arm’s length. Everyone caught up with her at the foot of the stairs, a perfect traffic jam. There was Miss de Vries, descending behind her, butler and lawyer at her side. In the opposite direction, she saw the Princess Victoria’s people, clustered at the front porch, waiting for someone to come and receive them. Oh, Lord, she thought. “Lady Montagu?” Miss de Vries was moving toward her at double speed. Hephzibah turned. I refuse to be rushed, she said to herself, trying to blink her dizziness away. Men stood under the portico. Real policemen, she realized, feeling sick. “Miss de Vries!” she said. “Splendid, you’re here.” Guests on the right, guests on the left. No way out. Could you be arrested for fraud? Naturally. But on the spot, without clear charges? Hephzibah’s mind spun like a loose wheel about to fall off. She wished, in this moment, that she had someone solid beside her, someone to reassure her. Winnie would help her, if she were here. Buck up, Hephzibah, she told herself. Buck up, do. Miss de Vries frowned. “Aren’t you going to meet the princess, Your Grace?” Hephzibah summoned all the severity she could muster. “You are the lady of this house, Miss de Vries,” she said. “Her Royal Highness is


living in another world, far away. "Or this? 'A little learning is a dangerous thing. Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring; There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, and drinking largely sobers us again.' Pope. Same Essay. Where does that put you?" Montag bit his lip. "I'll tell you," said Beatty, smiling at his cards. "That made you for a little while a drunkard. Read a few lines and off you go over the cliff. Bang, you're ready to blow up the world, chop off heads, knock down women and children, destroy authority. I know, I've been through it all." "I'm all right," said Montag, nervously. "Stop blushing. I'm not needling, really I'm not. Do you know, I had a dream an hour ago. I lay down for a cat-nap and in this dream you and I, Montag, got into a furious debate on books. You towered with rage, yelled quotes at me. I calmly parried every thrust. Power, I said, And you, quoting Dr. Johnson, said `Knowledge is more than equivalent to force!' And I said, `Well, Dr. Johnson also said, dear boy, that "He is no wise man that will quit a certainty for an uncertainty.'" Stick with the fireman, Montag. All else is dreary chaos!" "Don't listen," whispered Faber. "He's trying to confuse. He's slippery. Watch out!" Beatty chuckled. "And you said, quoting, `Truth will come to light, murder will not be hid long!' And I cried in good humour, 'Oh God, he speaks only of his horse!' And `The Devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.' And you yelled, 'This age thinks better of a gilded fool, than of a threadbare saint in wisdom's school!' And I whispered gently, 'The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.' And you screamed, 'Carcasses bleed at the sight of the murderer!' And I said, patting your hand, 'What, do I give you trench mouth?' And you shrieked, 'Knowledge is power!' and 'A dwarf on a giant's shoulders of the furthest of the two!' and I summed my side up with rare serenity in, 'The folly of mistaking a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring of capital truths, and oneself as an oracle, is inborn in us, Mr. Valery once said.'" Montag's head whirled sickeningly. He felt beaten unmercifully on brow, eyes, nose, lips, chin, on shoulders, on upflailing arms. He wanted to yell, "No! shut up, you're confusing things, stop it!" Beatty's graceful fingers thrust out to seize his wrist. "God, what a pulse! I've got you going, have I, Montag. Jesus God, your pulse sounds like the day after the war. Everything but sirens and bells! Shall I talk some more? I like your look of panic. Swahili, Indian, English Lit., I speak them all. A kind of excellent dumb discourse, Willie!" "Montag, hold on! " The moth brushed Montag's ear. "He's muddying the waters!" "Oh, you were scared silly," said Beatty, "for I was doing a terrible thing in using the very books you clung to, to rebut you on every hand,


beneath his small, pale nose, held up a dummy box full of nearly sprouting potatoes and cocked an eyebrow. “If you were making my deliveries, old man,” he sneered, “I’d be very concerned you were skimming them.” The boxes with the contraband were always on the top. The bloodcoats never expected it, always checked the boxes on the bottom first, assuming the poison would be as hidden as possible. That way, if you were found in the middle of a job, chances were the lode had already been moved to the drop point. “Alaric needed boxes,” Jean-Paul said, deadpan. Alaric was the name they always used if stopped and asked whose business they were about. “Wanted to store something. The potatoes were just to hold them down on the cart.” All the boxes were off the cart now. Curly Mustache’s cohorts started poking through the new ones. One, opened, full of nothing but more mealy potatoes. Two. Three. “You’re telling me a merchant hired a cart to haul boxes of old potatoes from the Southwest Ward to the Northwest?” Six boxes left. Three of them held mandrake. Sweat slicked Lore’s back. “Not my concern how he spends his coin,” Jean-Paul answered. A fifth box opened. If Lore was going to do something, it had to be now. She just didn’t know what. There were too many of them to take with a dagger, especially once she lost the element of surprise, and she’d never been much good at brawling. A creeping feeling began in her palms, the tips of her fingers. Pins and needles, an acute awareness. Mortem waited in the stone beneath her feet, the brick and dead wood of the storefront, the cart, the poison waiting in the still- hidden mandrake. It was a low hum, a string she could grasp and pull, and it’d be so easy… A bloodcoat reached for a sixth box, the end of his bayonet cracking open the lid. In the shadows beneath, Lore saw green. She rushed forward, banishing the call of Mortem, speaking before she even knew what words were on her tongue. “You found them!” Jean-Paul and Curly Mustache turned toward her, the bloodcoat she’d interrupted looking up with a curious wrinkle in his forehead. She snatched the box, open lid pressed to her chest. “Father sent me, I’m so sorry I’m late.” Curly Mustache cocked his head. “Would your father perhaps be Alaric, girl?” Damn her breasts. She thought this shirt would be baggy enough to obscure them, but she’d never had the kind of chest that was hidden easily. “Yes,” Lore said, standing up straighter, making her smile wider. “He’s been so upset, I’ve broken too many jars trying to load them one by one, we need the boxes immediately…” She backed up as she spoke, rapid-fire words and smiles, inching the contraband closer to the old storefront. The trapdoor inside would lead to the catacombs, and the uncanny map in her head said the tunnels nearby were empty. If she could just get the boxes through the door— Her


horror, she felt the image searing itself into her memory forever. Overtaken by nausea, Sophie spun, clutching at the stone walls as she clambered back up the stairs. Pulling the door closed, she fled the deserted house, and drove in a tearful stupor back to Paris. That night, with her life shattered by disillusionment and betrayal, she packed her belongings and left her home. On the dining room table, she left a note. 97 I WAS THERE. DON'T TRY TO FIND ME. Beside the note, she laid the old spare key from the chteau's woodshed. "Sophie! Langdon's voice intruded. "Stop! Stop!" Emerging from the memory, Sophie slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt. "What? What happened?!" Langdon pointed down the long street before them. When she saw it, Sophie's blood went cold. A hundred yards ahead, the intersection was blocked by a couple of DCPJ police cars, parked askew, their purpose obvious. They've sealed off Avenue Gabriel! Langdon gave a grim sigh. "I take it the embassy is off-limits this evening?" Down the street, the two DCPJ officers who stood beside their cars were now staring in their direction, apparently curious about the headlights that had halted so abruptly up the street from them. Okay, Sophie, turn around very slowly. Putting the SmartCar in reverse, she performed a composed three-point turn and reversed her direction. As she drove away, she heard the sound of squealing tires behind them. Sirens blared to life. Cursing, Sophie slammed down the accelerator. 98 CHAPTER 33 Sophie's SmartCar tore through the diplomatic quarter, weaving past embassies and consulates, finally racing out a side street and taking a right turn back onto the massive thoroughfare of Champs-Elyses. Langdon sat white-knuckled in the passenger seat, twisted backward, scanning behind them for any signs of the police. He suddenly wished he had not decided to run. You didn't, he reminded himself. Sophie had made the decision for him when she threw the GPS dot out the bathroom window. Now, as they sped away from the embassy, serpentining through sparse traffic on Champs-Elyses, Langdon felt his options deteriorating. Although Sophie seemed to have lost the police, at least for the moment, Langdon doubted their luck would hold for long. Behind the wheel Sophie was fishing in her sweater pocket. She removed a small metal object and held it out for him. "Robert, you'd better have a look at this. This is what my grandfather left me behind Madonna of the Rocks." Feeling a shiver of anticipation, Langdon took the object and examined it. It was heavy and shaped like a cruciform. His first instinct was that he was holding a funeral pieu-a miniature version of a memorial spike designed to be stuck into the ground at a gravesite. But then he noted the shaft protruding from the cruciform was prismatic and triangular. The shaft was also pockmarked with hundreds of tiny hexagons that appeared to be finely tooled and scattered at random. "It's a laser-cut key," Sophie told him. "Those hexagons are read by an electric eye." A key? Langdon


condemned them to a perpetual exile from their native country. "They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin, became a traitor to good feeling and honour and had quitted Italy with his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid him, as he said, in some plan of future maintenance. "Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix and rendered him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could have endured poverty, and while this distress had been the meed of his virtue, he gloried in it; but the ingratitude of the Turk and the loss of his beloved Safie were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul. "When the news reached Leghorn that Felix was deprived of his wealth and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her lover, but to prepare to return to her native country. The generous nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to expostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate. "A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment and told her hastily that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn had been divulged and that he should speedily be delivered up to the French government; he had consequently hired a vessel to convey him to Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn. "When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it would become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence in Turkey was abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings were alike averse to it. By some papers of her father which fell into her hands she heard of the exile of her lover and learnt the name of the spot where he then resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her determination. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her and a sum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn, but who understood the common language of Turkey, and departed for Germany. "She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her with the most devoted affection, but the poor girl died, and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language of the country and utterly ignorant of the customs of the world. She fell, however, into good hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for which they were bound, and