of the least fussy," she answered, a smile in her voice. "Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an old bogey like all the others." "She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one's tears." The answer checked the pleading on Archer's lips: it seemed to come from depths of experience beyond his reach. The slow advance of the ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumped against the piles of the slip with a violence that made the brougham stagger, and flung Archer and Madame Olenska against each other. The young man, trembling, felt the pressure of her shoulder, and passed his arm about her. "If you're not blind, then, you must see that this can't last." "What can't?" "Our being together--and not together." "No. You ought not to have come today," she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. At the same moment the carriage began to move, and a gas-lamp at the head of the slip flashed its light into the window. She drew away, and they sat silent and motionless while the brougham struggled through the congestion of carriages about the ferry-landing. As they gained the street Archer began to speak hurriedly. "Don't be afraid of me: you needn't squeeze yourself back into your corner like that. A stolen kiss isn't what I want. Look: I'm not even trying to touch the sleeve of your jacket. Don't suppose that I don't understand your reasons for not wanting to let this feeling between us dwindle into an ordinary hole-and-corner love-affair. I couldn't have spoken like this yesterday, because when we've been apart, and I'm looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame. But then you come; and you're so much more than I remembered, and what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between, that I can sit perfectly still beside you, like this, with that other vision in my mind, just quietly trusting to it to come true." For a moment she made no reply; then she asked, hardly above a whisper: "What do you mean by trusting to it to come true?" "Why--you know it will, don't you?" "Your vision of you and me together?" She burst into a sudden hard laugh. "You choose your place well to put it to me!" "Do you mean because we're in my wife's brougham? Shall we get out and walk, then? I don't suppose you mind a little snow?" She laughed again, more gently. "No; I shan't get out and walk, because my business is to get to Granny's as quickly as I can. And you'll sit beside me, and we'll look, not at visions, but at realities." "I don't know what you mean by realities. The only reality to me is this."


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

say," however, after all. But his snubbing way had irritated her, and Millie had a hot time of it that afternoon. The visitor remained in the parlour until four o'clock, without giving the ghost of an excuse for an intrusion. For the most part he was quite still during that time; it would seem he sat in the growing darkness smoking in the firelight, perhaps dozing. Once or twice a curious listener might have heard him at the coals, and for the space of five minutes he was audible pacing the room. He seemed to be talking to himself. Then the armchair creaked as he sat down again. Chapter 2 Mr. Teddy Henfrey's First Impressions At four o'clock, when it was fairly dark and Mrs. Hall was screwing up her courage to go in and ask her visitor if he would take some tea, Teddy Henfrey, the clock-jobber, came into the bar. "My sakes! Mrs. Hall," said he, "but this is terrible weather for thin boots!" The snow outside was falling faster. Mrs. Hall agreed with him, and then noticed he had his bag and hit upon a brilliant idea. "Now you're here, Mr. Teddy," said she, "I'd be glad if you'd give th' old clock in the parlour a bit of a look. 'Tis going, and it strikes well and hearty; but the hour-hand won't do nuthin' but point at six." And leading the way, she went across to the parlour door and rapped and entered. Her visitor, she saw as she opened the door, was seated in the armchair before the fire, dozing it would seem, with his bandaged head drooping on one side. The only light in the room was the red glow from the fire--which lit his eyes like adverse railway signals, but left his downcast face in darkness--and the scanty vestiges of the day that came in through the open door. Everything was ruddy, shadowy, and indistinct to her, the more so since she had just been lighting the bar lamp, and her eyes were dazzled. But for a second it seemed to her that the man she looked at had an enormous mouth wide open,--a vast and incredible mouth that swallowed the whole of the lower portion of his face. It was the sensation of a moment: the white- bound head, the monstrous goggle eyes, and this huge yawn below it. Then he stirred, started up in his chair, put up his hand. She opened the door wide, so that the room was lighter, and she saw him more clearly, with the muffler held to his face just as she had seen him hold the serviette before. The shadows, she fancied, had tricked her. "Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?" she said, recovering from her momentary shock. "Look at the clock?" he said, staring round in a drowsy manner and speaking over his hand, and then getting more fully awake, "certainly." Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself. Then came the light,


things to people.’ ‘It does,’ Lin agreed. ‘I think he’s a bit jealous.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean he fancies you…’ ‘Oh, I hope he doesn’t.’ Josie shuddered at the thought. ‘I thought I was past all that now.’ ‘You’re an attractive widow,’ Lin said, then her face was sad. ‘And I’m an abandoned wife.’ ‘No, you’re not.’ Josie hugged Lin’s arm. ‘Where’s Neil now?’ ‘He took the car – he was driving Dangerous to Tadderly. He said he had to buy some bits and pieces for it.’ ‘On a Sunday?’ ‘Andy’s Motor Mart is open on a Sunday morning.’ ‘So will he be joining us later?’ Lin shook her head sadly. ‘Are you okay, Lin?’ ‘I think so.’ Lin felt the familiar salty rush of tears in her eyes. ‘He’s just always so busy nowadays. He has no time for me.’ ‘Why don’t you suggest a day out together? Tell him you’re feeling a bit neglected.’ ‘I was thinking about it,’ Lin said. ‘It’s our fiftieth wedding anniversary this year and I wondered if we could maybe manage a romantic weekend somewhere really nice.’ ‘October is a long way away,’ Josie said quietly. ‘It is.’ As they approached the woods, the air suddenly became cooler. They stepped beneath a green canopy of leaves surrounded by thick clusters of trees. A squirrel scampered across the path and scrambled up a tall trunk, disappearing along a branch. In a clearing, a group of people sat on the grass around a large cloth covered with dishes of food. Cecily was perched on a camping chair, looking pleased with herself. Her mobility scooter was parked a little way off. She waved eagerly. ‘Here we all are.’ Josie and Lin called out greetings and a chorus of replies echoed back. Minnie was sitting cross-legged on the ground, warm in a military coat, black beret and sunglasses, next to a woman in dungarees with pale hair, hunched awkwardly as if she’d rather be elsewhere. Josie called, ‘Minnie, Tina – it’s good to see you.’ Florence was next to them on a cushion, wearing a cardigan over a loose dress, and next to her Jack Lovejoy was strumming a guitar, his fringe covering deep-set eyes. Cecily smiled gleefully. ‘I asked Jack to come.’ Florence seemed a little uncomfortable, shifting position away from him as Jack launched into ‘With a Little Help From My Friends’. Cecily was the queen at the head of the table. She smiled towards Florence. ‘Poor Florence couldn’t be the only young one with all us Silver Ladies. Jack’s a very good musician.’ Jack smiled. ‘Cecily has a guitar – she plays a lot.’ ‘I do,’ Cecily admitted. ‘She used to sing to us when we were at school,’ Minnie added. ‘What did you sing?’ Jack asked. ‘“Wake Up, Little Susie”,’ Lin recalled. ‘“Jail House Rock”,’ Josie added. ‘We loved it – anything but “Shenandoah”…’ Minnie agreed. Tina took a breath. ‘When I was in Miss Hamilton’s class, we all sang “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini”.’ She laughed. ‘We thought it


as I check my notes the following day at our morning meeting. “Anybody have any suggestions on how to fix it?” “Have we tried WD-40?” Porter offers. Javier closes the curtains in the main lodge, trying to keep the light from the rising sun from accosting us. “What’s WD-40?” he asks. “It’s, like, some kind of grease or oil for hinges,” Porter says. “Keeps them from sticking. My dad uses it on stuff around the house all the time.” “I’ll check the supply shed, but I don’t think I’ve seen anything like that,” I say as I sink into the ratty old couch in the Western Lodge. The seat is so low, I’m almost touching the floor. It used to have a trundle underneath that kept the middle from sinking in, but during a game a few weeks ago, some of the guests thought it’d be funny to use it as a raft on the lake. Now there’s just a big open space under the couch that comes in handy if we need a quick place to hide during the game but sucks when you forget about the empty space, dive into the couch after a long day, and almost break your tailbone in half on the floor. I check my to-do list, which is growing longer by the minute. I have a headache just thinking about how difficult that’s going to be when we’re so short-staffed. “Where the hell is everybody?” Javier asks. “They just dipped? Real professional.” “Oh, right,” Kyle says, turning to me. “That reminds me. I went over to the big cabin and knocked. Nobody answered. I looked inside. It’s a mess in there, bunch of trash and stuff lying around, but they’re not in there.” I’m irritated that Jordan, Heather, and Felix left a mess behind for the rest of us to clean up. “Yeah, they’re no-shows,” I say, rubbing my temple. “That means it’s just the five of us for tonight’s game and the big show tomorrow night and . . .” I hesitate. Nobody is going to want to hear the next part. “And listen, after the final game, I need everybody to stick around and help close down the camp.” “Huh?” Porter asks. “Wait, wait, wait. Nobody said anything about staying past closing night.” “I know,” I say. “Heather and Jordan volunteered, but since they’re MIA, somebody has to do it. I’m staying, too, of course. If we all pitch in, it’ll take maybe two days max.” Javier shakes his head. “Nope. I got plans.” Tasha scoots closer to Javier and nudges him with her shoulder. “You sure you gotta go?” Javier smiles, and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Uh. I mean, no. I guess not.” “What plans do you have anyway, Javier?” Kyle asks. “Hanging out with your grandma?” The smile is gone from Javier’s face immediately. “Yeah. So?” Javier tilts his head to the side. “She’s good company. And she can cook.” He puts his hand on Tasha’s leg, and Porter rolls his eyes. “I can stay,” Javier says. “But I


Target. You know, when they put out stacks of neon teal beach loungers and glittery plastic Popsicle pool floaters and hang a cardboard sun from the ceiling that has a speech bubble screaming, “SUN SQUAD!!!!!!” or some nonsense like that. All that bright-colored fun shit that tricks you into thinking, for as long as it takes you to navigate your cart to the checkout line at least, that you might become the kind of person who would use something called a “backpack cooler watermelon.” Oh yeah? You gonna pull up at the function with a little red backpack full of condensation-coated tall boys of Modelo? No, you’re not, you’re a grown man! But when you’re in the store, surrounded by rainbow kiddie pools and Hula-Hoops, it seems possible. There’s also a purple-cabbage-carrot-slaw situation I would totally eat. I can see how this machine could come in handy for people who hate chopping, but I am also distracted by the disembodied hand pouring some kind of viscous liquid onto the vegetables: who is that? What is that delicious sauce? Does the hand come as a free gift with the chopper??? David, who is wearing an adorable apron with his name stitched across the top, tells us how this food processor is superior to old-school models because it doesn’t require you to twist it and jiggle it to get the parts to fit together, and I feel like Ina Garten screaming, “I hate that!” while pointing my comically huge martini at the television screen. This newfangled gadget just easily clicks into place and, let me tell you, I would try to buy a fucking spaceship if some shellacked beauty pageant queen on TV demonstrated how easy it was to use. David walks us through the various included discs and tools and, to be honest, each one sounds better than the last. But also, when am I gonna need variations on the size of something I’m shredding? If you come over to eat my homemade coleslaw and talk some shit about the size of the carrots, I’m gonna dump the entire bowl in your lap. I want the uniform shreds, and I need to know that I have multiple hole sizes to choose from because I am a slut! Okay, now David is walking us through the myriad ways QVC is saving us money on this item and, frankly, it looks too much like long division for my taste, so I’m tuning it out. But next, a treat: Tina, the 2012 national Pillsbury recipe champion and a busy wife and mom of two girls, is Skyping in from her home kitchen, where she is staring directly at the camera with a smile frozen on her red lips as she feeds the longest cucumber I have ever laid eyes on into this device that spits out uniform little discs of bright green cucumber middles. Tina explains that she loves this KitchenAid food processor, and then she demonstrates the “feed tubes”: one large that was suitable for her giant cukes, and another small, in which she is


shape to accommodate newcomers. There was no whiff of belladonna in the tea. That was something, at least. Delicate china met delicate lips, delicate pastries were sampled by delicate hands. Lore felt like a horse let loose in a jewelry shop. “Everyone,” Alie said, keeping firm grip on Lore’s arm as if she could feel the urge to run seeping from her pores, “this is Eldelore Remaut, Gabriel’s cousin. Though I’m sure you already know.” “Lovely to finally meet you, Eldelore. I’m Danielle.” The golden-haired courtier smiled brightly. Her gown was a pale green and cut similarly to Lore’s, though the ribbons trailing from Danielle’s sleeves were wrapped around her upper arms and tied into bows, so they didn’t dangle. So that’s how you were supposed to wear them. Not hanging so low they made you think you had ants crawling all over you. Lore felt the sudden urge to fix her own, but stilled her hands and nodded instead, returning Danielle’s smile. “Brigitte,” offered the dark-haired woman who’d kissed Alie’s hand. Her gown was different, peach-colored with fitted sleeves that went to the elbow and ended in a ruffle of lace. Lore vaguely recognized her from the masquerade that first night. She’d been dressed as a mermaid, shimmering green painted into her hair. It still looked siren-like, even now, half of it twisted into a black crown around her head, the rest worn in long locs down her back. “It’s wonderful to meet you,” Lore said, taking one of the other seats at the wrought-iron table. “Thank you for letting me crash your party.” “No crashing needed.” Brigitte took a macaron from the pile in the center of the table. “We were thrilled to finally have the chance. You and Gabriel have been the talk of the Citadel for nearly a month.” The tingle of nerves traveled from the back of her neck to trail the length of her spine. Lore forced a smile. “Well,” she said, and wasn’t sure how to continue, so she just didn’t. “Bri and Dani are my dearest friends,” Alienor said, finally taking a seat and pulling over a plate of pastries. “We’ve been close since we were learning our letters. Bri and I took piano together, and Dani’s father is an associate of Lord Bellegarde’s.” No one seemed to find it strange that Alie referred to her father by his title. Dani shifted in her seat. Lore wondered if her relationship with her father was as apparently frosty as Alie’s was with her own. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you with a huge party,” Alie continued, selecting something covered in powdered sugar and spearing it with a tiny fork. “Though since one of Bastian’s fetes was your first social engagement, anything will seem small afterward.” Lore laughed politely, fighting her anxiety’s urging to shove pastries in her mouth one after the other. “It was certainly enlightening.” Danielle’s smile was genuine, if nakedly curious. “We’ve barely seen you since your dramatic entrance at Bastian’s masquerade, other than your introduction at First Day prayers.” Her tone was


had no business staring at. “We’ll have you a new wardrobe in no time. Mrs. Bradley is a wonder with fabric and thread, and I can just picture you in a divine emerald-green gown. All the men will be in love with you and make William jealous, no doubt, and . . .” Lucy stopped listening, letting her thoughts still. She would have to put all her effort into not blurting out her secret halfway through being measured and fitted. With Granger in town, if she told the truth now and ended up being left behind in Downingham, her chances of being found were so much greater than they were at Calloway Park. She wanted the family to know she had knowingly spent the last few days lying to them in the hopes of using their influence—anything less would feel just as dishonest as the lie in the first place—but her fear kept her silent. At least Olivia was close enough in size that she would be able to wear the dresses that would be made for Lucy after she was gone. That was the only reason Lucy allowed the dressmaker to do her work. Olivia spent the entire time at the modiste talking, telling Lucy about when she and her brothers were young and how she couldn’t wait for the next Season, when she would finally be presented to the Queen, and how she had never realized how much she would enjoy having a sister until she met Lucy. Lucy did her best to remain calm, but the longer the day went on, the harder it became to keep her emotions in check. Olivia was exactly how she would have hoped a sister would be. She was kind and enthusiastic with her praise, and she often put her hand on Lucy’s or hugged her from the side or played with her hair and talked her through different styles she should try. Maybe if Mama had lived longer, Lucy would have had a little sister like Olivia, and it felt like her heart cracked a little more with each touch and compliment. How could she give this up? How could she continue on when she deserved none of it? Chapter Sixteen Eventually, after enough time that Lucy couldn’t be sure how long they had even been with the dressmaker, Olivia proclaimed that she was absolutely famished and wanted nothing more than to meet the men for tea at the local inn and tea shop. She took Lucy by the hand, told the modiste to send the bill for the dresses to Calloway Park, then pulled her out into the sunlit street. “Strangely sunny lately, isn’t it?” Olivia said as she pulled a mute Lucy through town. Lucy would have felt far better if the sky had been pouring rain, seeing as that was how she felt inside. Besides, she was too busy searching the street for a familiar face. She hadn’t expected Mr. Granger to discover her in a dress shop, but if Rebecca was right about him being in town, he


blond, worn in a low chignon. Her blouse and trousers were made of linen, and she had silver bracelets around her arms and rings on almost every finger. A vase with a flower and a bowl with fruit had been set atop a coffee table. There were markers and pencils stacked on one end of the table. She had a large sketchbook and a piece of charcoal and was busy sketching when they walked in. She was drawing a still life. The first page of Ewers’s letter lay by her side. “One must have hobbies,” Clarimonde said, still focused on her drawing. “Or else the mind atrophies.” “When you were young your hobby was acting,” Montserrat said. “That was a long time ago. I know your voices, but not your names. You are Abel’s little friends.” “How do you know our voices?” Tristán asked. “From the dub you made.” “Then you have the film,” Montserrat said. Clarimonde’s glasses were rimless and her eyes, when she glanced up at them, were green. “Of course.” They were standing in front of her now. Clarimonde gestured for them to sit and they did, trying to balance themselves on an uncomfortable white couch that matched the one Clarimonde sat on. The woman set her drawing pad down on the table. “Did you take it from Abel’s apartment?” Montserrat asked. “You ask many questions but have not even introduced yourselves. It is a bit rude.” “We’re Abel’s little friends,” Tristán said. The woman smiled, although Montserrat wasn’t sure she appreciated the jest. “You brought with you a letter.” “Yes, and we’ll hand you the other half of it if you’ll tell us the truth,” Montserrat said. “You are rude,” she replied, but her smile only grew wider as if now she was becoming truly amused. “You already have the answers, but I’ll play. What do you want to know?” “Abel is dead,” Montserrat said bluntly. “A pity, that.” “You were not aware of it?” “I suspected. It’s why I have the film. He gave it to me.” “Why would he do that?” “He sold it. For protection.” “From whom?” “Can’t you guess?” “Alma.” Clarimonde Bauer looked directly at her. She did not nod, but Montserrat knew she’d gotten it right. “How were you going to protect him?” Montserrat asked. “Guess.” “Magic.” “See? You already have the answers.” “Not all of them. You are a sorceress and you’ve tried to maintain Ewers’s cult. It didn’t quite work like you planned it, right? That building downtown, it’s abandoned.” For the first time Clarimonde Bauer raised her eyebrows at them, a trace of irritation coloring her eyes. She had been a pretty girl when she was young, but the years had corroded her easy beauty. What was left was a hard shell. It reminded Montserrat a little of Ewers’s look. He’d had that trace of resentment in his mouth as if something had been denied to him. A hunger, in the pit of their bellies. “The building is to be sold. It belonged to my husband. But tides do turn;


of grim satisfaction in his face, as of one who has had a doubt solved. He handed me the paper saying only, "It dropped from Lucy's breast when we carried her to the bath." When I had read it, I stook looking at the Professor, and after a pause asked him, "In God's name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she, mad, or what sort of horrible danger is it?" I was so bewildered that I did not know what to say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the paper, saying, "Do not trouble about it now. Forget if for the present. You shall know and understand it all in good time, but it will be later. And now what is it that you came to me to say?" This brought me back to fact, and I was all myself again. "I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do not act properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would have to be produced. I am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for if we had it would surely kill poor Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you know, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra had disease of the heart, and we can certify that she died of it. Let us fill up the certificate at once, and I shall take it myself to the registrar and go on to the undertaker." "Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss Lucy, if she be sad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends thatlove her. One, two, three, all open their veins for her, besides one old man. Ah, yes, I know, friend John. I am not blind! I love you all the more for it! Now go." In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling him that Mrs. Westenra was dead, that Lucy also had been ill, but was now going on better, and that Van Helsing and I were with her. I told him where I was going, and he hurried me out, but as I was going said, "When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to ourselves?" I nodded in reply and went out. I found no difficulty about the registration, and arranged with the local undertaker to come up in the evening to measure for the coffin and to make arrangements. When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I would see him as soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to her room. She was still sleeping, and the Professor seemingly had not moved from his seat at her side. From his putting his finger to his lips, I gathered that he expected her to wake before long and was afraid of fore-stalling nature. So I went down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast room, where the blinds were


this. You have been alive a very long time; you lived half your life before the Revolution. In 1925, for instance, you were already grown up. Would you say from what you can remember, that life in 1925 was better than it is now, or worse? If you could choose, would you prefer to live then or now?' The old man looked meditatively at the darts board. He finished up his beer, more slowly than before. When he spoke it was with a tolerant philosophical air, as though the beer had mellowed him. 'I know what you expect me to say,' he said. 'You expect me to say as I'd sooner be young again. Most people'd say they'd sooner be young, if you arst' 'em. You got your 'ealth and strength when you're young. When you get to my time of life you ain't never well. I suffer something wicked from my feet, and my bladder's jest terrible. Six and seven times a night it 'as me out of bed. On the other 'and, there's great advantages in being a old man. You ain't got the same worries. No truck with women, and that's a great thing. I ain't 'ad a woman for near on thirty year, if you'd credit it. Nor wanted to, what's more.' Winston sat back against the window-sill. It was no use going on. He was about to buy some more beer when the old man suddenly got up and shuffled rapidly into the stinking urinal at the side of the room. The extra half-litre was already working on him. Winston sat for a minute or two gazing at his empty glass, and hardly noticed when his feet carried him out into the street again. Within twenty years at the most, he reflected, the huge and simple question, 'Was life better before the Revolution than it is now?' would have ceased once and for all to be answerable. But in effect it was unanswerable even now, since the few scattered survivors from the ancient world were incapable of comparing one age with another. They remembered a million useless things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for a lost bicycle pump, the expression on a long-dead sister's face, the swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but all the relevant facts were outside the range of their vision. They were like the ant, which can see small objects but not large ones. And when memory failed and written records were falsified--when that happened, the claim of the Party to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be accepted, because there did not exist, and never again could exist, any standard against which it could be tested. At this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly. He halted and looked up. He was in a narrow street, with a few dark little shops, interspersed among dwelling-houses. Immediately above his head there hung three discoloured metal balls which looked as if they had once been gilded. He seemed to know the place. Of course!


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

he?” “I think he is a little deranged,” said I, sadly. “Deranged? deranged is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought that friend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale and genteel-like, them forgers. I can’t pity’em—can’t help it, sir. Did you know Monroe Edwards?” he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying his hand pityingly on my shoulder, sighed, “he died of consumption at Sing-Sing. So you weren’t acquainted with Monroe?” “No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot stop longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I will see you again.” Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and went through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding him. “I saw him coming from his cell not long ago,” said a turnkey, “may be he’s gone to loiter in the yards.” So I went in that direction. “Are you looking for the silent man?” said another turnkey passing me. “Yonder he lies—sleeping in the yard there. ‘Tis not twenty minutes since I saw him lie down.” The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common prisoners. The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all sounds behind them. The Egyptian character of the masonry weighed upon me with its gloom. But a soft imprisoned turf grew under foot. The heart of the eternal pyramids, it seemed, wherein, by some strange magic, through the clefts, grass-seed, dropped by birds, had sprung. Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying on his side, his head touching the cold stones, I saw the wasted Bartleby. But nothing stirred. I paused; then went close up to him; stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed profoundly sleeping. Something prompted me to touch him. I felt his hand, when a tingling shiver ran up my arm and down my spine to my feet. The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. “His dinner is ready. Won’t he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining?” “Lives without dining,” said I, and closed his eyes. “Eh!—He’s asleep, aint he?” “With kings and counselors,” murmured I. * * * * * * * * There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history. Imagination will readily supply the meager recital of poor Bartleby’s interment. But ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this little narrative has sufficiently interested him, to awaken curiosity as to who Bartleby was, and what manner of life he led prior to the present narrator’s making his acquaintance, I can only reply, that in such curiosity I fully share, but am wholly unable to gratify it. Yet here I hardly know whether I should divulge one little item of rumor, which came to my ear a few months after the scrivener’s decease. Upon what basis it rested, I could never ascertain; and hence, how true it is I cannot now tell. But


a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say? At last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was running round, having reference to the strange creature I kept at my office. This worried me very much. And as the idea came upon me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my chambers, and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and scandalizing my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable incubus. Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determination remained the same in short, that he still preferred to abide with me. What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,—you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you. Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you seek to count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I


for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem. get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl," and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don't know how I should be able to get on without it. Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordance Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina. In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am going among the latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it. I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem., I must ask the Count all about them.) I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then. I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said was "mamaliga", and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call "impletata". (Mem., get recipe for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight, or rather


reverence, emotions which are more easily felt towards an individual than towards an organization. Below Big Brother comes the Inner Party. Its numbers limited to six millions, or something less than 2 per cent of the population of Oceania. Below the Inner Party comes the Outer Party, which, if the Inner Party is described as the brain of the State, may be justly likened to the hands. Below that come the dumb masses whom we habitually refer to as 'the proles', numbering perhaps 85 per cent of the population. In the terms file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (113 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt of our earlier classification, the proles are the Low: for the slave population of the equatorial lands who pass constantly from conqueror to conqueror, are not a permanent or necessary part of the structure. In principle, membership of these three groups is not hereditary. The child of Inner Party parents is in theory not born into the Inner Party. Admission to either branch of the Party is by examination, taken at the age of sixteen. Nor is there any racial discrimination, or any marked domination of one province by another. Jews, Negroes, South Americans of pure Indian blood are to be found in the highest ranks of the Party, and the administrators of any area are always drawn from the inhabitants of that area. In no part of Oceania do the inhabitants have the feeling that they are a colonial population ruled from a distant capital. Oceania has no capital, and its titular head is a person whose whereabouts nobody knows. Except that English is its chief LINGUA FRANCA and Newspeak its official language, it is not centralized in any way. Its rulers are not held together by blood-ties but by adherence to a common doctrine. It is true that our society is stratified, and very rigidly stratified, on what at first sight appear to be hereditary lines. There is far less to-and-fro movement between the different groups than happened under capitalism or even in the pre-industrial age. Between the two branches of the Party there is a certain amount of interchange, but only so much as will ensure that weaklings are excluded from the Inner Party and that ambitious members of the Outer Party are made harmless by allowing them to rise. Proletarians, in practice, are not allowed to graduate into the Party. The most gifted among them, who might possibly become nuclei of discontent, are simply marked down by the Thought Police and eliminated. But this state of affairs is not necessarily permanent, nor is it a matter of principle. The Party is not a class in the old sense of the word. It does not aim at transmitting power to its own children, as such; and if there were no other way of keeping the ablest people at the top, it would be perfectly prepared to recruit an entire new generation from the ranks of the proletariat. In the crucial years, the fact that the Party was not a hereditary body did a great deal to neutralize opposition. The


compilation of local space feeds, its ethereal presence almost tangible. Its pixel resolution was so refined that the projected images appeared as if the nearby asteroids were suspended in the blackness of deep space. As with all vessels in the US Space-Navy fleet, the halo display acted as the visual centerpiece of the bridge, relaying critical information and situational updates with breathtaking clarity. Weapons, tablets, and other equipment were strewn about. Beneath Pristy’s boots, the deck plates resonated with a sturdy metallic hum, underscoring the ship’s robust construction. Overhead, the deckhead revealed a complex network of inlaid ductwork and precisely positioned illumination fixtures. She had to admit, the overall design flawlessly integrated functionality with aesthetics, ensuring that every inch of the bridge was optimized for both performance and visual appeal. “Guess we should stick to the business at hand, Stephan,” Pristy said, as much for herself as for them. The temptation to sit at the captain’s mount was hard to ignore, but she shoved it aside. “Aubrey, on the entrance. Keep an eye out for any movement and keep track of comms. Stephan, you’re with me.” She led him across the bridge to the ready room hatch door. As expected, it was locked and, unlike the rest of the bridge, seemed relatively unmolested by violence. She stepped aside and let Derrota work his magic with the adjacent control panel with tools he’d pulled from his satchel. In less than a minute, the door slid open. “After you, Gail.” “Nice work,” she said. “Now comes the fun part.” Pristy cautiously entered the captain’s ready room, her helmet light piercing through the darkness, casting illuminating swaths that revealed the otherwise obscure space. The room seemed to swallow the feeble light, creating an ambience as dark and impenetrable as the depths of space itself. The captain’s ready room was eerily devoid of clutter. Only a solitary desk, accompanied by a chair behind it, occupied one side of the room. The desk stood as a testament to minimalism, devoid of any personal touches or mementos. It was a functional surface, meant solely for the purpose of conducting business in the privacy of the captain’s domain. On the opposite bulkhead, she could make out the faint outlines of a Murphy bed, awaiting its deployment when the captain desired proximity to the bridge without venturing too far. Its presence hinted at the relentless demands of duty, offering a momentary respite for the captain here in the relentless expanse of space. However, despite the monastic aesthetics, the room bore evidence that the fight had indeed made it within. The room betrayed a disturbing scene, as bloodstains marred the otherwise pristine deck plates. Traces of a struggle were evident, suggesting that someone had been forcefully dragged out of the room. Seeking answers, she instinctively moved toward the bulkhead where the hidden safe would be concealed. Placing a palm up against the panel, Pristy anticipated a response, a clue to unravel the mysteries that lingered within. But to her disappointment, nothing happened. The panel remained unyielding, refusing to grant her access


was afraid. So the great darkness fell upon Valinor. Of the deeds of that day much is told in the Aldudni, that Elemmr of the Vanyar made and is known to all the Eldar. Yet no song or tale could contain all the grief and terror that then befell. The Light failed; but the Darkness that followed was more than loss of light. In that hour was made a Darkness that seemed not lack but a thing with being of its own: for it was indeed made by malice out of Light, and it had power to pierce the eye, and to enter heart and mind, and strangle the very will. Varda looked down from Taniquetil, and beheld the Shadow soaring up in sudden towers of gloom; Valmar had foundered in a deep sea of night. Soon the Holy Mountain stood alone, a last island in a world that was drowned. All song ceased. There was silence in Valinor, and no sound could be heard, save only from afar there came on the wind through the pass of the mountains the wailing of the Teleri like the cold cry of gulls. For it blew chill from the East in that hour, and the vast shadows of the sea were rolled against the walls of the shore. But Manw from his high seat looked out, and his eyes alone pierced through the night, until they saw a Darkness beyond dark which they could not penetrate, huge but far away, moving now northward with great speed; and he knew that Melkor had come and gone. Then the pursuit was begun; and the earth shook beneath the horses of the host of Orom, and the fire that was stricken from the hooves of Nahar was the first light that returned to Valinor. But so soon as any came up with the Cloud of Ungoliant the riders of the Valar were blinded and dismayed, and they were scattered, and went they knew not whither; and the sound of the Valarma faltered and failed. And Tulkas was as one caught in a black net at night, and he stood powerless and beat the air in vain. But when the Darkness had passed, it was too late: Melkor had gone whither he would, and his vengeance was achieved. Chapter 9 Of the Flight of the Noldor After a time a great concourse gathered about the Ring of Doom; and the Valar sat in shadow, for it was night. But the stars of Varda now glimmered overhead, and the air was clear; for the winds of Manw has driven away the vapours of death and rolled back the shadows of the sea. Then Yavanna arose and stood upon Ezellohar, the Green Mound, but it was bare now and black; and she laid her hands upon the Trees, but they were dead and dark, and each branch that she touched broke and fell lifeless at her feet. Then many voices were lifted in lamentation; and it seemed to those that mourned that they had drained to the dregs the cup


seeing was fairly large. His jaw flapped about at a loose end for a while. The peculiar man waved a lazy wave at Ford and with an appalling affectation of nonchalance said, "Ford, hi, how are you? Glad you could drop in." Ford was not going to be outcooled. "Zaphod," he drawled, "great to see you, you're looking well, the extra arm suits you. Nice ship you've stolen." Arthur goggled at him. "You mean you know this guy?" he said, waving a wild finger at Zaphod. "Know him!" exclaimed Ford, "he's ..." he paused, and decided to do the introductions the other way round. "Oh, Zaphod, this is a friend of mine, Arthur Dent," he said, "I saved him when his planet blew up." "Oh sure," said Zaphod, "hi Arthur, glad you could make it." His right-hand head looked round casually, said "hi" and went back to having his teeth picked. Ford carried on. "And Arthur," he said, "this is my semi-cousin Zaphod Beeb ..." "We've met," said Arthur sharply. When you're cruising down the road in the fast lane and you lazily sail past a few hard driving cars and are feeling pretty pleased with yourself and then accidentally change down from fourth to first instead of third thus making your engine leap out of your bonnet in a rather ugly mess, it tends to throw you off your stride in much the same way that this remark threw Ford Prefect off his. "Err ... what?" "I said we've met." Zaphod gave an awkward start of surprise and jabbed a gum sharply. "Hey ... er, have we? Hey ... er ..." Ford rounded on Arthur with an angry flash in his eyes. Now he felt he was back on home ground he suddenly began to resent having lumbered himself with this ignorant primitive who knew as much about the affairs of the Galaxy as an Ilford-based gnat knew about life in Peking. "What do you mean you've met?" he demanded. "This is Zaphod Beeblebrox from Betelgeuse Five you know, not bloody Martin Smith from Croydon." "I don't care," said Arthur coldly. We've met, haven't we Zaphod Beeblebrox - or should I say ... Phil?" "What!" shouted Ford. "You'll have to remind me," said Zaphod. "I've a terrible memory for species." "It was at a party," pursued Arthur. "Yeah, well I doubt that," said Zaphod. "Cool it will you Arthur!" demanded Ford. Arthur would not be deterred. "A party six months ago. On Earth ... England ..." Zaphod shook his head with a tight-lipped smile. "London," insisted Arthur, "Islington." "Oh," said Zaphod with a guilty start, "that party." This wasn't fair on Ford at all. He looked backwards and forwards between Arthur and Zaphod. "What?" he said to Zaphod. "You don't mean to say you've been on that miserable planet as well do you?" "No, of course not," said Zaphod breezily. "Well, I may have just dropped in briefly, you know, on my way somewhere ..." "But I was stuck there for fifteen years!" "Well I didn't know that did I?" "But


and he’ll see my name in print and eat his words.” “A fitting penance,” Iris said, amused. “But I hope you realize that you didn’t have to sign up to write about war to prove yourself to anyone, Attie.” “I do, but where’s the sense of adventure in that? Living the same careful and monotonous routine, day in and day out?” Attie smiled, dimples flirting in her cheeks. The next words she said Iris felt in her chest, resounding like a second heartbeat. Words that were destined to bind them together as friends. “I don’t want to wake up when I’m seventy-four only to realize I haven’t lived.” {17} Three Sirens By the time the train chugged into the small station of Avalon Bluff, Iris and Attie were the only two passengers remaining, and it was half past ten o’clock at night. The moon hung like a fingernail, and the stars burned brighter than Iris had ever seen, as if they had fallen closer to earth. She gathered her things and followed Attie onto the platform, her legs sore from sitting most of the day, and drew a deep breath. Avalon Bluff tasted like hay and meadow grass and chimney smoke and mud. The girls walked through the abandoned station, which soon spilled them onto a dirt road. Helena had given them instructions on how to locate their lodgings: Marisol’s B and B was on High Street, just through the station, third house on the left, with a green door that looked like it once belonged in a castle. Attie and Iris would need to go directly there while being wary of their surroundings, prepared to take shelter at any moment. “I take it this is High Street?” Attie asked. It was dark, but Iris squinted, studying the town that lay before them. The houses were old, two-storied and built from stone. A few even had thatched roofs and mullioned windows, as if they were constructed centuries ago. Fences were made of stacked rocks covered in moss, and it looked like there were a few gardens, but it was hard to discern things by the light of the moon. There were no streetlamps to guide them along. Most houses were gloomy and cloaked in shadows, as if they were fueled by candlelight rather than electricity. It was also very quiet and very empty. Somewhere in the distance, a cow mooed, but there were no other sounds of life. No laughter, no voices, no music, no banging pots in a kitchen. No crickets or night birds. Even the wind was tamed. “Why does this place feel dead?” Attie whispered. The temperature had dropped, and a fog was settling. Iris stifled a shudder. “I think I see Marisol’s,” she said, eager to be off the haunted street. Helena had been right; the B and B had an unmistakable door, arched as if the house had been built around it, with an iron knocker fashioned as a roaring lion’s head. The building was quaint, with shutters that looked to be black in the starlight. Rosebushes


errand and with myself for coming. I was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my trust, so altogether I had a dreary, miserable time. Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white streak, moving between two dark yew trees at the side of the churchyard farthest from the tomb. At the same time a dark mass moved from the Professor's side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards it. Then I too moved, but I had to go round headstones and railed-off tombs, and I stumbled over graves. The sky was overcast, and somewhere far off an early cock crew. A little ways off, beyond a line of scattered juniper trees, which marked the pathway to the church, a white dim figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. The tomb itself was hidden by trees, and I could not see where the figure had disappeared. I heard the rustle of actual movement where I had first seen the white figure, and coming over, found the Professor holding in his arms a tiny child. When he saw me he held it out to me, and said, "Are you satisfied now?" "No," I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive. "Do you not see the child?" "Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it wounded?" "We shall see," said the Professor, and with one impulse we took our way out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child. When we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of trees, and struck a match, and looked at the child's throat. It was without a scratch or scar of any kind. "Was I right?" I asked triumphantly. "We were just in time," said the Professor thankfully. We had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so consulted about it. If we were to take it to a police station we should have to give some account of our movements during the night. At least, we should have had to make some statement as to how we had come to find the child. So finally we decided that we would take it to the Heath, and when we heard a policeman coming, would leave it where he could not fail to find it. We would then seek our way home as quickly as we could. All fell out well. At the edge of Hampstead Heath we heard a policeman's heavy tramp, and laying the child on the pathway, we waited and watched until he saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro. We heard his exclamation of astonishment, and then we went away silently. By good chance we got a cab near the `Spainiards,' and drove to town. I cannot sleep, so I make this entry. But I must try to get a few hours' sleep, as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon. He insists that I go with him on


traveled back and forth as often as he could, to help me learn to block it from my mind. The plan was always for me to come here, when I was ready.” He made a rueful noise. “It took until after my Consecration.” She thought of him in that room beneath the Church, telling her to make a barrier around her mind. It’s your head. It’d sounded like something he’d repeated to himself over and over, a lesson long-ingrained. Lore leaned forward, fingers knotted. “So Jax spared you after killing your father,” she said. “And knowing that this court is full of assholes, I assume that only made them more suspicious of you.” Gabriel stayed silent for long enough that Lore wondered if he’d decided dissecting his history for her was something he didn’t want to do after all. “Sometimes,” he murmured finally, “I wish he’d just finished the job.” A rustle outside, in the hall. Something slid through the crack beneath the door and the floor—a creamy white envelope. Lore stood, her legs only slightly wine-loose, and picked it up. Remaut, read twirling golden script across the front. She ripped it open, read the letter inside, then brandished it at Gabriel. “It’s an invitation.” He stood and crossed over to her, frowning. “To what?” “A masquerade. Hosted by Bastian, in the throne room, at sunset.” They stared at each other, wearing similar guarded expressions. “Well,” Lore said finally, “I am supposed to get close to him.” Gabriel grumbled, then took the invitation, reading it for himself. “August hasn’t introduced you to court yet. How does he know we’re here?” “He might’ve seen me coming into the Citadel,” Lore said, then quickly told Gabriel about spotting Bastian in the garden. She glossed over what he’d been doing there, thoughtful for his monkish sensibilities, but the way he rolled his eyes said he knew without her saying. “Wonderful,” he muttered. “So your cover might be blown before you even begin.” “Not necessarily.” The specter of a cell to wait in between raising villagers’ bodies loomed large in her mind still, the reality that would become hers if she couldn’t spy on Bastian. “I’m a good liar; if he asks about what we were doing this morning, I’ll say I had a night on the town and you had to escort me back.” “I still don’t like that he knows you’re here. It means he’s paying more attention than August thinks. I knew us going to the Consecration was a bad idea.” It was the closest she’d heard him come to naysaying Anton, and Lore assumed it was the closest he ever did. Gabriel gave the invitation another once-over, then cast it on the couch. “And what are we supposed to wear to a masquerade?” A light knock on the door. “Your Grace? I have a delivery. From His Majesty.” “Gods, I hope it’s dinner,” Lore said, opening the door. Not dinner. Instead, a rolling cart with two garment bags, hastily brought in by a slight serving girl who looked at Lore with wide,


looked uncertainly at Ralph who smiled and patted the log. Jack sat down. Piggy took off his glasses and blinked at the assembly while he wiped them on his shirt. "You're hindering Ralph. You're not letting him get to the most important thing." He paused effectively. "Who knows we're here? Eh?" "They knew at the airport." "The man with a trumpet-thing--" "My dad." Piggy put on his glasses. "Nobody knows where we are," said Piggy. He was paler than before and breathless. "Perhaps they knew where we was going to; and perhaps not. But they don't know where we are 'cos we never got there." He gaped at them for a moment, then swayed and sat down. Ralph took the conch from his hands. "That's what I was going to say," he went on, "when you all, all. . . ." He gazed at their intent faces. "The plane was shot down in flames. Nobody knows where we are. We may be here a long time." The silence was so complete that they could hear the unevenness of Piggy's breathing. The sun slanted in and lay golden over half the platform. The breezes that on the lagoon had chased their tails like kittens were finding their way across the platform and into the forest. Ralph pushed back the tangle of fair hair that hung on his forehead. "So we may be here a long time." Nobody said anything. He grinned suddenly. "But this is a good island. We--Jack, Simon and me-- we climbed the mountain. It's wizard. There's food and drink, and--" "Rocks--" "Blue flowers--" Piggy, partly recovered, pointed to the conch in Ralph's hands, and Jack and Simon fell silent. Ralph went on. "While we're waiting we can have a good time on this island." He gesticulated widely. "It's like in a book." At once there was a clamor. "Treasure Island--" "Swallows and Amazons--" "Coral Island--" Ralph waved the conch. "This is our island. It's a good island. Until the grownups come to fetch us we'll have fun." Jack held out his hand for the conch. "There's pigs," he said. "There's food; and bathing water in that little stream along there--and everything. Didn't anyone find anything else?" He handed the conch back to Ralph and sat down. Apparently no one had found anything. The older boys first noticed the child when he resisted. There was a group of little boys urging him forward and he did not want to go. He was a shrimp of a boy, about six years old, and one side of his face was blotted out by a mulberry-colored birthmark. He stood now, warped out of the perpendicular by the fierce light of publicity, and he bored into the coarse grass with one toe. He was muttering and about to cry. The other little boys, whispering but serious, pushed him toward Ralph. "All right," said Ralph, "come on then." The small boy looked round in panic. "Speak up!" The small boy held out his hands for the conch and the assembly shouted with laughter; at once he


empties her mind of the sudden fear: a man like Aegisthus can probably smell it, as a wolf would. “I always come here,” he says. “I used to come here when Thyestes still ruled.” “To do what?” “I just stayed away from everyone else. The palace was different then from what it is now.” “How so?” “It was grayer. And bloodier.” She doesn’t like his tone. He speaks as if she couldn’t understand, as if she grew up with nymphs, spending her time with combs and pretty dresses. “How many dead men have you seen?” she asks. He pauses, and displeasure grows on his face. “I have seen hundreds,” she says. “In Sparta, the elders would take the criminals, and my father and brothers would drag them to the Ceadas. Then they pushed them off the cliff. Most were killed instantly. But others lived for a day or two, moaning, while the birds pecked their broken bodies until they bled to death or died of thirst.” She wills herself to remember. An image of herself as a child, crouching among the bushes and hearing the men’s cries, comes to mind. There were other cries too, fainter, but they slip away, like shadows. Aegisthus comes to sit on the rock beside her. The dagger lies between them, easy for either to reach. “Atreus used to say that it takes only one to deliver a message,” he says. “So he would send his men into the woods whenever a group of envoys came and shoot them until only one remained. Then he would send back the envoy with the heads of the others in a sack. Agamemnon and Menelaus would take part in those hunts, but I couldn’t.” He must have been punished for it, though he doesn’t say. “And how many men have you killed?” she asks. He shrugs, and she watches the wind stir his hair. “There was a boy I butchered once,” he says, staring at his hands. “When I had finished with him, his face looked like mud.” The water in the pool changes color as it reflects the sky. “How many times have you been whipped?” he asks. It feels almost like a game now, comparing the scars inside them, waiting to see who crumbles first. “Twenty. Or more. I can’t be sure. The priestess in Sparta hated me. She was worse with my sister, though. She would whip her whenever she could, yet Timandra would still find ways to make her angry. You?” “Thyestes liked to flog his servants. He would do it until their backs were blood-soaked. He saw traitors everywhere. He was saturated with malice and mistrust, especially after his sons’ deaths.” His other sons. He is good at avoiding the answers he doesn’t want to give, she considers. His words feel like smoke through her fingers. “And Atreus?” She knows something of Agamemnon’s father already, because her husband told her. Atreus was strong and vengeful. He once killed a boar with his bare hands. He slept with a different servant every night, so the palace


consideration. One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be done." "But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--" "Oh!" interrupted Emma, "there will be plenty of time for talking every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be so near their own stable." "So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight." "I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be under Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole." "There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I had the measles? `If Miss Taylor undertakes to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.' How often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!" "Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry." "My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment," said Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without you." Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect. "Emma," said she, "this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined." "My dear, you are too particular," said her husband. "What does all that


as she drove. I could hear her crying, but I was tired and I was angry, so I kept them shut and pretended I was trying to sleep.” Montserrat’s face was expressionless. He would have preferred it if she’d made a motion, replied with a nod, something. He’d always told Montserrat that he’d been blind drunk that night and sitting in the passenger’s seat. He had not described the party, nor hinted at a fight. The papers had whispered about trouble between the lovers, but he had not admitted it. Oblique references through the years had never crystallized into a full story. “I didn’t see what she crashed into. I heard the screech of the tires and then there was glass everywhere and I was being hit so hard I lost my breath. It was all pain after that. I opened my eyes and I saw blood. It was everywhere, over her face, over mine…I passed out.” Something flashed in Montserrat’s eyes then. Neither disapproval nor understanding. It was only that she’d heard this part before, or at least knew enough of it to recognize that section of the narrative: the awful taste of the blood in his mouth, his injured eye, the chaos of an ambulance and nurses. But he steered in another direction; instead of speaking of the surgery or the recovery, he paused. “The funny thing is that I wanted her to break up with me. At the party, she said I didn’t love her, that I was stringing her along. She was right. I liked her, but I didn’t love her, and by then I didn’t even like her that much. I wanted her to go off and find someone else so I wouldn’t have to be the one doing the breaking up. I hate that. It’s always messy, and I knew it would get even messier with Karina; she was dramatic, which I enjoyed and hated. I figured we’d have a shitty night and she would dump me.” He stood up and glanced at the photo in Montserrat’s hand. “Look at that picture, look at that girl. She’s twenty-four there. She’s a kid stumbling around, making dumb choices, but still a kid. She deserved to grow old, to grow up. To have a whole life.” “You didn’t kill her.” “No,” Tristán said, scoffing. “I didn’t start the ignition, I didn’t turn that wheel and crash that car, but I knew her. I knew she was fragile; I knew she needed me to calm her down or to at least ask someone to watch over her for a bit. I knew she was hurt.” He touched his eyebrow, slid his fingertips against the corner of his eye and smirked, feeling the scar there and beneath it the titanium mesh holding his eye in place. “When I woke up, you know what the first thing I asked was? Not if Karina was fine, not if anyone else had been harmed…I asked if my face looked okay. “I’ve never visited her grave,” Tristán continued. “I always thought it was silly


a swatch of green wool. ‘You are asked to wear this in her presence.’ ‘What of the dragons?’ ‘They may follow.’ He noticed the alchemist. ‘Master Kiprun. The Great Naïr will be pleased to see you.’ ‘Why is every ruler so pleased to see me this year?’ he muttered. ‘Shall I expect the Deathless Queen next?’ Faced with stony looks, he sighed. ‘Yes, yes. All under the mountains to the Great Naïr, and so on.’ A carriage drawn by snow camels bore them to a meadow that separated the city from the peaks, thick with grass and powder. This was the Collar, a stretch of land kept clear for falling rock and snowslides. Fine tents had been pitched at its western edge, where servants had gralloched a deer and set about roasting it over a fire. Princess Irebül was some way from the camp. She wore a green coat lined with sheepskin and boots over loose wool trousers, and a quiver hung at her hip – a hunter of the winter plains, down to her ornate belt hook and the bronze eagle perched on her forearm. She beheld the Lords of Fallen Night, a tall woman rendered small in the face of them. Her people were said to have come from beyond those mountains long ago. ‘Princess Dumai,’ she said, seeing her approach. ‘I thought you’d changed your mind.’ ‘I apologise for the delay, Princess Irebül. We were stranded on the Snow Road.’ ‘No need to explain.’ She took the leather hood off her eagle. ‘The wait let me escape that court.’ The bird winged towards the mountains. From what Dumai had learned, this woman had been sixteen during the conquest, spending her formative years in the wilds. ‘You’d sooner be here,’ Dumai said. ‘That palace is a silken cage, and Hüran are not meant for walls.’ ‘Why did you take a city, then?’ ‘Necessity.’ The wind had flushed her cheeks. ‘Soon the days will grow colder. There will be an age of ice, of storms – a wild winter, deep and lethal. It has happened before. When a sage warned her, my mother declared we would settle, to survive the freeze.’ ‘I assume the North Hüran don’t believe this, and that’s why they stayed on the plains.’ ‘That was their choice. The Bertak will endure.’ ‘Will you fight the wyrms?’ Princess Irebül glanced at her. Her eyes were long and dark above the woollen mask she wore. ‘You saw that creature,’ she said. ‘No bow or spear will slay it.’ The eagle circled. ‘We are not meant to fight this, islander. Let your gods try. What you see is the death of one age, the birth of another. Those who survive will build a new world from the ash of the old.’ The eagle swooped down on a fox and wrestled it into the snow. Princess Irebül called out to it, her voice echoing across the meadow. ‘What do you know of the woman on Brhazat?’ Dumai said. ‘Is she really an astronomer?’ ‘I know only what the Lacustrine say. Some


Ethan’s accusatory tone, she doesn’t show it. “Isn’t Bayside the biggest trauma center in the region?” Sloane exhales. “It is.” A waitress approaches their table, and Ethan scoots back his chair. “I have to go. I’m sorry, Mom, that I don’t have more time.” He stands and moves around the table to plant another peck on his mother’s cheek. She smiles, patting his hand on her shoulder. “No problem. I understand.” “I’ll call you tomorrow and see if I have time to meet before you head back to the airport.” He shifts his attention to Sloane. “I don’t know what time I’ll be home.” Without waiting for her response, he turns and maneuvers through the crowded restaurant for the door. “What can I get for you two lovely ladies this evening?” their waitress asks. Sloane moves her spinach linguine around on her plate, too consumed with dread over Ethan’s earlier comments—and what they meant—to eat. Kay eyes Sloane’s full plate from across the table and sets down her fork, using her napkin in a most immaculate fashion. Sloane’s mind flashes back to the rickety dining room table at home with her mom. “You know, Roger and I went through some hard times in our marriage.” Sloane is tempted to smile, imagining what hard times she is referring to. Roger leaving his towel on the bathroom floor? A disagreement over which was the better private school to send their son to? Or where to go on vacation? “Roger cheated.” Sloane looks up from her pasta. Ethan always painted a picture of his parents having a happy union. To Sloane, they seemed to be one of the most genuinely happy couples that she had encountered. At Roger’s funeral, Kay seemed devastated. “With a young associate,” she continues. “It was right after I had Ethan.” “So how did you…?” “Move on?” Her eyes narrow, and she leans back in her chair. “I let the affair play out, knowing he’d get bored with her after a while. And he did. I saw them having an argument in Roger’s office not long after Christmas. We’d just returned from a family vacation in Aspen, where I’d made a point of reminding him of all that he would lose if we were to divorce. Soon after, she quit. Roger never knew that I knew.” This surprises Sloane. Not just Roger’s infidelity, but that a woman as strong as Kay could look past it. “But didn’t it bother you? I mean, how could you just look the other way?” Kay smiles. “It did. But I wasn’t going to let some young associate take away everything I had worked for. Everything that was mine. It took me a while to get over it, but once I did, I was glad that I hadn’t let my emotions get in the way of having the life and family that I deserved.” She looks pensively out the window. “Some might say I was weak, but it took strength not to let my emotions take over and confront him about the affair. I didn’t want


worst come to the worst, we might try that Christian diet from that day to this. But now, you look here; after dark. Hi!” he broke out. “What’s that?” look at me. Do I look like a man before the mast? No, says For just then, although the sun had still an hour or two to you. Nor I weren’t, neither, I says.” run, all the echoes of the island awoke and bellowed to the And with that he winked and pinched me hard. thunder of a cannon. “Just you mention them words to your squire, Jim,” he “They have begun to fight!” I cried. “Follow me.” went on. “Nor he weren’t, neither—that’s the words. Three And I began to run towards the anchorage, my terrors all years he were the man of this island, light and dark, fair and forgotten, while close at my side the marooned man in his rain; and sometimes he would maybe think upon a prayer goatskins trotted easily and lightly. (says you), and sometimes he would maybe think of his old “Left, left,” says he; “keep to your left hand, mate Jim! mother, so be as she’s alive (you’ll say); but the most part of Under the trees with you! Theer’s where I killed my first Gunn’s time (this is what you’ll say)—the most part of his goat. They don’t come down here now; they’re all mastheaded time was took up with another matter. And then you’ll give on them mountings for the fear of Benjamin Gunn. Ah! him a nip, like I do.” And there’s the cetemery”— cemetery, he must have meant. And he pinched me again in the most confidential man- “You see the mounds? I come here and prayed, nows and ner. thens, when I thought maybe a Sunday would be about doo. “Then,” he continued, “then you’ll up, and you’ll say this: It weren’t quite a chapel, but it seemed more solemn like; and Gunn is a good man (you’ll say), and he puts a precious sight then, says you, Ben Gunn was short-handed—no chapling, more confidence—a precious sight, mind that—in a gen’leman nor so much as a Bible and a flag, you says.” born than in these gen’leman of fortune, having been one So he kept talking as I ran, neither expecting nor receiving hisself.” any answer. Contents “Well,” I said, “I don’t understand one word that you’ve The cannon-shot was followed after a considerable inter- been saying. But that’s neither here nor there; for how am I val by a volley of small arms. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 128 129 Another pause, and then, not a quarter of a mile in front of me, I beheld the Union Jack flutter in the air above a wood. Part 4. The Stockade Chapter 16. Narrative Continued by the Doctor: How the Ship Was Abandoned. IT was about half past one—three bells in the sea phrase— that the two boats went ashore from the HISPANIOLA. The captain, the squire, and I were talking matters over in the cabin. Had there been a


explain how everyone fits in heaven. If you could have a chat with God about some questions and doubts I’m having, then come and explain them to me, I’d appreciate that. Don’t feel like you can’t come and visit me, not in a spooky way—I scare easy—but you know, in like a dream or a voice in my head? Although, not in a way that will make me think I’m having a psychotic breakdown. I’ll leave the technicalities up to you. Have a chat with the other souls up there and see what the preferred method of communication between the living and the dead is. “Anyway, Dad…” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry we had to say goodbye to you today. I’m sorry I wanted to leave the house, to move out and find out who I was. Especially since it was all for nothing; I’m not entirely convinced I’m any better than I was before. Maybe, that’s a bit harsh.” I think of Alex. “I learned some things.” I think of Ben. “I learned a lot of things.” I think of Mum and James. “Actually, I’m going to take that back; it wasn’t all for nothing. But I’m sorry that on some days the guilt melts away and I feel relieved about not having to worry about you so much. I’d have you back in a heartbeat if … I probably shouldn’t have said any of that. Please don’t hate me.” I pause, thinking about what Angelina said about love and all its varied forms of expression. “I do love you and you must know that, but it is a relief to not worry, to know you’re no longer in pain, spending your life sat in a chair swallowing pills. I’d rather you were here, but I can’t help thinking you’re much happier now. You must be. Are you happier now or am I kidding myself?” I sit in the silence with my eyes closed. “I hope you’re happier,” I whisper. I open my eyes and wipe the sticky mess from under my nose. “Night, Dad. Talk to you tomorrow, okay?” It’s only when I get into bed and hear him say, “Okay, Maddie,” that I finally smile. Because there’s no tremor in his voice when he says it. * * * It’s raining and I can’t find myself amidst the dark night, but I keep running because I have to save him. The cemetery is so large, larger than I remember it, but I spot the tree he’s buried under, sprawled and wild in the wind, the mound and its familiar flowers. I drop the torch I’m holding and begin to claw at the wet dirt with my hands, mud embedding my fingernails. “Hold on, Dad,” I shout above the storm. “I’m coming! I’ll save you!” Lightning cracks across the sky, but still I dig and dig until my hands bleed and the rain streams down my face; I’m wet through, my clothes cling to me, the cold burying itself into my lungs. My arms shake with exhaustion, but


his hunting. So now we can really decide on what's what." "There's no help, Piggy. Nothing to be done." For a while they sat in depressed silence. Then Simon stood up and took the conch from Piggy, who was so astonished that he remained on his feet. Ralph looked up at Simon. "Simon? What is it this time?" A half-sound of jeering ran round the circle and Simon shrank from it. "I thought there might be something to do. Something we-" Again the pressure of the assembly took his voice away. He sought for help and sympathy and chose Piggy. He turned half toward him, clutching the conch to his brown chest. "I think we ought to climb the mountain." The circle shivered with dread. Simon broke off and turned to Piggy who was looking at him with an expression of derisive incomprehension. "What's the good of climbing up to this here beast when Ralph and the other two couldn't do nothing?" Simon whispered his answer. "What else is there to do?" His speech made, he allowed Piggy to lift the conch out of his hands. Then he retired and sat as far away from the others as possible. Piggy was speaking now with more assurance and with what, if the circumstances had not been so serious, the others would have recognized as pleasure. "I said we could all do without a certain person. Now I say we got to decide on what can be done. And I think I could tell you what Ralph's going to say next. The most important thing on the island is the smoke and you can't have no smoke without a fire." Ralph made a restless movement. "No go, Piggy. We've got no fire. That thing sits up there--we'll have to stay here." Piggy lifted the conch as though to add power to his next words. "We got no fire on the mountain. But what's wrong with a fire down here? A fire could be built on them rocks. On the sand, even. We'd make smoke just the same." "That's right!" "Smoke!" "By the bathing pool!" The boys began to babble. Only Piggy could have the intellectual daring to suggest moving the fire from the mountain. "So we'll have the fire down here," said Ralph. He looked about him. "We can build it just here between the bathing pool and the platform. Of course--" He broke off, frowning, thinking the thing out, unconsciously tugging at the stub of a nail with his teeth. "Of course the smoke won't show so much, not be seen so far away. But we needn't go near, near the--" The others nodded in perfect comprehension. There would be no need to go near. "We'll build the fire now." The greatest ideas are the simplest. Now there was something to be done they worked with passion. Piggy was so full of delight and expanding liberty in Jack's departure, so full of pride in his contribution to the good of society, that he helped to fetch wood. The wood he fetched was close


if the words weren’t. Gabe’s, the same, soundless roars, growls, clashes of steel and the meaty sound of fists in flesh. He must’ve woken up. That was good. Maybe they’d both live. Two out of three wasn’t bad. “Take her to the gardens,” Anton said, and distantly, Lore felt hands beneath her knees, around her shoulders, lifting her like a fainted noblewoman. “She’s waiting for us there.” Lore’s eyes fluttered closed. Hard ground. Cold seeping through her ruined clothes, making the wound in her side and her sliced-up hand ache. Wind through stone, curling around leaves turned to rock, granite petals. Lore forced her eyes open. The stone garden. Torches burned around the well, replacements for the light stolen by the eclipse. Her vision was still blurry, pain and blood loss making it hard to focus, but she could see Anton standing before the open pit of the well, the statue of Apollius that held it closed placed carefully to the side. Other muted shapes around him—the Presque Mort, all of them that hadn’t been dispatched to the village to deal with the new corpses. New corpses, after her dream… There was another figure near Anton, standing on the other side of the well. Willowy, dressed in black, with a long river of pale hair. Anton turned before her mind would let her comprehend what she was seeing. A small blessing. “Ah. Lore.” At the sound of her name, two of the Presque Mort approached, gingerly helping her up. Blood soaked the side of her gown; her head felt as heavy as the stone roses lining the path. “You did so well,” the Priest Exalted said as she stumbled toward him. “Really, Lore, you should be proud of yourself. To be part of this, to have Apollius speak of you by name. And more than once! The vision that brought me my scar is where I first heard of you, but He has spoken to me since—He told me to learn the art of dreamwalking, how to draw out your power to make our undead army.” He talked too fast, too excited, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to spill all these secrets. “Shut up,” Lore said, but it came out nothing more than a croak, and Anton didn’t hear. “Gabe teaching you to guard your mind did present a bit of a problem,” the Priest Exalted continued. “I paid dearly for showing him that trick.” His whole hand stroked the other, the one with the new burn scars. His non-scarred hand held a golden circlet, studded in garnets. August’s crown, the simple one he’d been wearing when his brother cut him down. Lore wondered why Anton hadn’t put it on yet. “But all has worked out as it should now,” the Priest Exalted continued. “When you finally die, when I strike you again—my apologies for that bit of unpleasantness, but needs must—your power will go to Bastian. He will have the magic of life and of death, Spiritum and Mortem. And then it will begin.” But Lore was barely


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

to do it.” He worried the corner of his lip with his teeth, as if he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “It felt like a mistake, but one I’d made before. One I knew would end badly.” And he was trying to tell her something, here, something that skirted the edges of what she’d felt since she met him—the instant connection, the ways it felt like she knew him and Bastian both on some cell-deep level that couldn’t be explained. But only one word stuck out to her, and that one word made her recoil. “A mistake,” she repeated softly. Gabe flinched, as if he hadn’t realized how it sounded until he heard it in her voice. “Lore, I didn’t mean—” “You made it very clear what you mean.” She put her foot on the first step and climbed down, chased by the sound of Gabe’s sigh. Every part of the catacombs looked the same. The walls, stone-built and old-bone-dry, narrowing and expanding with no rhyme or reason, as if someone had marked them out to the pattern of sick lungs breathing. The dirt floor, ground up with bits of rock. The scent. Empty and ozonic and stinging her nose. She could feel Mortem, sense it phantom-limb-close; death in all this stone, death from the bones of revenants who’d crawled here to die. People with no one who cared enough to burn their bodies. It surprised her, to sense so much Mortem with Bastian close by. But whatever dampening effect he’d had on her ability seemed to have lessened in recent days, until it was barely a concern at all. Instead, his presence seemed almost to clarify her senses, make Mortem seem sharper, like he was a whetstone to its blade. Her mind turned, inexplicably, to her birthday. Consecration. The darkness of the moon covering the sun. She glanced at Bastian; there, in the corner of her eye, a glimmer of gold that slid away from her gaze when she tried to concentrate on it. Lore shook her head. A haphazard pile of old wood, dried-out plant stalks, and twine waited at the end of the narrow stairs. Bastian lashed the material together into a torch and held the pearl lighter to its end, catching flame. He passed it to her wordlessly. Lore took the proffered torch. Panic bubbled just beneath her breastbone, oil in a too-hot pan, leaping up to burn her. Now that she was here, in the dark, every sense screamed for her to turn around, clamber back up the stairs to open sky and clear air— “Lore.” Hands on her shoulders, warmth and the scent of wine. “Breathe.” She did, slowly. In and out, keeping her eyes on his, whiskey-brown and very close. When she had herself under control, she stepped back. His hands fell. Bastian nodded, picking up material to make his own torch. “So. Which way?” Lore closed her eyes and let her interior map of the catacombs fall into place. It was like a grid laid over the inside of her eyelids, a dark


brute and human, to have become proficient in woodcraft, or in the use of African weapons." "You are judging him according to your own standards, gentlemen," said Jane. "An ordinary white man such as any of you--pardon me, I did not mean just that--rather, a white man above the ordinary in physique and intelligence could never, I grant you, have lived a year alone and naked in this tropical jungle; but this man not only surpasses the average white man in strength and agility, but as far transcends our trained athletes and `strong men' as they surpass a day-old babe; and his courage and ferocity in battle are those of the wild beast." "He has certainly won a loyal champion, Miss Porter," said Captain Dufranne, laughing. "I am sure that there be none of us here but would willingly face death a hundred times in its most terrifying forms to deserve the tributes of one even half so loyal--or so beautiful." "You would not wonder that I defend him," said the girl, "could you have seen him as I saw him, battling in my behalf with that huge hairy brute. "Could you have seen him charge the monster as a bull might charge a grizzly--absolutely without sign of fear or hesitation--you would have believed him more than human. "Could you have seen those mighty muscles knotting under the brown skin--could you have seen them force back those awful fangs--you too would have thought him invincible. "And could you have seen the chivalrous treatment which he accorded a strange girl of a strange race, you would feel the same absolute confidence in him that I feel." "You have won your suit, my fair pleader," cried the captain. "This court finds the defendant not guilty, and the cruiser shall wait a few days longer that he may have an opportunity to come and thank the divine Portia." "For the Lord's sake honey," cried Esmeralda. "You all don't mean to tell ME that you're going to stay right here in this here land of carnivable animals when you all got the opportunity to escapade on that boat? Don't you tell me THAT, honey." "Why, Esmeralda! You should be ashamed of yourself," cried Jane. "Is this any way to show your gratitude to the man who saved your life twice?" "Well, Miss Jane, that's all jest as you say; but that there forest man never did save us to stay here. He done save us so we all could get AWAY from here. I expect he be mighty peevish when he find we ain't got no more sense than to stay right here after he done give us the chance to get away. "I hoped I'd never have to sleep in this here geological garden another night and listen to all them lonesome noises that come out of that jumble after dark." "I don't blame you a bit, Esmeralda," said Clayton, "and you certainly did hit it off right when you called them `lonesome' noises. I never have been able to find the right word for


miss you for the rest of my life, and I love you so so much.” She reached up with her long, skinny hand and pulled the oxygen mask away from her gaunt face. I didn’t even know she had that left in her, but, of course, she was going to say something to me, her favorite child. Probably dispense some sage wisdom or finally admit that the reason she’d had me was because she was disappointed in her other children and wanted to take one last shot at having a good one. “I really love you, Mom,” I said. She held the mask away from her mouth, looked at me, looked over at my sister, opened her toothless mouth, and croaked, her voice soaked in predeath and bitterness, “Are you sure?” EXCUSE ME, MA’AM, BUT I’M SORRY, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY? Mom let the mask snap dramatically back over her mouth, and I burst out laughing, incredulous. I’m sorry, but what a bitch??? The doctor poked his head in like “Time’s up,” and I could see my other sister, Jane, gathering herself to come in and say her final piece, so I stood up and looked down at my mother for one last living time and said, “I am going to think about this for the rest of my life.” She didn’t respond. The repast after the funeral was in the basement of the church, because no one in our family had a house nice enough to invite a bunch of crying people over to eat potato salad in, and I remember nothing of that day. I’m sure I ate fried chicken, consoled people who hadn’t seen my mother in over a decade while letting them cry on my nice black dress, and gossiped about who was wearing what with my nieces, but I cannot recall who or when or if it was a spicy wing or a thigh. Except I remember one thing: as I walked past the kitchen on my way out of the bathroom, I had a small heart attack when I ran smack into my father, a man who had died four months earlier. I took a step back, mouth hanging open, then looked around to see if anyone else was seeing a ghost standing in the middle of the room holding a plate of catfish and greens and macaroni and cheese. No one seemed to notice the poltergeist other than me, and when he said, “Hey, baby, I’m so sorry about your mom,” it hit me: MY BROTHER. My jaw hit the floor. “Cedric?!” He nodded, and smiled, and I noticed that one of his front teeth turned just a little bit, just like our father’s. He also had his same exact hands, which are also my same exact hands. I hadn’t seen Cedric in years, since I’d slept in the passenger seat of our dad’s old Cadillac as he drove down to Memphis for a visit, and the only memories I’d retained from that trip was the McDonald’s riddled with bullet holes in


it gets to be 99 degrees, take Sugar for a long walk, be shocked by how light it is, how many other humans are up and at ’em this early 8: Back home, shower, coffee, sit down at the wicker desk of my adolescence, open laptop to work on screenplay, accidentally spend the next 4 hours reading articles about when a vaccine will exist and what a gain of function mutation is 12: Lunch with Jerry, who gets up at 10 (when I’m not here he wakes up at 6 to walk Sugar and goes back to bed) then reads The Kansas City Star cover to cover for two hours while drinking a single cup of coffee and savoring a single bowl of Raisin Bran. Literally, he puts his breakfast bowl in the dishwasher and pulls out his lunch plate from the cupboard. For lunch we have baloney sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise and lettuce. Fun fact: I’ve been a pescatarian for seven years. But is baloney REALLY meat? 12:30-4:45: Pretend to write screenplay, read more articles about anosmia and cytokine storms 5: Online “Chair Yoga for Seniors” with Jerry in the living room. The instructor is a foxy sixty-year-old named Marie, and Jerry would never in a million years discuss this with me, but I think he has a tiny crush on her. Not to brag, but as a non-senior (a junior?), I eschew the chair in Chair Yoga. 5:30: Jerry fixes a Manhattan for himself and a grapefruit seltzer water on the rocks for me, grills a pork steak for himself and a veggie burger for me, and we eat on the back deck if it’s not too hot. In that case, we usually end up talking to the family next door (the daughters are 9 and 11, and the 11-year-old is the one who caused the pandemic by telling her mom she traveled too much for work). They ask us lots of questions like “If you could eat only one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?” and “If Sugar spoke human, what do you think she’d say?” 6:30: Another long walk for Sugar. For this one, I usually talk to Viv, Henrietta, or both. Viv is in the city—her husband is still seeing patients, which understandably makes her worry—but Henrietta and her wife have rented a place upstate. 7-9: I’m Jerry’s tour guide through the Golden Age of Television. I try to find shows he wouldn’t know about that might expand his horizons but won’t horrify him. Yes: dramas set in the English countryside, wholesome reality show competitions, sit-coms about people who aren’t white or straight. No: dating reality shows, fast-paced and extremely ironic millennial or Gen Z shows. When he doesn’t like something, he says, “There’s a lot going on, isn’t there?” When he does like it, he says it was “very interesting” or “very amusing.” 9:15: Jerry retires to his room, I can hear him puttering, I go to my room, two roads diverge and I try to take the one


it.” “You got it?” Joe nodded. Here it was. Confession time. “We don’t have to—” I started. But then Joe said, “The kiss.” The kiss? “Right?” he went on. “It must be the kiss. You were just trying to help me out, and then I turned it into a whole other thing. I don’t have an excuse for that. I just—I guess it was the surprise of it. And I hadn’t kissed anybody in a long while. And there was definitely some sweet revenge mixed in. But mostly it was just … so unbelievably nice.” Really? That’s what he thought I was mad about? A swoony kiss? Who gets mad about a swoony kiss?! In that second, my goals shifted. He wanted to have this conversation? Fine. We’d have this conversation. It might ruin everything. But I guess that’s the thing about anger. I suddenly didn’t care. “Not the kiss,” I said. “Not the kiss?” “What else might I be mad about?” Joe hesitated. I was going to force him to say it now. He’d started this, and I was going to finish it. “Rack your brain,” I said. But Joe just shook his head. And that just made me madder. “What am I mad about? What am I mad about? It wasn’t the very nice accidental sweet-revenge kiss.” I took a second to shake my head incredulously. “It was your walk of shame.” “My walk of what?” “Out of Parker’s apartment. This morning. At the crack of dawn.” Joe thought back. Then he remembered. Then he protested. “But that wasn’t—” “Are you saying you didn’t slink guiltily out of Parker’s place this morning?” “I mean, I walked out. But I didn’t slink.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is that what you’re thinking? That I got up to no good with your evil stepsister?” “Prove me wrong.” But Joe was just shaking his head. “How could you think that? How dumb do you think I am?” “All men are dumb when it comes to Parker.” But Joe was still indignant. “I wasn’t messing around with the stepsister who ruined your life,” he said. “I was feeding her cat.” Confirmation. “You were feeding Parker’s evil cat? The one that keeps peeing in our hallway?” Joe nodded. “Yep. Its name is Elvira.” I took that in. “But you were wearing your pajamas.” “Exactly!” Joe said. “People don’t do walks of shame in their pajamas.” He had a point. “Parker wasn’t even there! She left at three A.M. on a flight to Amsterdam!” he said—and now it was his turn to be mad. “You think that I kissed you last night and then turned around to have some kind of illicit tryst with your worst enemy?” I mean, yes. Worse things happened all the time with Parker. But his outrage was humbling. “It wasn’t a real kiss,” I finally said. “It was real enough.” I shrugged, still half thinking I was right. “How could you think that?” Joe said. “I don’t know. People are terrible.” “People may be terrible,” Joe said. “But I’m not.”