of this new apparition brought me to a stand. I was now, it seemed, cut off upon both sides; behind me the murderers, before me this lurking nondescript. And im- Contents mediately I began to prefer the dangers that I knew to those I knew not. Silver himself appeared less terrible in contrast with this creature of the woods, and I turned on my heel, and Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 120 121 looking sharply behind me over my shoulder, began to retrace “Who are you?” I asked. my steps in the direction of the boats. “Ben Gunn,” he answered, and his voice sounded hoarse Instantly the figure reappeared, and making a wide cir- and awkward, like a rusty lock. “I’m poor Ben Gunn, I am; cuit, began to head me off. I was tired, at any rate; but had I and I haven’t spoke with a Christian these three years.” been as fresh as when I rose, I could see it was in vain for me I could now see that he was a white man like myself and to contend in speed with such an adversary. From trunk to that his features were even pleasing. His skin, wherever it was trunk the creature flitted like a deer, running manlike on two exposed, was burnt by the sun; even his lips were black, and legs, but unlike any man that I had ever seen, stooping almost his fair eyes looked quite startling in so dark a face. Of all the double as it ran. Yet a man it was, I could no longer be in beggar-men that I had seen or fancied, he was the chief for doubt about that. raggedness. He was clothed with tatters of old ship’s canvas I began to recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork was all within an ace of calling for help. But the mere fact that he held together by a system of the most various and incongru- was a man, however wild, had somewhat reassured me, and ous fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry my fear of Silver began to revive in proportion. I stood still, gaskin. About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather therefore, and cast about for some method of escape; and as I belt, which was the one thing solid in his whole accoutre- was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed into my ment. mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenceless, cour- “Three years!” I cried. “Were you shipwrecked?” age glowed again in my heart and I set my face resolutely for “Nay, mate,” said he; “marooned.” this man of the island and walked briskly towards him. I had heard the word, and I knew it stood for a horrible He was concealed by this time behind another tree trunk; kind of punishment common enough among the buccaneers, but he must have been watching me closely, for as soon as I in which the offender is put ashore with


had said. “Oh, they will almost certainly see through the ploy.” Arin had deftly buttoned his coat, observing the servants rushing between the fountain and my burning room. “But none of them will be willing to risk that another might take the bait and succeed in catching you first.” The trip to Nizahl passed in a blur of arguments and cold cabin rooms. Sefa hummed every time I tried to talk sense into her. Marek would dip his hands in mud and chase me around the cabin. Idiots, both of them. We were due in Nizahl today. To distract from my churning dread, I plucked one of Arin’s maps and smoothed it open on my legs. I studied the map for long moments, trying to decipher the unintelligible markings. “Have you started doodling in your spare time?” I asked, squinting at the downward V shapes and scribbled names. I traced a bridge that might have been Sirauk. Arin didn’t ask to see the map. “The mountains.” My forehead furrowed. The carriage’s motion jostled me into the window. “Which ones?” Hundreds of mountains bordered the kingdoms, theoretically overlooking seas and deserted lands. Theoretically, because fewer than five had completed the journey to and from the mountains. Vast as they were, the most attention the mountains were given on maps was a quick scribble of their general locations. “All of them,” Arin said. He crossed his ankle over his knee and separated the papers over his triangled lap. Met with my silence, he glanced up. “You have a map of the mountains?” I asked faintly. “A detailed map?” Arin’s expression strongly suggested he thought I had knocked my head against the carriage door one too many times. “I have several, but they’re far from finished.” The fist around my heart squeezed. Acknowledging the Heir’s brilliance came naturally, but at some unidentifiable point, I had grown to admire it. Forgetting his peerless mind was in service to a pitiless kingdom. “We never stood a chance against you, did we? Rawain’s siege never really ended, because he has you to see it through to the very last Jasadi. Given a thousand fortresses, Jasad would still be doomed.” Arin’s gaze shuttered. A chilly guardedness that had been gone long enough to make its return startling descended over the Heir. “I can circumvent much,” Arin said. “But even I might falter at a thousand fortresses.” A few miles from the Citadel, Ren steered Sefa and Marek’s carriage south. Only the Champions and the royal guests were permitted to enter the Citadel grounds, and of that exclusive few, none could spend the night inside the Citadel. The royals would lodge in the upper towns for the night, and the trial would be held in the morning. At the conclusion of the Victor’s Ball the following evening, everyone would be required to show a purpose for remaining in the kingdom. Hospitality did not rank among Nizahl’s limited virtues. Sefa and Marek would begin their portion of the plan tonight. After donning their disguises, the pair would sow rumors about the


plywood over which is draped a long, rumpled length of filth-encrusted, opaque plastic like the cast-off ectoplasm of some ghost that has finally ceased to haunt this world. She feels swallowed up and helpless, the room as dark as the belly of a whale. The air reeks of many forms of foul matter and the putrefaction of perhaps a rat or two. She’s shivering and can feel John shivering against her. She hesitates to caution him about his rapid, anxious breathing. He’s smart and brave, and when he hears someone in the building, when the door opens to this room, he will fall silent and still. Some moments, she can hardly believe that she has come to this, fugitive and cornered with her child. But those moments slide into others when it seems that she could have expected nothing else but what was befallen her. For a long while, she holds terror at bay by remembering what previous darkness she has endured and what truths have sustained her. Her seduction by Aleem, when she was sixteen, was not one sorry misstep by a girl who otherwise followed a safe and sensible path. She had begun to rebel against her parents when she was thirteen. Her father and mother, both gainfully employed, worked hard and lived frugally, paid their taxes, went to church, drank little, and were satisfied with simple pleasures like television, library books, and board games. They lived without complaint and by the rules, but to what avail? Money was a constant worry. Their only assets were a twenty-year-old Ford and a tiny blue house in a neighborhood where no one dwelt by choice. In the fever of adolescence, Nina came to see them as kindhearted fools whose contentment with their lot was in fact surrender to the meanness of the world. She saw others who were not so weak, who refused to accept what was ladled out to them, who went after what they wanted by whatever means necessary. They drove flashy cars and wore the latest styles, both men and women, some of them only a few years older than she was. She knew what they did, what they dealt in, and she knew it was wrong. But if poverty was the reward for doing right and success was the reward for doing wrong, then Earth had become so grievously distorted in its turning that no one possessed the power to restore it to its intended shape. In her daydreams, she became one of the fast crowd. And in her daily life, she indulged in petty rebellions—using language her parents would have found shocking if they’d heard it, taking a few tokes of a girlfriend’s joint, leaving home buttoned to the neck but showing cleavage when she got to school. All these years later, she can’t remember how all those little insubordinations abruptly became a revolution against the future that she saw her parents crafting for her, but it seemed to happen in a moment, and the moment’s name was Aleem. Her moral fiber had stretched with elastic ease,


joke. “I was going to say hungover.” 10 HAPPY PLACE MATTINGLY, VERMONT A NEW APARTMENT for our senior year, the first floor of a peeling white Victorian at the edge of town. Windows that rattle whenever the wind blows, a half-collapsed porch where Sabrina and I intend to spend the fall sipping brandy-spiked hot cider, and a patch of side yard where I promise to help Cleo plant a vegetable garden: broccoli, cauliflower, kohlrabi—things that can withstand the frost that will arrive in a few short months. Wyn was supposed to be in New York right now, sharing a loft with Parth, making his way in a new city while his best friend studies law at Fordham. If he hadn’t failed that math class a second time or overlooked his history gen ed requirement, everything might be different. Instead, he’s living with us. To save money, Cleo and I share the biggest room. Sabrina gets the next one. Wyn has the shoebox originally intended for me. The morning after move-in day, Parth has donuts delivered for us. The note reads, If you don’t all come to grad school in New York next year, I will be pressing charges. Realistically, I’ll have to go to whatever medical school will take me. Likewise, Sabrina will have to choose her next city based on her own law school admission, and Cleo will do the same with an MFA program. But the idea is alluring—all of us together in a new city—even as I’m unsure how I’ll survive one year as Wyn Connor’s roommate. Our whole first week in the place, we manage not to be alone together. Finally, though, we bump into each other early one morning in the stuffy kitchen. The sun’s started to come up, and he’s making coffee. He fills a mug with the Montana state flag printed on one side and passes it to me. “I want you to know I understood what you said,” he murmurs. “Back in Maine.” His voice, still husky with sleep, pulls all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck to eager attention. His closeness, here in the quiet morning, is overpowering. “I don’t want you to worry about this year,” he tells me. “I won’t make things weird.” I manage something that sounds sort of like “Oh . . . good” and sort of like someone with both stage fright and strep throat has taken a crack at public yodeling. And then he’s nodding curtly, letting himself out the back door to cut our grass before the day gets too hot, and once again, I’m left waiting for a spell to break. He’s true to his word all year. A couple of times a week, he goes out with women the rest of us never meet. Then, in winter, he starts seeing one woman, again and again, a dancer named Alison. She’s beautiful. She’s nice. But she never stops by for longer than a few minutes before the two of them leave for the night. I try to be happy for him. That’s


my intolerable sensations. It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left my home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought in the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently during my boyhood. Six years had passed since then: _I_ was a wreck, but nought had changed in those savage and enduring scenes. I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive injury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine; it was about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe. The weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices that overhung me on every side, the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and the dashing of the waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as Omnipotence--and I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here displayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings. I passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river forms, opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it. Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as that of Servox, through which I had just passed. The high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous dome overlooked the valley. A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and recognized, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the lighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly influence ceased to act--I found myself fettered again to grief and indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striving so to forget the world, my fears, and more than all,


on you now.” Holy fuck. My mouth goes dry. “Here.” He stalks gracefully forward and hands me a set. “Do you want to try them first?” They feel solid, the metal cold. Vaguely, I hope I never have to wear a pair of these for real. Christian is watching me intently. “Where are the keys?” My voice wavering. He holds out his palm, revealing a small metallic key. “This does both sets. In fact, all sets.” How many sets does he have? I don’t remember seeing any in the museum chest. He strokes my cheek with his index finger, trailing it down to my mouth. He leans in as if to kiss me. 39/551 “Do you want to play?” he says, his voice low, and everything in my body heads south as desire unfurls deep in my belly. “Yes,” I breathe. He smiles. “Good.” He plants a featherlight kiss on my forehead. “We’re go- ing to need a safe word.” What? “Stop won’t be enough because you will probably say that, but you won’t mean it.” He runs his nose down mine—the only contact between us. My heart starts pounding. Shit . . . How can he do this with just words? “This is not going to hurt. It will be intense. Very intense, because I am not going to let you move. Okay?” Oh my. This sounds so hot. My breathing is too loud. Fuck, I am panting already. My inner goddess has her sequins on and is warming up to dance the rumba. Thank heavens I’m married to this man, otherwise this would be embar- rassing. My eyes flick down to his arousal. “Okay.” My voice is barely audible. “Choose a word, Ana.” Oh . . . “A safe word,” he says softly. “Popsicle.” I say, panting. “Popsicle?” he says, amused. “Yes.” He grins as he leans back to gaze down at me. “Interesting choice. Lift up your arms.” I do, and Christian grasps the hem of my sundress, lifts it over my head, and tosses it on the floor. He holds out his hand, and I give him back the handcuffs. He places both sets on the bedside table along with the blindfold and yanks the quilt off the bed, letting it fall to the floor. “Turn round.” I turn, and he undoes my bikini top so that it falls to the floor. “Tomorrow, I will staple this to you,” he mutters and tugs on my hair tie, freeing my hair. He gathers it into one hand and yanks gently so I step back against him. Against his chest. Against his erection. I gasp as he pulls my head to one side and kisses my neck. 40/551 “You were very disobedient,” he murmurs in my ear, sending delicious shivers through me. “Yes,” I whisper. “Hmm. What are we going to do about that?” “Learn to live with it,” I breathe. His soft languid kisses are driving me wild. He grins against my neck. “Ah, Mrs. Grey. You are ever the optimist.” He straightens. Taking my hair, he carefully parts


street level. “What were you going to say to him?” she asked as they stepped inside, the gold doors snapping together in front of them. “I don’t know. All I could think of was Julia Roberts’s line in Pretty Woman. You know? ‘Big mistake. Big. Huge.’ But then you decided to be mature about the whole damn thing. Kind of caught me off guard.” He shrugged those big shoulders. “That’s probably a good thing. I’d rather be remembered for quoting something like Rambo. Or Happy Gilmore.” “Wow. You really just summed up your whole personality in two movies.” He grinned over at her. “Your turn.” Natalie let her head tip back. Gone was the stiffness that had been building since she boarded her flight. Fun. She was having fun. Did she always have fun with this man, even when they were arguing? “Wall Street. And Bridesmaids.” “Bam. Beautifully done.” “Thank you.” Without warning, August backed her up against the wall of the elevator, his mouth stopping just a whisper above hers. “You know I’m trying to follow your lead and be mature, but I actually wanted to punch your ex in the face, right?” Deep down, she had. She’d known that like she knew her own name. “Yes,” she breathed. “Good. Just so we’re clear.” “Hmm.” Her brain said, Sex. Sex right here and right now. Unfortunately, the elevator doors opened to reveal a dozen people staring back. With a muttered curse, August took her hand and led her through the throng of people, toward the street. “Where are you staying?” he asked, guiding her through the glass door of the building and out onto the sidewalk. It was a Friday night in a part of town where not a ton of bars were located anyway, so most of the pedestrians were working stiffs who’d stayed late at the office. But traffic roared by at its usual breakneck pace, horns bleeping expletives, music drifting out of car windows, passersby holding conversations on their phones. “I’m one block down,” she called up to him over the street noise. “Ah.” He nodded, pulling her closer to navigate the sidewalk traffic with a frown. “I’m all the way east.” Natalie battled the disappointment. “You . . . booked a room?” “Yeah, about that,” he answered slowly. “Believe me, I wish we were in a place where I could assume I’m staying in your room. Fuck. You have no idea. My dick is like the end of a hockey stick right now. You remember the way it curves when it’s hard . . .” “Yes,” she all but panted. “I remember.” “Good.” He tucked his tongue into his cheek for a second, seemingly to subdue a smile, but it dropped just as quickly. “It wasn’t right what I did.” She tugged on his hand to indicate they’d reached her hotel and they ducked into the lobby together. The city sounds were replaced with the soft murmur of conversation and piano music. But she could barely hear anything over August’s voice and the pounding of her heart,


Antares?” “Lalo Podesta was here a few days ago. We were playing cards. He says Samuel is bringing in a friend to replace you.” “How does he know what Samuel is doing?” “Lalo loves to gossip.” If Lalo was flapping his mouth there might be some truth to it, but she didn’t want to think about that right now, so she shook her head and glared at Nando. “Lalo should mind his own business and so should you. Anyway, I’m not here to discuss my job.” “Why are you here? You’re looking nice, Montserrat. I love the thing you did with your hair.” The only thing Montserrat had done with her hair was tie it into a ponytail, but Nando was a horny dog trying to butter her up like a succulent lobster. She’d dodged enough creeps to know how to deal with this one. “A while back you had a script for sale. It was by Romeo Donderis, and you said it could be authenticated by the writer himself because it was pricey.” “Sure, but that was a while back. It’s long gone.” “I’m not interested in the script. I want to know about Donderis. Do you have his phone number or home address?” “You’re going to go see him? Are you trying to cut out the middleman in these transactions? I won’t have that. How am I supposed to make a living?” Nando asked, spilling a little of his beer as he set the bottle down. “What? No. I’m doing research on something.” “Oh? What are you working on?” Nothing. The plan for a documentary piece was over. Maybe Tristán was correct, maybe they ought to cease their inquiries and pretend they had never heard of Ewers or his movie. But she couldn’t look away and must find out who had killed Abel. That she knew, like she knew when a musical cue was about to play on screen. She didn’t want to attribute any supernatural qualities to this feeling, but perhaps there was something of that to it. Abel had said once a spell is in motion, it must conclude. It could also be a run-of-the-mill obsession, simple boredom. The tiresome echoes of her humdrum life that now pushed her to find that frisson of excitement. She felt alert and eager, like she hadn’t in a long time. “It’s none of your business,” she told Nando. “When you ask for someone’s help you should at least pretend to be polite. I thought you were going to buy something, but you’re wasting my time,” Nando said, scratching at the skin right above the elastic waist of his sweatpants. Montserrat took a couple of bills from her wallet and slammed them on the table, next to the beer bottle. She didn’t have money to be throwing around, but she also didn’t want to spend an hour chatting up Nando. “There. Now give me his contact information.” Nando took both bills and stuffed them in his sweatpants’ pocket and shrugged. “Beats me.” “You don’t know.” “I have no idea,” Nando said, shaking


when she decided to step into his hall again, two centuries later, she carried her harp with a vow lodged in her heart. To make him and his court sleep for a hundred years. Some say she was successful, because there was a time of peace, and life was pleasant and golden for the mortals above. But others say she was unable to sing that long without diminishing her power, to hold Dacre and his court asleep for such a stretch of time. All of this to say—it is never wise to offend a musician. And choose your lovers wisely. Iris fell pensive with the ending of the myth. She wondered if history was wrong; all this time, she had been taught of her kind’s victory over the five surviving gods—Dacre, Enva, Alva, Mir, and Luz—who had been fooled into drinking a poisonous draught to make them sleep beneath the loam. But perhaps it had been Enva and her harp all along, which meant there had only ever been four gods slumbering, with the fifth still roaming in secret. The more Iris dwelled on it, the more it rang true. Enva had never been buried in an eastern grave; she must have struck a deal with the mortals long ago. She had been the one to sing the other four divines to enchanted sleep in deep, dark graves. It suddenly wasn’t so difficult to fathom why Dacre would wake with such vengeance in his blood. Why he would tear through town after town, hell-bent upon drawing Enva to him. Iris shivered at the thought, and wrote her correspondent back: I’m thrilled by your ability to find this second part and am eternally grateful for how you sacrificed yourself with tea and biscuits and reprimands from your nan, who sounds like someone I’d probably like. I almost hesitate now to ask anything more of you, but there is something else … I went to the infirmary here at Aval where I’m stationed. It gave me the chance to meet with soldiers who have been wounded. Some are recovering well, and yet some of them will die, and I find that truth difficult to swallow. They’ve been torn open and mangled, shot and stabbed and splintered. Their lives have been irrevocably altered, and yet none of them regret their choice to fight the evil that is stealing across the land. None of them are full of regrets save for one thing: they want to mail a letter home to loved ones. I’m sending you a bundle of these letters. The addresses are typed at each footer, and I wanted to see if you would you be willing to place them in envelopes, address and stamp them, and drop the letters in the post for me? I promise to repay you for the postage. If you’re unable to, please don’t worry. Just send them back over the portal to me and I’ll mail them with the next train. P.S. Do you happen to have a typewriter that looks ordinary upon first glance but has a


being en- closed here. I'm wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there--not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart, but really with it and in it. Nelly, you think you are better and more fortunate than I, in full health and strength. You are sorry for me. Very soon that will be altered. I shall be sorry for you. I shall be in- comparably beyond and above you all. I wonder he won't be near mel" she went on to herself. "I thought he wished it---Heathcliff dear, you should not be sul- len now. Do come to me, Heathcliff." In her eagerness she rose nnd supported herself on the arm of the chair. At that earnest appeal he turned to her, looking absolutely desperate. His eyes, wide and wet, at last flashed fiercely on her; his breast heaved convulsively. An instant they held asunder, and then how they met I hardly saw, but Catherine made a spring, and he caught her, and they were locked in an embrace from which I thought my mistress would never be released alive--in fact, to my eyes, she seemed di- rectly insensible. He flung himself into the nearest seat, and on my approaching hurriedly to ascertain if she had fainted, he gnashed at me and foamed like a mad dog, and gathered her to him with greedy jealousy. I did not feel as if I were in the company of a creature of my own species. It appeared that he would not understand, though I spoke to him, so I stood off and held my tongue in great perplexity. A movement of Catherine's relieved me a little pres- ently. She put up her hand to clasp his neck, and bring her cheek to his as he held her; while he, in return, covering her with frantic caresses, said wildly,---- "You teach me now how cruel you've been---cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you be- tray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry, and wring out my kisses and tears; they'll blight you---they'll damn you. You loved me; then what right had you to leave me? What right---answer me---for the poor fancy you felt for Lin- ton? Because misery, and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart---you have broken it; and in breaking it you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you----- O God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?" "Let me alone! let me alone!" sobbed Catherine. "If I've done wrong, I'm dying for it. It is enough! You left me too; but I won't upbraid you. I forgive you. For- give me." "It


before Edei gleaned the same bit of information you did: she wanted my man to repent. But this is not the first killer we’ve found lurking in the Silts, spewing the words of a lunatic. The first appeared two weeks ago. Another woman, as ragged as this one, strangled a border guard to death, right in front of his family.” “Our people told me,” Edei said, “that she kept saying, Your crimes demand punishment.” A shiver crawled down Io’s spine. “Her hands, were they bent like this?” She indicated the wraith with her chin, whose pale fingers closed around the thread, invisible to anyone but the moira-born. “Was her appearance similar, the . . . skin?” Edei nodded. “We found the first woman dead five days later—” “Fools!” the wraith spat. With a horrible smile, she inched forward. Edei and the girl surrounded her at once, brass bars pushing at her chest. The redhead fumbled at the back of his trousers and produced a gun. Io had never seen a revolver up close; it was big, with a wooden handle and a long nose. It caught the sunlight, the metal glistening bright orange. “Let them see your weapon, they told me.” The woman spoke in a hiss. “Let them see what’s coming for them, they said. I’m neither crazy, nor dying. I am ascended.” Faster than lightning, the wraith whipped her severed thread in Io’s direction, like a lasso. It sailed across the room; Io gasped and scrambled out of the way—but she was never its target. It happened fast: the thread looped around Bianca Rossi’s throat. The redheaded boy fired the gun, hitting the wraith’s torso. Bianca fell on her knees, hands around her neck, gasping for air. Edei launched at the wraith, someone shouted, furniture toppled. Io swiped at her chest for a thread. With practiced fingers, she grabbed one, skidded on her boots across the floor, and brought it inches from the wraith’s severed life-thread. “Stop!” she screamed. Bianca Rossi was clutching at her neck, face turning scarlet. “Stop!” Io warned again. The wraith didn’t—instead, she tossed Edei off her with inhuman strength and brought her severed thread down in an arc. Bianca dropped to her hands and knees. Io didn’t know if it would work, if the severed thread was in any way tying her to life, or to whatever form of existence this was, but there was no time to wonder—she brought her thread down like a blade. Both threads snapped. Io’s hand suddenly held nothing but air. On the floor, Bianca wheezed loudly, eyes bulging, crawling away till she hit her desk. The wraith, no longer held to life by that wisp of a life-thread, toppled lifeless to the white carpet. Bianca spoke with a raspy voice. “Nico.” The redhead, gun still pointed at the wraith, came to attention. “Yes, boss?” “Remind me of the Fortuna’s rules.” Bianca was sitting on the floor, elbows on her knees, breathing in and out in deep gasps. Her neck was bruising fast, her eyes bloodshot, but she was taking


rabbit's, mother says." "Do you never catch cold?" inquired Mary, gazing at him wonderingly. She had never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one. "Not me," he said, grinning. "I never ketched cold since I was born. I wasn't brought up nesh enough. I've chased about th' moor in all weathers same as th' rabbits does. Mother says I've sniffed up too much fresh air for twelve year' to ever get to sniffin' with cold. I'm as tough as a white-thorn knobstick." He was working all the time he was talking and Mary was following him and helping him with her fork or the trowel. "There's a lot of work to do here!" he said once, looking about quite exultantly. "Will you come again and help me to do it?" Mary begged. "I'm sure I can help, too. I can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me. Oh! do come, Dickon!" "I'll come every day if tha' wants me, rain or shine," he answered stoutly. "It's the best fun I ever had in my life-- shut in here an' wakenin' up a garden." "If you will come," said Mary, "if you will help me to make it alive I'll--I don't know what I'll do," she ended helplessly. What could you do for a boy like that? "I'll tell thee what tha'll do," said Dickon, with his happy grin. "Tha'll get fat an' tha'll get as hungry as a young fox an' tha'll learn how to talk to th' robin same as I do. Eh! we'll have a lot o' fun." He began to walk about, looking up in the trees and at the walls and bushes with a thoughtful expression. "I wouldn't want to make it look like a gardener's garden, all clipped an' spick an' span, would you?" he said. "It's nicer like this with things runnin' wild, an' swingin' an' catchin' hold of each other." "Don't let us make it tidy," said Mary anxiously. "It wouldn't seem like a secret garden if it was tidy." Dickon stood rubbing his rusty-red head with a rather puzzled look. "It's a secret garden sure enough," he said, "but seems like some one besides th' robin must have been in it since it was shut up ten year' ago." "But the door was locked and the key was buried," said Mary. "No one could get in." "That's true," he answered. "It's a queer place. Seems to me as if there'd been a bit o' prunin' done here an' there, later than ten year' ago." "But how could it have been done?" said Mary. He was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head. "Aye! how could it!" he murmured. "With th' door locked an' th' key buried." Mistress Mary always felt that however many years she lived she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow. Of course, it did seem to begin to grow for her that morning. When Dickon began to clear places to plant seeds, she


But I really don't see--" "I mean to do it, Newland," she said, quietly rising and going to her desk. "Here are the invitations all written. Mother helped me--she agrees that we ought to." She paused, embarrassed and yet smiling, and Archer suddenly saw before him the embodied image of the Family. "Oh, all right," he said, staring with unseeing eyes at the list of guests that she had put in his hand. When he entered the drawing-room before dinner May was stooping over the fire and trying to coax the logs to burn in their unaccustomed setting of immaculate tiles. The tall lamps were all lit, and Mr. van der Luyden's orchids had been conspicuously disposed in various receptacles of modern porcelain and knobby silver. Mrs. Newland Archer's drawing-room was generally thought a great success. A gilt bamboo jardiniere, in which the primulas and cinerarias were punctually renewed, blocked the access to the bay window (where the old- fashioned would have preferred a bronze reduction of the Venus of Milo); the sofas and arm-chairs of pale brocade were cleverly grouped about little plush tables densely covered with silver toys, porcelain animals and efflorescent photograph frames; and tall rosy-shaded lamps shot up like tropical flowers among the palms. "I don't think Ellen has ever seen this room lighted up," said May, rising flushed from her struggle, and sending about her a glance of pardonable pride. The brass tongs which she had propped against the side of the chimney fell with a crash that drowned her husband's answer; and before he could restore them Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden were announced. The other guests quickly followed, for it was known that the van der Luydens liked to dine punctually. The room was nearly full, and Archer was engaged in showing to Mrs. Selfridge Merry a small highly-varnished Verbeckhoven "Study of Sheep," which Mr. Welland had given May for Christmas, when he found Madame Olenska at his side. She was excessively pale, and her pallor made her dark hair seem denser and heavier than ever. Perhaps that, or the fact that she had wound several rows of amber beads about her neck, reminded him suddenly of the little Ellen Mingott he had danced with at children's parties, when Medora Manson had first brought her to New York. The amber beads were trying to her complexion, or her dress was perhaps unbecoming: her face looked lustreless and almost ugly, and he had never loved it as he did at that minute. Their hands met, and he thought he heard her say: "Yes, we're sailing tomorrow in the Russia--"; then there was an unmeaning noise of opening doors, and after an interval May's voice: "Newland! Dinner's been announced. Won't you please take Ellen in?" Madame Olenska put her hand on his arm, and he noticed that the hand was ungloved, and remembered how he had kept his eyes fixed on it the evening that he had sat with her in the little Twenty-third Street drawing- room. All the beauty that had forsaken her face seemed


staring out at a sky filled with planes all heading in one direction – south, diverted around the floating alien citadels now occupying the sky. To his eye, they were magnificent, more like artistic sculptures than ships, and he found it hard to imagine an intelligence capable of such innovation also being capable of the crimes they were about to commit. Few spoke on the flight, some prayed, but mostly they travelled in stunned silence, having left everything and everyone they knew behind, heading towards a life they couldn’t imagine. Unable to wait for the weather to abate, his plane had battled through extreme winds, buffeted about like a toy, attempting a landing so dangerous it bordered on the absurd. With nothing to lose, the pilots had plunged through fierce katabatic storms, touching down on the plateaus near the South Pole Station while all around planes were flipped over or smashed together. Landing on the ice, the specially designed skis hadn’t snapped, the hull hadn’t ripped apart, testament to the brilliance of the engineers and the extraordinary skill of the pilots, except that no one on board had the time to thank them, confronted with the overwhelming challenges of life on this continent. Inside the plane, shoulder to shoulder with thousands of fellow citizens, the interior serving as a temporary shelter from the elements, no one dared to open the emergency doors. Outside there were refugees dying from the cold, clambering up to the windows, pleading to be let in, freezing to the exterior like barnacles on the hull of a ship. All that remained of some nation states was a single passenger plane with three rows of seats representing the government, one row of seats for the royal family, ten lines of seats for the military and twenty lines of seats for the rest of civil society – an entire country reduced to fewer than forty rows. Days later, when the winds had calmed down, they’d departed, leaving behind the rotten husk of an airplane which no person could tolerate for another minute. Roped together in a procession, stumbling through the darkness, guided by the stars, they’d set up temporary camps, about to embark on one of the most famous expeditions in human history – the walk to the South Pole. The South Pole Station was the nearest base on the East Antarctica Ice Sheet, the largest ice sheet on the planet, three thousand metres thick, two thousand eight hundred metres above sea level – a once pristine desert plain now scorched, scratched and scarred by the Exodus. It was by far the smallest of the Antarctica bases, housing only one hundred and fifty scientists during the summer and fifty during the winter, nowhere near the scale of McMurdo Station over eight hundred miles away. People had continuously occupied the geographic South Pole since November 1956, and during those decades the base had evolved from a small science station to a geodesic dome fifty metres wide, with supply depots and fuel tanks. Separate from the main base building were remote science


you met us socially! I don't go around gratuitously shooting people and then bragging about it afterwards in seedy space-rangers bars, like some cops I could mention! I go around shooting people gratuitously and then I agonize about it afterwards for hours to my girlfriend!" "And I write novels!" chimed in the other cop. "Though I haven't had any of them published yet, so I better warn you, I'm in a meeeean mood!" Ford's eyes popped halfway out of their sockets. "Who are these guys?" he said. "Dunno," said Zaphod, "I think I preferred it when they were shooting." "So are you going to come quietly," shouted one of the cops again, "or are you going to let us blast you out?" "Which would you prefer?" shouted Ford. A millisecond later the air about them started to fry again, as bolt after bolt of Kill-O-Zap hurled itself into the computer bank in front of them. The fusillade continued for several seconds at unbearable intensity. When it stopped, there were a few seconds of near quietness ad the echoes died away. "You still there?" called one of the cops. "Yes," they called back. "We didn't enjoy doing that at all," shouted the other cop. "We could tell," shouted Ford. "Now, listen to this, Beeblebrox, and you better listen good!" "Why?" shouted Back Zaphod. "Because," shouted the cop, "it's going to be very intelligent, and quite interesting and humane! Now either you all give yourselves up now and let us beat you up a bit, though not very much of course because we are firmly opposed to needless violence, or we blow up this entire planet and possibly one or two others we noticed on our way out here!" "But that's crazy!" cried Trillian. "You wouldn't do that!" "Oh yes we would," shouted the cop, "wouldn't we?" he asked the other one. "Oh yes, we'd have to, no question," the other one called back. "But why?" demanded Trillian. "Because there are some things you have to do even if you are an enlightened liberal cop who knows all about sensitivity and everything!" "I just don't believe these guys," muttered Ford, shaking his head. One cop shouted to the other, "Shall we shoot them again for a bit?" "Yeah, why not?" They let fly another electric barrage. The heat and noise was quite fantastic. Slowly, the computer bank was beginning to disintegrate. The front had almost all melted away, and thick rivulets of molten metal were winding their way back towards where they were squatting. They huddled further back and waited for the end. ================================================================= Chapter 33 But the end never came, at least not then. Quite suddenly the barrage stopped, and the sudden silence afterwards was punctuated by a couple of strangled gurgles and thuds. The four stared at each other. "What happened?" said Arthur. "They stopped," said Zaphod with a shrug. "Why?" "Dunno, do you want to go and ask them?" "No." They waited. "Hello?" called out Ford. No answer. "That's odd." "Perhaps it's a trap." "They haven't the wit." "What were those


all round at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes as if they heard her. Then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door and slipped through it under the ivy. She had such red cheeks and such bright eyes and ate such a dinner that Martha was delighted. "Two pieces o' meat an' two helps o' rice puddin'!" she said. "Eh! mother will be pleased when I tell her what th' skippin'-rope's done for thee." In the course of her digging with her pointed stick Mistress Mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion. She had put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it and just now she wondered if Martha could tell her what it was. "Martha," she said, "what are those white roots that look like onions?" "They're bulbs," answered Martha. "Lots o' spring flowers grow from 'em. Th' very little ones are snowdrops an' crocuses an' th' big ones are narcissuses an' jonquils and daffydowndillys. Th' biggest of all is lilies an' purple flags. Eh! they are nice. Dickon's got a whole lot of 'em planted in our bit o' garden." "Does Dickon know all about them?" asked Mary, a new idea taking possession of her. "Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. Mother says he just whispers things out o' th' ground." "Do bulbs live a long time? Would they live years and years if no one helped them?" inquired Mary anxiously. "They're things as helps themselves," said Martha. "That's why poor folk can afford to have 'em. If you don't trouble 'em, most of 'em'll work away underground for a lifetime an' spread out an' have little 'uns. There's a place in th' park woods here where there's snowdrops by thousands. They're the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when th' spring comes. No one knows when they was first planted." "I wish the spring was here now," said Mary. "I want to see all the things that grow in England." She had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the hearth-rug. "I wish--I wish I had a little spade," she said. "Whatever does tha' want a spade for?" asked Martha, laughing. "Art tha' goin' to take to diggin'? I must tell mother that, too." Mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom. She wasn't doing any harm, but if Mr. Craven found out about the open door he would be fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it up forevermore. She really could not bear that. "This is such a big lonely place," she said slowly, as if she were turning matters over in her mind. "The house is lonely, and the park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely. So many places seem shut up. I never did many things in India, but there were more people to look at--natives and soldiers


the moor. I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound to-night." "We heard nothing of the kind," said I. "And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?" "I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over here and broken his neck." "That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" My friend bowed his compliments. "You are quick at identification," said he. "We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came down. You are in time to see a tragedy." "Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with me to-morrow." "Oh, you return to-morrow?" "That is my intention." "I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which have puzzled us?" Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory case." My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned man- ner. Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me. "I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe until morning." And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospi- tality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to return alone. Looking back we saw the figure mov- ing slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered slope which showed where the man was lying who had come so horribly to his end. Chapter 13 Fixing the Nets "We're at close grips at last," said Holmes as we walked together across the moor. "What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled himself together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his plot. I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again, that we have never had a foeman more worthy of our steel." "I am sorry that he has seen you." "And so was I at first. But there was no getting out of it." "What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he knows you are here?" "It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to desperate measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be too confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has completely deceived us." "Why should we not arrest him at once?" "My dear Watson, you were born to


himself. His service to God today had required the sin of murder, and it was a sacrifice Silas knew he would have to hold silently in his heart for all eternity. The measure of your faith is the measure of the pain you can endure, the Teacher had told him. Silas was no stranger to pain and felt eager to prove himself to the Teacher, the one who had assured him his actions were ordained by a higher power. "Hago la obra de Dios," Silas whispered, moving now toward the church entrance. Pausing in the shadow of the massive doorway, he took a deep breath. It was not until this instant that he truly realized what he was about to do, and what awaited him inside. The keystone. It will lead us to our final goal. He raised his ghost-white fist and banged three times on the door. Moments later, the bolts of the enormous wooden portal began to move. 52 CHAPTER 16 Sophie wondered how long it would take Fache to figure out she had not left the building. Seeing that Langdon was clearly overwhelmed, Sophie questioned whether she had done the right thing by cornering him here in the men's room. What else was I supposed to do? She pictured her grandfather's body, naked and spread-eagle on the floor. There was a time when he had meant the world to her, yet tonight, Sophie was surprised to feel almost no sadness for the man. Jacques Saunire was a stranger to her now. Their relationship had evaporated in a single instant one March night when she was twentytwo. Ten years ago. Sophie had come home a few days early from graduate university in England and mistakenly witnessed her grandfather engaged in something Sophie was obviously not supposed to see. It was an image she barely could believe to this day. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes... Too ashamed and stunned to endure her grandfather's pained attempts to explain, Sophie immediately moved out on her own, taking money she had saved, and getting a small flat with some roommates. She vowed never to speak to anyone about what she had seen. Her grandfather tried desperately to reach her, sending cards and letters, begging Sophie to meet him so he could explain. Explain how!? Sophie never responded except once-to forbid him ever to call her or try to meet her in public. She was afraid his explanation would be more terrifying than the incident itself. Incredibly, Saunire had never given up on her, and Sophie now possessed a decade's worth of correspondence unopened in a dresser drawer. To her grandfather's credit, he had never once disobeyed her request and phoned her. Until this afternoon. "Sophie?" His voice had sounded startlingly old on her answering machine. "I have abided by your wishes for so long... and it pains me to call, but I must speak to you. Something terrible has happened." Standing in the kitchen of her Paris flat, Sophie felt a chill to hear him again after all these years.


not know the answer? So you see that you are a child. You have many wives and many children--more children than I have. You are a great man in your clan. But you are still a child, my child. Listen to me and I shall tell you. But there is one more question I shall ask you. Why is it that when a woman dies she is taken home to be buried with her own kinsmen? She is not buried with her husband's kinsmen. Why is that? Your mother was brought home to me and buried with my people. Why was that?" Okonkwo shook his head. "He does not know that either," said Uchendu, "and yet he is full of sorrow because he has come to live in his motherland for a few years." He laughed a mirthless laughter, and turned to his sons and daughters. "What about you? Can you answer my question?" They all shook their heads. "Then listen to me," he said and cleared his throat. "It's true that a child belongs to its father. But when a father beats his child, it seeks sympathy in its mother's hut. A man belongs to his fatherland when things are good and life is sweet. But when there is sorrow and bitterness he finds refuge in his motherland. Your mother is there to protect you. She is buried there. And that is why we say that mother is supreme. Is it right that you, Okonkwo, should bring to your mother a heavy face and refuse to be comforted? Be careful or you may displease the dead. Your duty is to comfort your wives and children and take them back to your fatherland after seven years. But if you allow sorrow to weigh you down and kill you they will all die in exile." He paused for a long while. "These are now your kinsmen." He waved at his sons and daughters. "You think you are the greatest sufferer in the world? Do you know that men are sometimes banished for life? Do you know that men sometimes lose all their yams and even their children? I had six wives once. I have none now except that young girl who knows not her right from her left. Do you know how many children I have buried--children I begot in my youth and strength? Twenty-two. I did not hang myself, and I am still alive. If you think you are the greatest sufferer in the world ask my daughter, Akueni, how many twins she has borne and thrown away. Have you not heard the song they sing when a woman dies? "'For whom is it well, for whom is it well? There is no one for whom it is well.' "I have no more to say to you." CHAPTER FIFTEEN It was in the second year of Okonkwo's exile that his friend, Obierika, came to visit him. He brought with him two young men, each of them carrying a heavy bag on his head. Okonkwo helped them put down their loads. It was


His mind was elsewhere. You’d think the forest would seem smaller, now that I’ve grown, but if anything, it’s bigger because I’m more aware of its darkness. The weather is bitter and gray; the forest is vast and stuffed with ancient trees I can’t identify—trees whose highest leaves I could never reach and whose massive trunks I could never fit my arms around. From here, I can see a rugged path into the undergrowth that’s for hiking, and I know there’s plenty more scattered about. This cabin sits on the south side of the forest and a gift shop and restaurant sit to the north, but between those two spots of civilization there’s nothing but wild and twisty woods that’ll take a hell of a lot of trekking. That tracks. According to my mental itinerary, this week is for learning key survival skills—testing our resilience, our relationship building, maybe our leadership, all while not getting eaten by wolves. (Supposedly, England doesn’t have wolves, but in my opinion, official sources of information are not to be blithely trusted.) Brad and I try to slide into the circle without notice, but the bearded man stops whatever he was saying and pins piercing blue eyes on us. The wind whips his sparse hair upright on his head, and his upper lip wiggles like he’s scenting the air. “Ah,” he says in a tone so pointed it’s basically a health hazard. “These are our latecomers, are they?” Every eye in this circle is burning into my forehead. “You must be Bradley Graeme,” he says, scanning a raggedy-looking bit of paper in his hand (no tablet for our friendly local forest hermit, apparently), “and Celine…Celine Bang…?” Bradley beats me to it. “Bangura,” he says, sounding annoyed. Which, yeah. It’s literally phonetic. “Well.” Beard Guy sniffs. “I’m glad we are all present and accounted for. As I said before, my name is Victor—” Oh, good. Now I have an actual name to use when I mentally rant about how much I dislike him. “—and I’ll be guiding you through this training course. You will be expected to work hard and be punctual.” Another pointed glare from good old Victor. Clearly he is a person of great subtlety. “You will also be expected to do for yourselves; nothing will be spoon-fed. Our first activity, therefore, will be an ice-breaking exercise in two teams of ten.” He counts quickly, reaches a midpoint in the circle, and waves a hand to indicate the group should split in half. We do. It’s all very organized. “Within this sector of the forest are hiding spots that contain training booklets. These booklets will act as your guide to understanding the forest flora and fauna later this week, but first, you have to find them. Your supervisors have maps and compasses to give you. Using these tools only, each team must find their cache. The first to complete their mission wins a welcome party tonight!” There is an audible hum of excitement. Apparently, we are all the competitive type. “The losers,” Victor continues, “will be


was pretty abysmal, wasn’t it,” he says with a soft groan. “Out with it. I can take it.” “It was just . . .” I fumble for the right words. “It didn’t feel personal. Part of it is what you say, and the other is how you say it. Most of it didn’t feel like you were talking directly to me, if that makes sense? You kept saying, ‘Oooh, there it is. Oooh, there it is.’ And it kind of had the same rhythm as—” His mouth drops. “That eighties song? ‘Whoomp! (There It Is)’?” When I’m quiet: “Your face says it all.” “There was also the part where you referred to my vagina as a separate entity,” I say, working to keep my voice down. “And that doesn’t mean someone else wouldn’t enjoy that kind of dirty talk—with the right person, after the right length of time.” “Then teach me,” he says. “Teach me how to dirty talk.” I give him an incredulous look. “Here?” “I can be quiet if you can.” A quirk of his eyebrow. A challenge. The song ends, but before the guy can leave the stage, the audience begs him to do another. Neither one of us moves. Krishanu and Derek appear next to us, jackets and scarves back on. “We’re gonna head out,” Krishanu says, nudging his boyfriend. “This one has swim team practice early tomorrow.” “So great to meet you. Truly.” We all exchange hugs, and Finn promises he’ll be back in town as soon as he can. Thanksgiving, he hopes, if he has enough of a break from the circuit. All of this dulls my libido, but only slightly. I don’t register the song as we start dancing again, Finn steering us farther from the stage to where the bar is less crowded. It might be another Sinatra or it might be Harry Styles—that’s how distracted I am. “Well,” I start, aware of how he’s holding me a little closer than before, his grip on my lower back a little tighter. “As we’ve established, the most important thing is communication. If your partner isn’t into it, you probably want to change things up. Or maybe she won’t be a fan of it at all, and that’s okay, too. You’d talk about that.” “Right.” “A good place to start is building anticipation. Tell her how you’re feeling about her, what you want to do to her.” This is perfectly fine. Clinical, even. Completely safe. “And you can say actual body parts. Get specific. And when in doubt, there are always some choice words that never really fail.” “Which would be . . .” “Hard. Tight. Deep. Wet.” Ironically, my throat goes dry, my face heating up. “And so on. A good ‘fuck’ or ‘fucking’ never hurts, either.” He nods, silently taking all of this in. “So . . .” His thumb brushes along my spine as he drops his voice. “I’m so fucking hard for you? Something that basic?” “Basic, but effective.” And if it really is so basic, I’m not sure why it turns


been wiped off his face. They gazed at each other gravely. “Why?” she asked. “You’d save on the rent. We probably shouldn’t inflict ourselves on other people.” When she didn’t laugh, he sighed. “Well, I don’t know…or…” He’d jotted down a dozen good reasons why that morning when he gazed at her across the dining room table while they had breakfast, but he’d only written them in his mind and now they escaped him. He was as nervous as a kid who got his first callback after an audition and didn’t want to ruin his delivery, but he could not remember a single line in the script he’d written for himself. “You had a near-death experience and your brain is fried,” Montserrat replied simply. “Momo, it’s not that!” “Oh, I hate you,” she whispered, walking again, her long coat whipping past him, her heavy boots crushing a stray can of soda, and then she turned around, furious. “You couldn’t have asked this twenty, even five years ago? When we were young?” “What’s the big deal with being older? Getting close to forty is not a death sentence,” he said. “It’s old enough to be set in your ways and to know better. When we were kids, maybe I would have, maybe I did—” “Jump into the grain, play on the tracks? Make stupid choices involving me?” he asked. It might have been fun to take a chance on each other back then, when they were kids. It would certainly have saved them from a few doses of heartache. But he figured a performer only gets better after doing several shows, and maybe it was the same with affection. It’s honed, not found. She spoke before he could explain himself. “Bones heal a lot better when you’re eighteen. You get to be our age, then you must be careful,” she said, her voice strained, thinking of how they both had a lousy record when it came to human hearts. “We’re not children to be playing house.” He huffed, bruised by her refusal. He hadn’t expected her to swoon, but this felt like a military siege; he’d have to fight tooth and nail for her. But it only emboldened him, made him realize he’d have to dig deep, and he wouldn’t be able to do things in halves. “Call me immature then, because it sounds reasonable to me,” he said, spreading his arms. “It’s twenty years of foreplay, Momo. Do you want to wait a few more decades until I can’t masticate my own food? ’Cause I’ll love you until then and feed you pureed prunes, but it would be a shame to start living together at eighty-nine and die of a heart attack the first time we have sex.” “That is the most disgusting declaration I’ve ever heard,” she said flatly, and then she couldn’t help it, she laughed. Tristán laughed, too, and now he felt stupid, but he supposed that was fine. It was okay to be stupid when it came to Montserrat. “It is, isn’t it?” he said. They hugged. She


before he came to sea and through the clear, sunny atmosphere among the green tree- fell among bad companions. tops, I thought it had sounded airily and sweetly; and the Still Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle effect on my companions was the stranger. in his head, but he had not yet surrendered. “Come,” said Silver, struggling with his ashen lips to get “Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby,” he mut- the word out; “this won’t do. Stand by to go about. This is a tered; “not one but us that’s here.” And then, making a great rum start, and I can’t name the voice, but it’s someone sky- effort: “Shipmates,” he cried, “I’m here to get that stuff, and larking—someone that’s flesh and blood, and you may lay to I’ll not be beat by man or devil. I never was feared of Flint in that.” his life, and, by the powers, I’ll face him dead. There’s seven His courage had come back as he spoke, and some of the hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a mile from here. colour to his face along with it. Already the others had begun When did ever a gentleman o’ fortune show his stern to that to lend an ear to this encouragement and were coming a little much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug—and to themselves, when the same voice broke out again—not this him dead too?” time singing, but in a faint distant hail that echoed yet fainter But there was no sign of reawakening courage in his fol- among the clefts of the Spy-glass. lowers, rather, indeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of “Darby M’Graw,” it wailed—for that is the word that best his words. describes the sound—”Darby M’Graw! Darby M’Graw!” again “Belay there, John!” said Merry. “Don’t you cross a sperrit.” and again and again; and then rising a little higher, and with And the rest were all too terrified to reply. They would an oath that I leave out: “Fetch aft the rum, Darby!” have run away severally had they dared; but fear kept them The buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes together, and kept them close by John, as if his daring helped Contents starting from their heads. Long after the voice had died away them. He, on his part, had pretty well fought his weakness they still stared in silence, dreadfully, before them. down. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 270 271 “Sperrit? Well, maybe,” he said. “But there’s one thing and set forth again, Merry walking first with Silver’s compass not clear to me. There was an echo. Now, no man ever seen a to keep them on the right line with Skeleton Island. He had sperrit with a shadow; well then, what’s he doing with an said the truth: dead or alive, nobody minded Ben Gunn. echo to him, I should like to know? That ain’t in natur’, Dick alone still held his Bible, and looked around him as surely?” he went,


Chinese. I have noticed that people often operate in a gray area with me where they might think I’m Chinese, but don’t want to presume or ask me to clarify. I’m not fooling anyone on purpose. I don’t have a big sign that says WHITE! stamped to my forehead, but shouldn’t the onus be on other people not to presume? Isn’t it racist, in a sense, to assume my race based on my last name? Susan and I don’t speak for the rest of the drive. I wonder what she’s thinking. Her face looks tight, but maybe it always looks that tight; maybe that’s how all middle-aged Asian ladies look. As we pull up to the church—the Chinese American Social Club of Rockville meets Thursday nights at a Presbyterian church, I guess—she asks me if I like Chinese food. “Sure,” I say. “I love it.” “Good.” She kills the engine. “Because that’s what we ordered.” Inside, metal fold-out chairs are arranged in rows before a pastor’s lectern. I’ve drawn a larger crowd than I expected; there are forty, maybe fifty people here. I thought this was just a club, not a whole congregation. A lot of them are carrying signed copies of my book. A few people wave enthusiastically when I walk through the door, and I feel stabs of guilt in my gut. “Up this way.” Susan gestures for me to follow her to the lectern. She adjusts the mic to her height, and I stand awkwardly behind her, surprised that we’re starting so abruptly. I wish someone had offered me a glass of water. “Hello, everyone,” Susan says. The mic screeches; she waits for the feedback to die out before she continues. “Tonight we have a very special guest. Our esteemed speaker has written a beautiful novel about the Chinese Labour Corps, which many of you have read, and she’s here to give us a reading and talk to us about being a writer. Please, everyone join me in welcoming Miss Juniper Song.” She claps politely. The audience follows suit. Susan steps back from the lectern and gestures for me to begin. She’s still smiling that tight, strained smile. “Well, hello.” I clear my throat. Come on, this is nothing. I’ve done a dozen bookstore talks by now; I can get through a simple club meeting. “I guess, well, I’ll start with a reading.” To my surprise, it goes just fine. The audience is tame and quiet, smiling and nodding at all the right moments. A few of them seem confused when I begin to read—they squint and tilt their heads to the side, and I can’t figure out if they’re hard of hearing or if they can’t understand English well, so I slow way down and talk very loudly just in case. It takes me way longer to get through my excerpt as a result, which leaves only twenty minutes for the Q&A, but honestly that’s a relief. Anything to burn time. Though the questions, too, are total softballs. Actually, most of them are quite sweet; they’re the sort


towards the missiles again. The computer started to sing. "When you walk through the storm ..." it whined nasally, "hold your head up high ..." Zaphod screamed at it to shut up, but his voice was lost in the din of what they quite naturally assumed was approaching destruction. "And don't ... be afraid ... of the dark!" Eddie wailed. The ship, in flattening out had in fact flattened out upside down and lying on the ceiling as they were it was now totally impossible for any of the crew to reach the guidance systems. "At the end of the storm ..." crooned Eddie. The two missiles loomed massively on the screens as they thundered towards the ship. "... is a golden sky ..." But by an extraordinarily lucky chance they had not yet fully corrected their flight paths to that of the erratically weaving ship, and they passed right under it. "And the sweet silver songs of the lark ... Revised impact time fifteen seconds fellas ... Walk on through the wind ..." The missiles banked round in a screeching arc and plunged back into pursuit. "This is it," said Arthur watching them. "We are now quite definitely going to die aren't we?" "I wish you'd stop saying that," shouted Ford. "Well we are aren't we?" "Yes." "Walk on through the rain ..." sang Eddie. A thought struck Arthur. He struggled to his feet. "Why doesn't anyone turn on this Improbability Drive thing?" he said. "We could probably reach that." "What are you crazy?" said Zaphod. "Without proper programming anything could happen." "Does that matter at this stage?" shouted Arthur. "Though your dreams be tossed and blown ..." sand Eddie. Arthur scrambled up on to one end of the excitingly chunky pieces of moulded contouring where the curve of the wall met the ceiling. "Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart ..." "Does anyone know why Arthur can't turn on the Improbability Drive?" shouted Trillian. "And you'll never walk alone ... Impact minus five seconds, it's been great knowing you guys, God bless ... You'll ne ... ver ... walk ... alone!" "I said," yelled Trillian, "does anyone know ..." The next thing that happened was a mid-mangling explosion of noise and light. ================================================================= Chapter 18 And the next thing that happened after that was that the Heart of Gold continued on its way perfectly normally with a rather fetchingly redesigned interior. It was somewhat larger, and done out in delicate pastel shades of green and blue. In the centre a spiral staircase, leading nowhere in particular, stood in a spray of ferns and yellow flowers and next to it a stone sundial pedestal housed the main computer terminal. Cunningly deployed lighting and mirrors created the illusion of standing in a conservatory overlooking a wide stretch of exquisitely manicured garden. Around the periphery of the conservatory area stood marble-topped tables on intricately beautiful wrought-iron legs. As you gazed into the polished surface of the marble the vague forms of instruments became visible, and as you touched them the instruments


I had the extraordinary chill of feeling that it was I who was the intruder. It was as a wild protest against it that, actually addressing her--"You terrible, miserable woman!"--I heard myself break into a sound that, by the open door, rang through the long passage and the empty house. She looked at me as if she heard me, but I had recovered myself and cleared the air. There was nothing in the room the next minute but the sunshine and a sense that I must stay. XVI I had so perfectly expected that the return of my pupils would be marked by a demonstration that I was freshly upset at having to take into account that they were dumb about my absence. Instead of gaily denouncing and caressing me, they made no allusion to my having failed them, and I was left, for the time, on perceiving that she too said nothing, to study Mrs. Grose's odd face. I did this to such purpose that I made sure they had in some way bribed her to silence; a silence that, however, I would engage to break down on the first private opportunity. This opportunity came before tea: I secured five minutes with her in the housekeeper's room, where, in the twilight, amid a smell of lately baked bread, but with the place all swept and garnished, I found her sitting in pained placidity before the fire. So I see her still, so I see her best: facing the flame from her straight chair in the dusky, shining room, a large clean image of the "put away"-- of drawers closed and locked and rest without a remedy. "Oh, yes, they asked me to say nothing; and to please them-- so long as they were there--of course I promised. But what had happened to you?" "I only went with you for the walk," I said. "I had then to come back to meet a friend." She showed her surprise. "A friend--YOU?" "Oh, yes, I have a couple!" I laughed. "But did the children give you a reason?" "For not alluding to your leaving us? Yes; they said you would like it better. Do you like it better?" My face had made her rueful. "No, I like it worse!" But after an instant I added: "Did they say why I should like it better?" "No; Master Miles only said, "We must do nothing but what she likes!" "I wish indeed he would. And what did Flora say?" "Miss Flora was too sweet. She said, `Oh, of course, of course!'-- and I said the same." I thought a moment. "You were too sweet, too--I can hear you all. But nonetheless, between Miles and me, it's now all out." "All out?" My companion stared. "But what, miss?" "Everything. It doesn't matter. I've made up my mind. I came home, my dear," I went on, "for a talk with Miss Jessel." I had by this time formed the habit of having Mrs. Grose literally well in hand in advance of my sounding that note; so that even


together!” shouted Merry; and the fore- ously at the line that held me to him and from time to time most broke into a run. turned his eyes upon me with a deadly look. Certainly he And suddenly, not ten yards further, we beheld them stop. took no pains to hide his thoughts, and certainly I read them A low cry arose. Silver doubled his pace, digging away with like print. In the immediate nearness of the gold, all else had the foot of his crutch like one possessed; and next moment he been forgotten: his promise and the doctor’s warning were and I had come also to a dead halt. both things of the past, and I could not doubt that he hoped Before us was a great excavation, not very recent, for the to seize upon the treasure, find and board the HISPANIOLA sides had fallen in and grass had sprouted on the bottom. In under cover of night, cut every honest throat about that is- this were the shaft of a pick broken in two and the boards of Contents land, and sail away as he had at first intended, laden with several packing-cases strewn around. On one of these boards I crimes and riches. saw, branded with a hot iron, the name WALRUS—the name Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 274 275 of Flint’s ship. All was clear to probation. The CACHE had been found and rifled; the seven hundred thousand pounds were gone! Chapter 33. The Fall of a Chieftain. THERE never was such an overturn in this world. Each of these six men was as though he had been struck. But with Silver the blow passed almost instantly. Every thought of his soul had been set full-stretch, like a racer, on that money; well, he was brought up, in a single second, dead; and he kept his head, found his temper, and changed his plan before the others had had time to realize the disappointment. “Jim,” he whispered, “take that, and stand by for trouble.” And he passed me a double-barrelled pistol. At the same time, he began quietly moving northward, Contents and in a few steps had put the hollow between us two and the other five. Then he looked at me and nodded, as much as to say, “Here is a narrow corner,” as, indeed, I thought it was. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 276 277 His looks were not quite friendly, and I was so revolted at the pit between us, and nobody screwed up high enough to these constant changes that I could not forbear whispering, offer the first blow. Silver never moved; he watched them, “So you’ve changed sides again.” very upright on his crutch, and looked as cool as ever I saw There was no time left for him to answer in. The bucca- him. He was brave, and no mistake. neers, with oaths and cries, began to leap, one after another, At last Merry seemed to think a speech might help mat- into the pit and to dig with their


vanity unit, and brush out my tangles. “Anastasia,” Christian calls and I hear his anxiety. “Are you okay?” I ignore him. Am I okay? No, I am not okay. After what he’s done to me, I doubt I’ll be able to wear a swimsuit, let alone one of my ridiculously expensive bikinis, for the rest of our honeymoon. The thought is suddenly so infuriating. How dare he? I’ll give him are you okay. I seethe as fury spikes through me. I can behave like an adolescent, too! Stepping back into the bedroom, I hurl the hairbrush at him, turn, and leave—though not before I see his shocked expression and his lightning reaction as he raises his arm to protect his head so that the brush bounces ineffectively off his forearm and onto the bed. I storm out of our cabin, bolt upstairs and out on deck, fleeing toward the bow. I need some space to calm down. It’s dark and the air is balmy. The warm breeze carries the smell of the Mediterranean and the scent of jasmine and bou- gainvillea from the shore. The Fair Lady glides effortlessly through the calm co-balt sea as I rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the distant shore where tiny lights wink and twinkle. I take a deep, healing breath and slowly begin to calm. I’m aware of him behind me before I hear him. “You’re mad at me,” he whispers. “No shit, Sherlock!” “How mad?” “Scale of one to ten, I think I’m at fifty. Apt, huh?” “That mad.” He sounds surprised and impressed at once. “Yes. Pushed to violence mad,” I say through gritted teeth. 47/551 He stays silent as I turn and scowl at him, watching me with wide and wary eyes. I know from his expression and because he’s made no move to touch me that he’s out of his depth. “Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall.” He shrugs minutely. “Well, you won’t take your top off again,” he murmurs petulantly. And this justifies what he’s done to me? I glare at him. “I don’t like you leav- ing marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It’s a hard limit!” I hiss at him. “I don’t like you taking your clothes off in public. That’s a hard limit for me,” he growls. “I think we’ve established that,” I hiss through my teeth. “Look at me!” I pull down my camisole to reveal the top of my breasts. Christian gazes at me, his eyes not leaving my face his expression wary and uncertain. He’s not used to seeing me this mad. Can’t he see what he’s done? Can’t he see how ridiculous he is? I want to shout at him, but I refrain—I don’t want to push him too far. Heaven knows what he’d do. Eventually, he sighs and holds his palms up in a resigned, conciliatory gesture. “Okay,” he says his voice placating. “I get it.” Hallelujah! “Good!” He


I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING TO SEE I’VE LOST A THOUSAND FOLLOWERS. The metric is still dropping; nines turning to eights before my eyes. This time, I don’t have to search my name to track the conversation. It’s right there, all over my timeline and in my mentions. I fucking knew it about Juniper Song. June Hayward strikes again! Does this bitch never stop? Wake up publishing, the White Witch is back. Last time, I’d kept my social media accounts active—partly so that I could stay tuned to what was being said, and partly because I feared deactivation would be an admission of guilt. This time, my guilt is a foregone conclusion—all I can hope for now is damage control, by which I mean managing threats to my personal safety. I delete my Twitter account. I set my Instagram to private. I turn off notifications from my publicly available email address. Certainly I’m getting death threats, but at least this way I won’t know about them the second they arrive. Someone edits my Wikipedia page to read: “Juniper Song Hayward is a ‘novelist,’ serial plagiarizer, and flaming racist.” That particular line is gone within an hour—Wikipedia has minimal civility requirements, I suppose—but the “Plagiarism” section of my biography remains as follows: “In March 2020, literary critic Adele Sparks-Sato published an essay alleging that the first paragraph of Hayward’s novella, Mother Witch, is a word-for-word copy of the first paragraph of Her, an unpublished story by late novelist Athena Liu. This allegation compounds long-running suspicions that Hayward also stole The Last Front from Liu, though there remains no conclusive proof this is true. Hayward’s editor, Daniella Woodhouse, has released a brief statement claiming Eden Press is aware of these allegations and is looking into the matter.” My phone rings six times that day—all calls from Brett. I don’t pick up. I will eventually, when I trust myself to hear I’ve been fired without breaking into sobs. For now, I take a kind of perverse pleasure in watching everything fall apart. Over the next week, all of my publishing relationships disintegrate. I’m asked to leave two professional Facebook groups and three Slacks I’ve joined in the past year. My so-called writer friends ghost me without exception, even the ones who professed a few months ago to be on my side against the mob. I have no one to turn to but Eden’s Angels. Oh god, I text. It’s happening again. When no one responds—which is atypical; Jen is addicted to her phone—I follow up a few hours later with, I’m having a really hard time right now, is anyone possibly available to talk? They ignore me for three days. Finally Marnie writes: Hi, Junie. Sorry; have been so busy these last few days. Moving house. Jen never responds at all. I’m supposed to have my monthly mentee check-in session with Emmy Cho on Friday. On Thursday afternoon, I receive an email from the mentor program coordinator: Hi Juniper, Emmy doesn’t think that continuing with your mentor relationship is a good idea, and has


that the handcuffs were not for me, and that the military had so far got the better of the pie as to put it in the background, I collected a little more of my scattered wits. "Would you give me the Time?" said the sergeant, addressing himself to Mr. Pumblechook, as to a man whose appreciative powers justified the inference that he was equal to the time. "It's just gone half-past two." "That's not so bad," said the sergeant, reflecting; "even if I was forced to halt here nigh two hours, that'll do. How far might you call yourselves from the marshes, hereabouts? Not above a mile, I reckon?" "Just a mile," said Mrs. Joe. "That'll do. We begin to close in upon 'em about dusk. A little before dusk, my orders are. That'll do." "Convicts, sergeant?" asked Mr. Wopsle, in a matter-of-course way. "Ay!" returned the sergeant, "two. They're pretty well known to be out on the marshes still, and they won't try to get clear of 'em before dusk. Anybody here seen anything of any such game?" Everybody, myself excepted, said no, with confidence. Nobody thought of me. "Well!" said the sergeant, "they'll find themselves trapped in a circle, I expect, sooner than they count on. Now, blacksmith! If you're ready, his Majesty the King is." Joe had got his coat and waistcoat and cravat off, and his leather apron on, and passed into the forge. One of the soldiers opened its wooden windows, another lighted the fire, another turned to at the bellows, the rest stood round the blaze, which was soon roaring. Then Joe began to hammer and clink, hammer and clink, and we all looked on. The interest of the impending pursuit not only absorbed the general attention, but even made my sister liberal. She drew a pitcher of beer from the cask, for the soldiers, and invited the sergeant to take a glass of brandy. But Mr. Pumblechook said, sharply, "Give him wine, Mum. I'll engage there's no Tar in that:" so, the sergeant thanked him and said that as he preferred his drink without tar, he would take wine, if it was equally convenient. When it was given him, he drank his Majesty's health and Compliments of the Season, and took it all at a mouthful and smacked his lips. "Good stuff, eh, sergeant?" said Mr. Pumblechook. "I'll tell you something," returned the sergeant; "I suspect that stuff's of your providing." Mr. Pumblechook, with a fat sort of laugh, said, "Ay, ay? Why?" "Because," returned the sergeant, clapping him on the shoulder, "you're a man that knows what's what." "D'ye think so?" said Mr. Pumblechook, with his former laugh. "Have another glass!" "With you. Hob and nob," returned the sergeant. "The top of mine to the foot of yours - the foot of yours to the top of mine - Ring once, ring twice - the best tune on the Musical Glasses! Your health. May you live a thousand years, and never be a worse judge of the right sort than you are at the


whiskey and the excitement, I reckon. I never used a weepon in my life before, Joe. I've fought, but never with weepons. They'll all say that. Joe, don't tell! Say you won't tell, Joe -- that's a good feller. I always liked you, Joe, and stood up for you, too. Don't you remember? You won't tell, will you, Joe?" And the poor creature dropped on his knees before the stolid murderer, and clasped his appealing hands. "No, you've always been fair and square with me, Muff Potter, and I won't go back on you. There, now, that's as fair as a man can say." "Oh, Joe, you're an angel. I'll bless you for this the longest day I live." And Potter began to cry. "Come, now, that's enough of that. This ain't any time for blubbering. You be off yonder way and I'll go this. Move, now, and don't leave any tracks behind you." Potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a run. The half-breed stood looking after him. He muttered: "If he's as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the rum as he had the look of being, he --------------------------------------------------------- -108- won't think of the knife till he's gone so far he'll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by himself -- chicken-heart!" Two or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse, the lidless coffin, and the open grave were under no inspection but the moon's. The stillness was complete again, too. --------------------------------------------------------- -109- Chapter X THE two boys flew on and on, toward the village, speechless with horror. They glanced backward over their shoulders from time to time, apprehensively, as if they feared they might be followed. Every stump that started up in their path seemed a man and an enemy, and made them catch their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet. "If we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!" whispered Tom, in short catches between breaths. "I can't stand it much longer." Huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it. They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered: "Huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of this?" "If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging'll come of it." "Do you though?" "Why, I know it, Tom." Tom thought a while, then he said: "Who'll tell? We?" "What are you talking about? S'pose something happened and Injun Joe didn't hang? Why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're a laying here." "That's just what I was thinking to myself, Huck." "If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he's fool enough.


the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you look at their gray stone huts against the scarred hillsides you leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you wouid feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced to accept that which none other would occupy. All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind. I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore, return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville. If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because up to to-day there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due course. But, first of all, I must keep you in touch with some of the other factors in the situation. One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that he has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the lonely householders of this district. A fortnight has passed since his flight, during which he has not been seen and nothing has been heard of him. It is surely inconceivable that he could have held out upon the moor during all that time. Of course, so far as his concealment goes there is no difficulty at all. Any one of these stone huts would give him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat unless he were to catch and slaughter one of the moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better in consequence. We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could take good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy moments when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help. There are one maid, an old manser- vant, the sister, and the brother, the latter not a very strong man. They would be helpless in the hands of a desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal if he could once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry and I were concerned at their situation, and it was suggested that Perkins the groom should go over to sleep there, but Stapleton would not hear of it. The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It


is attractive, seriously attractive. I’ve re- membered her well. She glances up and freezes, pinning me with intelligent, discerning eyes—the bluest of blue that seem to see right through me. It’s as unnerving as the first time I met her. She just stares, shocked I think, and I don’t know if this is a good re- sponse or a bad response. “Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.” “Mr. Grey,” she whispers, breathy and flustered. Ah . . . a good response. “I was in the area. I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele.” A real pleasure. She’s dressed in tight T-shirt and jeans, not the shapeless shit she was wearing earlier this week. She’s all long legs, small waist, and perfect tits. She continues to gape, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and tip her chin up to close her mouth. I’ve flown from Seattle just to see you, and the way you look right now, it was worth the journey. “Ana. My name’s Ana. What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?” She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders like she did in the interview, and gives me a fake smile that I’m sure she reserves for customers. Game on, Miss Steele. “There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties.” Her lips part as she inhales sharply. You’d be amazed what I can do with a few cable ties, Miss Steele. “We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” “Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele.” She steps out from behind the counter and gestures toward one of the aisles. She’s wearing chucks. Idly I wonder what she’d look like in skyscraper heels. Laboutins . . . nothing but Laboutins. “They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” Her voice wavers and she blushes . . . again. She is affected by me. Hope blooms in my chest. Not gay then. I smirk. “After you,” I murmur, holding my hand out for her to lead the way. Letting her walk ahead gives me the space and time to admire her fantastic ass. She really is the whole package: sweet, polite, and beautiful with all the physical attributes I value in a submissive. But the million-dollar question is, could she be a 545/551 submissive? She probably knows nothing of the lifestyle—my lifestyle—but I very much want to introduce her to it. You are getting way ahead of yourself on this deal, Grey. “Are you in Portland on business?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her voice is high, trying to feign disinterest. It makes me want to laugh, which is re- freshing. Women rarely make me laugh. “I was visiting the WSU farming division based in Vancouver.” I lie. Actu- ally I’m here to see you, Miss Steele. She flushes, and I feel like a shit. “I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science.” That, at least, is true. “All part of your feed-the-world plan?” Her lips


I wouldn’t be able to do this in a normal training area. The normal

areas, like Salisbury Plain, were too out in the open. Someone would see

me, and tip off the press, and my cover would be blown; I’d be back where I

started. Instead, Colonel Ed and I decided that I should learn the controls

somewhere remote...somewhere like...

Sandringham.

We both smiled when the thought occurred. Then laughed.

The last place anyone would think of Prince Harry getting himself

combat ready. Granny’s country estate.

I got a room at a small hotel near Sandringham—Knights Hill. ’'d known

the place all my life, driven past it a million times. Whenever we visited

Granny at Christmas, our bodyguards would sleep there. Standard room:

hundred quid.

In summers, Knights Hill tended to be full of bird-watchers, wedding

parties. But now, in the autumn, it was empty.

The privacy was thrilling, and would’ve been total, if not for the older

lady in the pub connected to the hotel. She watched me, goggle-eyed, every

time I passed.

Alone, almost anonymous, my existence narrowed to one interesting task,

I was delirious. I tried not to say so to Chelsy when I phoned her in the

evenings, but it was the kind of happiness that’s hard to hide.

I recall one difficult chat. What were we doing? Where were we heading?

She knew I cared about her. But she felt unseen. / am not visual.

She knew how desperate I was to go to war. How could she not forgive

my being a bit detached? I was taken aback.

I explained that this was what I needed to do, the thing I’d wanted to do

all my life, and I needed to do it with all my heart and soul. If that meant

there was less heart and soul left over for anything or anyone else, well...I

was SOITY.

7.

P A KNEW I was living at Knights Hill, knew what I was up to. And he was

just down the road at Sandringham on an extended visit.


May sat without moving or speaking while the clock slowly measured out five minutes. A lump of coal fell forward in the grate, and hearing her rise to push it back, Archer at length turned and faced her. "It's impossible," he exclaimed. "Impossible--?" "How do you know--what you've just told me?" "I saw Ellen yesterday--I told you I'd seen her at Granny's." "It wasn't then that she told you?" "No; I had a note from her this afternoon.--Do you want to see it?" He could not find his voice, and she went out of the room, and came back almost immediately. "I thought you knew," she said simply. She laid a sheet of paper on the table, and Archer put out his hand and took it up. The letter contained only a few lines. "May dear, I have at last made Granny understand that my visit to her could be no more than a visit; and she has been as kind and generous as ever. She sees now that if I return to Europe I must live by myself, or rather with poor Aunt Medora, who is coming with me. I am hurrying back to Washington to pack up, and we sail next week. You must be very good to Granny when I'm gone--as good as you've always been to me. Ellen. "If any of my friends wish to urge me to change my mind, please tell them it would be utterly useless." Archer read the letter over two or three times; then he flung it down and burst out laughing. The sound of his laugh startled him. It recalled Janey's midnight fright when she had caught him rocking with incomprehensible mirth over May's telegram announcing that the date of their marriage had been advanced. "Why did she write this?" he asked, checking his laugh with a supreme effort. May met the question with her unshaken candour. "I suppose because we talked things over yesterday--" "What things?" "I told her I was afraid I hadn't been fair to her-- hadn't always understood how hard it must have been for her here, alone among so many people who were relations and yet strangers; who felt the right to criticise, and yet didn't always know the circumstances." She paused. "I knew you'd been the one friend she could always count on; and I wanted her to know that you and I were the same--in all our feelings." She hesitated, as if waiting for him to speak, and then added slowly: "She understood my wishing to tell her this. I think she understands everything." She went up to Archer, and taking one of his cold hands pressed it quickly against her cheek. "My head aches too; good-night, dear," she said, and turned to the door, her torn and muddy wedding- dress dragging after her across the room. XXXIII. It was, as Mrs. Archer smilingly said to Mrs. Welland, a great event for a young couple to give their first big dinner. The Newland Archers, since they had set up their household, had received a good