to and fro, till, I think, the said Sam's calves must have ached with the exercise, permission was at last, with great difficulty, extorted from the rigorous sibyl for the three to wait upon her in a body.     "Their visit was not so still as Miss Ingram's had been; we heard hysterical giggling and little shrieks proceeding from the library; and at the end of about twenty minutes they burst the door open, and came running across the hall, as if they were half-scared out of their wits.     "I'm sure she is something not right?" they cried, one and all."She told us such things! She knows all about us;" and they sank breathless into the various seats the gentlemen hastened to bring them.     Pressed for further explanation, they declared she had told them of things they had said and done when they were mere children; described books and ornaments they had in their boudoirs at home; keepsakes that different relations had presented to them. They affirmed that she had even divined their thoughts, and had whispered in the ear of each the name of the person she liked best in the world, and informed them of what they most wished for.     Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to be further enlightened on these two last-named points; but they got only blushes, ejaculations, tremors and titters, in return for their importunity. The matrons meantime offered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and again and again reiterated the expression of their concern that their warning had not been taken in time; the elder gentlemen laughed, and the younger urged their services on the agitated fair ones.     In the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears were fully engaged in the scene before me, I heard a hem close at my elbow: I turned, and saw Sam.     "If you please, miss, the gipsy declares that there is another young single lady in the room who has not been to her yet, and she swears she will not go till she has seen all. I thought it must be you; there is no one else for it. What shall I tell her?"     "Oh, I will go by all means," I answered; and I was glad of the unexpected opportunity to gratify my much-excited curiosity. I slipped out of the room, unobserved by any eye for the company were gathered in one mass about the trembling trio just returned and I closed the door quietly behind me.     "If you like, miss," said Sam, "I'll wait in the hall for you; and if she frightens you, just call me, and I'll come in."     "No, Sam, return to the kitchen; I am not in the least afraid." Nor was I; but I was a good deal interested and excited.       |Go to Contents |


well with the world." Montag perspired. "Montag, you listening?" "My feet," said Montag. "I can't move them. I feel so damn silly. My feet won't move!" "Listen. Easy now," said the old man gently. "I know, I know. You're afraid of making mistakes. Don't be. Mistakes can be profited by. Man, when I was young I shoved my ignorance in people's faces. They beat me with sticks. By the time I was forty my blunt instrument had been honed to a fine cutting point for me. If you hide your ignorance, no one will hit you and you'll never learn. Now, pick up your feet, into the firehouse with you! We're twins, we're not alone any more, we're not separated out in different parlours, with no contact between. If you need help when Beatty pries at you, I'll be sitting right here in your eardrum making notes!" Montag felt his right foot, then his left foot, move. "Old man," he said, "stay with me." The Mechanical Hound was gone. Its kennel was empty and the firehouse stood all about in plaster silence and the orange Salamander slept with its kerosene in its belly and the firethrowers crossed upon its flanks and Montag came in through the silence and touched the brass pole and slid up in the dark air, looking back at the deserted kennel, his heart beating, pausing, beating. Faber was a grey moth asleep in his ear, for the moment. Beatty stood near the drop-hole waiting, but with his back turned as if he were not waiting. "Well," he said to the men playing cards, "here comes a very strange beast which in all tongues is called a fool." He put his hand to one side, palm up, for a gift. Montag put the book in it. Without even glancing at the title, Beatty tossed the book into the trash-basket and lit a cigarette. "`Who are a little wise, the best fools be.' Welcome back, Montag. I hope you'll be staying, with us, now that your fever is done and your sickness over. Sit in for a hand of poker?" They sat and the cards were dealt. In Beatty's sight, Montag felt the guilt of his hands. His fingers were like ferrets that had done some evil and now never rested, always stirred and picked and hid in pockets, moving from under Beatty's alcohol-flame stare. If Beatty so much as breathed on them, Montag felt that his hands might wither, turn over on their sides, and never be shocked to life again; they would be buried the rest of his life in his coat-sleeves, forgotten. For these were the hands that had acted on their own, no part of him, here was where the conscience first manifested itself to snatch books, dart off with job and Ruth and Willie Shakespeare, and now, in the firehouse, these hands seemed gloved with blood. Twice in half an hour, Montag had to rise from the game and go to the latrine to wash his hands. When he came back he hid his hands


simplicity of its composition, two constituent parts of hydrogen with one constituent part of oxygen: its healing virtues: its buoyancy in the waters of the Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness in runnels, gullies, inadequate dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for cleansing, quenching thirst and fire, nourishing vegetation: its infallibility as paradigm and paragon: its metamorphoses as vapour, mist, cloud, rain, sleet, snow, hail: its strength in rigid hydrants: its variety of forms in loughs and bays and gulfs and bights and guts and lagoons and atolls and archipelagos and sounds and fjords and minches and tidal estuaries and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers, icebergs, icefloes: its docility in working hydraulic millwheels, turbines, dynamos, electric power stations, bleachworks, tanneries, scutchmills: its utility in canals, rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its potentiality derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling from level to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic, photophobe), numerically, if not literally, the inhabitants of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90 percent of the human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine marshes, pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning moon. Having set the halffilled kettle on the now burning coals, why did he return to the stillflowing tap? To wash his soiled hands with a partially consumed tablet of Barrington's lemonflavoured soap, to which paper still adhered, (bought thirteen hours previously for fourpence and still unpaid for), in fresh cold neverchanging everchanging water and dry them, face and hands, in a long redbordered holland cloth passed over a wooden revolving roller. What reason did Stephen give for declining Bloom's offer? That he was hydrophobe, hating partial contact by immersion or total by submersion in cold water, (his last bath having taken place in the month of October of the preceding year), disliking the aqueous substances of glass and crystal, distrusting aquacities of thought and language. What impeded Bloom from giving Stephen counsels of hygiene and prophylactic to which should be added suggestions concerning a preliminary wetting of the head and contraction of the muscles with rapid splashing of the face and neck and thoracic and epigastric region in case of sea or river bathing, the parts of the human anatomy most sensitive to cold being the nape, stomach and thenar or sole of foot? The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius. What additional didactic counsels did he similarly repress? Dietary: concerning the respective percentage of protein and caloric energy in bacon, salt ling and butter, the absence of the former in the lastnamed and the abundance of the latter in the firstnamed. Which seemed to the host to be the predominant qualities of his guest? Confidence in himself, an equal and opposite power of abandonment and recuperation. What concomitant phenomenon took place in the vessel of liquid by the agency of fire? The phenomenon of ebullition. Fanned by a constant updraught of ventilation between the kitchen and the chimneyflue, ignition was communicated from the faggots of precombustible fuel to polyhedral masses of bituminous coal, containing in compressed mineral form


house so that you may not be hurt. Our anger is great but we have held it down so that we can talk to you." Mr. Smith said to his interpreter: "Tell them to go away from here. This is the house of God and I will not live to see it desecrated." Okeke interpreted wisely to the spirits and leaders of Umuofia: "The white man says he is happy you have come to him with your grievances, like friends. He will be happy if you leave the matter in his hands." "We cannot leave the matter in his hands because he does not understand our customs, just as we do not understand his. We say he is foolish because he does not know our ways, and perhaps he says we are foolish because we do not know his. Let him go away." Mr. Smith stood his ground. But he could not save his church. When the egwugwu went away the red-earth church which Mr. Brown had built was a pile of earth and ashes. And for the moment the spirit of the clan was pacified. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE For the first time in many years Okonkwo had a feeling that was akin to happiness. The times which had altered so unaccountably during his exile seemed to be coming round again. The clan which had turned false on him appeared to be making amends. He had spoken violently to his clansmen when they had met in the marketplace to decide on their action. And they had listened to him with respect. It was like the good old days again, when a warrior was a warrior. Although they had not agreed to kill the missionary or drive away the Christians, they had agreed to do something substantial. And they had done it. Okonkwo was almost happy again. For two days after the destruction of the church, nothing happened. Every man in Umuofia went about armed with a gun or a machete. They would not be caught unawares, like the men of Abame. Then the District Commissioner returned from his tour. Mr. Smith went immediately to him and they had a long discussion. The men of Umuofia did not take any notice of this, and if they did, they thought it was not important. The missionary often went to see his brother white man. There was nothing strange in that. Three days later the District Commissioner sent his sweet-tongued messenger to the leaders of Umuofia asking them to meet him in his headquarters. That also was not strange. He often asked them to hold such palavers, as he called them. Okonkwo was among the six leaders he invited. Okonkwo warned the others to be fully armed. "An Umuofia man does not refuse a call," he said. "He may refuse to do what he is asked, he does not refuse to be asked. But the times have changed, and we must be fully prepared." And so the six men went to see the District Commissioner, armed with their machetes. They did not carry guns, for that


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

haven’t posted anything in years. “What?” He gives an exasperated sigh and swipes through his phone again before setting it on the table in front of me. “There.” I scan around, trying to orient myself. “What am I looking at?” “It’s Twitter.” A finger comes down, pointing at a cluster of letters. “What does that hashtag say?” “It says…” It takes me a minute to read because the words are all smushed together, no spaces. “ ‘Daddy Prince The True Love Experiment’?” I look up at him. “Who’s Daddy Prince?” “You are. That’s what the True Love fandom calls you.” “The—fandom—?” I break off, confusion deepening. “Daddy Prince?” “Twitter blows up when confessionals start.” “I’m not even on-screen that much. There are more successful, better-looking, and frankly more agreeable men for them to get excited about.” “Can’t argue with that,” he says with a grin. “But they’re writing you in anyway. Apparently, Daddy Prince, they love your deep voice and your sexy accent, and the way you and Fizzy banter.” He glances up at the sound of my stifled mortification. “Oh, come on, stop looking so horrified. ‘Daddy Prince’ is pretty tame compared to some of the other stuff here.” As he continues to scroll, his grin turns into a frown and he muses, “I didn’t realize ‘choke me’ was such a common phrase.” I ignore this. “What does that mean, ‘write in’? Can’t they only vote for the contestants?” “You wouldn’t know this because you’re a social media troglodyte, but no. The way your team has set it up, if the show is tagged, a tracking program considers it a vote and keeps a tally. It could be ‘#GiantAnacondaCock_TheTrueLoveExperiment’ and Giant Anaconda Cock gets a vote.” I stare at Ash. “What?” “Don’t worry. Most people use it the way you intended. They hashtag Colby or Isaac or whoever. It’s quite smart, really; lots of the big music award shows do it. I think the Oscars even started doing it for fan favorite and favorite movie moment. It’s a great way to get engagement because the tags are visible to everyone, you can tweet—aka vote—as many times as you want, which means tweeting and retweeting puts it in everyone’s feed. You can’t buy exposure like that. It’s all there on your pocket computer if you care to look.” This entire conversation has thrown me off-kilter now that it’s sinking in what Ash is telling me. Viewers are voting for me? Blaine doesn’t know as much as he’d like everyone to believe, and I have to assume that if he did know something about this—or, worse, about me and Fizzy—he would have mentioned it, right? Either way, I’ll need to be very, very careful over the next few weeks. “Of course, there are people writing in all kinds of names,” Ash says. “Lots of Your Mom and other random things. I think Captain America had a pretty decent number one week.” “Great,” I say dryly. “A flawless system.” “There will always be idiots,” Ash says, dismissing this as he pushes his plate aside


for it was his first snow. Chapter II The Law of Club and Fang Buck's first day on the Dyea beach was like a nightmare. Every hour was filled with shock and surprise. He had been suddenly jerked from the heart of civilization and flung into the heart of things primordial. No lazy, sun-kissed life was this, with nothing to do but loaf and be bored. Here was neither peace, nor rest, nor a moment's safety. All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang. He had never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures fought, and his first experience taught him an unforgetable lesson. It is true, it was a vicarious experience, else he would not have lived to profit by it. Curly was the victim. They were camped near the log store, where she, in her friendly way, made advances to a husky dog the size of a full-grown wolf, though not half so large as she. There was no warning, only a leap in like a flash, a metallic clip of teeth, a leap out equally swift, and Curly's face was ripped open from eye to jaw. It was the wolf manner of fighting, to strike and leap away; but there was more to it than this. Thirty or forty huskies ran to the spot and surrounded the combatants in an intent and silent circle. Buck did not comprehend that silent intentness, nor the eager way with which they were licking their chops. Curly rushed her antagonist, who struck again and leaped aside. He met her next rush with his chest, in a peculiar fashion that tumbled her off her feet. She never regained them, This was what the onlooking huskies had waited for. They closed in upon her, snarling and yelping, and she was buried, screaming with agony, beneath the bristling mass of bodies. So sudden was it, and so unexpected, that Buck was taken aback. He saw Spitz run out his scarlet tongue in a way he had of laughing; and he saw Francois, swinging an axe, spring into the mess of dogs. Three men with clubs were helping him to scatter them. It did not take long. Two minutes from the time Curly went down, the last of her assailants were clubbed off. But she lay there limp and lifeless in the bloody, trampled snow, almost literally torn to pieces, the swart half-breed standing over her and cursing horribly. The scene often came back to Buck to trouble him in his sleep. So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you. Well, he would see to it that he never went down. Spitz ran out his tongue and laughed again, and from that moment Buck hated him with a bitter and deathless hatred. Before he had recovered from


little mark," he said, "is many times larger upon this map than your cabin is upon the earth. Do you see now how very far it is?" Tarzan thought for a long time. "Do any white men live in Africa?" he asked. "Yes." "Where are the nearest?" Chapter 25 140 D'Arnot pointed out a spot on the shore just north of them. "So close?" asked Tarzan, in surprise. "Yes," said D'Arnot; "but it is not close." "Have they big boats to cross the ocean?" "Yes." "We shall go there to-morrow," announced Tarzan. Again D'Arnot smiled and shook his head. "It is too far. We should die long before we reached them." "Do you wish to stay here then forever?" asked Tarzan. "No," said D'Arnot. "Then we shall start to-morrow. I do not like it here longer. I should rather die than remain here." "Well," answered D'Arnot, with a shrug, "I do not know, my friend, but that I also would rather die than remain here. If you go, I shall go with you." "It is settled then," said Tarzan. "I shall start for America to-morrow." "How will you get to America without money?" asked D'Arnot. "What is money?" inquired Tarzan. It took a long time to make him understand even imperfectly. "How do men get money?" he asked at last. "They work for it." "Very well. I will work for it, then." "No, my friend," returned D'Arnot, "you need not worry about money, nor need you work for it. I have enough money for two--enough for twenty. Much more than is good for one man and you shall have all you need if ever we reach civilization." So on the following day they started north along the shore. Each man carrying a rifle and ammunition, beside bedding and some food and cooking utensils. The latter seemed to Tarzan a most useless encumbrance, so he threw his away. "But you must learn to eat cooked food, my friend," remonstrated D'Arnot. "No civilized men eat raw flesh." "There will be time enough when I reach civilization," said Tarzan. "I do not like the things and they only spoil the taste of good meat." Chapter 25 141 For a month they traveled north. Sometimes finding food in plenty and again going hungry for days. They saw no signs of natives nor were they molested by wild beasts. Their journey was a miracle of ease. Tarzan asked questions and learned rapidly. D'Arnot taught him many of the refinements of civilization--even to the use of knife and fork; but sometimes Tarzan would drop them in disgust and grasp his food in his strong brown hands, tearing it with his molars like a wild beast. Then D'Arnot would expostulate with him, saying: "You must not eat like a brute, Tarzan, while I am trying to make a gentleman of you. MON DIEU! Gentlemen do not thus--it is terrible." Tarzan would grin sheepishly and pick up his knife and fork again, but at heart he hated them. On the journey he told D'Arnot about the great chest he had


a foot from the place he had been given on the bench, and Jon had gotten a good long look at them all. His lord father had come first, escorting the queen. She was as beautiful as men said. A jeweled tiara gleamed amidst her long golden hair, its emeralds a perfect match for the green of her eyes. His father helped her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat, but the queen never so much as looked at him. Even at fourteen, Jon could see through her smile. Next had come King Robert himself, with Lady Stark on his arm. The king was a great disappointment to Jon. His father had talked of him often: the peerless Robert Baratheon, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior of the realm, a giant among princes. Jon saw only a fat man, red-faced under his beard, sweating through his silks. He walked like a man half in his cups. After them came the children. Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the dignity a three-year-old could muster. Jon had to urge him on when he stopped to visit. Close behind came Robb, in grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors. He had the Princess Myrcella on his arm. She was a wisp of a girl, not quite eight, her hair a cascade of golden curls under a jeweled net. Jon noticed the shy looks she gave Robb as they passed between the tables and the timid way she smiled at him. He decided she was insipid. Robb didn't even have the sense to realize how stupid she was; he was grinning like a fool. His half sisters escorted the royal princes. Arya was paired with plump young Tommen, whose white-blond hair was longer than hers. Sansa, two years older, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either, to Jon's vast dismay. Prince Joffrey had his sister's hair and his mother's deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey's pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell's Great Hall. He was more interested in the pair that came behind him: the queen's brothers, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. The Lion and the Imp; there was no mistaking which was which. Ser Jaime Lannister was A GAME OF THRONES 45 twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered "Kingslayer" behind his back. Jon found it hard to look away from him. This is what a king should look like, he thought to himself as the man passed.


literally biting into a strawberry.” Then: “‘She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.’ Really?” By the end of it I’ve convinced most of the class that Skylar’s story is horrible—whether they agree, or whether they’re scared of invoking my ire, I don’t care. We’ve picked her voice and style to shreds. Her metaphors are unoriginal, her dialogue is wooden (at one point I even make Johnson and Celeste act out a scene, just to highlight how cringey it sounds out loud), her plot twists are all borrowed from readily recognizable pop-culture sources, and she overuses her em dashes and semicolons to the extreme. By the end of our session, Skylar is close to tears. She has stopped nodding, frowning, or reacting to any bits of criticism whatsoever. She merely stares out the window, lower lip trembling, fingers twisting the top page of her notebook into tiny pieces. I’ve won. It’s a pathetic victory, sure, but it’s better than sitting here and suffering their mocking glares. That hot, vicious satisfaction stays with me through the rest of the morning. I conclude the critique circle, assign homework, and watch them flee wordlessly out the door. I’ve only made things worse, I know. Now I’ll have to sit before their resentful, condescending faces for another week and a half. I’m sure that, behind the scenes, they’ll bitch about me endlessly until this workshop is over. I’m sure they’ll join the chorus of Juniper Song haters online. But I’ve at least made myself into a terror rather than a punch line, and for now, I’m all right with that. Once they’ve left the classroom, I pull out my phone and Google “Candice Lee Juniper Song Athena Liu.” Johnson’s words have been stuck in my mind all morning: There’s a quote from a former editorial assistant at Eden; she says it always felt fishy. My breath quickens with fear as the results load. What does Candice have on me? But the relevant article—another tiresome Adele Sparks-Sato hit piece—contains nothing new. Candice offers no damning evidence, no new shreds of proof that haven’t been overanalyzed to bits by the internet already. Just a vague quote that means nothing much at all. I close the article and scroll through her social media accounts. Candice’s Instagram is private; her Twitter has been inactive since last March. Her LinkedIn, however, announces she’s recently taken on a new job as an editorial assistant at a small press based in Oregon. My fear dissipates. No new developments, then. My line of careful deniability still holds, and Candice’s quote is just the vague finger-pointing of a jealous ex–publishing insider. Also, Oregon? I can’t help but do some petty Googling. Candice’s new employer puts out maybe ten litfic titles a year, none of which I’ve ever heard of, and none of which have broken even a hundred reviews on Goodreads. Half of them aren’t even proper novels; they’re chapbooks. They can’t possibly be selling enough copies to stay afloat—she might as well be working at a vanity press. It’s a drastic


bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharons and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas 2 glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad


due. Royalties are payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois Benedictine College" within the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois Benedictine College". *END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* DRACULA by Bram Stoker 1897 edition CHAPTER 1 Jonathan Harker's Journal 3 May. Bistritz.-- Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule. We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem. get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl," and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don't know how I should be able to get on without it. Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordance Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina. In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: Saxons in the


great curiosity. `Soles and eels, of course,' the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: `any shrimp could have told you that.' `If I'd been the whiting,' said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, `I'd have said to the porpoise, "Keep back, please: we don't want YOU with us!"' `They were obliged to have him with them,' the Mock Turtle said: `no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise.' `Wouldn't it really?' said Alice in a tone of great surprise. `Of course not,' said the Mock Turtle: `why, if a fish came to ME, and told me he was going a journey, I should say "With what porpoise?"' `Don't you mean "purpose"?' said Alice. `I mean what I say,' the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And the Gryphon added `Come, let's hear some of YOUR adventures.' `I could tell you my adventures--beginning from this morning,' said Alice a little timidly: `but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.' `Explain all that,' said the Mock Turtle. `No, no! The adventures first,' said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: `explanations take such a dreadful time.' So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so VERY wide, but she gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating `YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,' to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said `That's very curious.' `It's all about as curious as it can be,' said the Gryphon. `It all came different!' the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. `I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin.' He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. `Stand up and repeat "'TIS THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD,"' said the Gryphon. `How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!' thought Alice; `I might as well be at school at once.' However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:-- `'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, "You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair." As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.' [later editions continued as follows When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark, But, when the tide rises and sharks are around, His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.] `That's different from what I used to say when I was a child,'


fur-lined hats to the enamel mugs the laborers used to drink their watered-down tea. She has this sorcerous ability to keep your eyes riveted to the page. I have to know what happens to A Geng, the spindly student translator, and Xiao Li, the unwanted seventh son. I’m in tears at the end, when I find out that Liu Dong never made it back home to his waiting bride. But it needs work. It’s far from a first draft—it’s not even a proper “draft,” really; it’s more like an amalgamation of startlingly beautiful sentences, bluntly stated themes, and the occasional “[and then they travel - complete later].” But she’s laid out enough breadcrumbs that I can follow the trail. I see where it’s all going, and it’s gorgeous. It’s simply, breathtakingly gorgeous. So gorgeous I can’t help but give finishing it a try. It’s just a lark at first. A writing exercise. I wasn’t rewriting the manuscript so much as seeing if I could fill in the blanks; if I had enough technical knowhow to shade, fine-tune, and extrapolate until the picture was complete. I was only going to play around with one of the middle chapters—one that had so many unfinished scenes that you could only tell what it was trying to say if you were intimately acquainted with the writing, and the writer. But then I just kept going. I couldn’t stop. They say that editing a bad draft is far easier than composing on a blank page, and that’s true—I feel so confident in my writing just then. I keep finding turns of phrases that suit the text far better than Athena’s throwaway descriptions. I spot where the pacing sags, and I mercilessly cut out the meandering filler. I draw out the plot’s through line like a clear, powerful note. I tidy up; I trim and decorate; I make the text sing. I know you won’t believe me, but there was never a moment when I thought to myself, I’m going to take this and make it mine. It’s not like I sat down and hatched up some evil plan to profit off my dead friend’s work. No, seriously—it felt natural, like this was my calling, like it was divinely ordained. Once I got started, it felt like it was the most obvious thing in the world that I should complete, then polish Athena’s story. And then—who knows? Maybe I could get it published for her, too. I work so damn hard on it. I write every day from dawn to past midnight. I’ve never worked so hard on any writing project before, not even my debut. The words burn like coals inside my chest, fueling me, and I must pour them all out at once before they consume me. I complete the first draft in three weeks. I take a week off, during which all I do is take long walks and read books, just to gain a fresh set of eyes, and then I have the whole thing printed at Office Depot so I can go over


FIVE And Nyxara, hungry for power, did attempt to take Apollius’s rightful place—thus, He cast Her down, over the sea and the Golden Mount where They dwelt, and over the Fount that had made them gods. Where She landed, the earth blackened into coal, and where He bled, the ground grew jewels like fruit. And They were known from this point as the Buried Goddess and the Bleeding God. —The Book of Holy Law, Tract 3 Apparently, Lore’s oversize man’s shirt and muddy breeches weren’t suitable for an audience with His Royal Majesty, August Arceneaux, the Sainted King and Apollius’s Blessed. Outside of the interrogation room, Anton had waved her down a small hallway. “Donations,” he said simply, gesturing to Gabriel that he should follow. “Find something that fits. Preferably on the conservative side.” Now Lore stood in a giant closet, stuffed to the brim with sumptuous clothing that no one outside of the Citadel could possibly use. On the conservative side must mean something completely different to Anton than it did to her. A froth of pale-lavender tulle seemed promising, the rest of the dress hidden in the cascade of ridiculous wealth. But when Lore pulled it out, the bodice looked fashioned after a peacock plume, complete with feathers. Lore gave the dress an incredulous look, then turned to the doorway, brandishing the skirt like a dagger. “These are donated?” Gabriel nodded. He stood with his back to her, right outside the closet’s open door. His broad shoulders nearly spanned the frame, the top of his reddish-gold hair disappearing beyond the lintel. “The Court of the Citadel knows that things are… less than ideal, outside the walls. They try to help.” Less than ideal was a kind way to put it. Taxes on common Auverrani citizens climbed every year, paying for security against the Kirythean Empire and who knew what else, while those in the Citadel paid next to nothing. Lore pulled out another dress, this one tight to the hips before flaring out in panels shaped like iridescent fish scales. “Unless one of these is made of something edible, they won’t do shit for us. Have any of them considered donating coin rather than evidence of their sartorial crimes?” Gabriel snorted. “The peerage likes to do just enough to think they’re helping without inconveniencing themselves. What’s in fashion moves fast, and it’s easier to donate clothes you wouldn’t be caught dead in after a season than it is to keep them in storage.” Her brow arched. There was a low poison in Gabriel’s voice, made more potent by the way he tried to hide it. “You seem to know the court well.” A long pause. Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, his impressive shoulders inching toward his ears. “Better than I’d like,” he said finally. Lore pulled the least offensive dress she could find from the rack, a darkgreen affair in velvet that looked to have enough room in the breast and hips for her to wear. Her shirt made a small sound as it hit the floor, and Gabriel stiffened. She smirked.


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

smile. He caught Harry's eye and Harry knew at once that Snape's feelings toward him hadn't changed one jot. This didn't worry Harry. It seemed as though life would be back to normal next year, or as normal as it ever was at Hogwarts. It was the best evening of Harry's life, better than winning at Quidditch, or Christmas, or knocking out mountain trolls...he would never, ever forget tonight. *** Harry had almost forgotten that the exam results were still to come, but come they did. To their great surprise, both he and Ron passed with good marks; Hermione, of course, had the best grades of the first years. Even Neville scraped through, his good Herbology mark making up for his abysmal Potions one. They had hoped that Goyle, who was almost as stupid as he was mean, might be thrown out, but he had passed, too. It was a shame, but as Ron said, you couldn't have everything in life. And suddenly, their wardrobes were empty, their trunks were packed, Neville's toad was found lurking in a corner of the toilets; notes were handed out to all students, warning them not to use magic over the holidays ("I always hope they'll forget to give us these," said Fred Weasley sadly); Hagrid was there to take them down to the fleet of boats that sailed across the lake; they were boarding the Hogwarts Express; talking and laughing as the countryside became greener and tidier; eating Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans as they sped past Muggle towns; pulling off their wizard robes and putting on jackets and coats; pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at King's Cross Station. It took quite a while for them all to get off the platform. A wizened old guard was up by the ticket barrier, letting them go through the gate in twos and threes so they didn't attract attention by all bursting out of a solid wall at once and alarming the Muggles. "You must come and stay this summer," said Ron, "both of you -- I'll send you an owl." "Thanks," said Harry, "I'll need something to look forward to." People jostled them as they moved forward toward the gateway back to the Muggle world. Some of them called: "Bye, Harry!" "See you, Potter!" "Still famous," said Ron, grinning at him. "Not where I'm going, I promise you," said Harry. He, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway together. "There he is, Mom, there he is, look!" It was Ginny Weasley, Ron's younger sister, but she wasn't pointing at Ron. "Harry Potter!" she squealed. "Look, Mom! I can see -- " "Be quiet, Ginny, and it's rude to point." Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them. "Busy year?" she said. "Very," said Harry. "Thanks for the fudge and the sweater, Mrs. Weasley." "Oh, it was nothing, dear." "Ready, are you?" It was Uncle Vernon, still purple-faced, still mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Harry, carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary people. Behind him stood Aunt Petunia and Dudley,


to the farmers market without standing at the foraged greens and ground cherry stall wondering what my cat Carrots is doing back at home. I have a sister I don’t speak to, or who doesn’t speak to me, because we can’t talk to each other anymore. It really is that simple. I didn’t grow up with my sisters, because they were all practically adults by the time I was born, and our relationship continues, to this day, to exist in this awkward place. They don’t see me as a peer, but I don’t see them as maternal or elder or any of those words that connote that they are matriarchs deserving of my automatic deference and respect. It wasn’t important to the ragtag constellation of legal guardians and state officials who were responsible for us that we be close as siblings. Our rearing was much more “blood is thicker than water, but water tastes better” than “I got all my sisters and me.” It’s been sevenish years, and I don’t think I even have my sisters’ current phone numbers, and that’s okay. One of my sisters and I tried to have a relationship for a long time and amicably split when it was clear it wasn’t going to work out. Which feels a little weird, but also I have a general idea of where she is and what she’s doing, so it’s fine. We should teach seminars on how to break up! When my mom was dying—and I mean, when my mom’s fragile-bird body lay in a hospital bed in the ICU surrounded by beeping metal boxes, spiderwebs of tubes snaking in and around her brittle frame, when she was dying dying—her doctor gathered all of us girls outside of the room and told us that the pneumonia she’d developed while in hospice was so advanced that her death was imminent. They were going to put her on a morphine drip so she could ride a wave of narcotics into the afterlife. He told us that she would probably lose consciousness soon, and that each of us (me, my sisters, and my mother’s mother) would each be allotted thirty seconds to say goodbye, or whatever we needed to say to her, before she slipped into an incommunicative state. I had turned eighteen almost four months to the day before this moment; I had been working at a bakery for most of the summer, my first non-babysitting job, and earlier that day, I had clocked out early and asked my best friend, Sarah, to drive me to see my mom at the nursing home at Touhy and Western, where she’d lived since I was thirteen. It’s so…funny is the wrong word to use, but it’s the only one I can come up with that captures it—weird? strange?? absolutely fucked-up and absurd???—to think about what it must have been like to be my friend back then, for those kids with nice clothes and limitless futures and phone numbers and Volvos in their driveways, to be friends with someone who sometimes didn’t have a place


rubbed to a glossy smoothness by the flanks of infinite cows and calves of bygone years, now passed to an oblivion almost inconceivable in its profundity. Between the post were ranged the milchers, each exhibiting herself at the present moment to a whimsical eye in the rear as a circle on two stalks, down the centre of which a switch moved pendulum-wise; while the sun, lowering itself behind this patient row, threw their shadows accurately inwards upon the wall. Thus it threw shadows of these obscure and homely figures every evening with as much care over each contour as if it had been the profile of a court beauty on a palace wall; copied them as diligently as it had copied Olympian shapes on marble FACADES long ago, or the outline of Alexander, Caesar, and the Pharaohs. They were the less restful cows that were stalled. Those that would stand still of their own will were milked in the middle of the yard, where many of such better behaved ones stood waiting now--all prime milchers, such as were seldom seen out of this valley, and not always within it; nourished by the succulent feed which the water-meads supplied at this prime season of the year. Those of them that were spotted with white reflected the sunshine in dazzling brilliancy, and the polished brass knobs of their horns glittered with something of military display. Their large-veined udders hung ponderous as sandbags, the teats sticking out like the legs of a gipsy's crock; and as each animal lingered for her turn to arrive the milk oozed forth and fell in drops to the ground. XVII The dairymaids and men had flocked down from their cottages and out of the dairy-house with the arrival of the cows from the meads; the maids walking in patterns, not on account of the weather, but to keep their shoes above the mulch of the barton. Each girl sat down on her three-legged stool, her face sideways, her right cheek resting against the cow; and looked musingly along the animal's flank at Tess as she approached. The male milkers, with hat-brims turned down, resting flat on their foreheads and gazing on the ground, did not observe her. One of these was a sturdy middle-aged man--whose long white "pinner" was somewhat finer and cleaner than the wraps of the others, and whose jacket underneath had a presentable marketing aspect--the master-dairyman, of whom she was in quest, his double character as a working milker and butter maker here during six days, and on the seventh as a man in shining broad-cloth in his family pew at church, being so marked as to have inspired a rhyme- Dairyman Dick All the week:-- On Sundays Mister Richard Crick. Seeing Tess standing at gaze he went across to her. The majority of dairymen have a cross manner at milking time, but it happened that Mr Crick was glad to get a new hand--for the days were busy ones now--and he received her warmly; inquiring for her mother and the rest of the family--(though this


trembling, 'that he's going to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I wouldn't cut a boy off: no, not even Brittles here; not for all the plate in the county, sir.' 'That's not the point,' said the doctor, mysteriously. 'Mr. Giles, are you a Protestant?' 'Yes, sir, I hope so,' faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale. 'And what are YOU, boy?' said the doctor, turning sharply upon Brittles. 'Lord bless me, sir!' replied Brittles, starting violently; 'I'm the same as Mr. Giles, sir.' 'Then tell me this,' said the doctor, 'both of you, both of you! Are you going to take upon yourselves to swear, that that boy upstairs is the boy that was put through the little window last night? Out with it! Come! We are prepared for you!' The doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered creatures on earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger, that Giles and Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, stared at each other in a state of stupefaction. 'Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?' said the doctor, shaking his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the bridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy's utmost acuteness. 'Something may come of this before long.' The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office: which had been recling indolently in the chimney-corner. 'It's a simple question of identity, you will observe,' said the doctor. 'That's what it is, sir,' replied the constable, coughing with great violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way. 'Here's the house broken into,' said the doctor, 'and a couple of men catch one moment's glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy comes to that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him--by doing which, they place his life in great danger--and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; if not, in what situation do they place themselves?' The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn't law, he would be glad to know what was. 'I ask you again,' thundered the doctor, 'are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?' Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels. 'It's the runners!' cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved. 'The what?' exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn. 'The Bow Street officers, sir,' replied Brittles, taking up a candle; 'me and


his watch. It was twenty minutes to two. He sat down, and began to think. Every year--every month, almost-- men were strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the earth. Evidence? What evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed. Paris! Yes. It was to Paris that Basil had gone, by the midnight train, as he had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months before any suspicions would be aroused. Months? Everything could be destroyed long before then. A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat, and went out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the policeman outside on the pavement, and seeing the flash of the lantern reflected in the window. He waited, holding his breath. After a few moments he opened the front door, and slipped out, shutting it very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In about ten minutes his valet appeared, half dressed, and looking very drowsy. "I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis," he said, stepping in; "but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?" "Five minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and yawning. "Five minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine to-morrow. I have some work to do." "All right, sir." "Did any one call this evening?" "Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away to catch his train." "Oh! I am sorry I didn't see him. Did he leave any message?" "No, sir, except that he would write to you." [86] "That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine tomorrow." "No, sir." The man shambled down the passage in his slippers. Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the yellow marble table, and passed into the library. He walked up and down the room for a quarter of an hour, biting his lip, and thinking. Then he took the Blue Book down from one of the shelves, and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair." Yes; that was the man he wanted. CHAPTER XII [...86] At nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray, and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had been having some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. His night had


while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her. 'I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,' said Rose, extending her hand. 'I must leave you now, indeed.' 'I ask one promise,' said Harry. 'Once, and only once more,--say within a year, but it may be much sooner,--I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time.' 'Not to press me to alter my right determination,' replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; 'it will be useless.' 'No,' said Harry; 'to hear you repeat it, if you will--finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it.' 'Then let it be so,' rejoined Rose; 'it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better.' She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room. CHAPTER XXXVI IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES 'And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?' said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. 'Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!' 'You will tell me a different tale one of these days,' said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason. 'I hope I may have good cause to do so,' replied Mr. Losberne; 'though I confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?' 'I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir,' rejoined Oliver. 'That's a fine fellow,' said the doctor; 'you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?' 'The great nobs,' replied Harry, 'under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year,


Denny Bloch thing is finally getting traction.” Instead of answering, I swallowed. Alder and Britt weren’t as fixated on your guilt as I was—Alder had become more focused on Ari Hutson emerging from the woods to kill again—but we all agreed that any suspect besides Omar was a help. “Have you seen this?” He showed me a new Facebook page called “Dennis Bloch Thalia Keith ‘Unsolved’ Murder Reward.” There was one administrator post: Denny Bloch, where are you? Interested parties are willing to pay for a polygraph for both you and your wife Suzanne Hamby Bloch. The world wants to know, what are you hiding Denny Bloch? Relatedly, we are offering a $10,000 reward for any information regarding Dennis Blochs involvement in the death of Thalia Keith. Is your wife Suzanne Bloch hiding information as well? Come Clean Dennis Bloch. DM us with any information regarding the involvement of D Bloch in the 1995 murder of Thalia Keith. There were already a thousand followers. “That’s wild.” “Things are moving!” Alder said. “Things are shaking.” I said, “I don’t want you to get your hopes up.” Alder stood, brushed off his jeans. He said, “I’m a Black man in America. My hopes aren’t up.” 19 I figured the safest place to exercise was the fitness center, which had been empty every time I passed its glass door. If I went to the pool, I might run into the Serenhos again; walking or running in town, I might come across any number of witnesses and be “seen” with them in some problematic way. It was a tiny room, one wall all mirrors. Two elliptical machines, a stationary bike, some free weights. Overhead, a TV blasted CNN—bombs in Kyiv, bombs in Kharkiv, loud men with loud opinions about it all. It took a few attempts of smashing the remote buttons to turn it off. I was ten minutes into my elliptical workout, and ten minutes into my show about a Parisian talent agency, when Beth Docherty came in. Or rather: She entered, saw me, wheeled around, left. Seconds later she was back, storming to the other elliptical, just feet from mine, slamming her water bottle into the cup holder. She went at the machine like if she pumped the handles fast enough, she could lift off in rage-powered flight. She tried to turn the TV back on, but the remote wouldn’t work for her. Beth was muscly and thin, the kind of fit only sustainable in your midforties with near-constant exercise. She was tan, too. In March. I had every reason not to talk to her, and that was my plan, but then she appeared to say something, so I removed my earbuds. “I’m sorry?” “I wasn’t talking to you,” she said. “I was swearing.” “Oh. Okay.” “You can go back to ignoring me.” I said, “I wasn’t trying to be rude. We’re just not supposed to talk. I haven’t testified yet.” She laughed bitterly. “That’s so convenient. You shoot your mouth off in public when it suits you, but if there’s an actual human


was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain. "Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's nothing. I turned my foot a little, that's all," and limped upstairs to put her things on. Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till se decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him, he said. "It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo. looking relieved but hesitating to accept the offer. "I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say." That settled it, and telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and elegant. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom. "I had a capital time. Did you?' asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable. "Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does. She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go," answered Meg, cheering up at the thought. "I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from. Was he nice?" "Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I had a delicious redowa with him." "He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?" "No, but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden away there?" Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at home. With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out . . . "Tell about the party! Tell about the party!" With what Meg called `a great want of manners' Jo had saved some bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the most thrilling events of the evening. "I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown wit a maid to wait on me," said Meg,


hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he could toward Peeves's shouts. "Oh, move over," Hermione snarled. She grabbed Harry's wand, tapped the lock, and whispered, "Alohomora!" The lock clicked and the door swung open -- they piled through it, shut it quickly, and pressed their ears against it, listening. "Which way did they go, Peeves?" Filch was saying. "Quick, tell me." "Say 'please.' " "Don't mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?" "Shan't say nothing if you don't say please," said Peeves in his annoying singsong voice. "All right -- please." "NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn't say nothing if you didn't say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!" And they heard the sound of Peeves whooshing away and Filch cursing in rage. "He thinks this door is locked," Harry whispered. "I think we'll be okay -- get off, Neville!" For Neville had been tugging on the sleeve of Harry's bathrobe for the last minute. "What?" Harry turned around -- and saw, quite clearly, what. For a moment, he was sure he'd walked into a nightmare -- this was too much, on top of everything that had happened so far. They weren't in a room, as he had supposed. They were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden. They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that filled the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs. It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them, and Harry knew that the only reason they weren't already dead was that their sudden appearance had taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous growls meant. Harry groped for the doorknob -- between Filch and death, he'd take Filch. They fell backward -- Harry slammed the door shut, and they ran, they almost flew, back down the corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look for them somewhere else, because they didn't see him anywhere, but they hardly cared -- all they wanted to do was put as much space as possible between them and that monster. They didn't stop running until they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh floor. "Where on earth have you all been?" she asked, looking at their bathrobes hanging off their shoulders and their flushed, sweaty faces. "Never mind that -- pig snout, pig snout," panted Harry, and the portrait swung forward. They scrambled into the common room and collapsed, trembling, into armchairs. It was a while before any of them said anything. Neville, indeed, looked as if he'd never speak again. "What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?" said Ron finally. "If any dog needs exercise, that one does." Hermione had got both her breath and her bad temper


opposite wall, where an overwhelming number of remote controls were hanging by metal hooks. He selected one of the larger ones and showed it to us, his eyebrows raised. He was determined to impress us with drones, which made me both annoyed and a little sad. “A sophisticated remote ground control system right here, one of the better models I’ve designed. It can adjust for velocity, air temperature, even detect a storm front.” He walked between us. “Would you mind backing toward the wall just a bit?” We backed toward the wall and watched as Dexter typed something into his watch face. Then he looked at us brightly and said, “Okay, this is going to blow your minds.” The air taxi’s propellers began to whir, and then it maneuvered itself out of the sea of its fellows with the jerky velocity of a remote-control toy car: backward, to the left, then forward and out onto the tarmac. Dexter flipped a number of switches and pressed a few buttons and the air taxi took flight, shooting several hundred feet up into the heat-thick sky. “It’s going,” Dexter said, then checked his watch face again. “It’s going to run a quick errand. It’s on autopilot. That’s another great feature of this model.” We watched the air taxi disappear over the horizon, and Dexter turned to us with a voilà smile. “Give it ten minutes. It’ll be back,” he said. “Great,” I said. Orson hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and wandered among the drones. I waited until he was out of earshot and leaned in close to Dexter. “What kind of contracts do you have in the global South?” I asked. “What contracts do I have there?” “Orson doesn’t know it yet, but I want to take NuLife international.” “Shouldn’t he be having this conversation with us?” I shook my head. “No, no. I’m the business guy, he’s the ideas guy. Plus his birthday’s coming up.” “So you want to take NuLife international as a—you want to take it international as a birthday present?” “It’s not just me,” I lied. “The whole company wants to. We’re throwing him a celebration.” “Why the global South?” I shrugged. “It’s developing, isn’t it? There’s money to be made.” Dexter cocked his head to one side. “I’m market testing a fleet of air taxis in South America. Urmau.” “That’s perfect. Do you think you can introduce the 2.0 down there?” “I can try. I can’t guarantee it’ll take.” “Just give it to the leadership. Whoever you’re dealing with.” Dexter folded his arms across his chest. “That would be Genial Arroya; it’s a g pronounced like an h. He’s the son of Genial Sr., the president. They aren’t on good terms.” “So you’re working with the son?” Dexter nodded. “Okay, give it to him then.” “I can’t just peddle your product without financial incentive.” “It’s your product. too.” “Cut me in.” “You get twenty-five percent of the sales down there.” “Thirty-five.” I sighed. He had the self-assuredness of a petulant child, which made bargaining futile.


to fix the date." I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large, scrawling figures: "1742." "It appears to be a statement of some sort." "Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the Baskerville family." "But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon which you wish to consult me?" "Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you." Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips to- gether, and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative: "Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed. Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing. "Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of Basker- ville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a by- word through the West. It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked compan- ions, stole down upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her


DISCOVERIES Contents- Prev/Next SOON the stones of the little room were clear of earth, sand and weeds. The children saw that they were all the same size- big and square, fitted well together. They went over them carefully with their torches, trying to find one that might move or lift. "We should probably find one with an iron ring handle sunk into it," said Julian. But they didn't. All the stones looked exactly the same. It was most disappointing. Julian tried inserting his spade into the cracks between the various stones, to see if by any chance he could move one. But they couldn't be moved. It seemed as if they were all set in the solid ground. After about three hours hard work the children sat down to eat a meal. They were very hungry indeed, and felt glad to think there were so many things to eat. As they ate they discussed the problem they were trying to solve. "It looks as if the entrance to the dungeons was not under this little room after all," said Julian. "It's disappointing- but somehow I don't think now that the steps down to the dungeon started from here. Let's measure the map and see if we can make out exactly where the steps do start. It may be, of course, that the measurements aren't correct and won't be any help to us at all. But we can try." So they measured as best they could, to try and find out in exactly what place the dungeon steps seemed to begin. It was impossible to tell, for the plans of the three floors seemed to be done to different scales. Julian stared at the map, puzzled. It seemed rather hopeless. Surely they wouldn't have to hunt all over the ground floor of the castle! It would take ages. "Look," said George, suddenly, putting her finger on the hole that they all thought must be meant to represent the well. "The entrance to the dungeons seems to be not very far off the well. If only we could find the well, we could hunt around a bit for the beginning of the dungeon steps. The well is shown in both maps. It seems to be somewhere about the middle of the castle." "That's a good idea of yours," said Julian, pleased. "Let's go out into the middle of the castle- we can more or less guess where the old well ought to be, because it definitely seems to be about the middle of the old yard out there." Out they all went into the sunshine. They felt very important and serious. It was marvellous to be looking for lost ingots of gold. They all felt perfectly certain that they really were somewhere beneath their feet. It didn't occur to any of the children that the treasure might not be there. They stood in the ruined courtyard that had once been the centre of the castle. They paced out the middle of the yard and then stood there, looking around in vain for anything that


to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below her. `What CAN all that green stuff be?' said Alice. `And where HAVE my shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?' She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves. As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and was beating her violently with its wings. `Serpent!' screamed the Pigeon. `I'm NOT a serpent!' said Alice indignantly. `Let me alone!' `Serpent, I say again!' repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, `I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!' `I haven't the least idea what you're talking about,' said Alice. `I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges,' the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; `but those serpents! There's no pleasing them!' Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished. `As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs,' said the Pigeon; `but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!' `I'm very sorry you've been annoyed,' said Alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. `And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood,' continued the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, `and just as I was thinking I should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!' `But I'm NOT a serpent, I tell you!' said Alice. `I'm a--I'm a--' `Well! WHAT are you?' said the Pigeon. `I can see you're trying to invent something!' `I--I'm a little girl,' said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered the number of changes she had gone through that day. `A likely story indeed!' said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest contempt. `I've seen a good many little girls in my time, but never ONE with such a neck as that! No, no! You're a serpent; and there's no use denying it. I suppose you'll be telling me next that you never tasted an egg!' `I HAVE tasted eggs, certainly,' said Alice, who was a


drifted into my lap while I unbraided my hair. I rolled them up and tossed the clump into the fire, where I watched it curdle into ash. “Sorry,” I said. “I forgot the question.” As it always did, the thought of Nizahl curved claws of hatred in my belly. I wasn’t capable of sending magic flying in fits of emotion anymore. All I had left was fantasy. I imagined meeting Supreme Rawain in the kingdom he’d laid waste to. I would drive his scepter through the softest part of his stomach, watch the cruelty drain from his blue eyes. Plant him on the steps of the fallen palace for the spirits of Jasad’s dead to feast upon. “Ah, yes, an Heir.” I paused. “Sorn.” “The Orban Heir?” Sefa lifted her brows. “Your tastes run toward the brutish? A thirst for danger, perhaps?” I winked. “What danger is there in a brute?” CHAPTER TWO Long after decent people were asleep, I crept out of the keep. I wrapped both arms around the basket’s middle as I sped down the hill. My hood hung low over my forehead. Loose curls gathered at the base of my neck, warming me against the wind. I hated leaving the keep without my hair in a braid. The curtain of curls was the perfect weapon for an enemy wishing to swing me around like a cattle hoop. Marek and Sefa’s impromptu visit had rushed my schedule. Night had thickened over Mahair, and a dense fog hung over the shuttered shops. In three hours, Yuli would rouse the boys sleeping in the barn to muck the grounds and release the cows for their feeding. Children would line up outside the bakery, latticed wooden trays propped on their shoulders to carry breakfast back to their families. Mahair, like the rest of Omal, thrived best in the daylit hours. I paused at the end of the hill and scanned the path. We lived right behind the vagrant road, but the vagrants knew better than to trouble me. The soldiers were the real problem. I couldn’t risk running into the patrol again. They changed shifts only twice: once at dawn and again at dusk. After assuring myself of the road’s emptiness, I picked up the basket and resumed walking. A wagon’s wheels had gouged enormous tracks. I walked inside its tread, hiding my footprints within the unsettled dirt. A silly precaution, given Mahair’s rigid sleep schedule. Very few homes or businesses bothered to invest in outdoor lanterns, and if they did, they used the kind shaped like a shell and filled with just enough oil to illuminate their immediate surroundings. The sole lantern on this entire road hung from a balcony six buildings down. What I remembered of my childhood in Jasad wouldn’t fill a poor man’s pocket, but I knew we were a night people. Just as no two villages in Omal were alike, every wilayah in Jasad kept slightly different customs. In the evenings, daughters of wealthy families relinquished their finery for their street clothes and chased each other for


next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!' Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very curious to see what the next witness would be like, `--for they haven't got much evidence YET,' she said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name `Alice!' CHAPTER XII Alice's Evidence `Here!' cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before. `Oh, I BEG your pardon!' she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die. `The trial cannot proceed,' said the King in a very grave voice, `until all the jurymen are back in their proper places-- ALL,' he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said do. Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; `not that it signifies much,' she said to herself; `I should think it would be QUITE as much use in the trial one way up as the other.' As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. `What do you know about this business?' the King said to Alice. `Nothing,' said Alice. `Nothing WHATEVER?' persisted the King. `Nothing whatever,' said Alice. `That's very important,' the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: `UNimportant, your Majesty means, of course,' he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. `UNimportant, of course, I meant,' the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, `important--unimportant-- unimportant--important--' as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down `important,' and some `unimportant.' Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; `but it doesn't matter a


to fears in the long run. Another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought changes. The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom believed that it must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or Saturday, now, and that the search had been given over. He proposed to explore another passage. He felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all other terrors. But Becky was very weak. She had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be roused. She said she would wait, now, where she was, and die -- it would not be long. She told Tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he chose; but she implored him to come back every --------------------------------------------------------- -295- little while and speak to her; and she made him promise that when the awful time came, he would stay by her and hold her hand until all was over. Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a show of being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the cave; then he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick with bodings of coming doom. --------------------------------------------------------- -296- Chapter XXXII TUESDAY afternoon came, and waned to the twilight. The village of St. Petersburg still mourned. The lost children had not been found. Public prayers had been offered up for them, and many and many a private prayer that had the petitioner's whole heart in it; but still no good news came from the cave. The majority of the searchers had given up the quest and gone back to their daily avocations, saying that it was plain the children could never be found. Mrs. Thatcher was very ill, and a great part of the time delirious. People said it was heartbreaking to hear her call her child, and raise her head and listen a whole minute at a time, then lay it wearily down again with a moan. Aunt Polly had drooped into a settled melancholy, and her gray hair had grown almost white. The village went to its rest on Tuesday night, sad and forlorn. Away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village bells, and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic half-clad people, who shouted, "Turn out! turn out! they're found! they're found!" Tin pans and horns were added --------------------------------------------------------- -297- to the din, the population massed itself and moved toward the river, met the children coming in an open carriage drawn by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its homeward march, and swept magnificently up the main street roaring huzzah after huzzah! The village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the greatest night the little town had ever seen. During the first half-hour a procession of villagers filed through Judge Thatcher's house, seized the saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatcher's hand, tried to speak but couldn't -- and drifted out raining tears


Dawes. They stood in stunned silence, and Alex realized that, for all of their talk and preparation, none of them had really believed it would work. Despite every miracle and horror she had witnessed in her time at Yale, she hadn’t been able to buy into a pathway to the underworld hidden right beneath their noses. Had some other group of fools once stood at this doorway awakened by their blood, on this same precipice, trembling and afraid? Dawes claimed the Gauntlet had never been used. But again Alex had to wonder, if that was the case, why build it at all? “Alex is first, right?” Tripp asked, a quaver in his voice. Her courage had shriveled at the sight of all of that empty. But there was no time to second-guess. She could hear people approaching down the street. Come get me, Stern, he’d said. Please. Alex touched her hand to the porcelain box in her pocket and stepped through the door. Nothing happened. She was standing in Sterling’s cavernous nave. It looked no different than it had before. Dawes bumped into her, and they both stumbled out of the way as Turner and then Tripp came through. “I don’t get it,” said Tripp. “We have to walk the path,” Dawes said. “That was only the start.” Single file, they made their way down the nave toward the Alma Mater mural: soldier, scholar, priest, and prince, shrouded in gloom. A strange, shuffling parade. They turned right at the mural and marked the arches beneath the Tree of Knowledge with their blood. Again, the corridor beyond seemed to dissolve, as if their reality had dropped away and left a gaping void. Again, Alex took a deep breath, the diver preparing to sink beneath the surface, and stepped through. On their right, they passed the glass door through which Alex would enter, but it wasn’t her time yet. The soldier would close the circle. They moved down the corridor, past Death peering over the student’s shoulder, and into the vestibule full of Jost Amman’s woodcuts. Above them Alex could just make out the black iron silhouettes of the mermen with their split tails, monster and man, man and monster. The cut on Alex’s arm had begun to close, so she had to squeeze it to get the blood to well up again. One by one they anointed the doorway beside the stone spider, beneath the inscription of Yale’s motto. Light and Truth. It felt like a joke when the door disappeared into flat black darkness. “This is your station,” Dawes whispered, the first words any of them had spoken since they’d stepped back into Sterling. Tripp’s jaw was set. His fists were clenched. Alex could see he was shaking slightly. She almost expected him to just turn on his heel and march right out of the library. Instead he gave a single, firm nod of his head. Alex gave him a quick squeeze on the shoulder. It was easy not to take Tripp seriously, but he was here facing the same shapeless dread


felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his friend. But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the Colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_. The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstacy, calling for everyone's congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish. ``I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,'' said she, ``though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.'' In vain did Elizabeth attempt to reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said, ``Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances.'' ``If you were aware,'' said Elizabeth, ``of the very great disadvantage to us all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and imprudent manner; nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair.'' ``Already arisen!'' repeated Mr. Bennet. ``What, has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly.'' ``Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent, It is not of peculiar, but of general


I vanished, when I locked the door and walked away. I put together food kits for the staff, divvying up the rice and flour and beans, the cheese and butter and chocolate. In the office, I left an expensive bottle of red for my manager. My sous chef received his favorite tequila. Each item was tagged with a note: With gratitude, Lee And then I vanished, before Damon could break my hand. The Aviary was my identity as much as my business. I was the restaurant, and it was me. That’s why I tried to hang on to it. That’s why I betrayed my sister. Because I was afraid that I would lose myself without it, that I would disappear. And I have. It feels like a severed limb sometimes, an invisible ache for a lost lover or a cherished pet. Sometimes it’s a physical pain. Or maybe that’s the throb of the crushed bones in my finger. They have healed by now, but in the cold, damp climate the discomfort returns. The tap on the window wakes me, but I don’t start, don’t reach for my knife. I’m too sick to care who is out there, what they might do to me. Murder might be a relief from my current state of misery. Kidding… Sort of. But the face peering in my window isn’t dangerous. It’s concerned, compassionate, and beautiful. I open the door a crack. “Hey.” “God, Lee. You look terrible.” Hazel rests her hand on my cheek. “You’re burning up.” “What time is it?” I scrabble in the console for my flip phone. “I have to go to work.” “It’s six-fifteen in the morning. Where do you work?” “Uncle Jack’s. It’s a diner in Beacon Hill.” “Call in. Tell them to get someone to cover. You’re too sick.” I meet her eyes, my voice deliberate. “I can’t afford to miss work.” “This is my fault, isn’t it?” She observes me, arms crossed. “You got cold and wet when you pulled me out of the water. And now you’re sick.” I shrug. “There’s a bug going around.” “I brought you a croissant.” She hands me a greasy paper sack that I hadn’t noticed. “What time do you start work?” “Four.” She presses her lips together, thinking. “I have to go home now, but I’ll try to come back later and bring you some supplies… soup, cold medicine, and vitamin C. Anything else?” “Tea.” “Got it.” She strokes my hair like an injured dog’s. The affection, the human touch, is so nice. “Eat your breakfast, then go back to sleep.” I close my eyes, wishing beyond hope that she would invite me into her home. That she’d offer me a spare bed with a soft mattress and clean sheets, even for a couple of hours. But she doesn’t. And I can’t blame her. I’m already drifting off as she shuts the door and jogs away. 10 WHEN I GET TO THE diner at three-thirty, I feel almost human. My throat is still sore, but the cold medicine Hazel brought me has


are a lot of rich guys in Skull and Bones.” Dawes nodded, still slow, as if she were underwater. “The architect died suddenly and someone else had to take over.” Alex waited. “James Gamble Rogers took the job. He was in Scroll and Key. Punter is another word for a gambler.” Johnny and Punter’s friends built a Gauntlet. On hallowed ground. Dawes was clutching the towel with both hands now, as if it were a microphone she was about to sing into. “Would that I might make thee love books more than thy mother. That quote is above the entry, above the scribe. It’s written in hieroglyphs.” Stories were immutable. And what was a library but a house full of stories? “It’s Sterling,” Alex said. “The library is the portal to hell.” Erected in memory of JOHN WILLIAM STERLING BORN 12 MAY 1844 DIED 5 JULY 1918 B.A. 1864: M.A. 1874 LL.D. 1893: LAWYER LOYAL FRIEND TRUSTED ADVISER AGGRESSIVE LEADER DEVOTED ALUMNUS James Gamble Rogers Architect —Memorial inscription, entrance to Sterling Memorial Library If I must be a prisoner I would desire to have no other prison than that library. —James I, engraved above the entrance to the exhibition corridor of Sterling Memorial Library 11 Alex had every intention of helping Dawes research, but the next thing she knew she was waking up in the parlor at Il Bastone, morning light drifting through the windows. A copy of the 1931 Yale Gazette article detailing Sterling’s decoration rested open on her chest as though she’d tried to use the book to tuck herself in. She felt warm and easy, as if she’d imagined everything at Black Elm, and this morning could just be simple, an ordinary Sunday. She touched her hand to the floorboards and they seemed to hum. “Did you do that?” she asked Il Bastone, staring up at the coffered ceiling and the pendant lamp that hung high above her from a brass chain. The bulb flickered softly behind its frosted glass globe. The house had known she needed rest. It was looking out for her. At least, that was what it felt like and maybe what Alex needed to believe. Dawes had left a note on the coffee table: Going to Beinecke. Breakfast on the counter. Call me when you’re up. Bad news. When wasn’t it bad news? When was Dawes going to leave her a note that said, All good. Go work on that paper so you don’t fall further behind. Left you fresh scones and a couple of puppies? Alex needed to get home, but she was famished and it would be a shame to waste a breakfast, so she shuffled into the kitchen in Dawes’s giant Tevas. “Shit,” she said, when she saw the plates of pancakes, the vat of scrambled eggs strewn with chives, heaps of bacon, hollandaise warm in its flowered pitcher, and, yes, a pile of strawberry scones. There was enough food to feed an entire a cappella group if they would stop humming for a minute. Dawes cooked to soothe herself and that


sight. “A lot?” “Going from running away from me to sleeping in the same bed, in under one hour.” I flush and look at my toes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run—I just . . . And I’m not, like, coming on to you.” I’d love to sound sharp and indignant, but it’s just not where I’m at. “We’ve established that you don’t need to come on to me, Elsie. Do you want something to sleep in?” “Oh.” I shake my head. “I’m good. I’m wearing leggings, anyway. I figured that if I had to suffer through 2001, I could at least be comfy.” “I thought you loved the movie.” I give him an appalled look. Jack leans against the dresser, arms crossed. “It’s what your friend said,” he explains. “Oh, no. I mean, she thinks I do. She thinks I’m into artsy movies, but I don’t really . . .” Tell her the truth. I think Jack can read my mind. “Does she know how much you like Twilight?” he asks with a small, kind smile. “No way.” I laugh weakly. “If anything, she might suspect I enjoy it ironically.” “Ironically?” “Yeah. You know, when you like something because it’s bad and love making fun of it?” He nods. “Is that why you enjoy Twilight?” “I don’t know.” I sit on the edge of the mattress, gripping the soft comforter. “I don’t believe so, no.” I ponder. “I like simple, straightforward romance stories with dramatic characters and improbably high stakes,” I add, surprising myself a little. I didn’t know this before putting it into words, and I feel like Jack has beaten me to some part of myself. Again. “Also, I like to imagine Alice and Bella ending up together after the movie is over.” “I see.” As ever, he files away. Then he pulls something that looks like sweats and a tee from under his pillow and heads for the door. “If you change your mind or get cold, just look around. You’ll find something to wear.” “Are you giving me permission to rummage around your bedroom? Like you have nothing to hide?” He lifts one eyebrow. “What would I hide?” “I don’t know.” I shrug. “A giant tentacle dildo. Viagra. A diary with a pink locket.” “None of that would be worth hiding,” he says, the most quietly confident man in the entire world. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, okay?” The door closes with a soft click, and I’m right here. In Jack Smith-Turner’s bedroom. Alone with his pillows and his CERN wall art and probably the desiccated livers of twelve theorists. Plus, a whole lot of falling snow. I quickly update Cece on the shit show that’s my life, then slide under the covers on what I hope isn’t Jack’s side, groaning in pleasure. I have a really firm mattress. Great for spinal health. He sure does, and it’s perfect. I immediately relax, enveloped by the comforter and a nice, dark scent that I’m not ready to admit is Jack’s. I could stay here forever.