He laughs once more and kisses the top of my head. “A requiem?” I murmur a little shocked that we are dancing to it. He shrugs. “It’s just a lovely piece of music, Ana.” Taylor coughs discreetly at the entranceway, and Christian releases me. “Miss Matteo is here,” he says. Oh joy! “Show her in,” Christian says. He reaches over and clasps my hand as Miss Gia Matteo enters the room. Gia Matteo is a good-looking woman—a tall, good-looking woman. She wears her short, salon-blond, perfectly layered and coiffed hair like a sophisticated crown. She’s dressed in a pale gray pantsuit; the slacks and fitted jacket hug her lush curves. Her clothes look expensive. At the base of her throat, a solitary dia- mond glints, matching the single-carat studs in her ears. She is well groomed—one of those women who grew up with money and breeding, though her breeding seems to be lacking this evening; her pale blue blouse is undone too far. Like mine. I flush. 158/551 “Christian. Ana.” She beams, showing perfect white teeth, and holds out a manicured hand to shake first Christian’s, then my hand. It means I have to re- lease Christian’s hand to reciprocate. She’s a fraction shorter than Christian, but then she’s in killer heels. “Gia,” Christian says politely. I smile coolly. “You both look so well after your honeymoon,” she says smoothly, her brown eyes gazing at Christian through long mascaraed lashes. Christian puts his arm around me, holding me close. “We had a wonderful time, thank you.” He brushes his lips against my temple, taking me by surprise. See . . . he’s mine. Annoying—infuriating, even—but mine. I grin. Right now I really love you, Christian Grey. I slip my hand around his waist then into his rear pocket of his pants and squeeze his behind. Gia gives us a thin smile. “Have you managed to look over the plans?” “We have,” I murmur. I gaze up at Christian, who grins down at me, one eye- brow raised in wry amusement. Amused at what? My reaction to Gia or me squeezing his butt? “Please,” Christian says. “The plans are here.” He gestures toward the dining table. Taking my hand, he leads me to it, Gia following in our wake. I finally re- member my manners. “Would you like something to drink?” I ask. “A glass of wine?” “That would be lovely,” Gia says. “Dry white if you have it.” Shit! Sauvignon blanc—that’s a dry white, isn’t it? Reluctantly leaving my husband’s side, I head over to the kitchen. I hear the iPod hiss as Christian switches off the music. “Would you like some more wine, Christian?” I call. “Please, baby,” he croons, grinning at me. Wow, he can be so swoonworthy at times yet so aggravating at others. Reaching up to open the cupboard, I’m aware his eyes are on me, and I’m gripped by the uncanny feeling that Christian and I are putting on a show, playing a game together—but this time we’re on the same side pitted against Ms. Matteo. Does


his boots. STEPHANOS, my crown. My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of my feet. Buy a pair. Holes in my socks. Handkerchief too. --You make good use of the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own name is strange enough. I suppose it explains your fantastical humour. Me, Magee and Mulligan. Fabulous artificer. The hawklike man. You flew. Whereto? Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Paris and back. Lapwing. Icarus. PATER, AIT. Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. Lapwing you are. Lapwing be. Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his book to say: --That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, we find also in the old Irish myths. Just what you say. The three brothers Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don't you know, the fairytales. The third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best prize. Best of Best brothers. Good, better, best. The quaker librarian springhalted near. --I should like to know, he said, which brother you ... I understand you to suggest there was misconduct with one of the brothers ... But perhaps I am anticipating? He caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained. An attendant from the doorway called: --Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants ... --O, Father Dineen! Directly. Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly gone. John Eglinton touched the foil. --Come, he said. Let us hear what you have to say of Richard and Edmund. You kept them for the last, didn't you? --In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. Lapwing. Where is your brother? Apothecaries' hall. My whetstone. Him, then Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They mock to try you. Act. Be acted on. Lapwing. I am tired of my voice, the voice of Esau. My kingdom for a drink. On. --You will say those names were already in the chronicles from which he took the stuff of his plays. Why did he take them rather than others? Richard, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann (what's in a name?), woos and wins her, a whoreson merry widow. Richard the conqueror, third brother, came after William the conquered. The other four acts of that play hang limply from that first. Of all his kings Richard is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the angel of the world. Why is the underplot of KING LEAR in which Edmund figures lifted out of Sidney's ARCADIA and spatchcocked on to a Celtic legend older than history? --That was Will's way, John Eglinton defended. We should not now combine a Norse saga with an excerpt from a novel by George Meredith. QUE VOULEZ-VOUS? Moore would say. He puts Bohemia on the seacoast and makes Ulysses quote Aristotle. --Why? Stephen answered himself. Because the theme of the false or the usurping or the adulterous brother or all three in one is to Shakespeare, what the poor are not, always with him. The note of banishment,


are placed. Xenia—the law of hospitality, one of the most crucial concepts in ancient Greece, where protection and generosity toward guests were a moral obligation. Xiphos—short sword with a curved blade. Reading Group Guide At the start of the novel, Clytemnestra intervenes in a fight involving her sister, Helen. When told that she must let people win their own battles, she thinks to herself, “What if the loser is your loved one?” How does this mentality guide Clytemnestra throughout her life? Clytemnestra and the rest of the girls in Sparta are trained to fight as children. How does this warrior mentality guide her throughout the novel? How does this set her apart from other heroines you have read before? The murder of Clytemnestra’s first husband, Tantalus, and her baby is not told from the perspective of Clytemnestra herself. How did you read this change in perspective? What did it add to the narrative? Clytemnestra and Helen’s relationship is tested many times, yet there is always love between them. How might you describe the evolution of their relationship? How does the theme of forgiveness play a role between the two? Describe Clytemnestra’s relationship with her father. How did his betrayal make you feel, and how does it shape Clytemnestra? The story of Clytemnestra and her family is foreshadowed by an inescapable prophecy. Did the priestess’s vision play out the way you though it would? What roles did prophecies and religion have in this world? This story does not have obvious good characters and bad characters; all of them make decisions that are morally questionable. Were there specific moments that made you think differently about any of the characters? Were there some you found unforgiveable? Why do you think Odysseus allowed for Clytemnestra’s daughter to be sacrificed? How did you feel about Clytemnestra’s final act against Agamemnon? In the end, were her actions warranted? Who do you believe is ultimately to blame? Vengeance is a common theme that courses throughout the story. How does vengeance play a role in all the characters’ lives, especially Clytemnestra’s? Clytemnestra has been portrayed by history as an evil queen. How does the author question that role? Do you think Clytemnestra is truly evil? Are you familiar with any of the myths that are presented in this novel? Were they told differently than you remember? A Conversation with the Author Of all the women in Greek mythology, why Clytemnestra? What drew you to her story? I fell in love with this extraordinary character more than ten years ago. In the ancient texts, she is fierce, clever, powerful, and unbending, unlike any other heroine I’d read before. The most fascinating thing about her in the ancient sources is that she is feared and respected for the power she holds in Mycenae. I thought, here is a woman who commands a city as her husband is away, who makes him pay for all the wrong he has done to her, and who doesn’t let the men around her belittle her. I felt the need to explore her story. Her backstory was


past twenty-three years, Thalia Keith had been stalled out at seventeen as someone more sophisticated than me. But I was a mother now, for Christ’s sake, and in ten years Leo would be as old as Thalia had been when she died. I was working with these sweet students, and they were brilliant, but they were also babies. And Omar—Omar had been a baby himself. I needed to stop seeing him as the worldly guy I’d perceived at the time, someone who surely could have handled himself in the face of police interrogation. I said, “There was so much evidence against Omar. It’s just that there have always been unanswered questions, too. Don’t you think?” What if, for instance, none of her friends had known about you and her? What if they’d been so invested in the romance of Thalia-and-Robbie that they couldn’t see what her life was? It was possible—it was possible!—that I knew things they hadn’t. Fran said, “Right, but it’s not Perry Mason. We’re never gonna have some flashback scene.” “Do you ever think about Omar in prison? Like, as you’re living your life, do you—” “I think about Thalia in the ground,” she said. “My first year at Reed, that whole year I kept wondering how long it takes a body to decompose. I kept wondering if her skin was gone yet.” “Jesus.” “That’s what I think about. Forgive me if I don’t have a ton of sympathy for the guy whose DNA was all over her.” I tried my hardest to change the subject. “I wonder what happened to the Dick List” was what I came up with. “We should donate it to the archives.” “They should put it in that display case in the admissions office!” “They should at least publish it in the alumni magazine.” Fran said, “I bet Carlotta still has it. We should put it up on one of those creepy-ass websites about Thalia. Hey, here’s some relevant info about dick size!” “I wonder,” I said, maybe too seriously, “if someone still has the Thalia Bingo sheet.” Fran stopped laughing. “You’re obsessed. You’re getting obsessed.” “I was trying not to. But is it such a bad thing? You know when the time was to pretend not to care? Adolescence. That’s when I had the energy to pretend I didn’t care.” “Do you think—” “What.” “Nothing. Just, do you think—I know you had some crazy trauma in your childhood. And then you got here, and senior year was such a nightmare. I feel bad that I wasn’t sensitive to how hard it must have hit you. I just thought, since you weren’t friends . . . Like, I assumed you going off the deep end senior year was about your family. But Thalia’s death must’ve felt personal.” I wanted to shout that she was wrong, and I also wanted to melt to a puddle and tell her she was right. I said, more calmly, “I appreciate that. But honestly? I think that’s the reason I didn’t let myself care. I’d already had personal tragedies,


catch our flight. The Miami con is massive, but I have to admit, they’re starting to blur together a bit. More autographs, another panel, another line of fans waiting to meet their favorite fictional biology major unequivocally devoted to his werewolf girlfriend. Any moment I’m not scribbling away at our first draft, I’m frantically refreshing the Alaska Airlines flight tracker. Because last night, I beamed out an SOS to Noemie before I even made it back to my room, Finn’s confession doing acrobatics in my chest. “I know it’s a six-hour flight and you have a million things to do and—” “Chandler,” she said calmly, a welcome contrast to the chaos in my brain. “It doesn’t matter. I’m coming. First thing tomorrow morning.” This was PR problem-solving Noemie, and maybe that’s the version of her I need. All morning, I’ve tried to explain it away. It was the medication messing with him, or maybe he meant it in a different way—like, You’re crushing it! Or he was just being polite. Everyone knows you tell someone you have a crush on them when they take care of you while you’re sick. That’s just etiquette. One small blessing is that Finn doesn’t seem to remember much of what we talked about after my cozy mystery diatribe, or if he does, he’s doing an incredible job hiding it. I, on the other hand, am an absolute mess, made all the messier by the fact that our next stop is Reno, where I’ll be meeting his mother and his childhood best friend. Nothing about last night made sense. If anything, I should find him less attractive today, but that’s unfortunately not true. I shouldn’t have blushed this morning when he knocked on my hotel room door with a cup of coffee as a thank-you for taking care of him. Because either of us having feelings for each other would be nothing short of disastrous. Crushes fade, I remind myself as Finn poses for photos, grinning and generally being charming as hell. Crushes fade, and we already cemented this as a casual relationship. If it became anything more and ended badly, it might harm our working relationship, too, and I’d never forgive myself for jeopardizing a job like that. We’ll go our separate ways when the book is done, anyway. No attachments. No feelings. “Could you make it out to Noemie? That’s N-o-e—” “Nome?” The sound that comes out of my mouth can only be compared to a pterodactyl screech. I leap out of my chair, its legs squealing against the linoleum floor. There she is, the last person in the signing line, grinning back at me. “You made it!” I nearly knock over a stack of Finnegan Walsh headshots in my attempt to hug her. No shock, she looks extremely put together even after a six-hour flight, dark hair in a low ponytail and not a single crease in her linen pants. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you.” When I release her, she’s gazing at Finn with what might as well be heart-eyes.


Lucy hadn’t had one before now—though they were hardly ever on their own—and Simon had only wanted to get to know his future sister-in-law better. But the longer he knew Lucy, the more difficult he found it to keep his imaginations and hopes to himself. And if Forester’s assertions were correct, Simon was not being subtle about how he was starting to feel. She is to marry William, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. The words hadn’t done him much good, however, and he hated that he even had to tell himself anything of the sort. He shouldn’t have even looked at Lucy with any sort of intention, but ignoring her was next to impossible. She got under his skin. Despite his lingering misgivings about her, something about her forced him to reconsider bachelorhood. He had feared perhaps it was simply jealousy—not for her specifically but for William’s life in general. William had always had freedom and joy in a way Simon could only dream of. He had only responsibility for himself, and he had lived his life well with that knowledge. And now he was settling down. He had found himself a wife and would soon have children running about to spoil and laugh with and watch grow. Simon wanted all of that. He always had. The problem was he was starting to want all of that with Lucy. The one woman he couldn’t have. If he really thought about his feelings toward her, his aversion to her marrying William had nothing to do with general envy. He had to admit that he loved the way she challenged him. The way she saw his struggles and didn’t belittle him for them but found ways to help him. He loved her mind and her kindness and the way she had him questioning his whole life like no one else ever had. He had never met anyone like her. She wasn’t right for William. Or, rather, William wasn’t right for her. She needed someone who would see her potential and pull it out of her instead of keeping her in her place. Her place was on equal footing with whichever man was lucky enough to be hers. Like Mother had been with Father. He could feel Lucy next to him, even if he refused to look at her. This road was less maintained than the one to Downingham, and she had been struck with the same inability to remain planted in her seat as before. She fought it like she had the last time, but every once in a while, she bounced against Simon, each touch more agonizing than the last. It was good that Forester had come. The maid—Rebecca?—would have been enough to maintain propriety, but Forester sitting across from them, occasionally glancing over, kept Simon from pulling Lucy into his arms to keep her steady. Such a show of familiarity would have pushed their odd relationship into something wholly different from what they shared now, and he would have had no explanation for it. As her future brother-in-law, he could


for one dreadful minute I think she’s going to cry. This is not like Kate. Does this mean the return of the pink pa- jamas? She turns to me. “I’ve fallen in love with him. At first I thought it was just the great sex. But he’s charming and kind and warm and funny. I could see us growing old togeth- er—you know . . . kids, grandkids—the works.” “Your happily ever after,” I whisper. She nods sadly. “Maybe you should talk to him. Try to find some alone time here. Find out what’s eating him.” Who’s eating him, my subconscious snarls. I slap her down, shocked at the waywardness of my own thoughts. “Perhaps you guys could go for a walk tomorrow morning?” “We’ll see.” “Kate, I hate seeing you like this.” She smiles weakly, and I lean over to hug her. I resolve not to mention Gia, though I might mention it to the manwhore himself. How can he mess with my friend’s affections like this? Mia returns, and we move on to safer territory. 275/551 The fire hisses and spits sparks on to the hearth as I feed it the last log. We’re al- most out of wood. Even though it’s summer, the fire is very welcome on this wet day. “Mia, do you know where the wood for the fire is kept?” I ask as she sips her daiquiri. “I think it’s in the garage.” “I’ll go find some. It’ll give me an opportunity to explore.” The rain has eased off when I venture outside and head to the three-car gar- age adjoining the house. The side door is unlocked and I enter, switching on the light to fight the gloom. The fluorescent strips ping noisily to life. There’s a car in the garage, and I realize it’s the Audi I saw Elliot in this af- ternoon. There are also two snowmobiles. But what really grabs my attention are the two trail bikes, both 125cc. Memories of Ethan bravely endeavoring to teach me how to ride last summer flash through my mind. Unconsciously, I rub my arm where I badly bruised it in a fall. “You ride?” Elliot asks from behind me. I whirl around. “You’re back.” “It would appear so.” He grins, and I realize that Christian might say the same thing to me—but without the huge, heart-melting grin. “Well?” he asks. Manwhore! “Sort of.” “Do you want a go?” I snort. “Um, no . . . I don’t think Christian would be very happy if I did.” “Christian’s not here.” Elliot smirks— oh, it’s a family trait—and waves his arm to indicate we’re alone. He strolls toward the nearest bike and swings a long denim-clad leg over the saddle, sitting astride and grabbing the handlebars. “Christian has, um . . . issues about my safety. I shouldn’t.” “You always do what he says?” Elliot has a wicked sparkle in his baby-blue eyes, and I see a glimmer of the bad boy . . . the bad boy Kate has fallen in love with. The bad boy


hummed as it went, an uneasy sound. The hall expanded and then disappeared beneath her. The air changed, grew sweeter, and Alice glided upward to a different realm altogether, one blanketed in a cream-and-gold hush. The bedroom floor. Alice had never felt carpets like this before entering Park Lane. They were so rich, so new. They seemed to suck at her feet. The doors were mirrored and looked as if they’d been glazed with syrup. She adored the bedroom floor. It made her teeth tingle, as if her mouth were filled with sugar. It was heavenly, the home of angels. She waited at the end of the passage, smoothing her apron, listening to the clocks. Straightened her cap. The household machinery tensed, every clock hand poised, straining, ready. “Wait for Madam in the passage,” the house-parlormaid had warned her. “Don’t go and knock. She hates that.” Until now, Miss de Vries had been an entirely remote figure. Nearby, certainly: really only a few feet away if Madam was in the bedroom and Alice was in the dressing room. But she was attended by other servants. Alice observed her, studied her daily movements. She didn’t talk to her at all. The Bond Street seamstresses managed all the fittings for Madam’s ball dress. Alice despised it. It was black, per instruction, suitable for mourning. But the sleeves were fussy, heavy, and the lace looked almost antique in its design. The seamstresses worked section by section, sending parts up to Park Lane for Alice to finish. Hackwork, really, the kind of thing she could do with her eyes closed. Yet she found herself unpicking their stitches, remaking the lines, softening the gown’s edges. Trying to make it elegant. Sometimes, when she was hanging about for the latest delivery, Alice would make sketches of the gown that she’d design for Madam. Something with a little pep to it, something with a little go. Something to make people stare. Thunk. The clocks marked the hour, and soft chimes issued through the house. At the end of the passage there was a fan window, admitting a bright shaft of sunshine. And in it, threaded into the haze itself, she spied a figure on the approach. A wisp of a person, a moth-wing flutter of black lace, fair hair. But there was a force around her, pressure in the air. “Madam,” called Alice, raising her hand. The figure paused. The light shifted, dissolved, and Miss de Vries turned and looked her way. The first time Alice saw Madam, she’d been startled. She hadn’t expected Miss de Vries to be so tiny. To be such a small, delicate person. She was—what? Two years older than herself, at most? Twenty-three, and only just that. Just a girl, really. Miss de Vries was wearing mourning, black-dyed and ruffled lawn, and the lace came all the way up to her chin. Her flaxen hair was teased and curled so that just one lock fell on her forehead. She had curious features. A thin nose, and slightly protuberant eyes. Like a fairy, or a


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

I replied that I was. “Then sir,” said the stranger, who proved a lawyer, “you are responsible for the man you left there. He refuses to do any copying; he refuses to do any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit the premises.” “I am very sorry, sir,” said I, with assumed tranquility, but an inward tremor, “but, really, the man you allude to is nothing to me—he is no relation or apprentice of mine, that you should hold me responsible for him.” “In mercy’s name, who is he?” “I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. Formerly I employed him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for some time past.” “I shall settle him then,—good morning, sir.” Several days passed, and I heard nothing more; and though I often felt a charitable prompting to call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet a certain squeamishness of I know not what withheld me. All is over with him, by this time, thought I at last, when through another week no further intelligence reached me. But coming to my room the day after, I found several persons waiting at my door in a high state of nervous excitement. “That’s the man—here he comes,” cried the foremost one, whom I recognized as the lawyer who had previously called upon me alone. “You must take him away, sir, at once,” cried a portly person among them, advancing upon me, and whom I knew to be the landlord of No.—Wall-street. “These gentlemen, my tenants, cannot stand it any longer; Mr. B—” pointing to the lawyer, “has turned him out of his room, and he now persists in haunting the building generally, sitting upon the banisters of the stairs by day, and sleeping in the entry by night. Every body is concerned; clients are leaving the offices; some fears are entertained of a mob; something you must do, and that without delay.” Aghast at this torrent, I fell back before it, and would fain have locked myself in my new quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby was nothing to me—no more than to any one else. In vain:—I was the last person known to have any thing to do with him, and they held me to the terrible account. Fearful then of being exposed in the papers (as one person present obscurely threatened) I considered the matter, and at length said, that if the lawyer would give me a confidential interview with the scrivener, in his (the lawyer’s) own room, I would that afternoon strive my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained of. Going up stairs to my old haunt, there was Bartleby silently sitting upon the banister at the landing. “What are you doing here, Bartleby?” said I. “Sitting upon the banister,” he mildly replied. I motioned him into the lawyer’s room, who then left us. “Bartleby,” said I, “are you aware that you are the cause of great tribulation to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after


the fear coating my mouth. “At the gym. Where else?” His face is implacable. “What are you wearing?” Lee’s clothes are shabby, ill-fitting. My husband knows I would never go out like this. “Vintage,” I say, giving him a weak smile. “Your friend was here.” “Oh, Lee?” My voice comes out high-pitched and strangled, but I press on… a faint sense of hope. “Yeah, I was going to lend her some dressy clothes. For a job interview. She borrowed my car. I walked back.” “Not her,” he says, his lips curling into a malicious smile. “Your other friend.” I cock my head, feign innocence. But he knows. I was an idiot to think I could fool him. “Jesse, I think his name was?” I’m not sure how to play this. Do I pretend Jesse is a stranger to me? A simple intruder? Maybe a stalker? If I deny our relationship, Benjamin will know I’m lying and will punish me. If I admit we were lovers, I am as good as dead. But I have to ask… “Where is he?” “Oh, he’s gone, Hazel.” The smile is still in place. “You’ll never see him again.” He doesn’t tell me if Jesse is dead or alive, only that he got rid of him. Benjamin paid him off probably. I know now that Jesse loved money more than he loved me. “I know all about your little plot, my darling.” Benjamin stands, towering over me. “Did you really think you could kill me and get away with it?” “No…” The word comes out a whisper. I take a step back. “Clearly you did. You and your so-called boyfriend.” He smirks. “You’re so stupid, thinking you could trust him. But he never cared about you, Hazel. He was only after your money.” He’s right. But how did Benjamin know? Had he beaten and interrogated the truth from Jesse? Or paid him for it? “You never even knew his real name.” Benjamin smiles when he sees me blanch. “Your lover’s real name was Carter Sumner. He was a criminal. A dirtbag. A real piece of shit.” He paces around his office, like he is in court. Habit, I guess. “I was his lawyer in a violent breaking and entering case. One of his criminal associates hired me to represent him. That’s how he found you, Hazel. He targeted you.” My head feels thick and foggy, and the information isn’t sinking in. I knew Jesse had a shady past. The signs were there in his home, in his tattoos, and the ease with which he suggested my husband’s murder. But to think that he was an entirely different person, someone Benjamin knew and I didn’t, makes me wobbly. I reach behind me, hand scrabbling for the bookshelf to steady myself. Benjamin clocks my obvious distress and smiles. “He used you to get to me, Hazel. To take what I’ve built through my skill and talent because he had none. He was a loser. And a user. And you fell for him.” I open my mouth to deny or


of gentleman and therefore disliked anyone who held that title or beyond. Lord Calloway didn’t seem to fit that prejudicial mold, though Lucy wondered if he would treat her the same way as Mr. Granger claimed if he knew she was merely a governess. Even without all her lies, was he a good enough man that he would help someone so far beneath him when she needed him most? That question terrified her, and she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to put it to the test. Not yet. For now, she wanted to play along with his teasing. Her father had always teased her, and she knew it was love that had fueled his jests. It had made their home a happy one, even if it was small, and she had been missing that in her life. “Well, Lord Nothing-at-All,” Lucy said, and she grinned when Lord Calloway scowled at the ridiculous moniker. “I would imagine Olivia is quite fast, though she has the benefit of a quick horse, so she says. Without knowing firsthand how either of you rides, it is simply impossible to make a comparison.” “Then, I suppose I will have to take you riding to allow you adequate information to pass judgment.” Lucy knew that would be a terrible idea; spending time alone with any of the family would inevitably lead to her spilling her secret too soon if put under pressure. With the whole family around, she could hide behind their conversations and hope to only skim the surface of their chats. She couldn’t fathom why he would want to ride with her in the first place, and she knew it would be best to avoid as much interaction as she could. She needed him to like her, and she doubted he would appreciate her true, lying self. But though she told herself to skirt around the invitation—for it surely was an invitation, if his smile were to be believed—the words that came from her mouth were, “I suppose you are right.” “Of course I am,” he replied. “I am always right.” Goodness, that smile of his brightened the whole room. And despite his outward display of confidence, Lucy was positive it was a charade. Simon Calloway didn’t seem arrogant in the least, and she very much liked that about him. “Well,” Lord Calloway said, pushing himself slowly to his feet, “shall we?” Lucy frowned. “Shall we what?” They couldn’t very well go riding now when that was what Olivia was planning to do. Lifting a dark eyebrow, Lord Calloway looked at her like she should know. “See to William,” he said. “But we were there this morning.” “Olivia doesn’t know that. Unless you want her to know about your delightful hair this morning, it would be best to follow through with the idea, in case she gets it into her head that she should remain indoors.” Without meaning to, Lucy touched a hand to her hair, just to make sure it wasn’t an absolute mess. She had gotten so used to wearing it in a


then said: "I've got it now! I've got it now! It blowed the candle!" "Mercy on us! Go on, Tom -- go on!" "And it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I believe that that door -- '" "Go on, Tom!" "Just let me study a moment -- just a moment. Oh, yes -- you said you believed the door was open." "As I'm sitting here, I did! Didn't I, Mary! Go on!" "And then -- and then -- well I won't be certain, but it seems like as if you made Sid go and -- and -- " "Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do?" --------------------------------------------------------- -181- "You made him -- you -- Oh, you made him shut it." "Well, for the land's sake! I never heard the beat of that in all my days! Don't tell me there ain't anything in dreams, any more. Sereny Harper shall know of this before I'm an hour older. I'd like to see her get around this with her rubbage 'bout superstition. Go on, Tom!" "Oh, it's all getting just as bright as day, now. Next you said I warn't bad, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more responsible than -- than -- I think it was a colt, or something." "And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom!" "And then you began to cry." "So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then -- " "Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same, and she wished she hadn't whipped him for taking cream when she'd throwed it out her own self -- " "Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a prophesying -- that's what you was doing! Land alive, go on, Tom!" "Then Sid he said -- he said -- " "I don't think I said anything," said Sid. "Yes you did, Sid," said Mary. "Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom?" "He said -- I think he said he hoped I was better off where I was gone to, but if I'd been better sometimes -- " "There, d'you hear that! It was his very words!" "And you shut him up sharp." "I lay I did! There must 'a' been an angel there. There was an angel there, somewheres!" "And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a firecracker, and you told about Peter and the Painkiller -- " "Just as true as I live!" "And then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout dragging the river for us, and 'bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss Harper hugged and cried, and she went." "It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I'm a-sitting in these very tracks. Tom, you couldn't told it more like if you'd 'a' seen it! And then what? Go on, Tom!" "Then I thought you prayed for me -- and I could see you and hear every word


have to learn to resist the fascination of Idlewhateveryou-call-it. When I tell you to come in at a certain time I mean that time and not half an hour later. And you needn't stop to discourse with sympathetic listeners on your way, either. As for the picnic, of course you can go. You're a Sunday-school scholar, and it's not likely I'd refuse to let you go when all the other little girls are going." "But-but," faltered Anne, "Diana says that everybody must take a basket of things to eat. I can't cook, as you know, Marilla, and-and-I don't mind going to a picnic without puffed sleeves so much, but I'd feel terribly humiliated if I had to go without a basket. It's been preying on my mind ever since Diana told me." "Well, it needn't prey any longer. I'll bake you a basket." "Oh, you dear good Marilla. Oh, you are so kind to me. Oh, I'm so much obliged to you." Getting through with her "ohs" Anne cast herself into Marilla's arms and rapturously kissed her sallow cheek. It was the first time in her whole life that childish lips had voluntarily touched Marilla's face. Again that sudden sensation of startling sweetness thrilled her. She was secretly vastly pleased at Anne's impulsive caress, which was probably the reason why she said brusquely: "There, there, never mind your kissing nonsense. I'd sooner see you doing strictly as you're told. As for cooking, I mean to begin giving you lessons in that some of these days. But you're so featherbrained, Anne, I've been waiting to see if you'd sober down a little and learn to be steady before I begin. You've got to keep your wits about you in cooking and not stop in the middle of things to let your thoughts rove all over creation. Now, get out your patchwork and have your square done before teatime." "I do NOT like patchwork," said Anne dolefully, hunting out her workbasket and sitting down before a little heap of red and white diamonds with a sigh. "I think some kinds of sewing would be nice; but there's no scope for imagination in patchwork. It's just one little seam after another and you never seem to be getting anywhere. But of course I'd rather be Anne of Green Gables sewing patchwork than Anne of any other place with nothing to do but play. I wish time went as quick sewing patches as it does when I'm playing with Diana, though. Oh, we do have such elegant times, Marilla. I have to furnish most of the imagination, but I'm well able to do that. Diana is simply perfect in every other way. You know that little piece of land across the brook that runs up between our farm and Mr. Barry's. It belongs to Mr. William Bell, and right in the corner there is a little ring of white birch trees-the most romantic spot, Marilla. Diana and I have our playhouse there. We call it Idlewild. Isn't that a poetical name? I assure you it took


“abeyance” during this transitional year—

and that we’d offered to re1mburse the Sovereign Grant for refurbishments

to Frogmore Cottage.

A firm “no comment” on the status of our security.

I flew back to Vancouver. Delicious reunion with Meg, Archie and the

dogs. And yet, for a few days, I didn’t feel fully back. Part of me was still

in Britain. Still at Sandringham. I spent hours glued to my phone, and the

internet, monitoring the fallout. The ire directed at us by the papers and the

trolls was alarming.

“Make no mistake, it’s an insult,” cried the Daily Mail, which convened

a “Fleet Street jury” to consider our “crimes.” Among them was the

Queen’s ex—press secretary, who concluded, with his fellow jurors, that we

should hereafter “expect no mercy.”

I shook my head. No mercy. The language of war?

Clearly this was more than simple anger. These men and women saw

me as an existential threat. If our leaving posed a threat to the monarchy,

414

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

as some were saying, then it posed a threat to all those covering the

monarchy for a living.

Hence, we had to be destroyed.

One of this lot, who’d written a book about me and thus provably

depended on me to pay her rent, went on live TV to explain confidently

that Meg and I had departed from Britain without so much as a by-your-

leave to Granny. We’d discussed it with no one, she said, not even Pa. She

announced these falsehoods with such unfaltering certainty that even I was

tempted to believe her, and thus her version of events quickly became “the

truth” in many circles. Harry blindsided the Queen! That was the narrative

that took hold. I could feel it oozing into history books, and I could

imagine boys and girls at Ludgrove, decades hence, having that hogwash

rammed down their throats.

I sat up late, brooding on it all, going over the progression of events and

asking myself: What’s the matter with these people? What makes them


not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended. ``You may readily comprehend,'' she added, ``what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it -- unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.'' ``Not that I _shall_, though,'' she added to herself, as she finished the letter; ``and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out.'' Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of it; -- till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante. __ CHAPTER X (52) ELIZABETH had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than, hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial. ``Gracechurch-street, Sept. 6. MY DEAR NIECE, I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_. Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_ side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am -- and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was


of the best things about Granby, might have been not only a fraud, not only a predator, but—it was possible, I was finally letting it creep into view—a more violent kind of monster. I sucked in air, but it was just empty space, no oxygen. The news story had been getting to me, too, clawing at the edges of my dreams. The way no one would listen to her testimony. The way they mocked her victim impact statement. The way they read her diary aloud. Somewhere down here lay the rock I’d once thrown. Somewhere down here was the hula hoop circle we’d observed, a quarter century of changes within its circumference. It was in the other woods, the ones at the bottom of campus—connected to these but drier, flatter, denser—that we’d built the Kurt shrine. Those were the same woods where Barbara Crocker’s body was found in 1975, just outside the Granby property line. Those were the woods where, in the middle of the night, late senior year, I brought my backpack with the half bottle of Absolut Kurant I’d stolen from the Hoffnungs’ liquor cabinet, and I sat under the tree where the magazine photos and notes and flowers had faded to scraps, and I drank straight from the bottle, daring myself to swallow more before the first wave hit me, and then more. And when it did all hit me, it was with the force of a ferocious undertow pulling me far, far out to black waters. That next morning, I woke up vomiting—my back and neck and head throbbing, my fingers numb. I foggily remembered having fished Tylenol out of my backpack’s side pocket and swallowing the seven that were in the bottle. If there had been more in the bottle, I would have swallowed those, too. I would have. I remembered having drunkenly whispered into the night air, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.” It was a kind of rebuke—to the woods, the school, myself. I’d come here to live deliberately, and I’d failed. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but every day was worse. Each morning I woke to heavier air, heavier bones, heavier eyelids, even as my body grew so thin that I was always cold. I had fought with my mother the day before, but that was only one little thing. I’d been coming unraveled for weeks. But what was I going to do, run to the counselor and take a spot away from one of Thalia’s grieving friends? Now, in the ravine, I felt that time was porous, that the girl from 1995 could somehow reach through, exchange her breath for mine. She had woken up back then by stealing my breath, my heartbeat, from this present moment. In exchange, she’d handed me her asphyxiation, her organ failure, her descending oblivion. Here they came. The Tigerwhip would be about three feet deep here, plus the ice on top, plus the sludge on top of the ice that made it impossible to tell how solid the ice


and kindly allowing me to ignore the irony. I admit: It was relaxing. After a while, he said, “My friend who had a completely different thing from you used to breathe while I did this, and it helped her a lot.” “I don’t need to breathe, thank you,” I said. “Suit yourself,” Joe said. But then he added, “Deep breaths are super healthy for you, though—even if you’re totally fine. I might take a few myself. Just to improve my already stellar health.” And with that, Joe sucked in a big, loud breath, held it for about three seconds, and then blew it back out. “So refreshing,” he said then. “My grandma does this every day, and she just turned a hundred.” He kept breathing like that, and what can I say? Peer pressure. I joined him. We did about ten rounds, and then, I’m not going to lie: I did feel better. Less dizzy. Less nauseated. Less sweaty. “My friend’s totally different thing used to pass after about twenty minutes,” Joe said then. “I don’t think my thing is going to pass until this party ends,” I said. “Ah,” Joe said. Then, a second later, like he’d had an idea, he said, “Are you okay here on your own for a minute?” “I am now—and will continue to always be—one hundred percent okay,” I insisted, forehead still pressed to the concrete. “Be right back then,” Joe said. A few minutes later, I heard a chunk noise—just as the music cut out and it seemed like my dark corner got darker. Then I heard the ambient sound of a puzzled crowd. Then I heard Joe’s voice. “Power outage, guys. Looks like the party’s over.” Oh god, he was my hero. Just knowing they were leaving drained the stress from my body. By the time Joe came back, I was sitting up, leaning against the brick wall, breathing. Like a pro. “Did you just flip the breaker and pretend there was a power outage?” I asked. “Yep,” Joe said. “And everybody went home?” I asked. “Yep.” “And then you came back to check on me?” Joe shrugged, like, Obviously. “Did you worry at all that the darkness might freak me out?” “Nah,” Joe said. “We’ve got the moon.” I looked up and saw it for the first time. It was brighter than I’d realized. “I guess we do.” It occurred to me then that I might have to start altering some of my opinions about Joe. Next I asked, “And once the coast is clear, are you going to take me out for that dinner you promised?” But Joe just shook his head. “No.” I felt a flash of disappointment. “You’re not?” “Nope,” Joe confirmed then, turning back to the moon. “Because I already ordered us a pizza.” Fifteen WE ATE PIZZA on the roof, cross-legged, watching the city skyline. I don’t know if it was the breeze playing with my hair, or the receding adrenaline from the panic attack, or the layer upon layer of compassion Joe had offered to me, but


“Not then.” I wait for her to elaborate. She doesn’t. “Why didn’t the police suspect Virginia tried to kill herself if there was a chair there?” Lenora stares at me, unblinking. “It wasn’t there when they arrived.” This time, no elaboration is necessary. I understand exactly what she means—rather than try to help her sister, Lenora moved the chair so the police wouldn’t know Virginia killed herself. That realization causes me to recoil. I take several backward steps, wanting to put as much distance between us as possible. Until now, I could almost summon some grudging sympathy for Lenora. But this? This was monstrous. “I did it to protect her,” she says, no doubt knowing what I’m thinking because I make no attempt to hide it. “How was that protecting her?” I say. “She tried to kill herself and you did nothing but cover it up.” “If I hadn’t, then the police would have known the truth,” Lenora says, her voice ice cold. “They, like me, would have realized the reason Virginia tried to commit suicide.” I take another backward step, this one driven purely by shock. “You think Virginia murdered your parents.” “I know she murdered them.” Lenora’s tone shifts from steely to tremulous, as if it’s being chipped away with a chisel. “Honestly, I’m not surprised, considering what we did to her.” “Who’s ‘we’?” “Me,” Lenora says, punctuating the word with a sip of wine and a hard swallow. “My father. The real Miss Baker. After what we did, the only surprise is that she didn’t kill us all.” I gave birth on the floor of my bedroom. It’s one of the few things I remember. The baby coming so quickly that there wasn’t time to get onto the bed. So I was forced to lay in the puddle I’d created on the floor, my head knocking against the wall as I writhed in pain. Another thing I’ll never forget--the sweaty agony of it all. Like I was splitting in half, shedding my skin, being reborn through the fire of pure pain. I had only my sister and Miss Baker, who rushed in to help after hearing my cries. Neither of them knew what they were doing. So I pushed. I screamed. I hurt. At some point, exhausted and delirious from pain, I blacked out. My body was still pushing, crying, screaming, and hurting, but my mind was elsewhere. I pictured me and Ricky on a hillside studded with wildflowers and white-capped mountains in the distance. We stood in the sunlight, our child in my arms, as birds in the surrounding pines sang a song meant just for us. Only when the birdsong turned to crying did I snap back to reality. Mother’s instinct. I knew my child had been born. And that it needed me. He needed me. I saw my child was a boy when my sister returned from the kitchen with a butcher knife she used to cut the umbilical cord. He was so tiny. So fragile. But when I looked at him, I felt a love


hit noon and I should be at home for Dad’s birthday right now. I sit up with an unintelligible groan and think I might be sick. I stumble across my room in last night’s dress to take two paracetamol tablets dry and then gag. My throat hurts and my stomach burns. I’d google “hangover symptoms” because I feel like I only have five minutes left to live, but I can’t see straight—my head is so heavy. I’m not that late, and Dad’s not going anywhere. I won’t even tempt myself by getting back into bed completely. No, I’ll just rest my head on my pillow … only for a minute … ten minutes maybe. Half an hour at the most. * * * I wake up to a persistent buzzing. My phone is ringing. “Mum LONDON” and, underneath, the time: 14:47. Fuck. I jump out of bed and answer the phone. It’s fine; I’ll just take the cake home and decorate it there. “Hi, Mum. Sorry I’m later than I said I was going to be. I’m leaving the flat in ten minutes.” I sniff my armpits. “Twenty minutes.” I grab a towel and reach for my shower cap. “I went to bed late,” I explain when Mum doesn’t say anything back. “So that’s why I’m—” “Maddie?” I stop because Mum’s voice is thick and heavy and she’s crying enough to force two more syllables into my name. “Mum, what’s wrong?” “Maddie, your father, he … he is dead. He’s dead.” I freeze on the spot, half out of last night’s dress. What did she say? “Your father’s dead,” she repeats, then begins to choke and cry. I frown because I can clearly picture my dad sitting in front of the TV, smiling. I shake my head. “But it’s his birthday,” I tell her. “I know!” she says. “Oh, God. Oh, God. To take him on his birthday. And just now too, not thirty minutes long. I’ve been trying to call you. But he is dead. Maddie, he is dead.” My body finally hears her and it happens all at once, the punching of my heart, the loosening of my stomach, the burning in my chest. My belly heaves in and out. “Maddie, your father is—” “Stop saying that!” I snap. “I heard you the first time.” I pull my phone away and stare at the red end call button. “I’m sorry, Maddie.” She continues to cry down the line. I want to tell her not to be so dramatic. It’s not what it seems. It can’t be today that he’s died. No one dies on their birthday. My dad is not dead. There’s been some mistake. “You need to check again,” I tell her. “The paramedics have announced it, Maddie,” she says. “I am so sorry.” I hang up the phone and hold it to my chest. The only thing I can think about is Mum saying he died thirty minutes before, meaning I’d have been there if I’d woken up when I was meant to. I would have seen him


tore the telephone off its hook beside Bond's bed. '... and tell the police,' he concluded, 'tell them that the Englishman from Jamaica who was knocked over by the blast is my affair. He is unhurt and they are not to worry him. I will explain to them in half an hour. They should tell the Press that it was apparently a vendetta between two Bulgarian Communists and that one killed the other with a bomb. They need say nothing of the third Bulgar who must have been hanging about somewhere, lout they must get him at all costs. He will certainly head for Paris. Road-blocks everywhere. Understand? Alors, bonne chance.' Mathis turned back to Bond and heard him to the end. 'Merde, but you were lucky,' he said when Bond had finished. 'Clearly the bomb was intended for you. It must have been faulty. They intended to throw it and then dodge behind their tree. But it all came out the other way round. Never mind. We will discover the facts.' He paused. 'But certainly it is a curious affair. And these people appear to be taking you seriously.' Mathis looked affronted. 'But how did these sacr Bulgars intend to escape capture? And what was the significance of the red and the blue cases? We must try and find some fragments of the red one.' Mathis bit his nails. He was excited and his eyes glittered. This was becoming a formidable and dramatic affair, in many aspects of which he was now involved personally. Certainly it was no longer just a case of holding Bond's coat while he had his private battle with Le Chiffre in the Casino. Mathis jumped up. 'Now get a drink and some lunch and a rest,' he ordered Bond. 'For me, I must get my nose quickly into this affair before the police have muddied the trail with their big black boots.' Mathis turned off the radio and waved an affectionate farewell. The door slammed and silence settled on the room. Bond sat for a while by the window and enjoyed being alive. Later, as Bond was finishing his first straight whisky 'on the rocks' and was contemplating the pat de foie gras and cold langouste which the waiter had just laid out for him, the telephone rang. 'This is Mademoiselle Lynd.' The voice was low and anxious. 'Are you all right?' 'Yes, quite.' 'I'm glad. Please take care of yourself.' She rang off. Bond shook himself, then he picked up his knife and selected the thickest of the pieces of hot toast. He suddenly thought: two of them are dead, and I have got one more on my side. It's a start. He dipped the knife into the glass of very hot water which stood beside the pot of Strasbourg porcelain and reminded himself to tip the waiter doubly for this particular meal. CHAPTER 7 - ROUGE ET NOIR Bond was determined to be completely fit and relaxed for a gambling session which might last most of the night. He ordered a masseur for three


youth. I hoped to be long gone before I witnessed the world take it from her. Of all the young wards in the keep, Fairel was my undisputed favorite. So much so that when she reached for my hand, I let her hold it all the way to the bottom of the hill before gently pulling away. “Why do you always pull away?” Fairel clasped her arms around her middle. Mimicking me from earlier. Kapastra’s scaly throne, I couldn’t imagine a more disastrous scenario than Fairel modeling her behavior after me. We ducked into a narrow alley, allowing the darkness to swallow us. Neither of us needed help navigating the uneven path. A shower of pebbles rained into our hair. I shepherded her away from the deteriorating wall, wishing I could as easily guide her from this question. I could have lied. I would have, had it been anyone other than Fairel and her hurt tone. “I do not have fond memories of being touched. My body recognizes it as a threat.” It hadn’t always, but Fairel didn’t need to know how I’d loved being swung up in Dawoud’s arms as a child. I would spend hours hanging on to Usr Jasad’s chief advisor while he conducted his business in the palace. Dawoud would walk into meetings with me dangling from his neck and carry on his conversation without batting an eye, as though the other person would be in the wrong for noticing the hyperactive seven-year-old clinging to him. Hanim had bled those memories from me. She left them gray, so everything to follow could be a dark, dripping red. Whips tearing against my back and shoulders. Nights of hanging by my feet from a sturdy tree branch, not unlike a slab of meat from the butcher’s hooks, with a dagger placed in my hand to fight any curious animals. On those nights, I could have easily bent in half and sawed at the ropes lashed around my feet. Another layer of Hanim’s punishment—knowing I had the ability to free myself, but not the bravery. “I would never threaten you,” Fairel said, horrified. Oh, but only this child could make me laugh in the temper I was in. “I know you wouldn’t. But my body interprets the sensation the same, no matter who it is coming from.” A clatter echoed from the other end of the alley. I put a hand in front of Fairel and listened. A rat scurried next to my foot, overturning a pile of pebbles in its path. Just a rat. I ushered Fairel forward, my arm hovering protectively a few inches behind her back. The alley opened to the flickering illumination of lamplight. Fairel’s head swiveled, taking in the uncharacteristic stillness of the main road. A muddy dog loped to the front of the butcher’s shop, sniffing at the discarded bones. Preparations for the waleema were almost complete. Lanterns connected by silver twine hung from the balconies lining the plaza road, creating a roof of light over the village. Shop owners had laid out lovingly braided


boy who tried to rape my daughters.” Electra looks away. The elders start whispering, and Clytemnestra quiets them. “You wanted to flog me years ago, my queen,” Kyros says. “You were right. I disrespected your daughters, and they showed me never to underestimate a woman in return. In every mistake, there is always a lesson to be learned.” She can tell he has been rehearsing his little speech, though he is careful enough to look honest as he speaks. “How many mistakes does it take to make a decent man?” she asks. Silence. Clytemnestra stares at the flames dancing in the hearth, their shadows lapping at Kyros’s feet. “Would you have Kyros next to you in war, Orestes?” she asks her son. “Can you trust a man who offended your sisters?” Again, Orestes speaks slowly. “Kyros is a good partner during practice. He always helps a friend in need.” Kyros nods to him, grateful. Clytemnestra sits back, feeling Electra’s eyes on her. “Very well. Then I will have your sword, Kyros. You will fight for me, next to my son and the other warlords.” Silence again. Then Kyros kneels, his face warm with pride. When he stands, he and Orestes exchange a glance. “This is your chance to make your queen proud,” Clytemnestra says. “Do not waste it.” “Thank you, my queen.” When he has gone, Clytemnestra orders the elders to leave her with her children. The hall feels lighter, cooler without them. She asks the servants to bring wine and turns to Electra. Her daughter is standing in the shadows, brooding. She has kept silent throughout the day, torturing the hem of her purple dress as the men tried to win her mother’s attention. Clytemnestra knows that she too is remembering when Kyros tried to hurt her, when Clytemnestra sent the boy away and Electra said, “At least Father treats us all the same.” But he didn’t, did he? You have become like him, she can hear Electra think. You think of your throne and kingdom before anyone else now. “Are you sure of this, Mother?” Orestes asks. Glints of fire from the torches shine on his handsome face. “I gave Kyros that position to show the elders that there is a second chance for those who are disloyal.” Besides, his father is dead, so now Kyros’s family will be loyal to me, not to Agamemnon. “You won’t regret it. Kyros is the best warrior among those who trained with me.” “Good. Because he is not a good person.” Orestes smiles and covers her hand with his own. “Do good men make good warlords?” * * * Once, three or four years ago, Clytemnestra asked her daughters what kind of husband they wanted. It was summer and they were in the garden. The trees were heavy with fruit, and birds were flying from branch to branch, eating cherries, chirping. Their feathers were brilliant in the sunlight. Chrysothemis considered the question. She was still too little to think about husbands, but she liked speaking to her mother in the garden, away from


her in brief correspondence with the advertiser. This person proved, on her presenting herself, for judgment, at a house in Harley Street, that impressed her as vast and imposing--this prospective patron proved a gentleman, a bachelor in the prime of life, such a figure as had never risen, save in a dream or an old novel, before a fluttered, anxious girl out of a Hampshire vicarage. One could easily fix his type; it never, happily, dies out. He was handsome and bold and pleasant, offhand and gay and kind. He struck her, inevitably, as gallant and splendid, but what took her most of all and gave her the courage she afterward showed was that he put the whole thing to her as a kind of favor, an obligation he should gratefully incur. She conceived him as rich, but as fearfully extravagant-- saw him all in a glow of high fashion, of good looks, of expensive habits, of charming ways with women. He had for his own town residence a big house filled with the spoils of travel and the trophies of the chase; but it was to his country home, an old family place in Essex, that he wished her immediately to proceed. He had been left, by the death of their parents in India, guardian to a small nephew and a small niece, children of a younger, a military brother, whom he had lost two years before. These children were, by the strangest of chances for a man in his position--a lone man without the right sort of experience or a grain of patience--very heavily on his hands. It had all been a great worry and, on his own part doubtless, a series of blunders, but he immensely pitied the poor chicks and had done all he could; had in particular sent them down to his other house, the proper place for them being of course the country, and kept them there, from the first, with the best people he could find to look after them, parting even with his own servants to wait on them and going down himself, whenever he might, to see how they were doing. The awkward thing was that they had practically no other relations and that his own affairs took up all his time. He had put them in possession of Bly, which was healthy and secure, and had placed at the head of their little establishment-- but below stairs only--an excellent woman, Mrs. Grose, whom he was sure his visitor would like and who had formerly been maid to his mother. She was now housekeeper and was also acting for the time as superintendent to the little girl, of whom, without children of her own, she was, by good luck, extremely fond. There were plenty of people to help, but of course the young lady who should go down as governess would be in supreme authority. She would also have, in holidays, to look after the small boy, who had been for a term at school--young as he was to be sent, but what


with me and the memories of you. I can't tell you much to help you. The Paris number was Invalides 55200. I never met any of them in London. Everything was done through an accommodation address, a newsagent's at 450 Charing Cross Place. At our first dinner together you talked about that man in Yugoslavia who was found guilty of treason. He said: 'I was carried away by the gale of the world.' That's my only excuse. That, and for love of the man whose life I tried to save. It's late now and I'm tired, and you're just through two doors. But I've got to be brave. You might save my life, but I couldn't bear the look in your dear eyes. My love, my love. V. Bond threw the letter down. Mechanically he brushed his fingers together. Suddenly he banged his temples with his fists and stood up. For a moment he looked out towards the quiet sea, then he cursed aloud, one harsh obscenity. His eyes were wet and he dried them. He pulled on a shirt and trousers and with a set cold face he walked down and shut himself in the telephone booth. While he was getting through to London, he calmly reviewed the facts of Vesper's letter. They all fitted. The little shadows and question-marks of the past four weeks, which his instinct had noted but his mind rejected, all stood out now like signposts. He saw her now only as a spy. Their love and his grief were relegated to the boxroom of his mind. Later, perhaps they would be dragged out, dispassionately examined, and then bitterly thrust back with other sentimental baggage he would rather forget. Now he could only think of her treachery to the Service and to her country and of the damage it had done. His professional mind was completely absorbed with the consequences - the covers which must have been blown over the years, the codes which the enemy must have broken, the secrets which must have leaked from the centre of the very section devoted to penetrating the Soviet Union. It was ghastly. God knew how the mess would be cleared up. He ground his teeth. Suddenly Mathis's words came back to him: 'There are plenty of really black targets around,' and, earlier, 'What about SMERSH? I don't like the idea of these chaps running aroundFrance killing anyone they feel has been a traitor to their precious political system.' How soon Mathis had been proved right and how soon his own little sophistries had been exploded in his face! While he, Bond, had been playing Red Indians through the years (yes, Le Chiffre's description was perfectly accurate), the real enemy had been working quietly, coldly, without heroics, right there at his elbow. He suddenly had a vision of Vesper walking down a corridor with documents in her hand. On a tray. They just got it on a tray while the cool secret agent with a Double O number was gallivanting round the world - playing Red Indians. His fingernails


I suppose he would not have wanted to enter Halgalant, so we need say no prayers for his soul on its journey. I do not know where heathens go when they die.’ **** Inys seemed too still. Too quiet. A queendom with its breath held and its eyes for ever on the sky. As the days wore on, heat enclosed it in a clammy fist. Tempers flared in the city; a riot in the market square, another in a line for bread. A baker was accused of using bone instead of flour. Glorian could not sleep, so she paced. She was sick, and her chest burned. When she woke, she could never remember her dreams, though she was sometimes filmed with ice. Robart Eller haunted her. His family had chosen to burn his body, to bolster the lie that he had died of the plague. Your ancestor was not a hero. His words gnawed at her mind. You do not need to bear the fruit of his eternal vine. It is a lie, meant to perpetuate his legacy, no more. Still those words refused to leave her. The next time she was sick, threads of hair clung to her tears and her mouth. As soon as they knew she was pregnant, the Regency Council would lock her away from the world. When she could stand, she picked up the mirror her mother had given her, and panic gripped her with such force that she almost retched again. Her face was the truth. Her face was her crown. Her supper had gone cold. She took the knife in one hand and grasped a lock of hair with the other – her black hair, one aspect of the Saint’s Marvel. The hair of a Berethnet queen. All her life she had worn it to her waist. She pulled the knife through the gathering of strands, watched her hair drift to the floor, and the world did not end. All lay quiet. Now exhilaration stole her fear. She cut and cut, wrenching the blade through all that heavy darkness, and the more she hacked away, the lighter her breathing. This small thing, she could still control. Her womb was not her own – but her hair, surely that could still be hers, surely. By the time the first bell clanged, she was slumped on the floor, surrounded by tufts and reels of black, her hair scruffy around her face. Florell came straight in. ‘Glorian—’ She stared down at the floor, the knife. ‘Sweeting, why have you done this?’ ‘To remind me that I am still mine.’ Glorian looked at her. ‘Tell the Regency Council it’s time.’ **** They had been packed for weeks. In the gloom, Helisent and Adela helped with her armour. On the streets, torchbearers flocked out to guide the people to Hyll Sanctuary. Many wept and protested and tried to fight their way ahead, too fear-stricken to keep their retreat calm. Others waited with grim acceptance for their turn to descend into the mining tunnel. Glorian watched the sanctuary devour one candle


to your uncle,” to the top of her head. Then she went up. She got off the elevator on twelve and went to the nurse’s station. “I’m here to see Mrs. Cannon,” she said. “She’s in room 1217, but I think she’s asleep,” the nurse said. “Her daughter’s in the family waiting room at the end of the hall if you want to see her.” Louise walked down the hall and into the waiting room, where Aunt Gail sat by herself, reading her Bible. “Aunt Gail?” Louise asked, picking her way through the chairs. “How is she?” Aunt Gail stood and gave Louise a quick, hard hug and stepped back. She wore a white-and-gold sweater that had a cartoon of a baby angel hugging itself on the front with the word Joy! written underneath. “Stable,” Aunt Gail said. “She was having a hard time breathing yesterday so I went over and stayed the night. She wasn’t any better this morning, so the doctor said bring her in. They’ve put her on the oxygen. Her numbers are back up, and they say that’s good, but now we’re waiting for someone to come listen to her lungs.” “When do they think she’ll get out?” Louise asked. “Today, they hope,” Aunt Gail said and sat down. Louise sat beside her. She didn’t know how to start. They sat in silence for almost a full minute. Finally, Louise felt like she had no choice. “Are you doing okay?” she asked. “God keeps me strong,” Aunt Gail said. Louise wished something kept her strong, because whether it was God or good genes or magic water from the river Jordan, Aunt Gail never looked tired. She never got sick. She never complained about feeling under the weather. All Louise felt was under the weather. “How is that precious little girl?” Aunt Gail asked. “That’s sort of why we came,” Louise said, deciding this was her chance. “She’s here?” Aunt Gail asked. “Downstairs with Mark,” Louise said. “You both flew all this way for my mother?” Aunt Gail asked. “I told Mercy not to make a fuss.” “We’re here for Aunt Honey,” Louise said. “But we came for, sort of, well . . . I don’t know how to put this, but I wanted to speak to you.” Aunt Gail looked understanding. “It’s never too late to have that child baptized,” she said. “I can arrange it tomorrow.” Louise took a breath and jumped in. “Mercy told us that a while back you helped her with a couple of properties she was selling that had some . . . funny stuff going on?” Aunt Gail’s expression didn’t change. “She said there were two houses,” Louise struggled forward. “She said they had problems, and you, you know, kind of, prayed for them?” “They were infested by demonic forces and I blasted them back to Hell.” Aunt Gail nodded. “Then she sold them to a couple of Yankees.” Louise felt relieved to be on firmer ground. “Right,” she said. “Well, I don’t know how to say this, but we feel like—


and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad.' `I call it purring, not growling,' said Alice. `Call it what you like,' said the Cat. `Do you play croquet with the Queen to-day?' `I should like it very much,' said Alice, `but I haven't been invited yet.' `You'll see me there,' said the Cat, and vanished. Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again. `By-the-bye, what became of the baby?' said the Cat. `I'd nearly forgotten to ask.' `It turned into a pig,' Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way. `I thought it would,' said the Cat, and vanished again. Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. `I've seen hatters before,' she said to herself; `the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March.' As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. `Did you say pig, or fig?' said the Cat. `I said pig,' replied Alice; `and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy.' `All right,' said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. `Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin,' thought Alice; `but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever say in my life!' She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself `Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!' CHAPTER VII A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and the talking over its head. `Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,' thought Alice; `only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind.' The table


back. “I’m fine.” “You’re bleeding,” I said, skating around to get a better look. “Am I?” he asked, trying to peek over his shoulder. “Doesn’t it hurt?” “I mean, it stings a little,” he said. I skated back around to his front. “Take it off,” I said, all business, gesturing at his shirt. He thought for a second, and then he nodded, and then he crossed his arms, grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, and peeled it off. Friends, Romans, countrymen—I might not have been able to see his face, but let me tell you … I could definitely see that shirtless torso. I mean, I had a physical reaction to beholding that thing—and it wasn’t because he was chiseled or extraordinary or some airbrushed fantasy you’d see in a magazine. It was just … strong and solid and nice. So … appealing, somehow. It just looked like a body that would feel good under your hands. I pushed that thought away the second I noticed it. But can I just add? An absolutely stellar shoulder-to-hip ratio. As a professional artist: thumbs-up. What was that word he’d just used? Mesmerized? Anyway, that wasn’t what we were here for. I shook it off and skated back around to check out the damage on his back. “Oh, you really got scraped,” I said. “Yeah,” he said. “We skidded a few feet.” “I’m so sorry,” I said, the volume on “annoyed” turning itself way down as “apologetic” ramped up. I looked down at my scratched-up palms. His back made them look paltry. “Come on,” I said, ready to remedy my guilt with stellar first aid, starting to skate back toward my door. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” But when I looked back, he wasn’t following. I skated back to him. “Let’s go.” “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got it.” “It’s your back,” I said. “How are you going to reach it?” “I’ll manage.” Was it his fault that he startled me and made me trip? Absolutely. Sort of. But was I the one who landed on him and dragged him across a roof? Also yes. “Let me help you,” I said, my voice much softer now. “You wouldn’t be scraped up like this if I hadn’t landed on you.” “You wouldn’t have landed on me if I hadn’t come up here.” “You wouldn’t have come up here if the lock had been working properly.” Joe nodded. “So this is all Mr. Kim’s fault.” “One hundred percent Mr. Kim,” I agreed, taking Joe’s hand and pulling him toward my place like a tugboat. “But I’m all you’ve got.” * * * INSIDE, JOE COULDN’T stop looking around at all my paintings, and I couldn’t stop looking at Joe. He was taking in my painting supplies, and my decor, and my hovel in general—but his expression was so different from what Lucinda’s had been. She’d been judging me, and he was, too—but, from his body language, he was judging me positively. Like he liked it. Which was a little bit spellbinding. Or was it the torso? Tough


accepted her grandmother's offer from interested motives. She had the heedless generosity and the spasmodic extravagance of persons used to large fortunes, and indifferent to money; but she could go without many things which her relations considered indispensable, and Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Welland had often been heard to deplore that any one who had enjoyed the cosmopolitan luxuries of Count Olenski's establishments should care so little about "how things were done." Moreover, as Archer knew, several months had passed since her allowance had been cut off; yet in the interval she had made no effort to regain her grand- mother's favour. Therefore if she had changed her course it must be for a different reason. He did not have far to seek for that reason. On the way from the ferry she had told him that he and she must remain apart; but she had said it with her head on his breast. He knew that there was no calculated coquetry in her words; she was fighting her fate as he had fought his, and clinging desperately to her resolve that they should not break faith with the people who trusted them. But during the ten days which had elapsed since her return to New York she had perhaps guessed from his silence, and from the fact of his making no attempt to see her, that he was meditating a decisive step, a step from which there was no turning back. At the thought, a sudden fear of her own weakness might have seized her, and she might have felt that, after all, it was better to accept the compromise usual in such cases, and follow the line of least resistance. An hour earlier, when he had rung Mrs. Mingott's bell, Archer had fancied that his path was clear before him. He had meant to have a word alone with Madame Olenska, and failing that, to learn from her grandmother on what day, and by which train, she was returning to Washington. In that train he intended to join her, and travel with her to Washington, or as much farther as she was willing to go. His own fancy inclined to Japan. At any rate she would understand at once that, wherever she went, he was going. He meant to leave a note for May that should cut off any other alternative. He had fancied himself not only nerved for this plunge but eager to take it; yet his first feeling on hearing that the course of events was changed had been one of relief. Now, however, as he walked home from Mrs. Mingott's, he was conscious of a growing distaste for what lay before him. There was nothing unknown or unfamiliar in the path he was presumably to tread; but when he had trodden it before it was as a free man, who was accountable to no one for his actions, and could lend himself with an amused detachment to the game of precautions and prevarications, concealments and compliances, that the part required. This procedure was called "protecting a


and Puja said, with surprising directness, “What I’ve heard is you should be looking at Omar, from the gym.” A Detective Boudreau from the Major Crimes Unit was asking most of the questions. “Did she tell you her plans for that evening?” he asked everyone, and “Did you know Thalia to be sexually active?” and “Was Thalia hurting herself in any way?” The questions seemed irrelevant to the case, as if he’d be asking the same things no matter who died or how. There was an occasional follow-up, a “How so?” or “Could you spell that?” or “What time would that have been?” but nothing terribly incisive. I hoped against hope that someone besides me had mentioned her being on drugs, at least smoking up once in a while. I needed that not to have come from me alone. So far, though, my skimming turned up nothing else. I’d need to read thoroughly later, with a clear head, in an organized way. Or Britt and Alder would, rather. I forwarded them the Dropbox. From somewhere in the dark, the voice of one of my students: “Wait, he’s her brother? He’s way too into her.” Someone else shushed him. I’d ordered pizzas, and toward the end of the 1932 version, I had to stand outside and wait for the delivery. I was shifting from foot to foot in the cold when my phone pinged with a text from Mike Stiles. That Lola had included me when they introduced their Uncle Mike to Britt via text on Friday made this only a bit less shocking. There, in my phone, Maybe: Mike Stiles. The text read: Hey, Bodie, it was so good to hear your name from Lola. I can’t believe how long it’s been! I have a few reservations about talking to these students. Would you be able to chat sometime tomorrow? I had the sudden feeling of being watched, out there in the cold. I felt the need to compose my face, to tug my coat down smooth over my stomach, pull my shoulders back. I thought of typing a response, but it was too cold to take my gloves off, and it would probably be better just to call tomorrow. Plus here was the pizza car. My timing was perfect; I returned to the theater just as Tony died in the gutter, just as the sign behind him announced that the world was his. 49 By two a.m., I’d gone through every document Vanessa had sent, reading the ones I could understand. I’d looked at my own words, which took up just two pages. The dumpster story was the only thing of note that I told them. I talked about the musical, but they never asked what time it ended. In those earliest interviews, I was indeed the only one mentioning drugs. I felt increasingly sick; who knew what I’d started by trying to be relevant? They asked Thalia’s friends if she was on drugs, if she had a drinking problem, if she’d been suicidal, and they all answered no. But by


meters on a single breath.” The news pans to an interview from 2012 with Chelsea wearing a wetsuit, a medal hanging from her neck. The same medal that was hanging on the wall at Brody’s house. Sloane gasps, causing one of the nurses to glance at her. The freediving photo hanging on Brody’s wall beneath the medal wasn’t of him. It was Chelsea. The reporter lifts a microphone toward Chelsea. “Can you tell us how it feels to dive over twenty stories deep on a single breath, knowing you’re going deeper than any woman has before? How do you manage to stay calm during the dive?” Chelsea leans toward the microphone. “When you reach about forty meters, you start to freefall. It feels like you’re flying.” Except you’re sinking. “You let go of everything, even the urge to breathe. It’s an inner stillness unlike any other experience. It’s joy. Pure joy.” Chelsea smiles. Sloane feels bile rise to the back of her throat. “Son of a bitch.” Both nurses turn and gape at her. “What?” one of them asks, furrowing her brows. “Are you okay?” Sloane keeps her eyes on the flatscreen. “The dive is the easy part,” Chelsea adds. “It’s coming back up that is the challenge.” Sloane feels her chest tighten. She pushes past the nurses and throws the door open to the locker room. She needs to get out of this place. Chapter 21 Sloane sinks against her leather seat after she pulls into her garage. Ethan’s bay is empty. She goes inside, glad she doesn’t have to face him. At least not yet. She needs to be alone to process the day’s events before she confesses her affair to Ethan. She sets her purse on the kitchen table and takes a glass from a cupboard. She turns on the faucet. But instead of filling her glass, she stares at the water, seeing Chelsea’s cyanotic, lifeless body recoiling from Logan’s chest compressions. What really happened beneath the waters of Puget Sound that afternoon? Did Brody drown his wife? Or did she really get tangled in the kelp, and this time Brody looked on, watching her struggle to break free? Sloane ran a quick search on her phone before leaving the hospital. She couldn’t find any evidence that Brody ever freedived competitively. Only Chelsea. He lied and she fell for it. But she lied too—about fantasizing that Ethan would get killed in the line of duty. She wasn’t even sure why she’d gone that far, but when she said it, she needed him to think that he was the one for her. But now Chelsea is dead. Goosebumps form on her arms as she moves her glass beneath the stream. “Hey.” She jumps, spilling water across the floor when she whips around. “Oh!” She brings a hand to her chest. “Ethan.” She reaches behind her to turn off the faucet. “I didn’t hear you come in.” “You left the garage door open.” Sloane searches his eyes, but his expression is unreadable. “I did?” He nods. “Oh. It was a long


father died, and he highly doubted he would find any peace for years to come, if ever. Finally, after what felt like hours, the ladies retreated to the drawing room and left the men to share a bit of port and talk freely, though Simon imagined the conversation would hardly change. Forester enjoyed the sound of his own voice a bit too much. As Forester lifted his glass to his mouth, Thatcher perked up as if eager to finally get a chance to make himself look good. “Calloway, m’boy, did you know—” “I nearly forgot!” Forester said loudly. “I haven’t told you about the woman I saved in Hyde Park last Thursday. You will not believe how mad the place was, and if I hadn’t been there . . .” Thatcher huffed in annoyance, but he seemed to recognize his defeat and dropped himself into a chair at the other end of the room, staring into his glass. Simon wrapped his arm around Forester’s shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief. “I owe you one,” he muttered, not loudly enough for Thatcher to hear. Forester chuckled. “It took only three words out of the man’s mouth before I pitied you for your unfortunate array of neighbors. Has he no shame?” “None. You didn’t really save someone in the park, did you?” “And risk becoming even more of a spectacle of Town? Of course not.” Simon frowned as he tried to make sense of that. “You make yourself a spectacle,” he pointed out. Forester shrugged. “I can control my own words, but there is little else I can control. I use what I have and hope it serves me well in dampening whatever else people might decide about me.” Here was some of the sincere Forester back, the part of the man Simon had first grown to love. “How long do you plan to stay, truly?” he asked quietly so as not to be overheard. “You are welcome as long as you’d like.” “I give you my thanks, old friend. Town was becoming rather suffocating, and I can’t bring myself to go back home now that my parents are both gone.” A sadness filled his expression, even though his parents had died many years ago, when he was still a schoolboy. Simon counted himself lucky. He still had his mother and sister, and now that William was nearly married . . . William. Forester would have to find out eventually, though Lucy wouldn’t like it. She had been quite adamant that no one but family know her as William’s fiancée until William woke, but Forester was like another brother to Simon. He couldn’t very well tell his friend that he had a random woman hiding upstairs like some scandalous secret. “By the way,” he said as the pair of them led the way into the drawing room a little while later, “William is engaged.” “What?” Forester’s question was loud enough that everyone looked in their direction, and Simon was tempted to smack the man. He had meant to break this news gently. “When?”


on earth more grateful than me for every tiny butterfly-wing flap of help, word spreading, and recommendation that readers—and bookstores and other writers—do. My career has been the definition of a long, slow burn and there’s nothing about it that I take for granted. Writers can only write stories if there are people out there who want to read them—and I’m so grateful to you for being one of those people. And for helping find more of them. And for allowing me to spend my life obsessing over stories and practicing their soul-nourishing, page-turning, life-changing magic. ALSO BY KATHERINE CENTER The Bodyguard What You Wish For Things You Save in a Fire How to Walk Away Happiness for Beginners The Lost Husband Get Lucky Everyone Is Beautiful The Bright Side of Disaster About the Author KATHERINE CENTER is the New York Times bestselling author of ten novels, including The Bodyguard, Things You Save in a Fire, and How to Walk Away. Katherine writes laugh-and-cry books about how life knocks us down—and how we get back up. The movie adaptation of Katherine’s novel The Lost Husband hit #1 on Netflix, and Happiness for Beginners is soon to be a Netflix original movie starring Ellie Kemper. Katherine lives in her hometown of Houston, Texas, with her husband, two kids, and their fluffy-but-fierce dog. Join her mailing list at KatherineCenter.com!, or sign up for email updates here. Thank you for buying this St. Martin’s Publishing Group ebook. To receive special offers, bonus content, and info on new releases and other great reads, sign up for our newsletters. Or visit us online at us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup For email updates on the author, click here. Contents Title Page Copyright Notice Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Epilogue A Note About Prosopagnosia Author’s Note Acknowledgments Also by Katherine Center About the Author Copyright This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group HELLO STRANGER. Copyright © 2023 by Katherine Center. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271. www.stmartins.com Cover design by Olga Grlic Cover illustration by Katie Smith The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows: Names: Center, Katherine, author. Title: Hello stranger / Katherine Center. Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2023. | Identifiers: LCCN 2022058238 | ISBN 9781250283788 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250283795 (ebook) Subjects: LCGFT: Novels. | Romance fiction. Classification: LCC PS3603.E67 H45 2023 | DDC 813/.6—dc23/ eng/20221209 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022058238 eISBN 9781250283795 Our ebooks may be purchased


not been conscious of remotely suspecting his identity. He came back to where I stood, and again held out both his hands. Not knowing what to do - for, in my astonishment I had lost my self-possession - I reluctantly gave him my hands. He grasped them heartily, raised them to his lips, kissed them, and still held them. "You acted noble, my boy," said he. "Noble, Pip! And I have never forgot it!" At a change in his manner as if he were even going to embrace me, I laid a hand upon his breast and put him away. "Stay!" said I. "Keep off! If you are grateful to me for what I did when I was a little child, I hope you have shown your gratitude by mending your way of life. If you have come here to thank me, it was not necessary. Still, however you have found me out, there must be something good in the feeling that has brought you here, and I will not repulse you; but surely you must understand that - I--" My attention was so attracted by the singularity of his fixed look at me, that the words died away on my tongue. "You was a saying," he observed, when we had confronted one another in silence, "that surely I must understand. What, surely must I understand?" "That I cannot wish to renew that chance intercourse with you of long ago, under these different circumstances. I am glad to believe you have repented and recovered yourself. I am glad to tell you so. I am glad that, thinking I deserve to be thanked, you have come to thank me. But our ways are different ways, none the less. You are wet, and you look weary. Will you drink something before you go?" He had replaced his neckerchief loosely, and had stood, keenly observant of me, biting a long end of it. "I think," he answered, still with the end at his mouth and still observant of me, "that I will drink (I thank you) afore I go." There was a tray ready on a side-table. I brought it to the table near the fire, and asked him what he would have? He touched one of the bottles without looking at it or speaking, and I made him some hot rum-and-water. I tried to keep my hand steady while I did so, but his look at me as he leaned back in his chair with the long draggled end of his neckerchief between his teeth - evidently forgotten - made my hand very difficult to master. When at last I put the glass to him, I saw with amazement that his eyes were full of tears. Up to this time I had remained standing, not to disguise that I wished him gone. But I was softened by the softened aspect of the man, and felt a touch of reproach. "I hope," said I, hurriedly putting something into a glass for myself, and drawing a chair to the table, "that you will not think I


But the men who took the repayments still turned up every fortnight, teeth gleaming. She met them on the lane at the end of the road, where Father couldn’t see them. “Next week,” she said. “I’ll catch up next week.” “Of course, miss,” they said, all courtesy. “You take your time.” It would have been better if they’d got out a lead pipe to beat her, if they’d sent her screaming down the lane. Then she could have gone running for help without feeling any shame. As it was, she had the upside-down feeling of being sucked deeper and deeper into something she couldn’t control, something that presaged disaster—for there was only one way things could go with a bad debt. She told no one. The collectors gave off a strange smell: powdered chalk mixed with gardenias. The scent stayed in her nostrils late at night. She wasn’t sleeping well. Saying her prayers didn’t soothe her in the least. Protection was what she needed. And Park Lane was perfect. She couldn’t have hoped for somewhere bigger or more fortified if she tried. She left the department store without even giving notice. She gave the wrong forwarding address to Father. Best to unstitch herself from the neighborhood altogether until she could get her cash in hand. “What’s the fee?” she’d asked Mrs. King. Mrs. King told her, and Alice felt her chest expand in disbelief. That was all she needed—it was unimaginably more than she needed. As sewing maid, all she needed to do was keep her hands clean and her mending box tidy and watch Miss de Vries. She was even given a room of her own, a tiny box in the breathless heights of the house. That first night, she went down on her knees and recited her catechism three times under her breath. She felt like a thief claiming sanctuary in a church. Ironic, really. It wasn’t hard to avoid her sister in public. There was one vast table running down the middle of the servants’ hall, and Alice was always seated at the bottom end, above the lamp-and-errand boy and the scullery maids and the endless parade of kitchen maids. The air smelled permanently of boiled meat and stewing fruit, and the pipes clattered without ceasing. Above Alice sat all the housemaids, and then all the house-parlormaids, and then the men: under-footmen, footmen, Mr. Doggett, the chauffeur, and Mr. de Vries’s valet. That wasn’t even counting the electricians, and the gardeners, the family physician, a nurse, three carpenters, half a dozen groomsmen to muck out Mr. de Vries’s stable of horses, the mechanics, or the French chef who came downstairs twice weekly and fought unceasingly with Cook. It was an army big enough to run a country house, let alone an address on Park Lane. The butler, Mr. Shepherd, sat at the head of the table, lord of all, with Mrs. King on his right hand. They reconvened in secret, in snatched moments. Brisk conversation, no time for affection. It made Alice feel rather lonely. “Here,” Mrs. King said,