no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil and ended by each of us falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged, and we determined to try again. The next night we lowered the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes without making the least sound. It was incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of patient interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and we had almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an instant we both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary senses keenly on the alert once more. We had heard the creak of a step in the passage. Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery and the corridor was all in darkness. Softly we stole along untii we had come into the other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he tiptoed down the passage. Then he passed through the same door as before, and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every plank before we dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had taken the precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old boards snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Some- times it seemed impossible that he should fail to hear our ap- proach. However, the man is fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that which he was doing. When at last we reached the door and peeped through we found him crouching at the window, candle in hand, his white, intent face pressed against the pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights before. We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us. His dark eyes, glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full of horror and astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me. "What are you doing here, Barrymore?" "Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that he could hardly speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his candle. "It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they are fastened." "On the second floor?" "Yes, sir, all the windows." "Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry


care that,

no matter where I went, two paps were always present. Two sorry-looking,

extremely terrible paps: Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber.

For much of my adult life there had been paps waiting for me outside

public places. Sometimes a mob of them, sometimes a handful. The faces

always varied, and often I couldn’t even see the faces. But now there were

always these two faces, and always clearly visible. When there was a mob,

they were right in the middle. When there was no one else, they were there

all by themselves.

But it wasn’t just public places. I’d be walking down a side street, which

I’d only decided to walk down seconds before, and they’d leap from a phone

box or from under a parked car. I’d leave a friend’s apartment, certain that

no one knew I’d been there, and they’d be standing outside the building, in

the middle of the street.

Besides being everywhere, they were ruthless, much more aggressive

than other paps. They’d block my path, they’d chase me to my police car.

They’d block me from getting into the car, then chase the car down the

street.

Who were they? How were they doing this? I didn’t think they had any

kind of sixth sense or extrasensory perception. On the contrary, they looked

as if they didn’t possess one full frontal cortex between them. So, what

hidden trick were they leveraging? An invisible tracker? A source inside the

police?

They were after Willy too. He and I talked about them a lot that year,

talked about their unsettling appearance, their complementary ruthlessness

and idiocy, their take-no-prisoners approach. But mainly we discussed their

omnipresence.

How do they know? How do they always know?

Willy had no idea, but was determined to find out.

Billy the Rock was determined as well. He walked up to the Tweedles

several times, interrogated them, looked deep into their eyes. He managed to

2AZ

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get a sense of them. The older, Tweedle Dumb, was doughy, he


true, but I can’t let this go. “Don’t let your father turn her out. She helped me during the sickness. She was courageous when—” “The concubine has already been dismissed,” he says, swiveling away from me. “She will take her daughter with her—” “Her only surviving child,” I emphasize. “And Fifth Daughter is your half sister.” I can see him tasting this idea on his tongue and finding it bitter. “Without a son and without her beauty, Miss Chen has no value to my father.” “Fifth Daughter is only ten years old,” I press. “There is nothing I can do. It is my father’s decision.” I nod and leave Maoren to his books. I realize there’s little time. I go straight to the front gate, where I find Miss Chen and her daughter. “I don’t know what’s to become of us,” the concubine whispers. I have no words to reassure her. Few options exist for a woman like her. Watching her leave with only the clothes on her back, the scars on her face, and her child is sad beyond measure. A few days later, my husband abruptly departs for Nanjing. Although he offered kind words when Ailan was released—I await your return to me with my full heart—he did not visit me before he left. I tell myself he must be happy about Lian, but is he upset that I didn’t receive more rewards from the palace or that I didn’t do enough to keep Snowpink and their son from dying? Maybe Maoren and I have simply spent too much time apart… Life in the Garden of Fragrant Delights is different now as we all adjust to the changes resulting from the heavenly flowers disease. I sit for hours with mothers who lost children. No remedy exists to relieve their anguish, but I can cry with them. I visit former patients, making sure they’re eating well and providing formulas to rebuild their strength. And, of course, I cherish every moment I have with my daughters and son, who has reached three months. Two weeks later, with my husband gone and feeling reconnected to my children, I decide it’s time to visit Meiling. I step over the main threshold of the compound and get into my palanquin. Eight weeks have passed since we arrived back in Wuxi, and I’m unsure of what I’ll discover when I reach her new home. Meiling and her mother received variolation, but I don’t know about her husband or his customers. I hope they haven’t been affected. When I arrive, a servant opens the gate, and I enter a small courtyard that reminds me of the first house where I lived. Meiling appears in a doorway and calls to me, breathless and nervous. “Yunxian!” We hold each other in a tight embrace. I don’t want to let go, and she doesn’t release me. “We’re all fine. I’m so glad you’re alive,” she murmurs. “I was terrified for you and your children. Tell me. Is Lian well?” All I can do is nod into her neck. She takes


strings Annabel’s publicists had pulled to avoid its being towed immediately. After summoning Danny down from the seventeenth floor, Annabel, who’d been sitting on the hood, leapt off it in order to passionately kiss him, as the paparazzi, of whom there were more than a dozen, clicked away with their cameras and shouted questions about the price of the car and the date of the wedding. The car itself was a silver Mercedes-AMG G 65, a collection of letters and numbers that meant nothing to me, though Henrietta reported that the Internet said that it had cost $220,000. I happened to know, though I wasn’t sure if either Annabel or the general public did, that Danny didn’t have a driver’s license. I’d witnessed none of the spectacle firsthand because I’d been in rehearsal for Blabbermouth, trying to behave normally around Noah. But when I ran into Danny back in our office, he was the one who showed me the pictures from Annabel’s Instagram account, which featured them with their lips locked in the foreground and the car in the background. These photos had been taken not by a paparazzo but by a photographer on Annabel’s payroll present at almost all of her public events. Across the first photo was the sentence I heart my bb, and Danny’s response in the comments below was love u my moon girl. I said, “The weird part is I heard you and Annabel had broken up yesterday.” Danny and I were sitting side by side on the couch, and though he’d denied having just burped, the air was filled with the smell of a half-digested Reuben. “No, we did break up.” His tone was equanimous. “But only for half an hour.” “Have you broken up other times?” “A bunch.” “Has it been stressful?” “I wouldn’t choose it.” “Is Annabel always the one who initiates the breakups?” “Yeah, but she’s also the one who reaches out to get back together. She gets jealous, which is crazy because it’s not like I could ever do better than her. Once I told her when she wore her hair all pushed to the side, she looked like Bethany Brick, and she freaked out.” “Who’s Bethany Brick?” “That was her question, too. Tell me you don’t watch porn without telling me you don’t watch porn.” “I find it narratively unsatisfying,” I said. “Yeah, I think you might be missing the point. Anyway, another time I told her I don’t really get jealous, and it was like she got jealous about me not getting jealous. All I meant was that I know she’s out of my league. I’ve already exceeded my wildest dreams.” We both were quiet, and he said, “This must all sound so stupid.” “No, no,” I said quickly. “The sketch about The Danny Horst Rule—that’s me being pissed about the double standards of heterosexuality. It’s not a comment on your specific relationship with Annabel.” “But all me and Belly’s ups and downs—they probably seem real juvenile to you.” “Have I ever told you I was married in my early


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

desk there; that he copied for me at the usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was permanently exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred to Turkey and Nippers, one of compliment doubtless to their superior acuteness; moreover, said Bartleby was never on any account to be dispatched on the most trivial errand of any sort; and that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was generally understood that he would prefer not to—in other words, that he would refuse pointblank. As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His steadiness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant industry (except when he chose to throw himself into a standing revery behind his screen), his great, stillness, his unalterableness of demeanor under all circumstances, made him a valuable acquisition. One prime thing was this,—he was always there;—first in the morning, continually through the day, and the last at night. I had a singular confidence in his honesty. I felt my most precious papers perfectly safe in his hands. Sometimes to be sure I could not, for the very soul of me, avoid falling into sudden spasmodic passions with him. For it was exceeding difficult to bear in mind all the time those strange peculiarities, privileges, and unheard of exemptions, forming the tacit stipulations on Bartleby’s part under which he remained in my office. Now and then, in the eagerness of dispatching pressing business, I would inadvertently summon Bartleby, in a short, rapid tone, to put his finger, say, on the incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was about compressing some papers. Of course, from behind the screen the usual answer, “I prefer not to,” was sure to come; and then, how could a human creature with the common infirmities of our nature, refrain from bitterly exclaiming upon such perverseness—such unreasonableness. However, every added repulse of this sort which I received only tended to lessen the probability of my repeating the inadvertence. Here it must be said, that according to the custom of most legal gentlemen occupying chambers in densely-populated law buildings, there were several keys to my door. One was kept by a woman residing in the attic, which person weekly scrubbed and daily swept and dusted my apartments. Another was kept by Turkey for convenience sake. The third I sometimes carried in my own pocket. The fourth I knew not who had. Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a celebrated preacher, and finding myself rather early on the ground, I thought I would walk around to my chambers for a while. Luckily I had my key with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted by something inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out; when to my consternation a key was turned from within; and thrusting his lean visage at me, and holding the door ajar, the apparition of Bartleby appeared, in his shirt sleeves, and otherwise in


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

black-haired boy who was near us in the station? Know who he is?" "Who?" "Harry Potter!" Harry heard the little girl's voice. "Oh, Mom, can I go on the train and see him, Mom, eh please..." "You've already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn't something you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?" "Asked him. Saw his scar. It's really there -- like lightning." "Poor dear -- no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He was ever so polite when he asked how to get onto the platform." "Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?" Their mother suddenly became very stern. "I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don't you dare. As though he needs reminding of that on his first day at school." "All right, keep your hair on." A whistle sounded. "Hurry up!" their mother said, and the three boys clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their younger sister began to cry. "Don't, Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls." "We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat." "George!" "Only joking, Mom." The train began to move. Harry saw the boys' mother waving and their sister, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train until it gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved. Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He didn't know what he was going to but it had to be better than what he was leaving behind. The door of the compartment slid open and the youngest redheaded boy came in. "Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry. "Everywhere else is full." Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He glanced at Harry and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn't looked. Harry saw he still had a black mark on his nose. "Hey, Ron." The twins were back. "Listen, we're going down the middle of the train -- Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there." "Right," mumbled Ron. "Harry," said the other twin, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then." "Bye," said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them. "Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out. Harry nodded. "Oh -- well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes," said Ron. "And have you really got -- you know..." He pointed at Harry's forehead. Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning scar. Ron stared. "So that's where You-Know-Who..." "Yes," said Harry, "but I can't remember it." "Nothing?" said Ron eagerly. "Well -- I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else." "Wow," said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments, then, as though he had suddenly realized what he was


mouthful and you’re dead. I checked and double-checked the plants I har- vested with my father’s pictures. I kept us alive. Any sign of danger, a distant howl, the inexplicable break of a branch, sent me flying back to the fence at first. Then I began to risk climbing trees to escape the wild dogs that quickly got bored and moved on. Bears and cats lived deeper in, perhaps disliking the sooty reek of our district. On May 8th, I went to the Justice Building, signed up for my tesserae, and pulled home my first batch of grain and oil in Prim’s toy wagon. On the eighth of every month, I was entitled to do the same. I couldn’t stop hunting and gathering, of course. The grain was not enough to live on, and there were 51 other things to buy, soap and milk and thread. What we didn’t absolutely have to eat, I began to trade at the Hob. It was frightening to enter that place without my father at my side, but people had respected him, and they accepted me. Game was game after all, no matter who’d shot it. I also sold at the back doors of the wealthier clients in town, trying to remem- ber what my father had told me and learning a few new tricks as well. The butcher would buy my rabbits but not squirrels. The baker enjoyed squirrel but would only trade for one if his wife wasn’t around. The Head Peacekeeper loved wild turkey. The mayor had a passion for strawberries. In late summer, I was washing up in a pond when I noticed the plants growing around me. Tall with leaves like arrow- heads. Blossoms with three white petals. I knelt down in the water, my fingers digging into the soft mud, and I pulled up handfuls of the roots. Small, bluish tubers that don’t look like much but boiled or baked are as good as any potato. “Katniss,” I said aloud. It’s the plant I was named for. And I heard my fa- ther’s voice joking, “As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never starve.” I spent hours stirring up the pond bed with my toes and a stick, gathering the tubers that floated to the top. That night, we feasted on fish and katniss roots until we were all, for the first time in months, full. Slowly, my mother returned to us. She began to clean and cook and preserve some of the food I brought in for winter. People traded us or paid money for her medical remedies. One day, I heard her singing. 52 Prim was thrilled to have her back, but I kept watching, waiting for her to disappear on us again. I didn’t trust her. And some small gnarled place inside me hated her for her weak- ness, for her neglect, for the months she had put us through. Prim forgave her, but I had taken a step back from my mother, put up a wall to protect myself from needing her, and nothing was


ours. same time snatching another, gave me a cut across the knuck- Gray, following close behind me, had cut down the big les which I hardly felt. I dashed out of the door into the clear boatswain ere he had time to recover from his last blow. An- sunlight. Someone was close behind, I knew not whom. Right other had been shot at a loophole in the very act of firing into in front, the doctor was pursuing his assailant down the hill, the house and now lay in agony, the pistol still smoking in his and just as my eyes fell upon him, beat down his guard and hand. A third, as I had seen, the doctor had disposed of at a sent him sprawling on his back with a great slash across the blow. Of the four who had scaled the palisade, one only re- face. mained unaccounted for, and he, having left his cutlass on the “Round the house, lads! Round the house!” cried the cap- field, was now clambering out again with the fear of death tain; and even in the hurly-burly, I perceived a change in his upon him. voice. “Fire—fire from the house!” cried the doctor. “And you, Mechanically, I obeyed, turned eastwards, and with my lads, back into cover.” cutlass raised, ran round the corner of the house. Next mo- But his words were unheeded, no shot was fired, and the ment I was face to face with Anderson. He roared aloud, and last boarder made good his escape and disappeared with the his hanger went up above his head, flashing in the sunlight. I rest into the wood. In three seconds nothing remained of the had not time to be afraid, but as the blow still hung impend- attacking party but the five who had fallen, four on the inside ing, leaped in a trice upon one side, and missing my foot in and one on the outside of the palisade. the soft sand, rolled headlong down the slope. The doctor and Gray and I ran full speed for shelter. The When I had first sallied from the door, the other muti- survivors would soon be back where they had left their mus- neers had been already swarming up the palisade to make an kets, and at any moment the fire might recommence. end of us. One man, in a red night-cap, with his cutlass in his The house was by this time somewhat cleared of smoke, mouth, had even got upon the top and thrown a leg across. and we saw at a glance the price we had paid for victory. Well, so short had been the interval that when I found my Hunter lay beside his loophole, stunned; Joyce by his, shot feet again all was in the same posture, the fellow with the red through the head, never to move again; while right in the Contents night-cap still half-way over, another still just showing his centre, the squire was supporting the captain, one as pale as head above the top of


round with a pot in their midst. As the evening wore on, food was presented to the guests. There were huge bowls of foo-foo and steaming pots of soup. There were also pots of yam pottage. It was a great feast. As night fell, burning torches were set on wooden tripods and the young men raised a song. The elders sat in a big circle and the singers went round singing each man's praise as they came before him. They had something to say for every man. Some were great farmers, some were orators who spoke for the clan. Okonkwo was the greatest wrestler and warrior alive. When they had gone round the circle they settled down in the centre, and girls came from the inner compound to dance. At first the bride was not among them. But when she finally appeared holding a cock in her right hand, a loud cheer rose from the crowd. All the other dancers made way for her. She presented the cock to the musicians and began to dance. Her brass anklets rattled as she danced and her body gleamed with cam wood in the soft yellow light. The musicians with their wood, clay and metal instruments went from song to song. And they were all gay. They sang the latest song in the village: " If I hold her hand She says, 'Don't touch!' If I hold her foot She says, 'Don't touch!' But when I hold her waist-beads she pretends not to know." The night was already far spent when the guests rose to go, taking their bride home to spend seven market weeks with her suitor's family. They sang songs as they went, and on their way they paid short courtesy visits to prominent men like Okonkwo, before they finally left for their village. Okonkwo made a present of two cocks to them. CHAPTER THIRTEEN Go-di-di-go-go-di-go. Di-go-go-di-go. It was the ekwe talking to the clan. One of the things every man learned was the language of the hollowed-out wooden instrument. Dum! Dum! Dum! boomed the cannon at intervals. The first cock had not crowed, and Umuofia was still swallowed up in sleep and silence when the ekwe began to talk, and the cannon shattered the silence. Men stirred on their bamboo beds and listened anxiously. Somebody was dead. The cannon seemed to rend the sky. Di-go-go-di-go-di-di-go-go floated in the message-laden night air. The faint and distant wailing of women settled like a sediment of sorrow on the earth. Now and again a full-chested lamentation rose above the wailing whenever a man came into the place of death. He raised his voice once or twice in manly sorrow and then sat down with the other men listening to the endless wailing of the women and the esoteric language of the ekwe. Now and again the cannon boomed. The wailing of the women would not be heard beyond the village, but the ekwe carried the news to all the nine villages and even beyond. It began by naming the clan: Umuofia obodo dike! "the land


with some stank-ass boy.” “Hey!” Javier protests. “Sorry,” Paige says. “No offense.” “Uh, full offense taken?” Javier says. I can’t tell if he’s mad or just surprised. I bite my lip to keep from smiling, but Porter laughs out loud and doesn’t care who hears. Javier goes to the recliner and sprawls out, shutting his eyes like he’s going to sleep. On his right wrist is Tasha’s pink hair tie. “Oh, hell no,” I say. “I don’t care how late you two were up; we got things to do today, and I need everybody on board because it’s just the seven of us.” “Calm down,” Javier says dismissively. “I’m here. We’re all here. Relax.” “Don’t tell her to relax,” Paige snaps. Javier opens his eyes and levels his gaze at her. Paige couldn’t care less. She stares right back at him. “Okay, okay,” Porter says, patting the air in front of him. “Let’s all take a deep breath. We’re all in this together.” He turns to me. “I know how much this final game means to you. You’re the scream queen of Camp Mirror Lake. But maybe we should call it off. We need more experienced staff, and Felix, Heather, and Jordan decided it wasn’t even worth showing up for.” I sigh. “We’re booked. A full group. We have to figure it out even if it’s just us.” My phone buzzes in my pocket. “Unknown Number” flashes across the screen. I pick it up anyway. “Hello?” Static crackles across the line. A voice breaks through in choppy fragments. “. . . signal? Can you . . . hear . . . I can’t . . .” “Who is this?” I ask. I get up and walk around trying to get better reception, but no matter where I am, I can only get one bar. “Office,” the voice says. “Office . . . office phone.” The call drops. Bezi glances at me. “Who was it?” “I’m not sure. I think they wanted me to go to the office phone. Everybody stay here.” I glance at Tasha and then at Javier. “Especially you two.” Tasha grins, and Javier leans back in the recliner and puts up his feet. I jog down Path #1, past the boathouse and the campfire site. The lake is murky in the light of day, and I turn away from it as I pass by. I can hear the phone inside the main office ringing before I get inside. I race up the steps and get the door open just as the ringing stops. I snatch up the receiver, pressing it to my ear. “Hello?” The sound of the dial tone greets me, and I set the receiver back down. I check my cell phone again. Still only one bar and even that keeps appearing and disappearing. The office phone rings again, and I scramble to grab it before whoever it is hangs up. “Hello?” “Charity,” a rough voice answers. “You hear me?” Now that the connection is clear, I know exactly who it is . . . Mr. Lamont.


weren’t comforting John Kelly. He was consoling them. Before I could get to the chief, I was stopped by a wave of people. The crowd flowed against me, toward the base of the stairs in the grand foyer. I turned. The dour mood lifted as the president emerged beaming in a black tuxedo, cueing an obedient band to play “Hail to the Chief.” Trump swaggered down the stairs from the residence, basking in the moment. Melania Trump, who by some accounts had considered leaving her husband, was on his arm smiling in a dazzling ivory gown. Next to me, a Republican congressman from Virginia, who had lost reelection in the midterms because of Trump, excitedly snapped pictures of the commander in chief on his phone. And in front of us, Vice President Mike Pence—a silent hostage to the president’s daily transgressions—applauded his approaching boss. Pence would be remembered for an erect posture and flaccid conscience. He stood proudly next to the chief executive but never stood up to him. He was built to obey. Trump took to the podium. “No administration has done more in two years than the Trump administration,” he declared triumphantly, scanning the crowd. He seemed to notice that there were far more Republicans than Democrats standing before him. “We have a lot of Democrats here, and I am very happy about that,” Trump boasted. “I have a lot of friends who are Democrats.” He changed his tune about Congress, predicting an “exciting year” of bipartisan deals on everything from infrastructure to healthcare—before urging his guests to relax and explore the White House. “To me, it’s a happy place,” he said. From his demeanor, you wouldn’t have known Donald Trump was preparing for an explosive confrontation with the legislative branch. He was playing nice. But a week later, Trump butted heads with Congress and sparked the longest government shutdown in history—forcing almost a million federal employees to go home or work without pay—just in time for Christmas. THE NEXT TRUMP WILL BEND CONGRESS TO THE MAGA MOVEMENT’S WILL THROUGH OBSTRUCTION, INSTRUCTION, AND DESTRUCTION. Article One of the U.S. Constitution comes first in the document for a reason. The section outlines the role of the legislative branch, which the Founders considered to be the most closely connected to the people. They also saw it as a counterweight to a power-hungry chief executive. The legislature can restrain the president on almost every aspect of his or her job by making laws, controlling government funds, approving presidential appointments, and monitoring executive agencies. It should be the toughest guardrail against a wayward president. That’s why the Next Trump will work hard to bypass Congress. “Article One is pretty well undone,” former Republican congressman Reid Ribble told me. In a second MAGA term, he said, “it will be undone entirely.” Ribble doesn’t believe it will happen in a sweeping constitutional clash but quietly and gradually. Members of the GOP will grow accustomed to another Trump-like president governing by executive order. “They will allow [the Next Trump] to become a soft dictator by complying with


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

whistle was heard from upstairs and his mother thrust a damp overall into his hands, saying: --Dry yourself and hurry out for the love of goodness. A second shrill whistle, prolonged angrily, brought one of the girls to the foot of the staircase. --Yes, father? --Is your lazy bitch of a brother gone out yet? --Yes, father. --Sure? --Yes, father. --Hm! The girl came back, making signs to him to be quick and go out quietly by the back. Stephen laughed and said: --He has a curious idea of genders if he thinks a bitch is masculine. --Ah, it's a scandalous shame for you, Stephen, said his mother, and you'll live to rue the day you set your foot in that place. I know how it has changed you. --Good morning, everybody, said Stephen, smiling and kissing the tips of his fingers in adieu. The lane behind the terrace was waterlogged and as he went down it slowly, choosing his steps amid heaps of wet rubbish, he heard a mad nun screeching in the nuns' madhouse beyond the wall. --Jesus! O Jesus! Jesus! He shook the sound out of his ears by an angry toss of his head and hurried on, stumbling through the mouldering offal, his heart already bitten by an ache of loathing and bitterness. His father's whistle, his mother's mutterings, the screech of an unseen maniac were to him now so many voices offending and threatening to humble the pride of his youth. He drove their echoes even out of his heart with an execration; but, as he walked down the avenue and felt the grey morning light falling about him through the dripping trees and smelt the strange wild smell of the wet leaves and bark, his soul was loosed of her miseries. The rain-laden trees of the avenue evoked in him, as always, memories of the girls and women in the plays of Gerhart Hauptmann; and the memory of their pale sorrows and the fragrance falling from the wet branches mingled in a mood of quiet joy. His morning walk across the city had begun, and he foreknew that as he passed the sloblands of Fairview he would think of the cloistral silver-veined prose of Newman; that as he walked along the North Strand Road, glancing idly at the windows of the provision shops, he would recall the dark humour of Guido Cavalcanti and smile; that as he went by Baird's stonecutting works in Talbot Place the spirit of Ibsen would blow through him like a keen wind, a spirit of wayward boyish beauty; and that passing a grimy marine dealer's shop beyond the Liffey he would repeat the song by Ben Jonson which begins: I was not wearier where I lay. His mind when wearied of its search for the essence of beauty amid the spectral words of Aristotle or Aquinas turned often for its pleasure to the dainty songs of the Elizabethans. His mind, in the vesture of a doubting monk, stood often in shadow under the windows of that age, to hear the grave


love and loyalty. But what Berniece is telling me shatters all my assumptions. If what she’s saying is true, then Lenora is just as guilty as Ricardo Mayhew. Probably more so, since she’s still alive and he’s . . . gone. Unless Berniece is lying. Not an impossibility, seeing how she just admitted to taking money for decades from the woman she says killed her husband. “If Lenora murdered Ricardo,” I say, “why wasn’t his body found with the others?” Berniece has a simple answer for that. “She shoved him off that terrace. You’ve seen it. That’s a long drop to the ocean.” Yet that still doesn’t make any sense. Why would Lenora make her accomplice disappear? Especially when it meant all suspicion was directed at her? Either Berniece is making all of this up—or she misunderstood what she saw. And judging by her silence all these years, she doesn’t care about that as long as she’s getting paid. “I don’t think this is about protecting your husband,” I say. “After the murders, you realized you had a new way to get your hush money.” “And good thing I did, too,” Berniece says. “Because sure enough, we were all fired within the week. Those of us who were left, anyway. Half the staff quit as soon as they found out what happened. Lenora was too busy being questioned by the police to do it herself. She sent the kitchen boy to do it.” “Archie?” “That’s his name,” Berniece says with a nod. “I never could remember it. Poor kid, though. Barely eighteen and being told to fire everyone he worked with. When he got to the cottage, he could barely look me in the eye. He just handed me a check for a thousand dollars, written out by Lenora Hope herself.” I check my watch again. Five minutes has turned to ten. And the man waiting for my return is the same person who first paid off Berniece. “Did he tell you it was hush money?” “He didn’t need to, hon,” Berniece says. “Paying off people was the Hope family way. They did it to get what they wanted, whether it was that concoction Mrs. Hope was always drinking or the pretty young maids Mr. Hope was always screwing. And it was how they kept people quiet, like whenever one of those pretty maids found themselves in trouble.” “So you just took the check and left.” A cold glint appears in Berniece’s eyes. “Not quite. I told him to inform Miss Hope that there needed to be a similar check every month or I’d tell the police I saw her with a knife the same night her parents were stabbed to death. Sure enough, one came for the same amount the next month. And the one after that. The money faucet’s been running ever since.” I stand, feeling dirty in her presence. Yet I’m also reluctant to get back to Hope’s End, because I know at least some of what she’s said is true. About Mrs. Hope’s addiction and Mr. Hope’s sexual


Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand. "Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry. "Dudley -- go -- just go." Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure they didn't fail. He had a plan. *** The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights. He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door -- "AAAAARRRGH!" Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat -- something alive! Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink. "I want -- " he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didn't go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot. "See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up." "I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon." "Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him. *** On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom. Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could


I was a finalist in the most prestigious portrait competition in the country. I couldn’t blow it. After all those years of failure: just scraping by and working overlapping jobs and questioning my value as a human being, I had to win. Sue had wanted to celebrate yesterday, but now the real work started. This was my shot. Possibly the only one I’d ever have. So no, I wasn’t going to sign up for elective brain surgery right now, thanks very much. “Um,” I said to Dr. Estrera, in a soft voice, like I didn’t want to offend him, “I just don’t have the time for brain surgery.” How bizarre to say those words out loud. And then my desire not to have brain surgery ran into direct conflict with my desire for Lucinda to never know anything about my life—and I hesitated so hard to explain my situation that when it all came out, it was one rapid burst: “I’m a portrait artist, and I’m a finalist in a competition that has a deadline in six weeks, and the first-place prize is ten thousand dollars, and this really is my big break that could change everything for me, and I’m going to need every single second between now and then to create the most kick-ass portrait in the history of time because I really, really need to win this thing.” Had I just said the word ass in front of a brain surgeon? “I understand,” Dr. Estrera said. “But please realize, there is some urgency here. Bleeding—even seepage—in the brain is never a good thing. And while ‘brain surgery’”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“sounds like a big deal, and it is, this procedure is relatively quick. You’d need only two to four days in the hospital. We can even do hair-sparing techniques to avoid shaving your head.” Was he trying to make it sound appealing? I hadn’t even thought about anyone shaving my head. What had started as a simple no was rapidly becoming a “hell, no.” I nodded like I was thinking about it. But what was there to think about? An old New Yorker cartoon of a person scheduling a meeting and saying, “How about never?” came to mind. “I think,” I said then, “that I’d really like to put the surgery off for as long as humanly possible.” Three LUCINDA TRIED TO force me to ride home with her in her Navigator, but I called an Uber instead. No way was I accepting help from her. Or letting her see my apartment, either. Though “apartment” was too generous a term. More of an “efficiency.” Or more accurately, a “shack”—built as the caretaker’s quarters in the 1910s when the building was constructed as a warehouse. Sue’s dad, Mr. Kim, had renovated the building, turning it into hipster industrial condos. But the rooftop shack was last on his list—and in his words, was still “not fit for human habitation.” Sue had talked him into leasing it to me as a studio space—promising him I’d use it “almost like a


potential colleague, Dr. Elsie Hannaway.” Because Austin’s response is to give me the once-over, snort, and then say, “No, she’s not.” And that’s when it occurs to me that the last time I met Austin Salt, he offered me seventy dollars to have sex with him. 9 ESCAPE VELOCITY F UCK . Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was my fifth or sixth date through Faux, four years ago, and Francesca, the app manager, was scrambling to find someone last minute. “The client doesn’t even want a preliminary meeting,” she told me over the phone. I was running across campus, from an astroparticle seminar to an Intro to Physics TA meeting, frantically dodging gaggles of undergrads. “All he needs is ‘arm candy’—his words. It’s the formal inauguration of a new golf course, and he wants to impress his boss. If someone asks, you met through friends a couple of months ago and work in insurance. Background check’s good, and he’ll pay extra for short notice—you in?” Rent was due in a week, and I had a grand total of two rotten bananas in the fridge. So I wore one of the three cheap cocktail dresses Cece and I had gone halfsies on, watched a winged eyeliner tutorial, and in the cab ride to the suburbs, got myself carsick editing a fellowship application due the following day. Austin had gelled-back hair and answered the phone with “Talk to me.” Not a bad client as much as an absentee one. “Arm candy” seemed to be code for pretty wallpaper, which meant that my job was to sit at our table, smile widely when he introduced me as Lizzie, and wonder why the fancy asparagus crepes were decorated with strawberries. There was lots of downtime, which I used to do some grading, phone hidden under the expensive linen tablecloth. At the end of the night he gave me a ride. We chatted about the hows and whys of golf till we got downtown, at which point he offered me seventy bucks to have sex with him. I said no. To be fair, he started lower. And to be fairer, I had to say no several times (peppered with a few yeses when questions veered to “Are you serious?” and “Are you saying people pay you to just look hot next to them?” and “Are you really going to act like a bitch?”). I wasn’t too scared, because we were on a non-deserted sidewalk. I turned on my heels and ignored him as he yelled, “You’re not even that hot! Your tits are tiny and your makeup is shit!” The following day I told Francesca, who made a gagging noise on the phone, asked the million-dollar question (“God, Elsie. Why are men?”), and blocked him from the client database. For the following fake dates, I made an effort to do better makeup and use push-up bras. As a people pleaser and a graduate student, I was primed to take all sorts of constructive criticism to heart. And that was the end of it. Or just an intermission? Because


hear, it began to be dawn; and, Nelly, I'll tell you what I thought, and what has kept recurring and recurring till I feared for my reason. I thought as I lay there, with my head against that table leg, and my eyes dimly discerning the gray square of the window, that I was enclosed in the oak-panelled bed at home; and my heart ached with some great grief which, just waking, I could not recollect. I pondered, and worried myself to discover what it could be; and, most strangely, the whole last seven years of my life grew a blank! I did not recall that they had been at all. I was a child; my father was just buried, and my misery arose from the separation that Hindley had ordered between me and Heathcliff. I was laid alone, for the first time; and rousing from a dismal doze, after a night of weeping, I lifted my hand to push the panels aside. It struck the table-top! I swept it along the carpet; and then memory burst in. My late anguish was swallowed in a paroxysm of despair. I cannot say why I felt so wildly wretched. It must have been temporary derange- ment, for there is scarcely cause. But, supposing at twelve years old I had been wrenched from the Heights, and every early association, and my all in all, as Heath- cliff was at that time, and been converted at a stroke into Mrs. Linton, the lady of Thrushcross Grange, and the wife of a stranger, an exile and outcast thenceforth from what had been my world---you may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where I grovelled! Shake your head as you will, Nelly, you have helped to unsettle me! You should have spoken to Edgar---indeed you should ---and compelled him to leave me quiet! Oh, I'm burn- ing! I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy and free, and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? Why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills. Open the window again wide---fasten it open! Quick! Why don't you move?" "Because I won't give you your death of cold," I an- swered. "You won't give me a chance of life, you mean," she said sullenly. "However, I'm not helpless yet. I'll open it myself." And sliding from the bed before I could hinder her, she crossed the room, walking very uncertainly, threw it back, and bent out, careless of the frosty air that cut about her shoulders as keen as a knife. I entreated, and finally attempted to force her to retire. But I soon found her delirious strength much surpassed mine (she was delirious, I became convinced by her subsequent actions and ravings). There was no moon, and every- thing beneath lay in misty darkness. Not a light gleamed from any house, far or near---all had


hoping it would be enough to distract me. I flipped through a hundred channels that all seemed to be showing Forensic Files. Not exactly my idea of relaxing viewing. It wasn’t that it made me afraid or reminded me of what had happened to me—it was more that it didn’t. I hadn’t turned out a tragedy, and it left me feeling like an impostor in the annals of victimhood. I left it on, though, watching the monotonous catalog of violence without taking any of it in. The show ended—the husband did it, surprise—and another one started up, even grislier. I flipped around, hopping between unfunny sitcoms and a rotating assortment of cop shows, the narratives blending together in a surreal jumble of suspects, motives, and gore. Then Alan Michael Stahl appeared, glaring from behind a courtroom table and wearing an orange jumpsuit, and I stopped. It was the picture they always used, because you could see the hatred in his eyes. Hatred for everything, but us in particular—we three girls who brought him to ruin. Are you sure it was Stahl who attacked you? Stahl was already under investigation for the murders when I was attacked. When Cass and Liv gave their descriptions, the detectives realized the connection immediately. I didn’t remember how I’d identified him originally. All I remembered was people telling me I had identified him. All I had to do was keep agreeing. I had always told myself that I must have remembered, right after the attack, and been able to identify him; I must have forgotten afterward. The images of the attack had been lost in the same haze that had stolen most of my memories of the hospital, that had turned the months afterward into a scattered mosaic of moments. My refusal to do interviews had ensured that I didn’t have to deal with the kinds of questions Schreiber was asking. Cassidy had fielded those, and generally people weren’t going to ask a preteen if she thought it was weird her best friend hadn’t been raped. The defense attorney at the trial had been similarly cautious, feeling gently for gaps in our story—but it wasn’t like she could point to the other murders as evidence that Stahl hadn’t attacked me, since he claimed to be innocent of those, too. So the inconsistencies had been glossed over and forgotten. I knew that there were message boards and that sort of thing where people dissected the case in detail, but I never went looking. “… never charged with the other murders, but given the strong circumstantial evidence and similarities between the attack on Naomi Shaw and the other victims, those cases are considered closed,” the anchorwoman was saying. “In more lighthearted news, tonight we’re talking to two local restaurants with a yearly tradition: a battle royale—of pancakes.” I turned it off. Why did people always say it that way? The other murders. They weren’t the other murders, because I hadn’t been murdered. They were just “the murders.” It made me wonder if I’d died and no one had had


the case numbers with names, but from there my progress ground to a halt. The women in the missing-persons listings ranged in age from eighteen to forty-six. There were blondes and brunettes, white, Black, and Latina. None were named Persephone, but I hadn’t expected they would be. Any of these women could have been Persephone—or none of them. Except that Liv had been sure. The dates for their disappearances covered a range of almost a decade. If I looked only at that “quiet summer,” two years before the attack, there were four possibilities, but I couldn’t assume that Persephone was Stahl’s victim. Or, if she was, that he’d killed her that summer. No one knew how many unknown victims might be out there or when he might have killed them. I started searching for the names with various combinations of keywords. Most of them had doppelgängers on Facebook and the like, cluttering up the results. Here and there I found articles or posts about the women I was looking for and scoured them for any information that might be relevant. April Kyle was from Spokane and liked the outdoors; she’d run off with an older boyfriend. Marjorie Campion had three children and a dog and was a known drug addict. There were women who seemed made to disappear into the cracks and those whose vanishing had turned communities upside down, and all of them were just as thoroughly gone. I bookmarked another article and flipped to the next tab I had open, a forum post from a girl trying to find information about a missing aunt. I rubbed my eyes and checked the name—they were all blurring together. Jessi Walker. Nineteen when she disappeared, though her family didn’t ever file an official missing-person report, because she’d packed her bags. A few weeks passed before they realized she was gone for good. The niece writing the post got a Christmas card and a birthday card from Jessi, and then she went silent. They’d been close and the niece was certain that something had happened to her. Jessi Walker’s niece wasn’t sure when she’d actually gone missing. Sometime after April, two years before my attack. I’d looked up how long it would take for a body to become a skeleton, and my best guess was that it would have happened within a year or two of lying in the Grotto, so that matched. And that was the “quiet summer.” It was all just guesswork. How had Liv figured this out? I started to bookmark the page and close it out, and then I froze. I hadn’t looked at the username the niece had created to post on the message board. Persephone McAllister. The name on the dead woman’s bracelet wasn’t hers. It was her niece’s. A remembrance of the girl she left behind but never forgot. I pulled up the case entry again, heart beating fast and hard. The attached photo showed a young woman in a cotton sundress, smirking a little at the camera. She had brown, wavy hair and a slender build—Stahl’s


weird how different our lives are. I can’t imagine doing what you do.” “Thank goodness, otherwise Dad would have a heart attack.” They both giggled at the thought. “Can we meet?” asked Marion quickly. “I’d really like to talk to you. At the ice rink, like we used to do? You know what day it is tomorrow.” “Right. But work is crazy, I don’t know if I can get away. I don’t want to upset Dad.” Why was everyone so afraid of Simon Brooks? The man had far too much power over the people around him. Suddenly, Simon’s voice bellowed in the background. “What are you whispering about back there?” “I’ve gotta go,” said Judy in a rush. “Don’t, Judy,” pleaded Marion. “Tell him to talk to me.” But it was too late. A dial tone rang in her ear. She gently replaced the receiver. While it was wonderful to connect with Judy again, after each call her doubts came creeping back and the enormity of her decision pressed down on her. Was it worth it to lose her family for a job that, as her father had said, might only last a few years? What would happen after she stopped being a Rockette, or got injured and couldn’t dance anymore? There was no backup plan. What if Simon was right? She had barely set the phone receiver in its cradle when the door to the Roxy apartment burst open. Bunny appeared, followed by Dale and his friend Peter. Marion walked out of the dining area and joined them in the lounge, still trying to shake off the truncated call with her sister. “Guess who surprised us,” said Bunny. But her smile didn’t reach her eyes; something was off. “I told the boys we’d have a quick sip of Roxy liquor with them before the next show.” “Is that a good idea?” asked Marion, unsure about the idea of drinking before dancing, as well as being caught dipping into the Roxy liquor cabinet, but Bunny had already gone to the bar and was pouring the drinks. “Bunny, let’s talk, okay?” Dale said. Bunny shook her head. “There’s nothing to say.” “Sure there is.” “You promised.” “I know, but—” He took her arm and cocked his head in the direction of the door that led out to a small balcony. “Come out here, let me explain.” They withdrew and closed the balcony door behind them. Peter stood in the middle of the room, drink in hand, looking about uncomfortably. Marion hadn’t expected to see Peter again, not after that strange dinner. But here he was. She should really go and get ready for the next show, but leaving him seemed rude. He gestured to one of the couches. “I guess we’ll have to make small talk until whatever is going on is settled.” She sat, and he did as well. She placed her drink on the coffee table, and he did also. It was like they were playing a game of Simon Says. “How’s the show going?” asked Peter. “Fine, thanks.” Peter leaned


square of deep yellow butter set in chips of ice. They looked at each other and drank deeply and Bond filled their glasses again to the rim. While they ate Bond told her of his bathe and they talked of what they would do in the morning. All through the meal they left unspoken their feelings for each other, but in Vesper's eyes as much as in Bond's there was excited anticipation of the night. They let their hands and their feet touch from time to time as if to ease the tension in their bodies. When the lobster had come and gone and the second bottle of champagne was half-empty and they had just ladled thick cream over their fraises des bois, Vesper gave a deep sigh of contentment. 'I'm behaving like a pig,' she said happily. 'You always give me all the things I like best. I've never been so spoiled before.' She gazed across the terrace at the moonlit bay. 'I wish I deserved it.' Her voice had a wry undertone. 'What do you mean?' asked Bond surprised. 'Oh, I don't know. I suppose people get what they deserve, so perhaps I do deserve it.' She looked at him and smiled. Her eyes narrowed quizzically. 'You really don't know much about me,' she said suddenly. Bond was surprised by the undertone of seriousness in her voice. 'Quite enough,' he said laughing. 'All I need until tomorrow and the next day and the next. You don't know much about me for the matter of that.' He poured out more champagne. Vesper looked at him thoughtfully. 'People are islands,' she said. 'They don't really touch. However close they are, they're really quite separate. Even if they've been married for fifty years.' Bond thought with dismay that she must be going into a vin triste. Too much champagne had made her melancholy. But suddenly she gave a happy laugh. 'Don't look so worried.' She leaned forward and put her hand over his. 'I was only being sentimental. Anyway, my island feels very close to your island tonight.' She took a sip of champagne. Bond laughed, relieved. 'Let's join up and make a peninsula,' he said. 'Now, directly we've finished the strawberries.' 'No,' she said, flirting. 'I must have coffee.' 'And brandy,' countered Bond. The small shadow had passed. The second small shadow. This too left a tiny question-mark hanging in the air. It quickly dissolved as warmth and intimacy enclosed them again. When they had had their coffee and Bond was sipping his brandy, Vesper picked up her bag and came and stood behind him. 'I'm tired,' she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. He reached up and held it there and they stayed motionless for a moment. She bent down and lightly brushed his hair with her lips. Then she was gone and a few seconds later the light came on in her room. Bond smoked and waited until it had gone out. Then he followed her, pausing only to say good night to the proprietor and his wife and


But at the same time, you can’t keep me safe by locking me up. Not when I’m finally finding my way in the world.” “I miss you.” Her eyes burned. “I miss you, too.” “Nathaniel comes over every few days, we have a drink together,” said Simon. “He’s a good man.” A better son than she was a daughter. “Listen, I’ve been working with the police on the case, trying to help them catch the bomber. A friend of mine who’s a doctor is consulting as well.” Simon’s eyes registered surprise. “A Rockette and a doctor consulting with the police? I would say that’s the least likely duo to crack the mystery of the Big Apple Bomber if ever I saw one.” Her defenses rose, but she kept her voice even. “Well, the doctor is good at understanding people’s motivations, figuring out what kind of person would do such a thing. And I saw the man sitting next to Judy, so I’m helpful in that capacity. Recently, an usher from the Paramount actually spoke with the bomber, right before the last incident. The police made a sketch and ran it by me. It’s definitely the same guy.” “Well, I suppose that’s progress. Although I really don’t like you meddling in the investigation. Not one bit.” “I’m helping, not meddling. The police are saying that they believe the bomber might have worked for Met Power in the 1930s, something about his age and when the bombings started. I thought maybe your office could help them narrow down the suspect list.” “We’ve given them access to all the employee files we have. Unfortunately, they only go back as far as 1940.” He was trembling, even though the night air was warm and there wasn’t even a hint of wind. “Why is that?” “There was a warehouse fire that destroyed some of the records.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his cashmere overcoat. “I’m amazed we have as many as we do, to be honest. Judy and I had been working hard to create a system where employee information could be easily accessed, but it’s not easy when Met Power has been supplying electricity to New York since—” She finished the sentence for him. “Since 1882, when they served fifty-nine customers in a square-mile area in lower Manhattan.” Simon laughed. “I guess I’ve said that before?” “A few times.” “Did you know the Rockettes began in 1925 in Missouri?” His smile vanished. “That’s a new one for me.” “I love how proud you are of what you do,” said Marion. “And I feel the same way about being a Rockette.” “I understand your point. But it’s not safe. I’ve been getting all kinds of calls from reporters, from kooks, since it happened. They know who Judy was, who I am. I have no doubt they know who you are. Yet you’re out there on a stage in front of thousands of people, putting yourself completely at risk.” “I’m being careful. Hopefully there will be a break in the case soon.” “I hope so,


Not only does she do a much better job at transmitting the messages than an embarrassed husband ever could, but she also carries herself well—showing equal respect to the doctor and to the patient. The young wife recently gave birth. She suffers from severe itching on her ears, cheeks, and the nape of her neck. She sobs, hiding her tears with her sleeves. “I’m lonely. My husband doesn’t listen to me. He pays no attention to my advice.” Meiling disappears behind the screen to pass on these words. Since Doctor Wong can’t see the patient, Meiling also describes the young woman’s red and scaled face and the patches where she’s scratched so much the skin oozes. The two visitors and I hear her clearly when she adds, “As a midwife, I’ve seen cases of postpartum Wind itching many times. This happens when the childbirth gate is too long exposed during labor. Do you remember, Doctor Wong, how long her baby took to come out? Your good judgment saved two lives that day.” Silence falls over the room as Doctor Wong considers this information. Finally, he declares, repeating the diagnosis Meiling just gave him, “Tell the patient she suffers from postpartum Wind itching.” He gives the same prescription I would have recommended to refill the empty spaces between the layers of the girl’s skin, but he doesn’t suggest anything to help with her itching. From behind the curtain, Doctor Wong speaks again. “The goal of a male doctor is to see that a woman lives out her predetermined fate and destiny to have children. These things are controlled by Heaven.” “Thank you for that, Doctor Wong,” Lady Liu says politely, but inside I burn. I rise and walk to the window, so our guests won’t see the emotions cross my face. It may not be decorous to say aloud, but we women—rich, poor, educated, uneducated—are at the mercy of our bodies: the cycles of blood, the patterns of energy, the depth and complexity of our feelings. Heaven has nothing to do with any of that. I compose my face and turn back to the room to find Lady Liu sitting on the kang next to the young wife, the two of them with their heads together as they whisper. Widow Bao and Meiling stand in the farthest corner of the room, also whispering. It seems both sets of women wish to share confidences away from Doctor Wong’s ears. I clear my throat and approach the kang. Lady Liu rises, and Widow Bao sways away from Meiling. We take turns leaning down to thank the young wife for allowing us to observe as Doctor Wong treated her. This is accompanied by separate messages from each of us spoken in tones that can’t possibly reach him. “It is a rare husband who listens to his wife, let alone takes her advice,” Widow Bao says gently. “Don’t let this trouble your mind any longer.” “Thank you for telling me about the birth of your daughter,” murmurs Lady Liu. “Next time you’ll have a son.” “I’ll tell


out why. Maybe I felt for him, or maybe I hated that his friends had elevated him to social stardom, when my own transformation, liberating as it was, had only distanced me further from most of my peers. But hadn’t my own friends held me up? Hadn’t I done fine? “I had no idea,” I said. I poured us both more whiskey. “You must’ve felt protective.” I worried Mike would snap into defensive mode, but he leaned back in the floral chair, feet close to mine. He had an impressive five-o’clock shadow. “When everything happened with Thalia, I didn’t realize how vulnerable he might have been. It’s one thing if a rich kid gets accused of something and they can lawyer up, but if they’d blamed Robbie he’d be in the same position as Omar.” I didn’t believe that was true for one second. “He must have been terrified.” “He was.” Mike’s eyelids were drooping. I needed to keep him awake, happy, talking. I said, “I remember Scalzitti got those photos developed, like, right away. When usually the last thing you’d want proof of was drinking on campus. I always imagined that was to protect Robbie. Or maybe Robbie asked him to.” Mike pointed at me. “That’s exactly it,” he said. “Scalzitti wanted to destroy the film. I was there in Lambeth and they had this blowup. Serenho was like, They’re gonna say Thalia was with us, and we’ll all get blamed. If we get the pictures developed they’ll see she wasn’t there. Scalzitti was still chickenshit so I literally walked him over to the darkroom to see that little—what was that guy’s name? Ritter? Otherwise I think he would’ve dumped the film in the creek.” I said, “There were the timestamps and everything. That was a lifesaver for Robbie.” “For all of us, probably.” “Right. Because no one who was there could’ve done it. Which—that wouldn’t have been obvious for a few days, right? It took a while for them to get the cause of death, and the time of death. You figure, at first it might’ve looked bad. These are the kids who were out drinking, and they were sneaking around campus, so who knows what else they did.” Mike looked confused, thick brows coming together. “I guess the point was she wasn’t with us.” “But it’s funny,” I said, “that Robbie took that risk.” “He knew he had nothing to hide. That makes it easier.” “I know from Sakina that you guys got to the mattresses in clusters,” I lied. “I mean, that only makes sense. You were probably slower than everyone else with your leg. But when they ask about it, you just—you simplify it, right? If you all walked there together, it gets the gist across better.” “Wait, is that what she said on the stand?” “I doubt it. I mean, if anything, they’re interested in when people left.” “Right.” He relaxed back in his chair. “I don’t know. In the days afterward, we kept checking with each other, making sure we had our story straight. Not


if possible. This was the nature of war, but perhaps more importantly, of friendship. With a swift flick of his wrist, J-Dog initiated a daring evasive maneuver, sending his Arrow into a dizzying spin. The starry backdrop blurred as he weaved through the enemy formation, narrowly evading incoming plasma fire. His senses heightened, he anticipated the dragonflies’ next move, reacting with split-second precision. The dance in space intensified as the Arrows engaged in a fierce ballet of evasion and retaliation. J-Dog led his squadron, orchestrating their maneuvers with strategic finesse. He guided his pilots through intricate corkscrew spins, barrel rolls, and abrupt direction changes, exploiting the agility of their Arrow fighters. But the dragonflies proved elusive adversaries, their nanite-based composition granting them an unnerving advantage. Phazon Pulsar bolts streaked through the void, barely grazing their insectile forms before they dissipated into mist. The frustration mounted as, one by one, the Arrows succumbed to the onslaught, their explosions casting mournful glimmers against the backdrop of distant stars. The battlefield transformed into a deadly ballet of destruction. Arrows erupted in fiery bursts, their once-mighty composite frames crumbling under the merciless assault of the dragonflies’ plasma fire. Pained screams of fellow pilots reverberated through J-Dog’s comms, a haunting reminder of the stakes at hand. Guilt suddenly hung heavy within his cockpit, J-Dog realizing the Symbios were being taken out at nearly three times the number of his human pilots. Determination burned in J-Dog’s eyes as he pushed his Arrow to its limits, searching for a breakthrough. His mind raced, analyzing every nuance of the enemy’s behavior. And then, an idea sparked within him—a calculated risk that could turn the tide. With a resolute nod, J-Dog signaled his squadron to follow. He executed a daring maneuver, plunging his Arrow directly into the heart of the enemy formation. The dragonflies swarmed, their ghostly forms engulfing his ship. It was a high-stakes gamble—one that demanded split-second timing. As the dragonflies converged, J-Dog’s finger hovered over the trigger. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he unleashed a barrage of Phazon Pulsar bolts, saturating the air with radiant energy. The concentrated firepower tore through the nanite cloud, rending it asunder. A shock wave rippled through space, fragments of the defeated dragonflies drifting aimlessly. The sight of their vanquished foes buoyed the spirits of J-Dog’s squadron. It had been but a small victory painted against mounting losses. They regrouped, seizing the opportunity to press the offensive. A renewed fervor coursed through their veins as they engaged another band of dragonflies, employing J-Dog’s innovative tactics to dismantle the ethereal threat. But as effective as J-Dog’s tactics were, they would be nowhere near effective enough to take out an entire squadron of dragonflies. Doing his best to keep the growing dread from creeping into his psyche, he continued to rally his pilots onward over the open channel. This wasn’t sustainable … Fuel was finite, losses through attrition, they were playing a losing game, and, of course, they all knew it. His comms crackled to life. “… Dog, get out of there …


is quiet, and I wonder if she’s brooding about Jack Hyde or something else. Then I remember. Aspen . . . Christian’s house here was redesigned by Gia Matteo and rebuilt by Elliot. I wonder if that’s what’s preoccupying Kate. I can’t ask her in front of Elliot, given his history with Gia. Does Kate even know about Gia’s con- nection to the house? I frown wondering what could be bothering her and resolve to ask her when we’re on our own. We drive through the center of Aspen and my mood brightens as I take in the town. There are squat buildings of mostly red brick, Swiss-style chalets, and nu- merous little turn of the century houses painted in fun colors. Plenty of banks and designer shops, too, betraying the affluence of the local populace. Of course Christian fits in here. “Why did you choose Aspen?” I ask him. “What?” He regards me quizzically. “To buy a place.” “Mom and Dad used to bring us here when we were kids. I learned to ski here, and I like the place. I hope you do, too—otherwise we’ll sell the house and choose somewhere else.” Simple as that! He tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “You look lovely today,” he murmurs. My cheeks heat. I’m just wearing my travelling gear: jeans and a T-shirt with a lightweight navy blue jacket. Damn it. Why does he make me feel shy? He kisses me, a tender, sweet, loving kiss. 266/551 Taylor drives us on out of town, and we start to climb the other side of the valley, twisting along a mountain road. The higher we go, the more excited I get, and Christian tenses beside me. “What’s wrong?” I ask as we round a bend. “I hope you like it,” he says quietly. “We’re here.” Taylor slows and turns through a gateway made of gray, beige, and red stones. He heads down the driveway and finally pulls up outside the impressive house. Double fronted with high-pitched roofs and built of dark wood and the same mixed stone as the gateway. It’s stunning—modern and stark, very much Christian’s style. “Home,” he mouths at me as our guests start piling out of the van. “Looks good.” “Come. See,” he says, an excited, though anxious, gleam in his eyes as if he’s about to show me his science project or something. Mia runs up the steps to where a woman stands in the doorway. She’s tiny and her raven-colored hair is dusted with gray. Mia flings her arms around her neck and hugs her tightly. “Who’s that?” I ask as Christian helps me out of the van. “Mrs. Bentley. She lives here with her husband. They look after the place.” Holy cow . . . more staff? Mia is making introductions—Ethan, then Kate. Elliot hugs Mrs. Bentley, too. As Taylor unloads the van, Christian takes my hand and leads me to the front door. “Welcome back, Mr. Grey.” Mrs. Bentley smiles. “Carmella, this is my wife, Anastasia,” Christian says proudly. His tongue caresses


that always whitewashes a woman. But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. They make one believe in the reality of the things that shallow, fashionable people play with, such as romance, passion, and love." "I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that." "I believe that women appreciate cruelty more than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I have never seen you angry, but I can fancy how delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that I see now was absolutely true, and it explains everything." [50] "What was that, Harry?" "You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of romance--that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that if she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen." "She will never come to life again now," murmured the lad, burying his face in his hands. "No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare's music sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died. But don't waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real than they are." There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colors faded wearily out of things. After some time Dorian Gray looked up. "You have explained me to myself, Harry," he murmured, with something of a sigh of relief. "I felt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again of what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all. I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous." "Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do." "But suppose, Harry,


a favor to Silas. Meanwhile, the weaver answers him honestly, showing his usual respect for the upper class. Silas doesn't catch the implications of Godfrey's words at all. He simply says that he and Eppie need no help. Eppie innocently pipes up that she would like a garden. Nancy immediately responds to this. You've seen before that Eppie is as tidy as Nancy, and that both have strong family feelings. You've also seen that Eppie is unusually well bred for a village girl. Some readers think Eliot is suggesting that Nancy would be a good second mother for Eppie. If so, this adds tension to the dramatic choice Eppie will soon have to make. This conversation is more difficult for Godfrey than he expected, but he presses on. (Compare the way he acts here to his confrontation with his father in Chapter 9. How has he changed?) He talks vaguely about how Eppie ought to be well taken care of--"she doesn't look like a strapping girl come of working parents," he hints. At this point, Silas seems aware of what Godfrey's driving at, but Eppie still has no idea. Godfrey finally states it clearly: he and his wife want to adopt Eppie. Eliot says Godfrey is tactless--what words in his speech do you think she's referring to? Eppie instinctively cradles Silas' head in her arm. Remember in Chapter 13 when baby Eppie turned away from Godfrey to touch Silas' face? This is a replay of that scene. Again, Eppie doesn't recognize her biological father. She doesn't feel affected by Godfrey's offer, but she's concerned about Silas, "her father," as she feels him trembling. What do you think Silas is feeling here? Like Nancy in the previous chapter, he answers Godfrey in a surprising way. Unselfishly, he tells Eppie that she may make her own choice. Her choice is a humble, simple, polite "No." She says she feels too attached to her "father" and her familiar social circle. Godfrey likes to get his own way, and he's annoyed at being turned down. Underneath his noble, beneficent air lie selfish motives. Caught off guard, he blurts out the truth about his relation to Eppie--his "claim" on her. (Remember Silas in Chapter 13 talking about his "right" to Eppie?) Eppie reacts with shock. Silas, however, bolstered by Eppie's refusal, now acts like a protective parent. He chastises Godfrey for abandoning Eppie (and, to his credit, Godfrey feels guilty). Silas rushes on, talking about how sixteen years of daily life together has created feelings between him and Eppie that can't be changed. This gives him a real "right" to Eppie. But Godfrey has never known that kind of intimacy, and he can't understand what Silas is talking about. Patronizingly, he scolds Silas for standing in Eppie's way. Eppie, listening, is repelled by Godfrey's sanctimonious attitude. Silas, however, takes it to heart and, struggling against his own desires, gives Eppie her choice again. Even Nancy at this point feels sorry for Silas. But she agrees with Godfrey--her code sets blood and class above feeling. Godfrey speaks gently


be- ing turned into human torches, we’re not acting sensibly. The opening music begins. It’s easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing the crowd- lined streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the an- them, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the Games begin. 68 The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted sil- ver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd. They are always favorites. District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Cinna ap- pears with a lighted torch. “Here we go then,” he says, and be- fore we can react he sets our capes on fire. I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a sign of relief. “It works.” Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin. “Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love you!” Cinna jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts again and gestures. “What’s he saying?” I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is daz- zling. And I must be, too. “I think he said for us to hold hands,” says Peeta. He grabs my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for confirma- tion. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that’s the last thing I see before we enter the city. The crowd’s initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of “District Twelve!” Every head 69 is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us. At first, I’m frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cinna was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable. Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love you! I hear Cinna’s voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand. I’m glad now I have Peeta to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock. As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd. The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers,


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

days, wandering haphazardly. I recall Wendell swearing in Irish and Faie as he tried to disentangle me; though we’d made it out of the palace, scraps of enchantment still clung to me like the broken filaments of a spiderweb. I don’t remember the others being there at all, and later Aslaug told me that Wendell would appear and disappear, leading them through the mortal realm as he gradually drew me out of the faerie one. I suppose they walked alongside me the whole time, a world away. My first clear memory is awakening in the cottage—I was lying by the fire in a soft pool of blankets. I was confused by this at first, for my bed would have been more comfortable, until I realized that despite the blazing fire and the layers of furs, I was still shivering lightly. It was a chill that would not leave me for several days, and which I still feel at times when the sea wind picks its slippery way through the cracks in my cabin. Shadow lay curled at my side and rolled upright with a delighted snort when he sensed I was awake. He shoved his huge muzzle into my face and licked me, while I half patted, half swatted him away. I’m afraid his breath is immune to glamour and smells exactly as you’d expect a Black Hound’s breath to smell—rather deathly. “There you are,” Wendell said, his head appearing above my little blanket nest. He looked cheerful and supremely smug. “And how are we feeling?” “Like I could sleep until spring.” “No time for that, I’m afraid. We leave tomorrow morning—early—for Loabær.” “Tomorrow?” “You wish to hang about for the aftermath of what happened at the palace yesterday?” Wendell shook his head. “No, much safer to make ourselves scarce. In Loabær, we will seek passage on a merchant ship to London captained by Ulfar’s brother—not ordinarily a passenger vessel, I’m afraid, so accommodations will be spartan, but it is our only option, as we have missed the freighter. Ulfar will accompany us to Loabær to arrange things.” “What,” I said fuzzily. A hundred thoughts swam through my addled mind, and I grasped at the one that felt most familiar. “What about the paper?” “I’m just fine,” he said, relaxing into the nearest armchair with his hands folded. “A little weary, from dragging you all down from that mountain, but beyond that I am simply glad to be leaving this land of ice. Aud, Aslaug, and Finn are all well.” I glared at him. “I was about to—” “I’m sure you were.” He didn’t seem annoyed, though; there was a quality to his smile, as he gazed at me, that I couldn’t interpret. “Aud’s gone back to the palace to request a favour from the king,” he said. “She should be back by nightfall, all going well.” “A favour,” I repeated in disbelief. Then I thought about it. “Oh! Of course. She will ask him to put an end to this snow.” He nodded. “He owes her, so I suspect he’ll give


me, for Mum. I wish you would set down your gun and rend your allegiance to the goddess who has claimed you. I wish you would return to us. She had thought that Carver had thrown away the very first of her letters. She had asked him to send them back to her, and he had said it wasn’t possible. Well, now she knew he was lying. Because they were here. They were all here, wrinkled as if they had been read numerous times. Iris stopped reading. Her eyes were smarting. Roman Kitt was Carver. He had been Carver all along, and this realization struck her so hard she had to sit down on the floor. She was overwhelmed by a startling rush of relief. It was him. She had been writing to him, falling for him, all this time. But then the questions began to swarm, nipping at that solace. Had he been playing her? Was this a game to him? Why hadn’t he told her sooner? She covered her face, and her palms absorbed the heat of her cheeks. “Gods,” she whispered through her fingers, and when she opened her eyes again, her sight had sharpened. She stared at her letters, spread around her. And she began to gather them up, one by one. {34} C. Iris walked into the infirmary ten minutes later, wearing a fresh jumpsuit and a tightly cinched belt. Her hair remained a tangled, hopeless mess around her shoulders, but she had more important things on her mind. All her letters were folded and in hand as she rode the lift to the upper level. The doors chimed. She stepped into the corridor, passing a few nurses and one of the doctors, none of whom paid her any attention, and she was glad for it. She wasn’t sure what, exactly, was about to unfold, but her blood was thrumming. Her face was flushed by the time she approached Roman’s room. He was in the same curtained bay and bed. His hand was still hooked to an intravenous tube, and his right leg was freshly bandaged, but he was sitting upright, his attention focused on the bowl of soup he was eating. Iris stood on the threshold and watched him, her heart softening to see him awake. He wasn’t as pale as he had been the day before. She was relieved that he looked much better, and he swallowed a spoonful of soup, his eyes closing briefly as if savoring the food. Iris felt the perspiration begin to bead on her palms, soaking into her letters. She hid them behind her back and walked to him, coming to a stop at the foot of his bed. Roman glanced up and startled at the sight of her. He dropped his spoon with a clatter, rushing to set the bowl on his side table. “Iris.” She heard the joy in his voice. His eyes drank her in, and when he made to move—was he truly trying to rise and come to her on one leg?—she cleared her throat. “Stay


trace DNA. DNA is tricky. A few years ago, they find DNA on a dead girl’s jeans, they spend all this money, and they end up tracking it back to a worker at the Taiwanese factory where the jeans were made. Not helpful. Plus, in 1995 the DNA science was horseshit. You have a much smaller pool of samples back then, so they end up saying, like, This is a one in eight million match, when now they’d say it’s one in two thousand. It was a brand-new field.” My students were grinning, which I imagined was partly because he said words like “horseshit” in such an elegant accent. I hadn’t heard the story about the jeans before. If all the DNA showed was that Omar had once touched that swimsuit, well—if I were on a jury, I wouldn’t have found that compelling proof. I ticked off one more mental box. A big one. “Then we have the confession. As soon as drug allegations are involved, my antennae go up. Because you know what they do: They say they’re handing you to the feds on drug charges, but if you cooperate in this local investigation maybe they can protect you. They say, Did you let her into the pool that night? You must have seen her, or how else did your DNA get there? They say, This looks bad, we’ve got you at the scene now plus the drug charges, your only hope is to confess.” So he had actually dug into the case. Under other circumstances I’d have been overwhelmed with romantic hope, but my heart was pounding, instead, over Omar. The real Omar I’d known, not the guy in the mug shot. The real Omar, spending the rest of his life in prison. And while Yahav might not have been convinced yet of his innocence, Yahav didn’t know about you. He said, “You’ve heard about these cases, yes? People so sleep-deprived they’ll sign anything, or people who believe lies about evidence or leniency or getting to go home. It gets worse from there. Actual violence, actual torture. Even in America.” “This is amazing,” Britt said. “Can we, like—” But Yahav was in lecture mode. “This many years later,” he said, “to appeal again, Mr. Evans would ideally have two things in place. One is a reasonable case for ineffective assistance of counsel, meaning he didn’t have adequate help from his legal team. They tried to claim this in his appeal in ’99, along with some things about the way the evidence was submitted, but it’s incredibly hard to prove IAC unless your lawyer actually fell asleep every day in court. He had a terrible lawyer, but that’s not the court’s problem.” Britt had been talking just that morning about how Omar’s original attorney hardly did any independent investigation on the Granby campus. Omar’s uncle, his deceased father’s brother, had done well for himself as a commercial pilot, and insisted on hiring and paying for a friend of his, a high-profile Boston attorney. New Hampshire’s public defenders are apparently excellent, and


believe that, but she knows Electra. Her daughter doesn’t forgive. * * * When Clytemnestra walks into the garden, the pyre is burned out and all that remains are ashes. Electra is sitting on a fallen tree, the moon creeping overhead. She has tortured her fingers so much that her hands are like an old woman’s. “Go away,” she says when she sees her mother approaching. Clytemnestra walks closer but remains standing. She can feel her daughter’s anger on her own skin, not warm and burning, like a flame, but ice cold, like snowflakes. “I don’t want to speak to you.” Electra’s voice is thick with grief, though she tries to control it. “I do not care.” Electra scoffs. Her face is pale, like the wild crocuses under her feet. Clytemnestra wants to reach out and cup her hands around it. “You don’t understand why I did what I did,” she says, “but you have to live with that, and so do I.” Electra lifts her chin, defiant. “Why do I have to pay the consequences for something I didn’t do?” “Life is like that.” “Life isn’t as simple as you want us to believe. And there is a difference between what is and what should be.” On that, Clytemnestra agrees. But it is the spite in Electra’s voice that aches, like a rotten tooth. “You can’t forgive me for killing a father who would have hurt you? A man who slaughtered your sister? I have loved you since the moment you were born. I have fed you at my breast, cried for you, laughed with you, understood you when no one else would.” She stops because her eyes are wet with tears. She recomposes herself. “But if you loved him so much, then kill me. It won’t bring him back.” The air between them feels spoiled with smoke. Electra doesn’t flinch. “Do you think Orestes will forgive you? Do you think you’ll rule our land together, take it away from the Atreidai?” She shakes her head, a cruel smile on her face. “He won’t. He will come back with a sword in hand. And he will avenge his father.” * * * She stands in the garden for a long time. She keeps still among the trees, under the thinning light of the moon. The blades of grass seem to crawl over her feet. She bends and rips them out by the root, one by one. I will never forgive you, Electra said. She knows that, in moments of pain, some words are spoken with a harshness that is not truly meant. But even so, words can grow roots inside one’s heart. You can bury them, hoping they will wither and die, but roots keep finding something to latch on to. A bird darts through the shadows, flying away from the trees and up toward the mountain peaks. She takes a crocus and presses it against her heart, then walks inside. Aileen is lighting the torches in her bedroom when Clytemnestra comes in. “Your fingers are still broken,” she says gently.


better that I hide it near Georgetown and retrieve it later. If Candice can’t talk, who’s going to suspect me? It’s fucked up, yes. But I could survive a murder investigation. I can’t survive what Candice will do to me if she walks out of here alive. Candice’s thrashes are getting weaker. She’s tiring out. I am, too, but I’m bigger, heavier; all I have to do is exhaust her. I pin her wrists to the ground, drive my knees against her chest. I don’t want to kill her. If I can just keep her still, if I can get the backpack off, then search her for any hidden recording devices—that’d be ideal; that way we can both walk out in one piece. But if not, if things come down to it— Candice shrieks and spits at my face. “Get off !” I don’t budge. “Just give it,” I pant. “Give it, and I’ll—” “You fucking bitch!” She bites my wrist. Pain shoots up my arm. I jerk back, shocked. She’s drawn blood—Jesus fucking Christ, it’s all over her teeth, all over my arm. Candice thrashes once more. My knees slip off her chest. She breaks loose, coils up, and kicks out at my stomach. Her foot lands with such force—so much more force than I thought possible from that tiny body. It doesn’t hurt so much as it stuns, knocks the air out of my lungs. I reel backward, arms windmilling for balance, but the ground I thought was behind me is not there. Just empty air. Twenty-Four THE DOCTORS LET ME LEAVE THE HOSPITAL AFTER FOUR DAYS, AFTER my clavicle and ankle have been set and I’ve proven I can hop my way into and out of a car without assistance. It doesn’t seem like I’ll need surgery, but they want me back in two weeks to check that my concussion has resolved itself. The whole thing costs me thousands of dollars even after insurance, though I suppose I should be grateful I got off this easy. No police were standing over my bedside when I woke up. No investigators, no journalists. I slipped on the ice while jogging, I’m told. An anonymous Good Samaritan found me and called the EMTs using the emergency feature on my phone, but they’d disappeared by the time the ambulance arrived. Candice has played this perfectly. Any accusation I make will appear utterly groundless. From the outside, we are near strangers to each other. Our last email interaction was years ago. I don’t have her number in my phone. There is no room to suspect foul play, for what motive could there be? It’s been storming for days now; the rain will have washed away all fingerprints, all proof of her cameras. Even if I can somehow prove Candice was at the steps that night, this only turns into a battle of verbal testimony that will cost us both thousands in legal fees. What’s more, I’m sure I’ve left bruises on Candice, too—bruises she’s no doubt embellished and documented by now. There’s no guarantee


tomorrow morning. Okonkwo wondered what was amiss, for he knew certainly that something was amiss. He had discerned a clear overtone of tragedy in the crier's voice, and even now he could still hear it as it grew dimmer and dimmer in the distance. The night was very quiet. It was always quiet except on moonlight nights. Darkness held a vague terror for these people, even the bravest among them. Children were warned not to whistle at night for fear of evil spirits. Dangerous animals became even more sinister and uncanny in the dark. A snake was never called by its name at night, because it would hear. It was called a string. And so on this particular night as the crier's voice was gradually swallowed up in the distance, silence returned to the world, a vibrant silence made more intense by the universal trill of a million million forest insects. On a moonlight night it would be different. The happy voices of children playing in open fields would then be heard. And perhaps those not so young would be playing in pairs in less open places, and old men and women would remember their youth. As the Ibo say: "When the moon is shining the cripple becomes hungry for a walk." But this particular night was dark and silent. And in all the nine villages of Umuofia a town crier with his ogene asked every man to be present tomorrow morning. Okonkwo on his bamboo bed tried to figure out the nature of the emergency - war with a neighbouring clan? That seemed the most likely reason, and he was not afraid of war. He was a man of action, a man of war. Unlike his father he could stand the look of blood. In Umuofia's latest war he was the first to bring home a human head. That was his fifth head and he was not an old man yet. On great occasions such as the funeral of a village celebrity he drank his palm-wine from his first human head. In the morning the market place was full. There must have been about ten thousand men there, all talking in low voices. At last Ogbuefi Ezeugo stood up in the midst of them and bellowed four times, "Umuofia kwenu," and on each occasion he faced a different direction and seemed to push the air with a clenched fist. And ten thousand men answered "Yaa!" each time. Then there was perfect silence. Ogbuefi Ezeugo was a powerful orator and was always chosen to speak on such occasions. He moved his hand over his white head and stroked his white beard. He then adjusted his cloth, which was passed under his right arm-pit and tied above his left shoulder. "Umuofia kwenu," he bellowed a fifth time, and the crowd yelled in answer. And then suddenly like one possessed he shot out his left hand and pointed in the direction of Mbaino, and said through gleaming white teeth firmly clenched: "Those sons of wild animals have dared to murder a daughter of Umuofia."