Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

outside world. “That I couldn’t say,” he replied. “As I’ve only known our Folk. That’s enough for one man, I’ve always thought. More than enough.” His tone had darkened a little, but in a grim rather than an ominous way, the sort of voice one uses when speaking of those hardships that are a fact of life. He set a loaf of dark bread upon the table, which he informed me quite casually had been baked in the ground via geothermal heat, along with enough cheese and salted fish for two. He was quite cheery about it, and seemed intent on joining me for the humble feast. “Thank you,” I said, and we gazed at each other awkwardly. I suspected that I was supposed to say something else—perhaps enquire about his life or duties, or joke about my helplessness—but I’ve always been useless at that sort of amiable chatter, and my life as a scholar affords me few opportunities for practice. “Is your mother about?” I said finally. “I would thank her for the bread.” I may be a poor judge of human feeling, but I have had plenty of experience with putting my feet wrong to know that it was the worst possible thing to say. His handsome face closed, and he replied, “I made it. My mother passed a year and more ago.” “My apologies,” I said, putting on a show of surprise in an attempt to cover the fact that Egilson had included this information in one of our early letters. What a thing to forget about, you idiot. “Well, you’ve quite a talent for it,” I added. “I expect your father is proud of your skill.” Unfortunately, this inept rejoinder was met with a wince, and I guessed that his father was not in fact proud of his son’s skill in the kitchen, perhaps even viewing it as a degradation of his manhood. Fortunately, Finn seemed kindhearted at the core, and he said with some formality, “I hope you enjoy it. If you need anything else, you can send word to the big house. Will half seven suit for breakfast?” “Yes,” I said, regretting the change from his former easy conversation. “Thank you.” “Oh, and this arrived for you two days ago,” he said, withdrawing an envelope from his pocket. “We get mail deliveries every week.” From the way he said it, he saw this as a source of local pride, so I forced a smile as I thanked him. He smiled back and departed, murmuring something about the chickens. I glanced at the letter, and found myself confronted with a florid script that read The Office of Dr. Wendell Bambleby, Cambridge in the upper left corner, and in the middle, Dr. Emily Wilde, Abode of Krystjan Egilson, Farmer, Village of Hrafnsvik, Ljosland. “Bloody Bambleby,” I said. I set the letter aside, too hungry to be vexed just then. Before I tucked into my own refreshments, I took the time to prepare Shadow’s, as was our custom. I collected a mutton steak from the outdoor cellar—to which I


long to dep- lete them. “The lake,” says Peeta. “That’s where they want us to go.” “Maybe the ponds still have some,” I say hopefully. “We can check,” he says, but he’s just humoring me. I’m humoring myself because I know what I’ll find when we re- turn to the pond where I soaked my leg. A dusty, gaping mouth of a hole. But we make the trip anyway just to confirm what we already know. “You’re right. They’re driving us to the lake,” I say. Where there’s no cover. Where they’re guaranteed a bloody fight to the death with nothing to block their view. “Do you want to go straightaway or wait until the water’s tapped out?” 322 “Let’s go now, while we’ve had food and rest. Let’s just go end this thing,” he says. I nod. It’s funny. I feel almost as if it’s the first day of the Games again. That I’m in the same position. Twenty-one tri- butes are dead, but I still have yet to kill Cato. And really, wasn’t he always the one to kill? Now it seems the other tri- butes were just minor obstacles, distractions, keeping us from the real battle of the Games. Cato and me. But no, there’s the boy waiting beside me. I feel his arms wrap around me. “Two against one. Should be a piece of cake,” he says. “Next time we eat, it will be in the Capitol,” I answer. “You bet it will,” he says. We stand there a while, locked in an embrace, feeling each other, the sunlight, the rustle of the leaves at our feet. Then without a word, we break apart and head for the lake. I don’t care now that Peeta’s footfalls send rodents scurry- ing, make birds take wing. We have to fight Cato and I’d just as soon do it here as on the plain. But I doubt I’ll have that choice. If the Gamemakers want us in the open, then in the open we will be. We stop to rest for a few moments under the tree where the Careers trapped me. The husk of the tracker jacker nest, beaten to a pulp by the heavy rains and dried in the burning sun, confirms the location. I touch it with the tip of my boot, and it dissolves into dust that is quickly carried off by the breeze. I can’t help looking up in the tree where Rue secretly 323 perched, waiting to save my life. Tracker jackers. Glimmer’s bloated body. The terrifying hallucinations . . . “Let’s move on,” I say, wanting to escape the darkness that surrounds this place. Peeta doesn’t object. Given our late start to the day, when we reach the plain it’s already early evening. There’s no sign of Cato. No sign of any- thing except the gold Cornucopia glowing in the slanting sun rays. Just in case Cato decided to pull a Foxface on us, we cir- cle the Cornucopia to make sure it’s empty. Then obediently, as if following instructions, we cross to the


Black; a chieftain of the Easterlings, who with his three sons followed Caranthir, and proved faithless in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. 189, 231, 235 Ulfast Son of Ulfang the Black, slain by the sons of Bor in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. 189, 235 Ulmo A Vala, one of the Aratar, called Lord of Waters and King of the Sea, The name was interpreted by the Eldar to mean 'The Pourer' or 'The Rainer'. See especially 19-20, 36. 8-10, 18-24, 36, 44, 51, 52, 59-61, 64, 70, 97, 116, 120, 133-5, 141, 146, 149-52, 187, 190, 240, 256, 260, 294-8, 301-2, 305-6, 308 Ulumri The great horns of Ulmo made by the Maia Salmar. 19, 36, 59 Ulwarth Son of Ulfang the Black, slain by the sons of Bor in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. 189, 235 manyar Name given to those Elves who went on the westward Journey from Cuivinen but did not reach Aman: 'Those not of Aman', beside Amanyar 'Those of Aman'. 54, 58 marth 'Ill-fate', a fictitious name for his father given out by Trin in Nargothrond. 257 Umbar Great natural haven and fortress of the Nmenreans south of the Bay of Belfalas. 334 Undying Lands Aman and Eressa; also called the Deathless Lands. 308, 320, 324, 345, 348 Ungoliant The great spider, destroyer with Melkor of the Trees of Valinor. Shelob in The Lord of the Rings was 'the last child of Ungoliant to trouble the unhappy world' (The Two Towers IV 9). 79-80, 84, 85, 88-90, 100, 109, 116, 144, 157,198,307 Union of Maedhros The league formed by Maedhros to defeat Morgoth that ended in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad 230 Urthel One of the twelve companions of Barahir on Dorthonion. 187 Urulki Quenya word meaning 'fire-serpent', dragon. 137, 294-304, 308 Utumno The first great stronghold of Melkor, in the north of Middle-earth, destroyed by the Valar. 31, 37, 46, 51-2, 81, 91, 114, 139 Vair 'The Weaver', one of the Valier, the spouse of Nmo Mandos. 18, 21 Valacirca 'The Sickle of the Valar', name of the constellation of the Great Bear. 48, 211 Valandil Youngest son of Isildur; third King of Arnor. 367 Valaquenta 'Account of the Valar', a short work treated as a separate entity from The Silmarillion proper. Valar 'Those with Power', 'The Powers' (singular Vala); name given to those great Ainur who entered into E at the beginning of Time, and assumed the function of guarding and governing Arda. Called also the Great Ones, the Rulers of Arda, the Lords of the West, the Lords of Valinor. Passim; see especially 10-12, 37, 81-2, and see also Ainur, Aratar. Valaraukar 'Demons of Might' (singular Valarauko), Quenya form corresponding to Sindarin Balrog. 26 Valarma The horn of the Vala Orom. 22, 37, 85, 108-9 Valier 'The Queens of the Valar' (singular Valie); a term used only in the Valaquenta. 18, 20, 23 Valimar See Valmar. Valinor The land of the Valar in Aman, beyond the mountains of the Pelri; also called the Guarded Realm. Passim; see especially 32-3, 117 Valmar The city of the Valar in Valinor; the name also


the arrangement and waited for an epiphany. Instead, the door swung open. Harriet had found her once again. “Any luck?” she said, then looked pityingly when Maud shook her head. In her early sixties, Harriet had hooded eyes behind rimless glasses, and a wide, sensuous mouth lacquered in magenta lipstick. Her spindly body was clad in a zigzag-patterned dress that stopped above her wrinkled knees. She tapped the back of her wrist as if she were wearing a watch instead of a fitness tracker. “Down to the wire.” “I could probably buy myself a couple more days if I work late when I start planting,” Maud said. She needed to get the plants into the ground before the blithe spring sun turned summer-hostile. And her contract at Montgomery Place was for one summer: this summer. Harriet had already let her know that it would be difficult for Maud to return next summer if she wanted to bring her children again, since the arrangement was already “experimental and potentially problematic.” Maud’s daughters, Ella and Louise, were back home in Marin with their father, Peter, finishing school. They’d arrive next Monday and stay with Maud on the grounds for two months until August, attending a day camp down the road. “I’ll tell you what,” Harriet said, her smile both generous and victorious. “If you find all the beds, I’ll lend you Chris to help cut them. Gabriel has so much to do down at his site. And he’s too qualified for manual labor.” Chris was the groundskeeper’s son, with whom Maud hadn’t spoken since their awkward introduction the day she arrived. “I’m bringing our charming archaeologist a lemonade once I’m done sorting books,” Harriet said with a flight of her hand. “He forgets to hydrate. Would you like one? I can leave it for you in the butler’s pantry.” Maud politely declined, and Harriet clicked the door shut. The last time she had offered Maud a lemonade, she seemed to have omitted the sugar. Maud wasn’t sure why Harriet disliked her, exactly, but she supposed it had to do with her friendship with Gabriel. He was indeed charming, the kind of man who warmed the air when he spoke to you, and until Maud arrived, that warmth had been all for Harriet. Gabriel had been at Montgomery Place for a month, opening his own dig—an ancient campsite—in the forest. Once Maud got there, he volunteered to help her locate that first swath of beds, which had been easy to identify from the indentations of their terra-cotta edging tiles. Then they’d followed the trail of gravel that had once lined the paths and dug test pits all the way to the mansion, looking for soil rich with the nitrates of decay that proved a concentration of former life. After another ten minutes, measured by the tsk-tsk of a grandfather clock wedged between the bookcases, Maud abandoned the desk for the window. She gazed out at the front lawn. In their most contentious days, Peter used to say that she was too optimistic—that was why she


recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork was all within an ace of calling for help. But the mere fact that he held together by a system of the most various and incongru- was a man, however wild, had somewhat reassured me, and ous fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry my fear of Silver began to revive in proportion. I stood still, gaskin. About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather therefore, and cast about for some method of escape; and as I belt, which was the one thing solid in his whole accoutre- was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed into my ment. mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenceless, cour- “Three years!” I cried. “Were you shipwrecked?” age glowed again in my heart and I set my face resolutely for “Nay, mate,” said he; “marooned.” this man of the island and walked briskly towards him. I had heard the word, and I knew it stood for a horrible He was concealed by this time behind another tree trunk; kind of punishment common enough among the buccaneers, but he must have been watching me closely, for as soon as I in which the offender is put ashore with a little powder and began to move in his direction he reappeared and took a step shot and left behind on some desolate and distant island. to meet me. Then he hesitated, drew back, came forward “Marooned three years agone,” he continued, “and lived again, and at last, to my wonder and confusion, threw himself on goats since then, and berries, and oysters. Wherever a man Contents on his knees and held out his clasped hands in supplication. is, says I, a man can do for himself. But, mate, my heart is At that I once more stopped. sore for Christian diet. You mightn’t happen to have a piece Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 122 123 of cheese about you, now? No? Well, many’s the long night further’n that; and so my mother told me, and predicked the I’ve dreamed of cheese—toasted, mostly—and woke up again, whole, she did, the pious woman! But it were Providence and here I were.” that put me here. I’ve thought it all out in this here lonely “If ever I can get aboard again,” said I, “you shall have island, and I’m back on piety. You don’t catch me tasting rum cheese by the stone.” so much, but just a thimbleful for luck, of course, the first All this time he had been feeling the stuff of my jacket, chance I have. I’m bound I’ll be good, and I see the way to. smoothing my hands, looking at my boots, and generally, in And, Jim”—looking all round him and lowering his voice to a the intervals of his speech, showing a childish pleasure in the whisper—”I’m rich.” presence of a fellow creature. But at my last words he perked I now felt sure that the poor fellow had


air. "Millie, did you see that?" "I saw it, I saw it! " Montag reached inside the parlour wall and pulled the main switch. The images drained away, as if the water had been let out from a gigantic crystal bowl of hysterical fish. The three women turned slowly and looked with unconcealed irritation and then dislike at Montag. "When do you suppose the war will start?" he said. "I notice your husbands aren't here tonight?" "Oh, they come and go, come and go," said Mrs. Phelps. "In again out again Finnegan, the Army called Pete yesterday. He'll be back next week. The Army said so. Quick war. Forty-eight hours they said, and everyone home. That's what the Army said. Quick war. Pete was called yesterday and they said he'd be, back next week. Quick..." The three women fidgeted and looked nervously at the empty mud-coloured walls. "I'm not worried," said Mrs. Phelps. "I'll let Pete do all the worrying." She giggled. "I'll let old Pete do all the worrying. Not me. I'm not worried." "Yes," said Millie. "Let old Pete do the worrying." "It's always someone else's husband dies, they say." "I've heard that, too. I've never known any dead man killed in a war. Killed jumping off buildings, yes, like Gloria's husband last week, but from wars? No." "Not from wars," said Mrs. Phelps. "Anyway, Pete and I always said, no tears, nothing like that. It's our third marriage each and we're independent. Be independent, we always said. He said, if I get killed off, you just go right ahead and don't cry, but get married again, and don't think of me." "That reminds me," said Mildred. "Did you see that Clara Dove five-minute romance last night in your wall? Well, it was all about this woman who--" Montag said nothing but stood looking at the women's faces as he had once looked at the faces of saints in a strange church he had entered when he was a child. The faces of those enamelled creatures meant nothing to him, though he talked to them and stood in that church for a long time, trying to be of that religion, trying to know what that religion was, trying to get enough of the raw incense and special dust of the place into his lungs and thus into his blood to feel touched and concerned by the meaning of the colourful men and women with the porcelain eyes and the blood-ruby lips. But there was nothing, nothing; it was a stroll through another store, and his currency strange and unusable there, and his passion cold, even when he touched the wood and plaster and clay. So it was now, in his own parlour, with these women twisting in their chairs under his gaze, lighting cigarettes, blowing smoke, touching their sun-fired hair and examining their blazing fingernails as if they had caught fire from his look. Their faces grew haunted with silence. They leaned forward at the sound of Montag's swallowing his final bite of food. They listened to his feverish breathing.


played “The Star-Spangled Banner” slowed down to a funeral march while Clark made his entrance on six-foot stilts, dressed as Death, swooping low over the bodies of the Victims that lay scattered across the stage. Death was the biggest puppet we’d ever made, and he looked absolutely terrifying. In our final tableau we looked like grim beasts standing over a field of corpses while the great grinning skull of Death itself rose above us like a malevolent moon. That’s when one of the kids started to cry. I’m not sure how we could have been expected to know that a significant portion of them had parents deployed overseas. I also feel like maybe the first little girl who started crying might have been looking for attention? Either way, that one crying kid set off a chain reaction, and suddenly there were sobbing kids everywhere. Through the eyeholes of my mask I could see teachers ushering the kids out the back door like the place was on fire while Mrs. Marsten steamed down the aisle toward us. “Get off this stage,” she hissed. “Right. Now.” We bowed and apparently that was the wrong thing to do, because she yanked my mask off and the tie got caught in my hair so I lost a clump. She was pretty pissed. Sadie and I lifted up the side of the General, and Richard crawled out from underneath, and together we watched the last of the kids vanish through the gym doors. An hour ago they’d been treating us like celebrities. Now they were acting like we’d killed Elmo. To be honest, I blamed the teachers for not preparing them better. Mrs. Marsten disappeared and we realized most of the teachers were gone, so we struck the show and loaded up the station wagon. We still felt pretty good about it, to be honest, and as for the crying kids? If you’re making real art, not everyone’s always going to like it. By tomorrow morning they wouldn’t even remember what they’d been crying about, and maybe a few of them would even start asking questions about American hegemony. Clark went inside to get our check. The sun went behind the clouds and it started getting cold. He came out a long time later. “They’re not paying us,” he said. “What do you mean?” Richard asked. “I mean there’s no check with our name on it,” Clark said. “They’re saying we traumatized the kids and probably violated the Patriot Act.” “The what?” Richard asked. “I spent forty dollars on gas,” Sadie said. “You’re going to have to eat it,” Clark said. “They’re pretty angry.” “And for groceries,” she added. “It’s fucking unfair,” I chimed in. I felt like the situation warranted profanity. “I have spent 375 bucks on materials for this show,” Richard said. “I have the receipts. Whether they liked it or not, the least they can do is cover our expenses.” The school disagreed. We wound up having a pretty heated public debate with Mrs. Marsten and a few of her storm troopers in the


to feel grateful that I’d had her at all. I’d thank her, and then—yes—I’d cry … because happiness and sadness are always so tangled up. And then I’d put on a Cary Grant movie—and usually eat the birthday cake, sometimes digging straight in with a fork without even slicing it, until I conked out on the sofa. It was quite the ritual. I’d started out trying to feel happy. But in the end, I’d settled for grateful. Which might be the better emotion, if I had to choose. Anyway, the chances I’d be telling Oliver Addison, DVM, about any of this were pretty close to zero. He didn’t need to do a belly flop into my sad past on our first date. I’d be cheery and positive and funny and charming—as best I could. I’d set all my bittersweet emotions about my lost mother on a mental shelf. And then I’d shut the conversation down before I could accidentally reveal any personal imperfections … and go stop by the grocery store for the ingredients for the cake. Yellow cake with chocolate icing. My mom’s favorite. And mine, too. This would work. I could have it all. As long as I kept to the schedule. * * * I WENT DOWN to Bean Street at six o’clock on the dot. I found a table that faced the exterior door, couldn’t resist dabbing just one more spot of a lipstick color called Passionfruit onto the poutiest part of my lower lip, gave myself a little pep talk about how doing scary things is good for you, and waited. And waited. And then I waited some more. And while I waited, I could feel the confidence leaking out of me like a punctured tire. Was it cold in here? Maybe I should’ve brought a sweater. Should I take my hair back down? Was my lipstick too orangy? And of all the bras I owned, how had I managed to grab the one that always slid off my shoulder? I yanked the shoulder strap up and pressed it in place sternly, like, Stay. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I couldn’t pull this off. The entire future I’d just mapped out for myself as Mrs. Oliver Addison, DVM, was riding on not screwing up this moment. The words don’t screw it up kept circling around in my head like they were on an airplane banner. Great tip—but the problem was, there were so many ways to screw it up. What if, to just take the biggest, scariest, most likely example, I didn’t recognize him? What if—and this likelihood was really only occurring to me now, as I sat there—without his lab coat on and out of the context of the clinic, I truly couldn’t tell him apart from anyone else? It was more than possible. How mortifying would that be? I thought about the woman on Facebook who’d called her face blindness “a superpower.” What would she be doing right now? She wouldn’t be sitting here nervously ripping up a paper napkin, her stomach cold


people,” Louise said apologetically as Mercy walked past her, headed for the hall. “Mark was going to build them a deck once, but he quit before he even started.” “That was Aunt Honey,” Mercy said from the hall. “She told your mom she couldn’t stand anyone changing her sister’s old house and you know how your mom always listened to her. She did y’all a favor, too. That big empty backyard is going to light up some eyes.” Louise followed Mercy into the hall and caught a glimpse of the boardedup attic hatch. She tried to distract Mercy from looking up. “So what steps do we need to take?” she asked. “In your opinion.” Louise knew Mercy loved giving her opinion. “We need to focus on making this house the best house it can be,” Mercy said, peering into Mark’s old bedroom and taking another flash picture. “We need to brighten this space. Allow it to breathe, make it appeal to the senses.” Mercy opened the workroom door. The puppets kept it from opening more than a crack. “There’s a ton of puppets in there,” Louise apologized again. “They have to go,” Mercy said. “You guys grew up around them, so you think they’re normal, but puppets creep people out even more than dolls.” “We’re getting them out today,” Louise promised, following Mercy down the hall. Something directly overhead thumped lightly on the floor once, purposeful and deliberate. Louise’s shoulders twitched and she stopped, waiting to see if it would happen again. “There’s a lot to do here,” Mercy said, “but I see high six digits if we do this right.” maybe something just fell over Louise started down the hall after Mercy, and over her head in the attic whatever it was thumped again, then again, then again, one time for every step she took, staying right over her head, following her down the hall, and she recognized the sound—footsteps. Something in the attic was pacing her. Something small. “People used to move in and renovate,” Mercy continued as Louise stopped walking. Horribly, the tiny footsteps stopped, too. “But these days everyone wants to move into a big white box with marble on the countertops and stainless steel in the kitchen and they’ll pay through the nose. I’ve seen little doo-doo places not even in this neighborhood cover everything with Benjamin Moore off-white, do a gut renovation, and go for almost seven figures.” Louise had to start walking again or it would look weird. She started and the footsteps followed her to join Mercy, who was squatting in front of the wall. “Why is this vent open?” she asked, examining the hole in the wall. “Is there an HVAC problem?” “So stupid,” Louise said, and the silence overhead was worse than the footsteps. “I knocked it off, but we’ll get it replaced. The heating and air work great, though.” “The fluff is the fluff,” Mercy said, standing, her knees cracking. “But motivated buyers want to know the nitty-gritty: how old is the heat pump? How old is this roof? Do you


see you up and about,” Stefan says. “Yeah. Thank you.” “Oh, you’re welcome, of course. As I said, you turned out to be more interesting than I’d imagined. A seasoning process, no doubt. Suffering and age. I might have done it anyway, even without Athena’s urging. If I’d heard in time.” “Maybe Elaine would have called you.” “Maybe. Thank you for that, by the way. Not just for taking care of her, but she was so moved by your situation that she’s in treatment now herself. Out in a few more months—the brain takes longer, you know. All’s well that ends well. What will you do now?” “I think we can say the cops aren’t interested in retaining my services any more.” “No, I fear not. Rather too messy and ambiguous an outcome.” “Are you asking me if I want a job?” “Genuine curiosity.” “The same, maybe. But from the other side of the line.” “Ah, yes. Perhaps. I think that would be…helpful.” He shrugs, water running down his back, then looks over at Athena. “It’s so nice for her. Finally, she has everything she wanted. You, of course. But also Elaine getting better, and Maurice out of the picture. The man who tormented her mother is dead. And she even has a little something to hold over me, if I ever get too patriarchal with her. Quite the fortunate outcome, and she never had to lift a finger. I’m very proud.” He flashes me a grin, and I see all his teeth. “Excuse me, Cal. I must get back in. I find the water infinitely more convivial than dry land, these days.” “Sure. See you round.” “Count on it, Cal.” He splashes into the pool like a child. Athena waves at me from the lounger. I think about what happened in the spaces between what I’ve already found out: how did Roddy Tebbit hear that Elaine might be an ally in Stefan’s camp? How did Maurice come to know who Roddy really was? The smallest intersections of lives; coincidences that add up to one particular ending. I remember Elaine’s face as she hit him, and the years of pain drained out of her into the dark. I realise I’m proud of Athena too. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS It’s been a tough few years in our house, just as it probably has been in yours. Thank you, Clare, as ever, but moreso. Thank you, kids, for surviving and even thriving. Thank you to Ireland, and to Inchinattin in particular, for welcoming my father home. Thank you, everyone who’s reading this book, and thank you doubly for reading these acknowledgements. Thank you Patrick, Edward, Olivia and your amazing teams. Thank you to the anonymous security guard at the Royal Cornwall Hospital on the morning of December 13th, 2020, who understood, and was kind. Thank you public health professionals, vaccine researchers, doctors, nurses, paramedics and volunteers. Thank you, teachers. Thank you delivery drivers and grocers. Thank you, everyone. Together, we go forward. A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR Nick Harkaway is the author of four previous novels (The


after that money." "It's so, Tom, it's so. I'll foller him; I will, by jingoes!" "Now you're talking! Don't you ever weaken, Huck, and I won't." --------------------------------------------------------- -254- Chapter XXVIII THAT night Tom and Huck were ready for their adventure. They hung about the neighborhood of the tavern until after nine, one watching the alley at a distance and the other the tavern door. Nobody entered the alley or left it; nobody resembling the Spaniard entered or left the tavern door. The night promised to be a fair one; so Tom went home with the understanding that if a considerable degree of darkness came on, Huck was to come and "maow," whereupon he would slip out and try the keys. But the night remained clear, and Huck closed his watch and retired to bed in an empty sugar hogshead about twelve. Tuesday the boys had the same ill luck. Also Wednesday. But Thursday night promised better. Tom slipped out in good season with his aunt's old tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with. He hid the lantern in Huck's sugar hogshead and the watch began. An hour before midnight the tavern closed up and its lights (the only ones thereabouts) were put out. No Spaniard had been seen. Nobody had entered or left the alley. Everything --------------------------------------------------------- -255- was auspicious. The blackness of darkness reigned, the perfect stillness was interrupted only by occasional mutterings of distant thunder. Tom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped it closely in the towel, and the two adventurers crept in the gloom toward the tavern. Huck stood sentry and Tom felt his way into the alley. Then there was a season of waiting anxiety that weighed upon Huck's spirits like a mountain. He began to wish he could see a flash from the lantern -- it would frighten him, but it would at least tell him that Tom was alive yet. It seemed hours since Tom had disappeared. Surely he must have fainted; maybe he was dead; maybe his heart had burst under terror and excitement. In his uneasiness Huck found himself drawing closer and closer to the alley; fearing all sorts of dreadful things, and momentarily expecting some catastrophe to happen that would take away his breath. There was not much to take away, for he seemed only able to inhale it by thimblefuls, and his heart would soon wear itself out, the way it was beating. Suddenly there was a flash of light and Tom came tearing by him: . "Run!" said he; "run, for your life!" He needn't have repeated it; once was enough; Huck was making thirty or forty miles an hour before the repetition was uttered. The boys never stopped till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-house at the lower end of the village. Just --------------------------------------------------------- -256- as they got within its shelter the storm burst and the rain poured down. As soon as Tom got his breath he said: "Huck, it was awful! I tried two of the keys, just as soft as


and down the room, glancing every moment at the clock, and becoming horribly agitated as the minutes went by. At last the door opened, and his servant entered. "Mr. Alan Campbell, sir." A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the color came back to his cheeks. "Ask him to come in at once, Francis." The man bowed, and retired. In a few moments Alan Campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his coal-black hair and dark eyebrows. "Alan! this is kind of you. I thank you for coming." "I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it was a matter of life and death." His voice was hard and cold. He spoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and appeared not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted. "It is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one person. Sit down." Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The two men's eyes met. In Dorian's there was infinite pity. He knew that what he was going to do was dreadful. After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of the man he had sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. He has been dead ten hours now. Don't stir, and don't look at me like that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you. What you have to do is this--" "Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything further. Whether what you have told me is true or not true, doesn't concern me. I entirely decline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself. They don't interest me any more." "Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest you. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can't help myself. You are the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the matter. I have no option. Alan, you are a scientist. You know about chemistry, and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you have got to do is to destroy the [90] thing that is up-stairs,--to destroy it so that not a vestige will be left of it. Nobody saw this person come into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and everything that belongs to


and lock it in the jam closet and give you the key. And you must not give it to me, Matthew, until my lessons are done, not even if I implore you on my bended knees. It's all very well to say resist temptation, but it's ever so much easier to resist it if you can't get the key. And then shall I run down the cellar and get some russets, Matthew? Wouldn't you like some russets?" "Well now, I dunno but what I would," said Matthew, who never ate russets but knew Anne's weakness for them. Just as Anne emerged triumphantly from the cellar with her plateful of russets came the sound of flying footsteps on the icy board walk outside and the next moment the kitchen door was flung open and in rushed Diana Barry, white faced and breathless, with a shawl wrapped hastily around her head. Anne promptly let go of her candle and plate in her surprise, and plate, candle, and apples crashed together down the cellar ladder and were found at the bottom embedded in melted grease, the next day, by Marilla, who gathered them up and thanked mercy the house hadn't been set on fire. "Whatever is the matter, Diana?" cried Anne. "Has your mother relented at last?" "Oh, Anne, do come quick," implored Diana nervously. "Minnie May is awful sick-she's got croup. Young Mary Joe says-and Father and Mother are away to town and there's nobody to go for the doctor. Minnie May is awful bad and Young Mary Joe doesn't know what to do-and oh, Anne, I'm so scared!" Matthew, without a word, reached out for cap and coat, slipped past Diana and away into the darkness of the yard. "He's gone to harness the sorrel mare to go to Carmody for the doctor," said Anne, who was hurrying on hood and jacket. "I know it as well as if he'd said so. Matthew and I are such kindred spirits I can read his thoughts without words at all." "I don't believe he'll find the doctor at Carmody," sobbed Diana. "I know that Dr. Blair went to town and I guess Dr. Spencer would go too. Young Mary Joe never saw anybody with croup and Mrs. Lynde is away. Oh, Anne!" "Don't cry, Di," said Anne cheerily. "I know exactly what to do for croup. You forget that Mrs. Hammond had twins three times. When you look after three pairs of twins you naturally get a lot of experience. They all had croup regularly. Just wait till I get the ipecac bottle-you mayn't have any at your house. Come on now." The two little girls hastened out hand in hand and hurried through Lover's Lane and across the crusted field beyond, for the snow was too deep to go by the shorter wood way. Anne, although sincerely sorry for Minnie May, was far from being insensible to the romance of the situation and to the sweetness of once more sharing that romance with a kindred spirit. The night was clear and frosty, all ebony


nothing to satisfy women. So, I guess, like father, like daughter.” I watched one of Trump’s communications aides, Mercy Schlapp, walk out in protest. But Wolf saved her harshest for last by mocking all the dinner attendees, collectively. “You guys are obsessed with Trump. Did you used to date him? Because you pretend like you hate him, but I think you love him. I think what no one in this room wants to admit is that Trump has helped all of you.… He’s helped you sell your papers and your books and your TV. You helped create this monster,” she emphasized. “If you’re going to profit off of Trump, you should at least give him some money, because he doesn’t have any!” Afterward, Wolf’s set was widely panned as disrespectful toward the prominent women in the administration. Attendees consoled Conway and Sanders, chiding the comedian for being too crass. The critiques were thick with irony, given who the women worked for. Something else made guests feel uncomfortable, though no one admitted it during the after party. The lewd jokes didn’t make us squirm. It was the truthful ones, like the bit at the end. People in the room who despised the president nevertheless relied on him. One of them was Rod Rosenstein, the deputy attorney general. I briefly got sandwiched into a conversation with him after the speeches ended. He was the highest-ranking official overseeing the Russia investigation, and Trump regularly lambasted him in public and private. Yet I listened with surprise as Rosenstein assured dinner guests that any suggestion of turmoil between the White House and the Justice Department was completely overblown. I knew he felt differently. The deputy attorney general saw Trump as a danger and perhaps already a criminal. Rosenstein had discussed the idea of wearing a wire in the Oval Office, as well as the possibility of invoking “the Twenty-Fifth.” Codified in 1967, the Twenty-Fifth Amendment to the Constitution outlines a process for the vice president and the heads of the fifteen executive departments to declare the president—by simple majority vote—unfit for office and to strip the president of his or her powers. As recently as a week before the Correspondents’ Dinner, Kirstjen and I had met and talked about the “forbidden” provision. John Kelly had done an informal whip count. A number of cabinet members were prepared to take the vote in an extreme scenario, but no one thought it was a viable option at the moment. Trump would call it a coup. His supporters would violently take to the streets, and Congress would probably overturn the determination anyway. Rosenstein had canvassed administration colleagues about the possibility, too. That’s why I was perplexed to hear him at the dinner, casually downplaying concerns about the president. The Adults who despised Trump still seemed to be choked by his vise-like grip. In fact, a year later, Rosenstein would write the president a flattering departure letter—thanking Trump for the honor of a lifetime, praising the administration’s policies, and glowingly recalling the president’s “courtesy and humor.” The woman I was searching


lights and moods and gray in others. So far, the ordinary observer; an extraordinary observer might have seen that the chin was very pointed and pronounced; that the big eyes were full of spirit and vivacity; that the mouth was sweet-lipped and expressive; that the forehead was broad and full; in short, our discerning extraordinary observer might have concluded that no commonplace soul inhabited the body of this stray womanchild of whom shy Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously afraid. Matthew, however, was spared the ordeal of speaking first, for as soon as she concluded that he was coming to her she stood up, grasping with one thin brown hand the handle of a shabby, old-fashioned carpet-bag; the other she held out to him. "I suppose you are Mr. Matthew Cuthbert of Green Gables?" she said in a peculiarly clear, sweet voice. "I'm very glad to see you. I was beginning to be afraid you weren't coming for me and I was imagining all the things that might have happened to prevent you. I had made up my mind that if you didn't come for me to-night I'd go down the track to that big wild cherry-tree at the bend, and climb up into it to stay all night. I wouldn't be a bit afraid, and it would be lovely to sleep in a wild cherry-tree all white with bloom in the moonshine, don't you think? You could imagine you were dwelling in marble halls, couldn't you? And I was quite sure you would come for me in the morning, if you didn't to-night." Matthew had taken the scrawny little hand awkwardly in his; then and there he decided what to do. He could not tell this child with the glowing eyes that there had been a mistake; he would take her home and let Marilla do that. She couldn't be left at Bright River anyhow, no matter what mistake had been made, so all questions and explanations might as well be deferred until he was safely back at Green Gables. "I'm sorry I was late," he said shyly. "Come along. The horse is over in the yard. Give me your bag." "Oh, I can carry it," the child responded cheerfully. "It isn't heavy. I've got all my worldly goods in it, but it isn't heavy. And if it isn't carried in just a certain way the handle pulls out-so I'd better keep it because I know the exact knack of it. It's an extremely old carpet-bag. Oh, I'm very glad you've come, even if it would have been nice to sleep in a wild cherry-tree. We've got to drive a long piece, haven't we? Mrs. Spencer said it was eight miles. I'm glad because I love driving. Oh, it seems so wonderful that I'm going to live with you and belong to you. I've never belonged to anybody-not really. But the asylum was the worst. I've only been in it four months, but that was enough. I don't suppose you ever were an orphan in an asylum, so you can't possibly understand


of fire. The heart of flame leapt nimbly across the gap between the trees and then went swinging and flaring along the whole row of them. Beneath the capering boys a quarter of a mile square of forest was savage with smoke and flame. The separate noises of the fire merged into a drum-roll that seemed to shake the mountain. "You got your small fire all right." Startled, Ralph realized that the boys were falling still and silent, feeling the beginnings of awe at the power set free below them. The knowledge and the awe made him savage. "Oh, shut up!" "I got the conch," said Piggy, in a hurt voice. "I got a right to speak." They looked at him with eyes that lacked interest in what they saw, and cocked ears at the drum-roll of the fire. Piggy glanced nervously into hell and cradled the conch. "We got to let that burn out now. And that was our firewood." He licked his lips. "There ain't nothing we can do. We ought to be more careful. I'm scared--" Jack dragged his eyes away from the fire. "You're always scared. Yah--Fatty!" "I got the conch," said Piggy bleakly. He turned to Ralph. "I got the conch, ain't I Ralph?" Unwillingly Ralph turned away from the splendid, awful sight. "What's that?" "The conch. I got a right to speak." The twins giggled together. "We wanted smoke--" "Now look--!" A pall stretched for miles away from the island. All the boys except Piggy started to giggle; presently they were shrieking with laughter. Piggy lost his temper. "I got the conch! Just you listen! The first thing we ought to have made was shelters down there by the beach. It wasn't half cold down there in the night. But the first time Ralph says 'fire' you goes howling and screaming up this here mountain. Like a pack of kids!" By now they were listening to the tirade. "How can you expect to be rescued if you don't put first things first and act proper?" He took off his glasses and made as if to put down the conch; but the sudden motion toward it of most of the older boys changed his mind. He tucked the shell under his arm, and crouched back on a rock. "Then when you get here you build a bonfire that isn't no use. Now you been and set the whole island on fire. Won't we look funny if the whole island burns up? Cooked fruit, that's what we'll have to eat, and roast pork. And that's nothing to laugh at! You said Ralph was chief and you don't give him time to think. Then when he says something you rush off, like, like--" He paused for breath, and the fire growled at them. "And that's not all. Them kids. The little 'uns. Who took any notice of 'em? Who knows how many we got?" Ralph took a sudden step forward. "I told you to. I told you to get a list of names!" "How could I," cried Piggy indignantly,


a lodge owned by a woman who hid a body for twenty years. And good luck booking any weddings, Naomi.” “It’s not going to be like that,” Olivia said, tone turning desperate. “God, I sound awful. Worrying about money, when…” Cass’s voice choked off. “But seriously, Liv. What do you think happens when people start asking questions? I don’t think any of us wants the world to know exactly what happened in those woods. Or after,” she added softly, pinning me with a level look. “Maybe it’s time they did,” I replied, voice hollow. Her calm fractured. “Of course you’re in favor of just blowing everything up. You’re never the one who has to stick around to clean up the mess.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means you’ve never tried to fix anything in your life. You just break it and leave,” Cass said. There was a prickly anger in her voice that left my skin feeling raw. “You left us behind. Amanda doesn’t even remember you.” “Can you blame her for wanting to get away?” Olivia asked. “We were kids. People have shit in their childhoods. The point is to move past it,” Cass said. “Yeah, you’ve definitely moved past it. We’re what, two blocks from your parents’ old place?” I asked, my temper flaring to match hers. “Better to be living with a shitty boyfriend and taking photos of people who are happier than you’ll ever be?” “Fuck off, Cass.” “You too, Naomi.” We glared at each other. Then she laughed, wagging her head. “It is so damn easy to fight with you. Always has been.” I let out a strained chuckle of my own. We’d scrapped constantly as kids, too. Quick to fight and quick to get over it. Even back then, my instinct had been to lash out and run at the slightest provocation, and Cass was always the one who hunted me down so we could patch things up. Cass straightened up and walked over to the counter, plucking a half-empty bottle of white wine from its spot. “I’m drinking. Who’s with me?” I glanced at the clock. Barely 10:15. “Cass—” Olivia started. “Well, I’m not drinking alone,” she said, and took down glasses for all of us. She set them out and poured a splash into each. She took a sip from hers, shut her eyes, and stood there with the glass hovering an inch from her mouth. Then she opened her eyes, and they were clear and calm. “Listen, Liv. I understand what you’re doing—I do. Really. It’s not right, leaving her out there. But you’ve been thinking about this for years. We’ve only had a few minutes. Give us some time to catch up, okay?” “I—” Olivia began. “We need time to figure things out,” Cass insisted. She glanced pointedly over at me, looking for backup. “We have to think about the consequences.” I took a swallow of my wine. Liv was right—it was long past time to tell someone about Persephone. Someone out there had to be looking for her. Mourning her.


body at all. I still could not see his face, but already I could read snippets of him. It was something I’d always done, reading people, even though it got me into trouble sometimes. This one seemed distracted, searching, unhappy. ‘What are you doing here?’ I continued my conversation with his shins. ‘I hardly think it’s any of your business. What are you doing here?’ ‘I live here!’ I said, wishing I’d pulled the blinds in the first place. ‘So you can do your Peeping Tom act somewhere else.’ My voice was shaking a bit. I didn’t feel up to having a confrontation with a stranger, but I also wanted my privacy. I could hear his boots scuffing the dirt and next thing I knew, he was sitting on his haunches, his face looming in front of me. It didn’t really match the voice at all, which was all sharp edges that you could cut your finger on. There was a warmth in his brown eyes, or were they green? Hazel, perhaps. His hair kept falling in the way. But his features held the quizzical look of someone who would challenge every word you spoke. ‘Did you just say Peeping Tom?’ he asked, clearly amused. ‘Have you time-travelled from the eighties?’ I wasn’t sure which I disliked more, being ignored or mocked. His grin was annoyingly infectious and it revealed some imperfect teeth, which I read as the result of a short-lived passion for sports. Football, I think. Blocking a penalty kick, he’d been hit in the face. I smiled, then immediately stopped. ‘Look, if you don’t stop stalking me or whatever it is you’re doing, I’m going to phone the police.’ He raised his hands in surrender. ‘I’m sorry. Look, my name is Henry,’ he said, offering me his hand to shake. I stared at it and watched as he sheepishly retracted it. ‘I wasn’t peeping in your window, I promise. I’m … I’m looking for something.’ Likely story, I thought. ‘What did you lose?’ ‘Um …’ He looked around him at the waste ground between Madame Bowden’s house and her next-door neighbour, messing up his already messy hair with his hands. ‘I didn’t lose it exactly …’ I rolled my eyes. He was a Peeping Tom. Or whatever. A perv! That was it. I was about to tell him when he blurted out a word I hadn’t expected. ‘Remains! I’m looking for the remains—’ ‘Oh Jesus Christ, did somebody die here? I knew it, I knew there was a weird vibe about this place. I got a feeling as soon as I arrived—’ ‘No, no. God no. Not those kinds of remains.’ He stooped his head low to make eye contact with me again. ‘Look, I know this looks sketchy, but I promise you, it’s nothing bad, it’s just difficult to explain.’ For a moment, we said nothing. Him crouching by the gable wall, me half hanging out of the window, standing on a kitchen chair. That’s when I heard the bell. ‘What was that?’ he asked, trying to peer


He . . . died in combat. Killed during a raid. Last one in. He was the last one in. I’m still not sure how we missed the target coming down the staircase. Faulty intel, they said, as if it helps.” While she digested that awful and jarring information without being able to take a breath, August’s fingers drummed on the side of the vanity. “Sam had this dream to be a winemaker. We all laughed about it. Called him Napa Daddy. But he was serious about doing it. Leaving the teams one day and buying a small vineyard, like this one. This is his dream, not mine. I’m just the one fucking it up.” Natalie’s stomach hung down somewhere in the vicinity of her ankles. Every terrible thing she’d ever said to him came roaring back in perfect clarity, making her throat feel like it had been cut to ribbons. “August . . .” “You’re right.” He pushed off the sink abruptly, his hoarse laugh filling the small bathroom. “I smell god-awful. I’ll take a quick shower and then we can talk about wedding stuff, huh?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Just leaned into the shower stall and twisted the handle, the sound of water pelting the tile wall filling the silence. Feeling numb down to her toes, Natalie backed out of the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Guilt burned inside every one of her organs. Made her limbs feel like dead weight. All this time, he’d been trying to fulfill this dream for his late best friend and everyone had been ridiculing him for it? The reality of that was too much to bear. Natalie’s hand still rested on the bathroom doorknob and she watched through gritty eyes as it turned in her grip, letting her back into the now-fogged-up space. What am I doing? No idea. But she knew that she’d been extremely unfair to the man on the other side of the shower curtain. He was clearly hurting after having painful memories dredged up . . . and she wanted very badly to comfort him. In any way she could. Maybe the only way she could in this exact moment? Natalie untucked her T-shirt from the waistband of her skirt, pulling it off over her head. Her skirt dropped to the floor, followed by her sandals. Her fingers hesitated for only a moment on the front clasp of her bra before releasing it. Baring her breasts to the hot, foggy room. Too eager to touch him to realize she still wore her mint green panties, she walked slowly to the curtain and drew it back, stepping into the stall. Or . . . squeezing into it, rather. August occupied nearly every inch of space. He stood with his head hanging forward beneath the spray, but the sound of the curtain being pulled back and her stepping into the shower had the meat of his shoulders flexing dramatically—and he turned with an incredulous expression. “Natalie? What are you . . .” If he was a cartoon


was a stupid lie. The unit numbers were spray-painted in each parking spot. “All right, well just be careful out there. Take care of yourself, and make sure you’re watching out for others. Okay?” “Always,” I replied, my cheeks filling with hot shame. She knew I’d driven drunk. Out in the car, everything was there, untouched. Personal phone. Burner phone. Briefcase. I was relieved, but I lost a day of writing. I was too hungover and consumed by continuous self-flagellation, as my brain fought itself. How could you be so stupid? This put everything at risk. My capacity for self-preservation was continuous, too. Not a big deal. This hasn’t happened before. It won’t happen again. All three reassurances were lies. Nevertheless, the incident became a scared-sober cliché for a period of time. I emptied the liquor bottles in the kitchen, and my nightly routine at the bar ceased. I doubled down on writing, afraid of losing more time. I also became a touch paranoid. Shaken by the potential that I could have exposed the project if the car had been stolen, I started taking extra steps to guard my possessions. I placed tamper tape on the trunk. I also attached it to the condo door when I left, so I’d know if someone entered. Weeks later at a hotel, I came back from grabbing food to find the tamper tape breached. My iPad had been in the room with the manuscript on it. What if someone had come in and installed malware? The cleaning staff probably missed the “Do Not Disturb” sign, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I went to a shopping center, smashed the device against a brick wall outside with my foot, and bought a new one. Despite the setbacks, I finished the book titled A Warning on time. It was an unsparing indictment of Donald Trump with a two-pronged caution: Americans shouldn’t reelect the man and, more importantly, we needed to unite to fix our broken republic. “If we look within ourselves and undertake the arduous task of moral repair, America can restore the soul of its political system,” I wrote in the closing paragraph. “We can once again illuminate a pathway for others onto the vaunted plazas of open society. If, however, we shrink from the task, our names will be recorded by history as those who didn’t pass the torch but let its light expire.” Through our back channel, I sent the final draft to Sean and Matt. Fate was in control now. I packed up for the journey back home, and on the drive, I got good news. For months, I’d been unemployed, and with the writing behind me, I needed a job. Somewhere on the road in Georgia, I got a callback about my application to Google—and an offer. They wanted me to be their head of national security relations. The pay was higher than any job I’d had, and after years of a public service salary, I accepted without a second thought. Google seems like adult Disneyland. A few weeks later, I started


alien occupation force would draw, the border outside of which people would not be allowed to venture. There’d been no further communication or clarification, no elaboration or explanation, merely the same simple message repeated over and over, the countdown continuing towards zero. Directly in front of their super-tanker was a cruise liner and a nuclear submarine. There was no prospect of getting any closer to land. Behind them the queue of ships stretched for miles. Having abandoned their fishing ship off the coast of Mauritania, Liza knew that it was time to do so again. On the bridge the captain listened as she made the case for evacuating all the passengers to shore. ‘Why would we leave this boat?’ ‘To reach Antarctica.’ ‘We’ve reached Antarctica. These are Antarctic waters.’ ‘What if we need to be in direct contact with land?’ ‘The instructions are to be in Antarctica – this is Antarctica – we made it.’ ‘What if being a thousand metres away doesn’t count? What if being in the airspace doesn’t count? What if being in a boat, anchored offshore, doesn’t count? The only way to be sure is to be in direct contact with the land.’ ‘Sure of what? Sure of death. Look at that land! There’s nothing – no shelter, no food. If we abandon this ship we give up our only protection against the cold. We brought everyone down off the deck because they couldn’t survive outside.’ ‘I know that but—’ ‘I have two hundred thousand people on board. They’re wearing shawls and shirts, not parkas and snow boots. The temperature outside is freezing. The wind is fifteen knots. If I order an evacuation, how many will die? How many will fall in the water or be taken by the cold? And for what? To stand on the shore when the deadline arrives?’ ‘Yes, to stand on the shore of Antarctica when the deadline arrives. We have no reason to believe they will treat us fairly. I know it goes against every human instinct to leave the warmth and venture out into this cold. Think of it like this: what if the shoreline is the finishing line and we’re dealing with an unpredictable power, someone unlikely to be lenient or merciful. Either you cross the finish line or you don’t.’ ‘I am in charge of the last survivors from my country. This ship is all that remains of our nation and its people. It’s been our saviour. It is our home. It’s all we have. I cannot give it up unless they agree. If we evacuate this ship, many will die.’ ‘If we don’t evacuate to land, we might all die. I made a promise to my parents. I can’t stop here. I can’t stop short.’ ‘Then you should go. May God be with you.’ THE ANTARCTIC PENINSULA SUPER-TANKER AXIOS SAME DAY NINE HOURS REMAINING THE BOW OF THE SUPER-TANKER, which bulged out as a giant red sphere to improve fuel efficiency, was crunching against the back of one of the world’s largest cruise liners, The Symphony of the


getting my eye once more above upon me, caking my very lips with salt, combined to make the gunwale, I set myself to study how it was she managed to my throat burn and my brain ache. The sight of the trees so slip so quietly through the rollers. near at hand had almost made me sick with longing, but the I found each wave, instead of the big, smooth glossy moun- current had soon carried me past the point, and as the next tain it looks from shore or from a vessel’s deck, was for all the reach of sea opened out, I beheld a sight that changed the world like any range of hills on dry land, full of peaks and nature of my thoughts. smooth places and valleys. The coracle, left to herself, turn- Right in front of me, not half a mile away, I beheld the ing from side to side, threaded, so to speak, her way through HISPANIOLA under sail. I made sure, of course, that I these lower parts and avoided the steep slopes and higher, should be taken; but I was so distressed for want of water that toppling summits of the wave. I scarce knew whether to be glad or sorry at the thought, and “Well, now,” thought I to myself, “it is plain I must lie long before I had come to a conclusion, surprise had taken where I am and not disturb the balance; but it is plain also entire possession of my mind and I could do nothing but that I can put the paddle over the side and from time to time, stare and wonder. in smooth places, give her a shove or two towards land.” No The HISPANIOLA was under her main-sail and two jibs, sooner thought upon than done. There I lay on my elbows in and the beautiful white canvas shone in the sun like snow or the most trying attitude, and every now and again gave a weak silver. When I first sighted her, all her sails were drawing; she stroke or two to turn her head to shore. was lying a course about north- west, and I presumed the It was very tiring and slow work, yet I did visibly gain men on board were going round the island on their way back ground; and as we drew near the Cape of the Woods, though to the anchorage. Presently she began to fetch more and more I saw I must infallibly miss that point, I had still made some to the westward, so that I thought they had sighted me and hundred yards of easting. I was, indeed, close in. I could see were going about in chase. At last, however, she fell right into the cool green tree-tops swaying together in the breeze, and I the wind’s eye, was taken dead aback, and stood there awhile felt sure I should make the next promontory without fail. helpless, with her sails shivering. It was high time, for I now began to be tortured with “Clumsy


the troop embraced Paul, repeating his new troop name. And Paul was passed from embrace to embrace through the troop, hearing the voices, the shadings of tone; "Usul . . . Usul . . . Usul." Already, he could place some of them by name. And there was Chani who pressed her cheek against his as she held him and said his name. Presently Paul stood again before Stilgar, who said: "Now, you are of the Ichwan Bedwine, our brother." His face hardened, and he spoke with command in his voice. "And now, Paul-Muad'Dib, tighten up that stillsuit." He glanced at Chani. "Chani! Paul-Muad'Dib's nose plugs are as poor a fit I've ever seen! I thought I ordered you to see after him! " "I hadn't the makings, Stil," she said. "There's Jamis' of course, but--" "Enough of that!" "Then I'll share one of mine," she said. "I can make do with one until--" "You will not," Stilgar said. "I know there are spares among us. Where are the spares? Are we a troop together or a band of savages?" Hands reached out from the troop offering hard, fibrous objects. Stilgar selected four, handed them to Chani. "Fit these to Usul and the Sayyadina." A voice lifted from the back of the troop: "What of the water, Stil? What of the literjons in their pack?" "I know your need, Farok," Stilgar said. He glanced at Jessica. She nodded. "Broach one for those that need it," Stilgar said. "Watermaster . . . where is a watermaster? Ah, Shimoom, care for the measuring of what is needed. The necessity and no more. This water is the dower property of the Sayyadina and will be repaid in the sietch at field rates less pack fees." "What is the repayment at field rates?" Jessica asked. "Ten for one," Stilgar said. "But--" "It's a wise rule as you'll come to see," Stilgar said. A rustling of robes marked movement at the back of the troop as men turned to get the water. Stilgar held up a hand, and there was silence. "As to Jamis," he said, "I order the full ceremony. Jamis was our companion and brother of the Ichwan Bedwine. There shall be no turning away without the respect due one who proved our fortune by his tahaddi-challenge. I invoke the rite . . . at sunset when the dark shall cover him." Paul, hearing these words, realized that he had plunged once more into the abyss . . . blind time. There was no past occupying the future in his mind . . . except . . . except . . . he could still sense the green and black Atreides banner waving . . . somewhere ahead . . . still see the jihad's bloody swords and fanatic legions. It will not be, he told himself. I cannot let it be. =========================== God created Arrakis to train the faithful. -from "The Wisdom of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan In the stillness of the cavern, Jessica heard the scrape of sand on rock as people


her. "That is three-fourths colored folks and one-fourth Stephanie Crawford," said Miss Maudie grimly. "Stephanie Crawford even told me once she woke up in the middle of the night and found him looking in the window at her. I said what did you do, Stephanie, move over in the bed and make room for him? That shut her up a while." I was sure it did. Miss Maudie's voice was enough to shut anybody up. "No, child," she said, "that is a sad house. I remember Arthur Radley when he was a boy. He always spoke nicely to me, no matter what folks said he did. Spoke as nicely as he knew how." "You reckon he's crazy?" Miss Maudie shook her head. "If he's not he should be by now. The things that happen to people we never really know. What happens in houses behind closed doors, what secrets-" "Atticus don't ever do anything to Jem and me in the house that he don't do in the yard," I said, feeling it my duty to defend my parent. "Gracious child, I was raveling a thread, wasn't even thinking about your father, but now that I am I'll say this: Atticus Finch is the same in his house as he is on the public streets. How'd you like some fresh poundcake to take home?" I liked it very much. Next morning when I awakened I found Jem and Dill in the back yard deep in conversation. When I joined them, as usual they said go away. "Will not. This yard's as much mine as it is yours, Jem Finch. I got just as much right to play in it as you have." Dill and Jem emerged from a brief huddle: "If you stay you've got to do what we tell you," Dill warned. "We-ll," I said, "who's so high and mighty all of a sudden?" "If you don't say you'll do what we tell you, we ain't gonna tell you anything," Dill continued. "You act like you grew ten inches in the night! All right, what is it?" Jem said placidly, "We are going to give a note to Boo Radley." "Just how?" I was trying to fight down the automatic terror rising in me. It was all right for Miss Maudie to talk- she was old and snug on her porch. It was different for us. Jem was merely going to put the note on the end of a fishing pole and stick it through the shutters. If anyone came along, Dill would ring the bell. Dill raised his right hand. In it was my mother's silver dinner-bell. "I'm goin' around to the side of the house," said Jem. "We looked yesterday from across the street, and there's a shutter loose. Think maybe I can make it stick on the window sill, at least." "Jem-" "Now you're in it and you can't get out of it, you'll just stay in it, Miss Priss!" "Okay, okay, but I don't wanta watch. Jem, somebody was-" "Yes you will, you'll watch the back end of


lower belly is extremely sexy to me, and don’t tell me, for real, but this is because my mom died when I was a kid, right? Reality It’s hilarious that this is a tag on a video that is both longer than an episode of prestige television and opens with a sweeping Spielbergian wide shot of the Italian countryside. I like a lot of “real” or “amateur” stuff, mostly because I don’t like thinking about a guy in the corner whose job it is to squirt baby oil on a dry torso between takes. I also don’t like the idea of takes, because it’s sexier and less creepy to feel like it’s just me and my pals in a rented room down at the hourly motel having a little innocent fun on a Saturday night. Just me (fully clothed, saying nothing, feeling no hands on my body except for my own) and my pals (Bob, the manager at a furniture store in the one strip mall you avoid going to, and Harriet, who works at the neck-pillow store at the airport) getting our blood pressures up for seven minutes and not a second longer at the end of a grueling week. Scissoring So nice they had to list it twice. * * * — If I was into role-play I’d literally be like, “Let’s do the one where we play hot dog vendors at the Tigers’ stadium who get home late and are too tired to touch each other’s genitals so they just fall asleep in matching recliners, fully clothed,” but I do understand the transgressive appeal of fucking in a nun’s costume, even though I have had just enough African Methodist Episcopal indoctrination that even the idea of initiating ass eating while wearing God’s uniform makes me feel phantom flames from hell lapping at the back of my neck. My ultimate sex fantasy would be something like: I want to rig the sky so it rains and thunders for three days (but not scary thunder) and the rain magically doesn’t flood anything or make the roads too treacherous to get a pesto-based pizza delivered in a reasonable amount of time, also the power doesn’t ever go out and the Wi-Fi stays strong, plus I get to wear the same threadbare sweatshirt I always wear, without a pinching-ass digging-ass bra, and we watch thirteen straight hours of television and then make out in the dark and go to sleep in separate rooms and maybe I’ll use my high-tech vibrator that simulates sucking human lips alone (you need one of those!), if I’m not too exhausted. You’re lying if you say that doesn’t sound like the best night of your life. No one is actually fantasizing about figuring out which leg hole is which in the Sexy-Illusion Bodystocking! I can’t find this on Pornhub anymore, so I’ve got “Two Old Nuns Having Amzing [sic] Lesbian Sex” queued up on a site purporting to have “the best in lesbian erotica.” And I want to talk about how this porn movie you are supposed to


experienced true pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated; Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she regarded me, so icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me her feeling toward me was unchanged, and unchangeable. I knew by her stony eye opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure only a sense of mortification.     I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdue her to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood; I ordered them back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head; I sat down and leaned over the pillow.     "You sent for me," I said, "and I am here; and it is my intention to stay till I see how you get on."     "Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?"     "Yes."     "Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some things over with you I have on my mind; to-night it is too late, and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was something I wished to say let me see "     The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of a quilt, fixed it down; she was at once irritated.     "Sit up!" said she; "don't annoy me with holding the clothes fast are you Jane Eyre?"     "I am Jane Eyre."     "I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands and so much annoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural watching of one's movements! I declare she talked to me once like something mad, or like a fiend no child ever spoke or looked as she did; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood. The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die; but I said she did I wish she had died!"     "A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?"     "I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband's only sister, and a great favorite with him; he opposed the family's disowning her when she made her low marriage; and when


must rob the pantry. There was no doing it in the night, for there was no getting a light by easy friction then; to have got one, I must have struck it out of flint and steel, and have made a noise like the very pirate himself rattling his chains. As soon as the great black velvet pall outside my little window was shot with grey, I got up and went down stairs; every board upon the way, and every crack in every board, calling after me, "Stop thief!" and "Get up, Mrs. Joe!" In the pantry, which was far more abundantly supplied than usual, owing to the season, I was very much alarmed, by a hare hanging up by the heels, whom I rather thought I caught, when my back was half turned, winking. I had no time for verification, no time for selection, no time for anything, for I had no time to spare. I stole some bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which I tied up in my pocket-handkerchief with my last night's slice), some brandy from a stone bottle (which I decanted into a glass bottle I had secretly used for making that intoxicating fluid, Spanish-liquorice-water, up in my room: diluting the stone bottle from a jug in the kitchen cupboard), a meat bone with very little on it, and a beautiful round compact pork pie. I was nearly going away without the pie, but I was tempted to mount upon a shelf, to look what it was that was put away so carefully in a covered earthen ware dish in a corner, and I found it was the pie, and I took it, in the hope that it was not intended for early use, and would not be missed for some time. There was a door in the kitchen, communicating with the forge; I unlocked and unbolted that door, and got a file from among Joe's tools. Then, I put the fastenings as I had found them, opened the door at which I had entered when I ran home last night, shut it, and ran for the misty marshes. Chapter 3 It was a rimy morning, and very damp. I had seen the damp lying on the outside of my little window, as if some goblin had been crying there all night, and using the window for a pocket-handkerchief. Now, I saw the damp lying on the bare hedges and spare grass, like a coarser sort of spiders' webs; hanging itself from twig to twig and blade to blade. On every rail and gate, wet lay clammy; and the marsh-mist was so thick, that the wooden finger on the post directing people to our village - a direction which they never accepted, for they never came there - was invisible to me until I was quite close under it. Then, as I looked up at it, while it dripped, it seemed to my oppressed conscience like a phantom devoting me to the Hulks. The mist was heavier yet when I got out


transformed to flame and smoke. Burning branches crack from trees and fall in showers of sparks at my feet. All I can do is follow the others, the rabbits and deer and I even spot a wild dog pack shooting through the woods. I trust their sense of direction because their instincts are sharper than mine. But they are much faster, flying through the un- derbrush so gracefully as my boots catch on roots and fallen tree limbs, that there’s no way I can keep apace with them. The heat is horrible, but worse than the heat is the smoke, which threatens to suffocate me at any moment. I pull the top of my shirt up over my nose, grateful to find it soaked in sweat, and it offers a thin veil of protection. And I run, chok- ing, my bag banging against my back, my face cut with branches that materialize from the gray haze without warn- ing, because I know I am supposed to run. 171 This was no tribute’s campfire gone out of control, no acci- dental occurrence. The flames that bear down on me have an unnatural height, a uniformity that marks them as human- made, machine-made, Gamemaker-made. Things have been too quiet today. No deaths, perhaps no fights at all. The au- dience in the Capitol will be getting bored, claiming that these Games are verging on dullness. This is the one thing the Games must not do. It’s not hard to follow the Gamemakers’ motivation. There is the Career pack and then there are the rest of us, probably spread far and thin across the arena. This fire is designed to flush us out, to drive us together. It may not be the most origi- nal device I’ve seen, but it’s very, very effective. I hurdle over a burning log. Not high enough. The tail end of my jacket catches on fire and I have to stop to rip it from my body and stamp out the flames. But I don’t dare leave the jacket, scorched and smoldering as it is, I take the risk of shov- ing it in my sleeping bag, hoping the lack of air will quell what I haven’t extinguished. This is all I have, what I carry on my back, and it’s little enough to survive with. In a matter of minutes, my throat and nose are burning. The coughing begins soon after and my lungs begin to feel as if they are actually being cooked. Discomfort turns to distress until each breath sends a searing pain through my chest. I manage to take cover under a stone outcropping just as the vomiting begins, and I lose my meager supper and whatever water has remained in my stomach. Crouching on my hands and knees, I retch until there’s nothing left to come up. 172 I know I need to keep moving, but I’m trembling and light- headed now, gasping for air. I allow myself about a spoonful of water to rinse my mouth and spit then take a few swallows from


caught before he kills someone else.” The sound of the policemen returning drove Marion back to her appointed spot. At ten o’clock exactly, Ogden gestured for them to follow him back to Somers’s office. Peter closed his notepad and pushed back his chair. “I’m ready.” They knocked on Somers’s door and entered, Ogden trailing close behind. This time Peter stood at the window while she and Ogden took the seats. Somers sat back in his chair, arms crossed. “So. What did you discover, Dr. Griggs?” “As I mentioned before, usually a psychiatrist studies the patient and then predicts the behavior. In this case, I’m working backward, examining the behavior and then trying to figure out what type of person would act this way, looking at all the factors that come into play with this kind of unstable conduct. I tried to use that to determine his identity. Reverse psychology, if you will.” So far, so good. Both policemen were listening closely, and even the sarcastic look on Ogden’s face was smoothed over, replaced with interest. “Determine his identity?” asked Somers. “Not anything as specific as his name, but other factors that aren’t insignificant, like his race, what kind of work he might do. Keep in mind, to this guy, his behavior makes perfect sense. He sees the world with a warped point of view, and if I can get into his head, I can figure out what sort of man might see the world that way. The letters are very helpful, in that regard. The early ones are typed, the later ones handwritten. That handwriting will help identify him, eventually. He’s becoming bolder, but also possibly more likely to make a mistake.” “That’s pretty obvious, even to us, Dr. Griggs,” said Ogden. “That’s the best you can do?” “My diagnosis is your bomber is a paranoid schizophrenic. He might hear voices that aren’t real, and he can hold a grudge for years, if necessary.” “So we’re looking for someone who talks to himself?” Ogden said. “Again, that’s half the city, right, Captain?” “Let him finish,” said Somers. Peter took a deep breath. “Most paranoid schizophrenics don’t develop their illness until after age thirty, so your guy, if he’s been at this for sixteen years, is probably in his mid-forties or early fifties. They also tend to be neither fat nor skinny, in my experience, so he’s of medium build. The phrases he uses in his letters are not quite American. Dastardly deeds, for example, or writing The Metropolitan Power Company when anyone in New York would refer to the company as Met Power. He’s been mailing the letters from multiple locations in Westchester, which leads me to believe he lives just beyond that county, in southwest Connecticut, say, and mails them on his way into the city. That area has a lot of industrial towns where Slav immigrants settled, which indicates he’s a Slav, and probably Roman Catholic.” “A Slav?” said Somers. “That’s a pretty big leap.” “He used a knife to insert the bomb into the seat when he could have


out of a frail woman’s hands and said, “Dude? What in the world is going on here today?” He looked at me as if I’d suddenly sprouted a second head, then dove to his left to avoid a pair of sprinting college kids whose shoes pounded the ground so hard sparks shot out from beneath them. “We finally got a Cheesecake Factory!” he shouted. “And today is the grand opening!” A freshly constructed Cheesecake Factory, the uncontested ruler of the reheated, prepackaged mall chains, opening only an hourlong car ride and a half a tank of gas away from where I live? And I just so happened to want a block of twig-and-berries natural soap on the day of its grand opening? My karma was obviously right. I fought my way through the throngs of people in sensible gym shoes clustered around the door, dragging Emily’s tiny limp body behind me, and made my way to the host, who informed me that there could be a wait of “several hours” between me and a plate of Roadside Sliders. I watched frustrated packs of tweens sighing and grimacing at their watches, angrily punching orders like “mom get me NOW, k?” into their phones as they stormed away in a huff. Adults pressed their impatient faces against the brand-new cold cases housing the “more than thirty legendary cheesecakes” as their toddlers wailed and tugged at their pant legs, begging them to just feed them the bag of Cheerios they’d left behind in the car. Was I really going to waste three-plus hours in the middle of a perfectly acceptable weekend outside a restaurant entrance crammed next to a cell-phone-case kiosk with your aunts and uncles, waiting to get food I’d already eaten before? YES, I WAS. Good fortune such as this simply doesn’t happen to me. And now, all of a sudden, I’d accidentally stumbled across the grand opening of the luxurious, wicker-chaired faux-Egyptian-mall-restaurant fantasy of my dreams. There was absolutely no way Emily and I weren’t going to put our names in. Where else can you get an entire bucket of soup for six dollars? My love affair with the Cheesecake Factory had begun much like everyone else’s: a girl in my suburban high school took me there for my seventeenth birthday. It was the most glamorous, luxurious place I had ever been, and I was genuinely in awe of the seventy-two-page menu. I couldn’t believe they would bring you a literal goblet of ice water and refill it every thirty seconds. Ten out of ten, would go again. And I did. Dozens of times. And, okay, maybe I exaggerated the number of menu pages, but you could easily go there once a week for the rest of your life and never get the same thing twice. Try to beat that. You can’t! Nestled inside a booth the size of a mid-priced sedan, backs and knees sore from pacing in front of Ann Taylor and the North Face while trying not to think about the unhinged ridiculousness of spending an entire day waiting


and walk about, Mary had an inspiration. "Now that I am a real boy," Colin had said, "my legs and arms and all my body are so full of Magic that I can't keep them still. They want to be doing things all the time. Do you know that when I waken in the morning, Mary, when it's quite early and the birds are just shouting outside and everything seems just shouting for joy--even the trees and things we can't really hear--I feel as if I must jump out of bed and shout myself. If I did it, just think what would happen!" Mary giggled inordinately. "The nurse would come running and Mrs. Medlock would come running and they would be sure you had gone crazy and they'd send for the doctor," she said. Colin giggled himself. He could see how they would all look--how horrified by his outbreak and how amazed to see him standing upright. "I wish my father would come home," he said. "I want to tell him myself. I'm always thinking about it--but we couldn't go on like this much longer. I can't stand lying still and pretending, and besides I look too different. I wish it wasn't raining today." It was then Mistress Mary had her inspiration. "Colin," she began mysteriously, "do you know how many rooms there are in this house?" "About a thousand, I suppose," he answered. "There's about a hundred no one ever goes into," said Mary. "And one rainy day I went and looked into ever so many of them. No one ever knew, though Mrs. Medlock nearly found me out. I lost my way when I was coming back and I stopped at the end of your corridor. That was the second time I heard you crying." Colin started up on his sofa. "A hundred rooms no one goes into," he said. "It sounds almost like a secret garden. Suppose we go and look at them. wheel me in my chair and nobody would know we went" "That's what I was thinking," said Mary. "No one would dare to follow us. There are galleries where you could run. We could do our exercises. There is a little Indian room where there is a cabinet full of ivory elephants. There are all sorts of rooms." "Ring the bell," said Colin. When the nurse came in he gave his orders. "I want my chair," he said. "Miss Mary and I are going to look at the part of the house which is not used. John can push me as far as the picture-gallery because there are some stairs. Then he must go away and leave us alone until I send for him again." Rainy days lost their terrors that morning. When the footman had wheeled the chair into the picture-gallery and left the two together in obedience to orders, Colin and Mary looked at each other delighted. As soon as Mary had made sure that John was really on his way back to his own quarters below stairs, Colin got out of his chair.


likes me. I like him too. In time, our affection will grow, I hope, into the deep-heart love the concubines are always talking about. Tonight, since Poppy has yet to return from her errand, I serve my husband a simple meal of a soup, duck glazed with kumquat, water spinach sautéed in ginger and garlic, and tofu with black mushrooms and pickled turnip. When I pour his wine, he touches my hand. “Sit with me tonight,” he says. “Let me feed you.” It’s hardly proper. Wives don’t eat with their husbands, but no one is here to see what we’re doing. He uses his chopsticks to lift a sliver of duck. With his other hand cupped beneath the morsel, he guides it to my mouth. The way he watches me chew causes my cheeks to flush, which seems to please him even more. I’m equally fascinated by him: the precision with which he picks up a slice of mushroom, the gentleness with which he places it between my lips, the look in his eyes as he takes in my features. He’s the first man, apart from my father and grandfather, with whom I’ve spent time alone; I suspect—but can’t be sure—that I’m the first woman with whom Maoren has enjoyed the luxury of soaking in every mark of beauty and every flaw. When we’re like this, I feel more exposed than when we’re naked together. Poppy returns in time to clear the dishes. When Maoren disappears into my marriage bed, she gives me a letter and a packet from Grandmother, which I tuck in a drawer. Then she removes the layers of my daywear, holds up my favorite silk sleeping gown for me to slip my arms into, and then ties the sash loosely at my hip. Last, Poppy helps me change into a pair of bound-foot slippers on which I’ve embroidered lilies in bloom. Poppy leads me to the bed, supporting me as I step into the first antechamber. As I cross through the dressing room, Poppy reaches in to place a lantern on the bench. “I’ll be right here, Little Miss,” she says with a bow. By the time I’m under the quilts with Maoren, Poppy has rolled out her bedding in the first antechamber and lain down. I do not know—nor do I want to know—what she thinks of the sounds Maoren and I make as we begin to perform bedchamber affairs. He takes one of my feet in the palm of his hand. He caresses the silk. He admires the embroidery, saying, “When I see the beautiful petals you stitched, I’m reminded that in every step you take your golden lilies bloom beneath you.” He brings my slippered foot to his nose so he can appreciate its aroma. But mostly it’s as I’ve always been told. My feet are physical proof of the pain I suffered to give him this treasure so dear to him. He’ll never see them naked, but he knows from the books that taught him about bedroom affairs that hidden beneath the binding cloth


a necklace, with pendant, bracelets, and ear-rings; and also some other small ornaments. Tess seemed afraid to touch them at first, but her eyes sparkled for a moment as much as the stones when Clare spread out the set. "Are they mine?" she asked incredulously. "They are, certainly," said he. He looked into the fire. He remembered how, when he was a lad of fifteen, his godmother, the Squire's wife--the only rich person with whom he had ever come in contact--had pinned her faith to his success; had prophesied a wondrous career for him. There had seemed nothing at all out of keeping with such a conjectured career in the storing up of these showy ornaments for his wife and the wives of her descendants. They gleamed somewhat ironically now. "Yet why?" he asked himself. It was but a question of vanity throughout; and if that were admitted into one side of the equation it should be admitted into the other. His wife was a d'Urberville: whom could they become better than her? Suddenly he said with enthusiasm--- "Tess, put them on--put them on!" And he turned from the fire to help her. But as if by magic she had already donned them-- necklace, ear-rings, bracelets, and all. "But the gown isn't right, Tess," said Clare. "It ought to be a low one for a set of brilliants like that." "Ought it?" said Tess. "Yes," said he. He suggested to her how to tuck in the upper edge of her bodice, so as to make it roughly approximate to the cut for evening wear; and when she had done this, and the pendant to the necklace hung isolated amid the whiteness of her throat, as it was designed to do, he stepped back to survey her. "My heavens," said Clare, "how beautiful you are!" As everybody knows, fine feathers make fine birds; a peasant girl but very moderately prepossessing to the casual observer in her simple condition and attire, will bloom as an amazing beauty if clothed as a woman of fashion with the aids that Art can render; while the beauty of the midnight crush would often cut but a sorry figure if placed inside the field-woman's wrapper upon a monotonous acreage of turnips on a dull day. He had never till now estimated the artistic excellence of Tess's limbs and features. "If you were only to appear in a ball-room!" he said. "But no--no, dearest; I think I love you best in the wing-bonnet and cotton-frock--yes, better than in this, well as you support these dignities." Tess's sense of her striking appearance had given her a flush of excitement, which was yet not happiness. "I'll take them off," she said, "in case Jonathan should see me. They are not fit for me, are they? They must be sold, I suppose?" "Let them stay a few minutes longer. Sell them? Never. It would be a breach of faith." Influenced by a second thought she readily obeyed. She had something to tell, and there might be help in these. She sat down


when he offered to be my model. What was I thinking? Of course he’d glimpsed my life and bolted. Who’d want to get anywhere near it? In the end, I took the portrait to the gallery without ever showing it to Joe—or seeing him at all. And then I spent the next two days being ignored and obsessing over why that was happening. In the meantime, I rearranged my paints. Organized my canvases. Restacked the dishes in my cabinets. Painted Peanut’s toenails with glitter polish. Watched a video tutorial about how to make one large T-shirt into twelve different outfits. And stewed. Emotionally. Oh, and I googled “Why men don’t text you back.” But it wasn’t very helpful. I also had another brain scan to check my edema. And that wasn’t helpful, either. Dr. Estrera reported that, shockingly, according to the scan, the edema had now largely resolved. He compared last week’s scan with this week’s scan—both of which looked quite similar to me. “We’re seeing an eighty-one percent reduction in swelling in the area,” Dr. Estrera said proudly. Big news, I guess—but it didn’t do me much good if nothing else had changed. And nothing else had changed. After the scan, Dr. Nicole gave me a battery of facial recognition tests to compare to my baseline. And I was exactly the same on those as I’d been a month ago. The same identical numerical score. I knocked my head against the table at the results. “Please don’t do that,” Dr. Nicole said. “How can I be exactly the same?” I whined. “These results are to help you—not make you pound your head on the table.” “Well, they don’t feel very helpful.” “Now that the edema is resolving, you should start to see some changes in your facial perceptions,” she said, like that might cheer me up. Then she added, “No guarantees.” But I wasn’t in the mood to be cheered up. I flopped down on her sofa in despair. “Nothing is going right.” “Maybe you need to broaden your definition of right.” “Don’t throw that cheery nonsense at me. My life is a shit show.” This right here felt like my lowest moment so far. I thought I was supposed to be getting better, not getting worse. Learning to cope, at least. What the hell was going on? “Tell me what has you feeling down,” Dr. Nicole asked. “Everything?” I asked. Like, did she really think she could handle that? “Sure. Everything.” Okay. She asked for it. “I still can’t see faces. I submitted a portrait to this competition that I should have won—handily—that’s guaranteed to come in dead last. I’m being menaced by my evil stepsister. I’m embarrassed to go back to my favorite coffee shop. My best friend eloped to Canada and left me dateless for what’s sure to be the most humiliating event of my life. My stepmother wants to build a relationship with me and she’s coming to the show over my vociferous objections. My dog is a thousand years old. I broke up with my fantasy


happen? Why the hell are you involved?” “I’m not. Not in her death.” “Who’s ‘her’?” “Look, the less you know, the better. For now.” “Then why the hell did you call me in the first place?” Montoya demanded, his voice rising and his temper flaring. Cruz was and always had been trouble, more trouble than he himself had ever thought of being. “I didn’t want to just show up and freak you out.” “You’re doing that now.” “I’m just giving you a heads-up. I figured after my last call you might be worried—” “The whole damned family’s worried sick, Cruz. What the hell’s wrong with you?” “You tell me!” he snapped, obviously on the edge. “I’ll see you soon. I’ll explain then.” “You sure as hell better—” But the connection was severed and Montoya was left not knowing any more than he had ten minutes earlier before he’d answered the phone. Who was dead? Some woman with, as yet, no name. Some woman Cruz had been somehow involved with. And that woman had been murdered. Out west somewhere. Knowing he couldn’t sleep, he slipped back into the house and grabbed his laptop, brought it out to the porch, and sat in the porch swing where he heard a truck rumbling by on the street and farther off the sound of a train gathering speed. There was an occasional voice and he saw, through the slats in the fence, his neighbor’s yard cast in flickering shades of gray from the old man’s television, which was always on, day or night, muted, thankfully, as he kept his curtains and windows open. He Googled recent homicides of women in the western states, concentrating on the day Cruz first called him and the week before that. Then he started filtering down the news reports, Googling Cruz’s name, and got nowhere. Sadly, too many people were the victims of homicide in this country. Rocking gently back and forth on the swing, he thought about it. Where would Cruz be in the West? Why had he gone there? The last time Montoya had seen him, years ago, he’d been burned by a woman who’d stolen his motorcycle and had left him stranded here, in New Orleans. But he’d taken off after Lucia Costa, a woman who had been a nun at St. Marguerite’s, a girl he’d known in school years before. When Montoya cross-referenced her name with the recent murders, he found the headline: WOMAN FOUND SLAIN NEAR TRASK RIVER BOYFRIEND WANTED FOR QUESTIONING Boyfriend? Montoya skimmed the story. Yes, the body of Lucia Costa had been found on the banks of the Trask River in a remote part of Oregon. She was the apparent victim of homicide and Cruz Montoya was being sought as a person of interest. The story ran at the end of last week, an earlier one several days before, but Cruz had called him over a week before that. So he’d known about Lucia’s death. And was involved. Enough to be on the lam. Shit! Montoya stopped rocking and felt the knot in