barbaroi in Greece, people ruled by despots, who live with neither freedom nor reason. Clytemnestra wonders if kings fight their own battles in Maeonia, as they do in Sparta. It doesn’t seem so, for the stranger’s arms are smooth, quite different from the scarred bodies of the Spartans around him. The table is laid with rare delicacies—goat and sheep meat, onions, pears and figs, honeyed flatbreads—but Clytemnestra doesn’t want to eat. The king of Maeonia is talking to Helen, who is seated beside him. When he makes her laugh, he stares straight at Clytemnestra. She looks away as her father speaks, addressing the stranger over the loud chatter. “Tell me, Tantalus, are the women in your homeland as beautiful as they say?” Is Tyndareus trying to arrange a marriage? Sparta rarely has guests from such faraway lands, and the king of Maeonia must be very wealthy. Tantalus doesn’t blink. He smiles, and two small lines appear at the corners of his eyes. “They are, but nothing like the beauty you find here in Sparta.” He looks at Clytemnestra once more. This time she stares back, her heart racing as though she were running. She can almost feel Castor smirking at the other end of the table. “Your women possess the most precious beauty of all: strength of body and character.” Tyndareus raises his cup. “To the women of Sparta,” he says. Everyone echoes his words, and the golden cups shine in the light of the lamps. * * * The sun sets late in summer. Standing on the terrace in front of the main hall, Clytemnestra looks at the mountains to the west and the east. Their peaks are perfectly outlined against the orange sky, then slowly become blurred, melting into the growing darkness. When she hears steps approaching behind her, she doesn’t turn. Tantalus appears next to her, as she hoped he would. She wanted him to follow her, but now she doesn’t know what to say. So she waits. When she turns to him, he is staring at the golden earrings that graze her neck and shoulders as they swing. They are in the shape of big anemones. “Do you know the origin of windflowers?” he says, breaking the silence. His voice is warm, his skin as dark as oak. “We call them anemones,” replies Clytemnestra. “Anemones,” he repeats. “They were created by the goddess Aphrodite from the blood of Adonis, the boy she was in love with.” “I know what happened. Adonis was slain by a wild boar.” Tantalus frowns. “The boy dies but the goddess’s love for him remains. It is a reminder of beauty and resistance in times of adversity.” “That is true, but Adonis is dead, and no flower can replace him.” Tantalus smiles. “You truly are a strange woman.” I am not strange, Clytemnestra wants to say, but she keeps silent, her breath held. “Your father says you are as wise as a mature woman can be, and when I ask your sister about you, she says you always know what you want.” Clytemnestra tilts


the street, weighing my options. My father’s house sits on the next block. I can see the warm glow of the porch light, beckoning me home. I can make a run for it and hope Carter doesn’t catch up, or I can force him out of the Escort and speed the rest of the way home. I pick plan B. Being inside the car seems like the safest bet. I shove my right hand into my pocket, fumbling for the corkscrew. I pull it out and hold it up, its pointed tip aimed at Carter’s side. He sees it and raises his hands. “Jesus, Kit. There’s no need for this.” “Get out of the car,” I say. Keeping his hands where I can see them, Carter unfastens his seat belt and pulls the handle of the passenger door. It clicks open, setting off a warning beep because the car’s still running. “You’re making a mistake,” he says. “I swear to you I didn’t do it.” “I don’t believe you!” Anger courses through me, making my blood pump so hard I can feel the cut on my hand pulse. He lied to me. Just like Virginia lied to me. The pain of their twin betrayals stings like a third-degree burn. I jab the air with the corkscrew, forcing Carter closer to the open door. “Kit, please!” I jab the corkscrew again, this time lunging forward until its tip is a breath away from Carter’s neck. He scrambles out of the car and stands in the street, calling to me as I speed away, the passenger door flapping like a broken wing. Knowing Carter can still easily catch up to me, I aim not for the driveway but the yard, thumping over the sidewalk and skidding to a stop mere feet from the front door. I burst from the car, Carter’s loud and fast footfalls echoing up the street behind me. “Kit, wait!” he calls. I do the opposite, running to the front door, flinging it open, slamming it shut behind me. Carter reaches it just as I turn the deadbolt. He pounds on the door, pleading with me. “Kit, please! You’ve got it all wrong.” I back away from the door, unsure what to do next. I need a phone to call Detective Vick, peroxide and a Band-Aid for my hand, and to find my father, so I can finally reveal the truth about my mother’s death. I head to the living room, expecting to find my father in his La-Z-Boy, waiting up for me like he did when I was a teenager. Only his chair is empty. As is the living room. And, it seems, the whole house. “Dad?” I move down the hall, to the bedroom he once shared with my mother but now sleeps in alone. Peeking through the doorway, I spot a suitcase on the bed. One that doesn’t belong to him. It’s smaller than his battered suitcase, which I remember from so many family vacations. Nicer, too. Quality leather as dark as brandy. Its single flaw is a


healthier. Krill was processed into a rich broth, salty and pungent, served with noodles made from the dense forests of kelp which grew on the seabed under the ice, one of nature’s fastest growing plants. Canneries had been built around the harbour where all the fish, octopus and giant spider crab were readied for consumption. During the summer as much as possible was eaten fresh. For the winter months, the catch was preserved in pastes and brines. Seals were only eaten when their furs were harvested for pelts. Their flesh was unpopular, their livers toxic, not even suitable for the dogs, while the blubber was used for inefficient lamps and luxurious soaps. Obesity and diabetes had been confined to the past, with a population fitter and stronger than ever before, even the most bookish children thinking nothing of hiking ten kilometres through the snow carrying a heavy backpack. Leaving behind the cheering crowds, the fishing flotilla followed the shoreline out to sea, passing several moored nuclear submarines, Russian, British and French, side by side, converted from war machines to prime accommodation, robust against even the most severe winter storms, home to Hope Town’s vulnerable citizens. Most of the nuclear reactors, with a lifespan of twenty-five years, were still operational, providing reliable warmth and electricity, residencies for the elderly and those with special needs, Hope Town being the only settlement that hadn’t taken a Darwinian approach to survival, believing that protecting the vulnerable was part of the reason they’d been so successful as a community. Beside the submarines were some of the world’s largest cruise ships and most expensive yachts, home to many thousands of Hope Town refugees, their engines picked clean for components, never to sail again, their hot tubs used for washing clothes. This was Atto’s twentieth year on the ice, an exceptional feat for a civilian with no training in cold survival and who’d completed the Exodus to Antarctica without any government assistance, not part of a national evacuation programme, his name not on any of the lists of high-value citizens worth saving – arriving in Antarctica through guile and grit. Perhaps the struggles of that journey were part of the reason he’d survived the infamous first winter – the deadliest winter in human history. Many of the important people airlifted to the continent had been unprepared for the challenges of life on the ice, too accustomed to their own importance and the luxuries associated with it. In contrast, the Exodus had toughened Atto, readied him for the scale of the challenges ahead, recalibrating his identity. This was a new era. The era of plenty was over. Humankind was a fallen people now. No longer conquerors but a second-tier species, relegated to the coldest continent on Earth, imprisoned within a reservation created by alien occupiers. For those who couldn’t adjust, despair swept through their ranks more lethal than the pandemics that had once swept the world. For those who were willing to adapt, they tried not only to survive but to find a better way of living. Out in the


Noth- ing stirred---the house was quiet. "She's mistaken, I said to myself. He's got over it. I needn't disturb them. And I began to doze. But my sleep was marred a second time by a sharp ringing of the bell---the only bell we have, put up on purpose for Linton; and the master called to me to see what was the matter, and inform them that he wouldn't have that noise repeated. "I delivered Catherine's message. He cursed to himself, and in a few minutes came out with a lighted candle, and proceeded to their room. I followed. Mrs. Heathcliff was seated by the bedside with her hands folded on her knees. Her father-in-law went up, held the light to Linton's face, looked at him, and touched him. Afterwards he turned to her. " 'Now, Catherine,' he said, 'how do you feel?' "She was dumb. " 'How do you feel, Catherine?' he repeated. " 'He's safe, and I'm free,' she answered. 'I should feel well, but,' she continued, with a bitterness she couldn't conceal, 'you have left me so long to struggle against death alone that I feel and see only death. I feel like death.' "And she looked like it too. I gave her a little wine. Hareton and Joseph, who had been wakened by the ringing and the sound of feet, and heard our talk from outside, now entered. Joseph was fain, I believe, of the lad's removal; Hareton seemed a thought bothered, though he was more taken up with staring at Cather- ine than thinking of Linton. But the master bade him get off to bed again; we didn't want his help. He after- wards made Joseph remove the body to his chamber, and told me to return to mine, and Mrs. Heathcliff re- mained by herself. "In the morning he sent me to tell her she must come down to breakfast. She had undressed, and appeared going to sleep, and said she was ill, at which I hardly wondered. I informed Mr. Heathcliff, and he re- plied,--- " 'Well, let her be till after the funeral, and go up now and then to get her what is needful; and as soon as she seems better, tell me.' " Cathy stayed upstairs a fortnight, according to Zillah, who visited her twice a day, and would have been rather more friendly, but her attempts at increas- ing kindness were proudly and promptly repelled. Heathcliff went up once to show her Linton's will. He had bequeathed the whole of his and what had been her movable property to his father. The poor crea- ture was threatened or coaxed into that act during her week's absence when his uncle died. The lands, being a minor, he could not meddle with. However, Mr. Heath- cliff has claimed and kept them in his wife's right and his also--I suppose legally. At any rate, Catherine, des- titute of cash and friends, cannot disturb his posses- sion. "Nobody," said Zillah, "ever approached her door, except that once, but I; and nobody asked anything about her. The


from people, just like me. You lie when you don’t trust others with the truth, just like me.” She wrings the cloth. “I am not like you,” she repeats. The words sound empty in her mouth. Agamemnon must feel it too, because he smirks. “Polydamas and Lycomedes are dead,” he says. “Did you kill them?” She knows where this is going but answers him anyway. “They didn’t respect me. They plotted against me.” He waves his hand. “People always plot behind a ruler’s back. They didn’t do your bidding, so you got rid of them.” “Still, that doesn’t make me like you.” He ignores her. “And I see that Leon is gone as well. Did he leave you after you lied to him about Aegisthus? He always had a soft spot for you.” She keeps her voice calm. “Leon was faithful to me because he saw that you are greedy and cruel, heartless and vicious.” He laughs. “Go on, keep hating me. But future generations will hate you as much—the woman who slept with the enemy, the queen who disrespected her elders, the wife who didn’t submit to her husband.” The words are blades, cutting her skin. “And how will they hate the man who murdered his own daughter?” she whispers. He shakes his head. “Your father once told me that our lives are nothing more than a fight among those who have the power, those who want it, and the people who find themselves in the middle—casualties, sacrifices, call them whatever you want.” Her eyes find his. “So my daughter was a casualty to you.” “She was my daughter too, and I mourned her.” “You murdered her!” He rests his head back, exposing his thick neck. “Calchas played with my mind. But we sailed for Troy, and then we won.” A drop of sweat trickles down his face. “Now I need to deal with Aegisthus. Then all our enemies will have been destroyed.” Her throat is raw, but she forces herself to speak. “And what about my enemies?” He is staring at the ceiling when she throws the wet cloth at him. It sticks to his face, blinding him, and before he can grab it, she draws her dagger from her sleeve and plunges it into his arm. He makes a choking noise. She pulls it out, and blood spatters on her face. Grunting, he tosses the cloth aside. There is energy in his eyes, like rage and pleasure together. She knows that expression—it is the fervency that takes hold of him before he hurts others. Still, she isn’t careful enough. When her arm strikes to stab him again, he takes the blade in his hand, stopping her. His eyes are wild. With his other hand, he punches her in the face so hard that her head smacks the wall. For a moment, she loses her balance, her sight blurred. She takes a few steps back, feeling the wall under her hand. Agamemnon is standing in the tub, water drops falling down his naked body, his hands a bloody mess. He


long, pointed sticks, but he could not take one on this trip because of the arrows he meant to carry. As he took each article from the walls, he placed it in a pile in the center of the room. On top of all he placed the cooking pot, inverted, and on top of this he laid one of the grinning skulls, upon which he fastened the headdress of the dead Kulonga. Then he stood back, surveyed his work, and grinned. Tarzan of the Apes enjoyed a joke. But now he heard, outside, the sounds of many voices, and long mournful howls, and mighty wailing. He was startled. Had he remained too long? Quickly he reached the doorway and peered down the village street toward the village gate. The natives were not yet in sight, though he could plainly hear them approaching across the plantation. They must be very near. Like a flash he sprang across the opening to the pile of arrows. Gathering up all he could carry under one arm, he overturned the seething cauldron with a kick, and disappeared into the foliage above just as the first of the returning natives entered the gate at the far end of the village street. Then he turned to watch the proceeding below, poised like some wild bird ready to take swift wing at the first sign of danger. The natives filed up the street, four of them bearing the dead body of Kulonga. Behind trailed the women, uttering strange cries and weird lamentation. On they came to the portals of Kulonga's hut, the very one in which Tarzan had wrought his depredations. Chapter 11 Scarcely had half a dozen entered the building ere they came rushing out in wild, jabbering confusion. The others hastened to gather about. There was much excited gesticulating, pointing, and chattering; then several of the warriors approached and peered within. Finally an old fellow with many ornaments of metal about his arms and legs, and a necklace of dried human hands depending upon his chest, entered the hut. It was Mbonga, the king, father of Kulonga. For a few moments all was silent. Then Mbonga emerged, a look of mingled wrath and superstitious fear writ upon his hideous countenance. He spoke a few words to the assembled warriors, and in an instant the men were flying through the little village searching minutely every hut and corner within the palisades. Scarcely had the search commenced than the overturned cauldron was discovered, and with it the theft of the poisoned arrows. Nothing more they found, and it was a thoroughly awed and frightened group of savages which huddled around their king a few moments later. Mbonga could explain nothing of the strange events that had taken place. The finding of the still warm body of Kulonga--on the very verge of their fields and within easy earshot of the village--knifed and stripped at the door of his father's home, was in itself sufficiently mysterious, but these last awesome discoveries within the village, within the dead Kulonga's own hut, filled their


the mechanics of popularization? How does someone go from being a real person, someone you actually knew, to a set of marketing and publicity points, consumed and lauded by fans who think they know them, but don’t really, but understand this also, and celebrate them regardless? I watched all this happen with Athena the year after we graduated college, in the run-up to the launch of her first novel. Athena was a Known Entity at Yale, a campus celebrity who received regular declarations of love in that year’s iteration of the Secret Valentines Facebook group, but she wasn’t yet so famous that she had a Wikipedia page, or that the average reader’s eyes would light up with recognition when you said her name. That changed when the New York Times ran a hype piece on her titled “Yale Graduate Lands Six-Figure Deal with Random House,” centering a photograph of Athena in a low-cut blouse so sheer you could see her nipples, posing in front of Sterling Memorial Library. They ran a quote from a famous poet then adjuncting at Yale dubbing her a “worthy successor to the likes of Amy Tan and Maxine Hong Kingston.” Everything ramped up from there. Her Twitter follow count shot up to the mid–five figures; her Instagram numbers hit six figures. She did puff-piece interviews with the Wall Street Journal and HuffPost; once, while driving to a doctor’s appointment, I was startled to hear her crystalline, unplaceable, occasionally suspiciously fake, somewhat-British accent drifting through my Uber. Cue the mythmaking in real time, the constructed persona deemed maximally marketable by her publishing team, paired with a healthy dose of neoliberal exploitation. Complex messages reduced to sound bites; biographies cherry-picked for the quirky and exotic. This in fact happens to every successful author, but is weirder to witness when you’ve been friends with the source material. Athena Liu writes only on a Remington typewriter (true, but only after her senior year, after she got the idea from a famous visiting lecturer). Athena Liu was a finalist for a national writing competition when she was only sixteen (also true, but come on; every high schooler who can string sentences together places in those competitions at one point or another; it’s not hard to beat out other kids whose definition of art consists of plagiarized Billie Eilish lyrics). Athena Liu is a prodigy, a genius, the Next Big Thing, the voice of her generation. Here are six books that Athena Liu can’t live without (including, invariably, Proust). Here are five affordable notebook brands Athena Liu recommends (she writes only on Moleskines, but check these other brands out if you’re poor)! This is so wild, I’d texted her, along with the link to a recent Cosmo shoot. I didn’t realize Cosmo readers were, like, literate. HAHAH I know! she’d responded. I don’t even recognize that girl on the front page, they’ve airbrushed me to death. Those are not my eyebrows. It’s the hyperreal. Back then it was still cool to quote Baudrillard as if you’d read him in full. Exactly, she’d said.


from the gin. ‘How amusing.’ ‘Is it?’ I took her ashtray and emptied it into the fireplace. ‘I’ll tell you a little story,’ she began, crossing her feet on a cushioned footstool in front of her. ‘When I was the grand dame of Ha'penny Lane in the eighties … ah, the parties we used to have. That was with my third husband, Vladimir. He was a Russian mathematician, which sounds boring, but, my girl, he was anything but! He served the best vodka and caviar. People came from every walk of life to our parties.’ I pulled a J-cloth from my pocket and began wiping some invisible dust from the mantlepiece. I’d hardly had any interest in listening to her stories when I first arrived, but now I was curious. It was possible that both of us were softening a little at the edges. We had nothing in common, but we were starting to realise that maybe we weren’t such bad company. ‘Anyway, there was one particular evening, midsummer, or was it midwinter? Well, either way … no, it was winter. I remember there was frost on the pavement. One of the guests arrived late and she was very shaken indeed. As she warmed her posterior by the fire, she told us of how she had got out of the taxi and walked into what she thought was our house. But when she got inside, she realised that it was a bookshop – a small, old-fashioned little place, full of charming old books and knick-knacks. Anyway, she came back out on to the street, turned around and poof! The shop was gone and there was my front door again. Of course, we all thought she was on something – so many people were in those days. But isn’t that funny how it happened again?’ I felt a chill run through me. I didn’t like ghost stories and this was starting to sound like one. ‘Well, not exactly. He just said he was looking for one.’ What had he said? This house must have been attached to it or something. I shook my head vigorously and got up to prepare her dinner. When Henry had asked for help, it reminded me of the person I used to be – open, giving. I should probably tell him this story; maybe it would help him in his search, or at least give him a clue. But helping people only seemed to lead to trouble and regret these days. So I decided I would keep it to myself and keep my blinds closed. It’s funny how people complain about boredom. God, how I ached for a boring day when I was living with Shane and his unpredictable moods. A day where the worst thing you could expect was that nothing much would happen. But now that I had it, I wasn’t sure what to do with it. My routine was taking up less and less time as I grew more accustomed to it and I found myself with some free time in the afternoons. Madame Bowden,


floor showed pink insulation, preparing for another leap, ass high in the air, chest down low, and he flickered in and out of view, strobing in and out of reality. “I won’t!” Mark shouted from the other end of the attic, maybe at her, maybe at Pupkin. Louise’s chest felt bruised. The back of her skull where it had hit the floor throbbed with her pulse. Acidic coffee and bits of egg stung the back of her throat, and she swallowed hard to keep down her gorge. She had to get away. She threw a quick look to the right and saw the hatch nearby. She whipped her head back just in time to see Spider disappearing again, but she heard him growling as he reappeared, already flowing into motion. His six legs gathered and bunched beneath his heavy body, muscles rippling beneath his long blue fur, some part of him always moving. Louise didn’t want to touch him again, she just wanted to keep him away. Instinctively, she grabbed a grocery bag of Mark’s old comic books and heaved it at Spider. They smashed into his front legs as he charged, the bag bursting open, not doing any damage but upsetting his rhythm, his writhing legs tangling in each other. He spilled onto one side, hitting her old tricycle hard. All the air in the attic contracted once as he hit the floor. Like a roach on its back, his legs whipped and tangled around each other uselessly for a moment, then he flipped himself back onto his feet. “Don’t make me!” Mark screamed from the other end of the attic. Louise was already bolting for the hatch. Spider uttered a hideous rising growl, climbing higher and higher like it was building toward a yowl. She hurdled boxes, she shoulder-rolled over a weight bench Mark had gotten from their mom for Christmas one year, she landed on her feet and reached for the lip of the hatch to swing down, drop into the hall, then turn and swing the hatch shut on Spider’s face, but something hit her between the shoulder blades and Louise lurched forward and felt her center of gravity turn upside down. She fell out of the attic face-first, hit the stairs hard, tasting blood, then her legs flipped over her head as the stairs bounced her forward, and she hit the hall carpet. Her vision went gray for a second. Something huge flew over her and Spider landed in the hall with a house-rattling thud, and in one smooth, flowing motion he circled to face her, standing on all six legs between her and the front door. He licked his dripping teeth, flickering in and out of sight. She was trapped inside the house. From up the attic stairs she heard Mark arguing with Pupkin. She couldn’t take her eyes off Spider but let her peripheral vision drift, and behind her she saw her parents’ bedroom door open. If she could get in there she could close the door and flip the mattress against it to hold


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.” “Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here—take it,” and I thrust it towards him. “I would prefer not to,” said he. I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily examined. A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being quadruplicates of a week’s testimony taken before me in my High Court of Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I called Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the original. Accordingly Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut had taken their seats in a row, each with his document in hand, when I called to Bartleby to join this interesting group. “Bartleby! quick, I am waiting.” I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage. “What is wanted?” said he mildly. “The copies, the copies,” said I hurriedly. “We are going to examine them. There”—and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate. “I would prefer not to,” he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen. For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct. “Why do you refuse?” “I would prefer not to.” With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me. I began to reason with him. “These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving to you, because one examination will answer for your four papers. It is common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it not so?


villagers do--skinny, bug-eyed, and pale. But then Eliot takes you inside his soul, repeating what she's pointed out before--that he clung to his monotonous loom and hard gold only because his faith had deserted him. Silas decides to give himself his nightly pleasure of looking at his gold. Watch the shifting value of gold in this chapter. Eliot says it is hard, making Silas' soul hard. Yet the coins' effect on Silas is also like wine, bringing intoxicated joy. Later, when he realizes his gold is gone, he thinks of it as another human who's abandoned him. He doesn't notice anything out of place at first as he opens the hiding place. His heart thumps wildly when he sees the hole empty, but the idea that the gold is really gone doesn't register all at once. Have you ever lost or broken something valuable? If so, you may understand this sense of stunned disbelief. Watch how Silas' actions, like an actor's in a play, express the stages of his panic and grief. He gropes around the hole again and again, until he's trembling so hard he nearly drops his candle. Then he searches his entire cottage, turning things inside out, hoping that maybe he'd put the bags somewhere different for a change. He feels around the hole again. He rocks back, looks feverishly around the room, and then puts his hands to his head and cries out. Finally, he staggers over to sit at his loom, the one comfort he has left. Silas tries to think clearly. He focuses on the idea of a thief, because he might get the gold back from a thief. Reasoning that his money had to have been taken that night, he searches outside in the rain and mud for footprints. For a moment, his hysteria surfaces and he fears a supernatural power at work--the same one that struck him down before--but he pushes that thought away and returns to the idea of a thief. Naturally, he suspects people from the village and seizes upon one man, Jem Rodney, as the probable thief. (Remember Jem Rodney--the poacher who discovered Silas having a fit once by the roadside?) Because it relieves his mind, Silas invents evidence pointing to Jem. Eager for action, he runs out into the rain to summon the authorities. He doesn't lock his door--there's nothing to protect anymore. Eliot moves out of Silas' limited, intense emotional state to the more relaxed world of the village. She conveys Marner's opinion of the Rainbow--a sinful place (his moral judgment is still Puritan) for the husbands of his customers. But it's where the authorities are likely to be, so that's where heheads. NOTE: Eliot explains the social hierarchy of the pub. The richer customers drink in one room, the parlor, while commoners gather across the hall in the kitchen. (Many English pubs today still have a refined saloon bar and a plainer public bar.) At the Rainbow, the gentlemen drink hard liquor--"spirits"--while poor men drink cheap beer. The people of Raveloe seem to like this stratification. It is


all things, Miss Steele.” And I’d like to exercise it over you, right here, right now. Her eyes widen. That attractive blush steals across her face once more, and she bites that lip again. I ramble on, trying to distract myself from her mouth. “Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself, in your secret rev- eries, that you were born to control things.” “Do you feel that you have immense power?” she asks in a soft soothing voice, but she arches her delicate brow, revealing the censure in her eyes. My an- noyance grows. Is she deliberately trying to goad me? Is it her questions, her atti- tude, or the fact that I find her attractive that’s pissing me off? “I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Steele. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility—power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer in- terested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so.” Her mouth pops open at my response. That’s more like it. Suck it up, Miss Steele. I feel my equilibrium returning. “Don’t you have a board to answer to?” “I own my company. I don’t answer to a board,” I respond sharply. She should know this. I raise a questioning brow. “And do you have any interests outside of your work?” she continues hastily, correctly gauging my reaction. She knows I’m pissed, and for some inexplicable reason this pleases me enormously. “I have varied interests, Miss Steele. Very varied.” I smile . Images of her in assorted positions in my playroom flash through my mind: shackled on the cross, spread-eagle on the four-poster, splayed over the whipping bench . Fucking hell! Where is this coming from? And behold—there’s that blush again. It’s like a defense mechanism. Calm down, Grey. “But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?” “Chill out?” I grin, those words out of her smart mouth sound odd. Besides when do I get time to chill out? Has she no idea of the number of companies I control? But she looks at me with those ingenuous blue eyes, and to my surprise I find myself considering her question. What do I do to chill out? Sailing, flying, 535/551 fucking . . . testing the limits of little brown-haired girls like her, and bringing them to heel . . . The thought makes me shift in my seat, but I answer her smoothly, omitting my two favorite hobbies. “You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?” Her question drags me rudely back to the present. “I like to build things. I like to know how things work, what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?” They distribute food around the planet—taking goods from the haves to the have-nots and back again. What’s not to like? “That sounds like your heart talking, rather than logic and facts.” Heart? Me? Oh no, baby. My heart


the footmen, she’ll have us arrested, she’ll never permit it... Winnie remembered that Mrs. King had shaken her head. “She will permit it,” she’d said. “She’ll look at her options. She’ll consider them all.” She added, with a grim smile, “I can predict exactly what she’ll do.” Winnie had been nearly despairing. But she saw those lights dancing in Mrs. King’s eyes. She didn’t argue. Miss de Vries’s silence indicated that she was conducting internal deliberations. If she recognized Winnie’s voice, if it triggered a memory, or understanding, then she didn’t show it. She showed nothing at all. “I have a personal fund,” she said, at last. “Emergency reserves, which sit outside the household accounts.” She paused. “I will need to keep that money.” Winnie hadn’t bargained for this. Mrs. King had not discussed it with her. How much money could there be? she wondered. Enough to form a dowry, or a new household? Enough to make a deal with the devil? “Keep my things,” said Miss de Vries, “but give me my independence.” It stirred Winnie, to hear those words. She couldn’t help it. “Very well,” she said. “Do we have your agreement?” Miss de Vries remained silent. Then she said, “What have you done with my father’s portrait?” Winnie looked around, chest contracting. Mrs. Bone, hidden at the back of the throng, shouted, “We’ve thrown it on the rubbish heap.” Miss de Vries surveyed the ranks of silent men, her eyes passing over Mrs. Bone without even a flicker. “I comply,” she said. She moved like a wraith, still clad in black mourning silks, making for the front porch. “Go,” Winnie breathed, to the others. And then, louder: “Go.” 39 4:00 a.m. Hephzibah watched it play out from the pavement. Miss de Vries emerged from the house, shoulders bare, eyes on the crowd. A cry went up: “Are you safe? The fire!” “There is no fire,” she said to those near at hand. “And no cause for alarm. Everybody should go home.” Disbelief and confusion rippled out across the crowd. It was strange, thought Hephzibah, watching Miss de Vries: this tiny creature, guarding the front porch. It was the men who tried to push their way in first. Shepherd. Then Lord Ashley. But she held her hands to the door frame, a small smile on her face, barring the way. Hephzibah couldn’t hear what Lord Ashley said. She only saw what everybody else witnessed, too. His betrothed didn’t bow to him, didn’t bend: she sent him on his way. Mr. Lockwood was next. He knifed his way across the pavement. But Hephzibah was on him. “No, no,” she murmured, gripping his arm. He swung around, startled. “Come with me.” He resisted. “What on earth?” He shook her off. “I can assure you,” she said, keeping her voice low, “it will be worth your client’s while.” Earlier, while the crowds were surging outside the house, Winnie had grabbed Hephzibah. She’d given her the paper, pressed it right into her hands. “We’re going to put this right,” she’d said. She was out


didn’t blink. He didn’t move. Arms wrapped around Vic, trying to hold him back, and he struggled against them. He fought them as hard as he could, vision tunneling as the smooth men stood above his father’s still body. The leader bent over and picked Dad up as if he weighed nothing, slinging him over his shoulder. He looked to the others and said, “Leave nothing. Burn it all to the ground.” “Please,” Vic begged as he kicked his legs up into the air. “Please let me go to him.” “They’ll k-kill you,” Hap growled in his ear. “I don’t care. Let me go!” But Hap didn’t. As Vic looked on, still struggling, the leader headed for the lowered platform, Dad’s arms bouncing uselessly against his back. The remaining smooth men raised their hands once more, the black knobs poking through the skin of their palms. All thought—rational and irrational— disappeared when fire bloomed from the smooth men’s hands, great arcs of red and orange and white. Vic sagged against Hap, gasping for air as flames caught the roof of the ground house, the trees that held their home. He could feel himself shutting down as the fire spread, and no matter what he did, no matter how hard he fought against it, it was no use. A strange sense of suction overcame him as if a vacuum had opened in his chest, pulling in all light. A trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek near his ear. He was here, he was with Dad, he was everywhere, floating on a flat ocean, the tranquility deceptive as everything burned. Their life’s work—their home—turned into ash. Hap was speaking, but Vic couldn’t hear him. Rambo was frantic, but Vic paid him no mind. Nurse Ratched said their room appeared safe even for human lungs, sealed off from the fires above, but Vic couldn’t make sense of anything she was saying. The branches holding up the kitchen gave way, causing the floor to break apart, burning chunks of wood and metal raining down onto the ground. And Victor Lawson watched it all, unable to look away. It didn’t feel real, and though he could smell the hint of smoke, could see the destruction the fire was causing, it felt far away, distant, as if it were happening to someone —anyone—else. A moment of clarity: one of the smooth men stood underneath a camera as the trees burned, fire still spilling from his hands. On his chest, the symbol, now close enough for Vic to make out. The heads of two animals in profile, facing each other. A fox. A cat. And then the smooth man turned away from the camera as Victor’s lab fell, as Dad’s lab was destroyed, as Vic’s room shuddered and shook and split apart, crashing to the forest floor. All of it, years and years of work, gone in minutes, but Vic watched it dispassionately. He took in information, processed it, stored it away, but felt nothing from it. Nothing at all. The leader stood upon the platform, Dad still


put in Benji. "Since when," continued his murine colleague, "we have had an offer of a quite enormously fat contract to do the 5D chat show and lecture circuit back in our own dimensional neck of the woods, and we're very much inclined to take it." "I would, wouldn't you Ford?" said Zaphod promptingly. "Oh yes," said Ford, "jump at it, like a shot." Arthur glanced at them, wondering what all this was leading up to. "But we've got to have a product you see," said Frankie, "I mean ideally we still need the Ultimate Question in some form or other." Zaphod leaned forward to Arthur. "You see," he said, "if they're just sitting there in the studio looking very relaxed and, you know, just mentioning that they happen to know the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, and then eventually have to admit that in fact it's Forty-two, then the show's probably quite short. No follow-up, you see." "We have to have something that sounds good," said Benji. "Something that sounds good?" exclaimed Arthur. "An Ultimate Question that sounds good? From a couple of mice?" The mice bristled. "Well, I mean, yes idealism, yes the dignity of pure research, yes the pursuit of truth in all its forms, but there comes a point I'm afraid where you begin to suspect that if there's any real truth, it's that the entire multi-dimensional infinity of the Universe is almost certainly being run by a bunch of maniacs. And if it comes to a choice between spending yet another ten million years finding that out, and on the other hand just taking the money and running, then I for one could do with the exercise," said Frankie. "But ..." started Arthur, hopelessly. "Hey, will you get this, Earthman," interrupted Zaphod. "You are a last generation product of that computer matrix, right, and you were there right up to the moment your planet got the finger, yeah?" "Er ..." "So your brain was an organic part of the penultimate configuration of the computer programme," said Ford, rather lucidly he thought. "Right?" said Zaphod. "Well," said Arthur doubtfully. He wasn't aware of ever having felt an organic part of anything. He had always seen this as one of his problems. "In other words," said Benji, steering his curious little vehicle right over to Arthur, "there's a good chance that the structure of the question is encoded in the structure of your brain - so we want to buy it off you." "What, the question?" said Arthur. "Yes," said Ford and Trillian. "For lots of money," said Zaphod. "No, no," said Frankie, "it's the brain we want to buy." "What!" "I thought you said you could just read his brain electronically," protested Ford. "Oh yes," said Frankie, "but we'd have to get it out first. It's got to be prepared." "Treated," said Benji. "Diced." "Thank you," shouted Arthur, tipping up his chair and backing away from the table in horror. "It could always be replaced," said Benji reasonably, "if you think it's important." "Yes, an electronic


light. She has her head tilted back, mouth slightly open, from which escapes a contented sigh. The patch of sunlight slowly moves across Lenora’s bed as I prop her into a sitting position and feed her oatmeal with her morning pills crushed in. By the time I get her cleaned, changed, and through her circulation exercises, the sunlight’s slid off the mattress and onto the floor in a tidy rectangle. Lenora eyes it from her wheelchair as I check her vitals and make sure the bruise on her forearm continues to heal. When that’s over, her gaze slips to the typewriter. She remembers last night. Part of me thought she’d forgotten. A bigger part of me wishes she had. Because whatever she intends to type, I still haven’t decided if I want to see it. Lenora’s mind, though, is made up. She moves her gaze from the typewriter to me, giving me a look that’s half anxious, half hopeful. One without the other probably wouldn’t have been able to sway me. But the combination of the two makes me realize this has nothing to do with what I want. It’s what Lenora wants. And right now, she wants to type. I still have no idea why. I can’t think of any reason she’d wait so long to talk about that night. If she was innocent, she would have told her story decades ago. Unless she thought no one would believe her. Yesterday, Mrs. Baker told me Hope’s End was a place where young women are given the benefit of the doubt. That’s not true everywhere. It’s true hardly anywhere. Perhaps Lenora tried to tell her story all those years ago and no one believed her. Or, worse, no one even listened. Maybe she thinks I will. And that I’ll believe she’s innocent. Because she thinks the same of me. That idea—that Lenora’s urge to talk stems not from shared guilt but possibly shared innocence—is ultimately why I wheel her to the desk, where the page from last night sits next to the typewriter. Even though I don’t remember removing it, I must have. I wrack my brain, trying to recall the events of last night. Lenora offering to tell me everything. Finding Mary’s belongings. The wind and the waves and the creaking floorboards. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that I left that page in the typewriter. “Lenora, was someone in here last night?” She responds with a single-tap no against the wheelchair armrest. “Are you sure?” Two taps. I stare at Lenora. She stares back, looking utterly guileless. If she’s lying—and I see no reason why she would be—she hides it well. And even though I’m close to certain I didn’t move that page, I’m also aware someone else could have done it while Lenora was asleep. Mrs. Baker slipping in to do some snooping, for instance. Or Jessie coming in bright and early to tidy up. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, because it truly doesn’t. What matters is that Lenora is about to reveal all.


a good but weak man whose fate embodies the moral of the novel. As you read, for example, the scene on New Year's Eve when Silas appears with the infant Eppie, imagine how other characters judge Godfrey. Just as Eliot gives you special sympathy for Silas, she gives you a special insider's view of Godfrey's weakness. You know his worst impulses--the side that most of us never show to the world. As you read, decide for yourself whether Godfrey is the villain or the tragic hero of this novel. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: NANCY LAMMETER For several chapters, you don't actually meet Nancy--you just hear of her as the girl Godfrey wants to marry. She's presented as the proper, socially respectable partner for him, as opposed to his secret wife Molly. Even crude Squire Cass approves of her. Considering what you are shown of the upperclass world she belongs to, how do you feel about Nancy before you meet her? When Nancy finally appears in Chapter 11, you may be in for a surprise. Eliot enters Nancy's thoughts, to show that she's a gentle, sensitive girl, insecure and confused about Godfrey's courtship. Then you see her through the eyes of the fashionable, town-bred Gunn sisters. They see that she is pretty, well-mannered, and neatly dressed. Nevertheless, she disapproves of their low-cut dresses, and they disapprove of her country dialect--she is clearly part of her country environment. You can see the signs of hard work on Nancy's hands. In general, Eliot describes Nancy's looks and character in glowing terms. Her only faults, Eliot tells you, are a touch of pride and inflexibility. Having a positive view of Nancy may make you feel more kindly toward the upper class in general (notice that the men at the Rainbow, too, speak well of the Lammeters). It may also give you more sympathy for Godfrey. She seems to be a good influence on him. On the other hand, are her moral standards too high? She keeps Godfrey at arm's length because she's heard bad rumors about him. Even after Molly has died and he is free to marry Nancy, Godfrey is reluctant to tell her about Molly because he fears her disapproval. Later, Nancy's strict code also keeps her from agreeing to adopt a child, which creates the only unhappiness in her marriage to Godfrey. As you read, consider: Is Nancy a good moral example or are her strict principles a flaw in her character? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: DOLLY WINTHROP Dolly represents Raveloe's values of what an individual should be. She's hardworking, skillful, and so efficient that she has time left over to care for her neighbor Silas. She doesn't hesitate to give advice and get involved with other people's lives. She is motherly, not only toward her own child Aaron but toward Eppie. As a wife, she's tolerant of her husband's drinking but fairly independent. She knows she's no scholar, but she earns great respect from Silas for her ability to see matters clearly, almost instinctively. Dolly's friendship with Silas demonstrates concretely how the village gradually


He turned to me. “Ezra, would you be willing to reprise your performance?” I took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves and Orson handed me the bullhorn. Then I repeated what I could remember of my speech. I even took off my shoe again. When I finished, the applause was head splitting. “Ezra Green!” Orson shouted as loudly as he could over the noise. Emily stood between us, applauding eagerly for me. I’d outdone her. I’d commanded his audience. “Okay, friends,” he said. “You’ve heard some words of wisdom. Now spend some time meditating on them. We have plenty of work to do.” A final and energetic round of applause. Orson grabbed Emily’s hand and led us to the side of the farmhouse, which was still slippery and wet with mud but offered us some degree of privacy. “That was genius, Ez,” he said. “Thank you.” “True bliss looks like magic from a distance,” he intoned, and I winced at the fact that he was repeating one of our corporate slogans. But at least he was repeating it to me. “I think the human-to-human stuff is what really works,” Emily said, inspecting the muddied bottom of her sneaker. “Right? Because the Bliss-Mini doesn’t?” Orson shot her a look. Emily lowered her sneaker and inspected the other one, clearly oblivious of her trespass. “It’s nice to lure people in, but what really gets the work done is the Farm, right?” She looked up. “What are you saying?” said Orson. “Well, that the Bliss-Mini never worked. I tried it. It’s not real. Didn’t you tell me that, babe?” Orson crossed his arms. “I never said anything like that.” I bit my lip and stared wide-eyed at my feet, wanting to spare Orson the humiliation of having to make eye contact with me. This was his idea of a confidante? A partner? Someone who would expose him so unthinkingly, right in the middle of Wholeness? I raised my gaze to find Emily looking from me to Orson, obviously confused. “I’m sorry. I just mean, like, with my ex-husband, there were a lot of leaps of faith. Leaps of faith I really shouldn’t have taken for him. But I believe in taking leaps of faith for you. I understand your vision.” “Ez, will you excuse us?” I nodded and waded away from them, toward an explosion of hydrangea bushes. I could still hear them talking, and I didn’t want to be out of earshot, so I dipped behind one of the bushes, crouching muddy in the mulch. “What’s your problem?” I heard Orson say. “You have to embarrass me in front of Ez?” “Embarrass you?” Emily’s voice was a hiss. “Embarrass you in front of him? What does it matter?” “It matters. It’s principles. He and I worked very, very hard to make the new Bliss-Mini a reality.” “I thought Dexter did that.” “Ez and I hired Dexter to do that. And for you to just, like, imply that it’s fake? It’s outrageous.” “It is, though! You basically said it!” “I never said that.”


which the summer sweetness seemed to offer me a friendly welcome, my fortitude mounted afresh and, as we turned into the avenue, encountered a reprieve that was probably but a proof of the point to which it had sunk. I suppose I had expected, or had dreaded, something so melancholy that what greeted me was a good surprise. I remember as a most pleasant impression the broad, clear front, its open windows and fresh curtains and the pair of maids looking out; I remember the lawn and the bright flowers and the crunch of my wheels on the gravel and the clustered treetops over which the rooks circled and cawed in the golden sky. The scene had a greatness that made it a different affair from my own scant home, and there immediately appeared at the door, with a little girl in her hand, a civil person who dropped me as decent a curtsy as if I had been the mistress or a distinguished visitor. I had received in Harley Street a narrower notion of the place, and that, as I recalled it, made me think the proprietor still more of a gentleman, suggested that what I was to enjoy might be something beyond his promise. I had no drop again till the next day, for I was carried triumphantly through the following hours by my introduction to the younger of my pupils. The little girl who accompanied Mrs. Grose appeared to me on the spot a creature so charming as to make it a great fortune to have to do with her. She was the most beautiful child I had ever seen, and I afterward wondered that my employer had not told me more of her. I slept little that night--I was too much excited; and this astonished me, too, I recollect, remained with me, adding to my sense of the liberality with which I was treated. The large, impressive room, one of the best in the house, the great state bed, as I almost felt it, the full, figured draperies, the long glasses in which, for the first time, I could see myself from head to foot, all struck me--like the extraordinary charm of my small charge--as so many things thrown in. It was thrown in as well, from the first moment, that I should get on with Mrs. Grose in a relation over which, on my way, in the coach, I fear I had rather brooded. The only thing indeed that in this early outlook might have made me shrink again was the clear circumstance of her being so glad to see me. I perceived within half an hour that she was so glad--stout, simple, plain, clean, wholesome woman-- as to be positively on her guard against showing it too much. I wondered even then a little why she should wish not to show it, and that, with reflection, with suspicion, might of course have made me uneasy. But it was a comfort that there could be no uneasiness in a connection with anything so beatific as the radiant


hundred to-morrow morning." "That's no good." "Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare." "Ah, but I was recommended to you." "Who by?" "The landlord of the Alpha." "Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen." "Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?" To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman. "Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now." "It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha." "Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!" "Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you should be so warm over such a trifle." "Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them." "Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred." "Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped the salesman. "It's nothing of the kind." "I say it is." "I don't believe it." "D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bred." "You'll never persuade me to believe that." "Will you bet, then?" "It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate." The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said he. The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp. "Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?" "Well?" "That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me." "Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes. "Quite so. Now


not indecisive. “Get it together,” she said, grabbed her purse and stepped into the clear morning. As it turned out she was the second guest to arrive. She buzzed in at the door, was allowed to enter, and registered before being given a name tag allowing her to be in the station. A harried production assistant with short, tousled hair dyed a faint pink, the barest of lip gloss, and a no-nonsense demeanor named Jen walked her through a rabbit warren of hallways. “The studio is just there,” Jen said, pointing to a closed door with a light that glowed with the words “On Air.” Then a few more steps down the hallway. “You’ll just wait in the green room with the other guests and I’ll come and get you before your segment. Right now, you’re on second—segment two—but that all depends on if our first guests get through the traffic that’s supposedly slowing them down.” Her lips were pursed, her expression exasperated, as if she’d heard the same excuse a thousand times and really didn’t believe it. “Also, it all depends on if our musical guest shows. Right now that’s a pretty big ‘if.’” Her lips pulled down at the corners at the prospect as she opened a door at the end of the hall. Inside the windowless green room, a large TV was mounted on one wall, the current news program being broadcast. Several chairs, a few tables, and a long, faux leather couch were scattered around the room, and a long counter with a coffeemaker, water bottles, and a few snacks dominated one wall. “Help yourself,” Jen said, and gestured with one hand to the coffeepot and accoutrements while texting with amazing dexterity. “I’ll be back.” And, then lifting the phone to her ear, she stepped through the open doorway. “They are? Good. I’ll be right down. And what about Bigelow? Have you heard from him . . . ? Okay, then we’ll go to plan B unless he surprises us all.” Her voice faded and the door finally clicked shut. Kristi sat in one of the chairs not far from a worn couch where a prim woman holding a long-haired cat upon a tufted pillow was sitting. “Trouble,” the woman said, her eyebrows arching over wire-rimmed glasses. Her ash-brown hair was feathered and surrounding a doe-eyed face with a very serious expression that complemented her business suit, glasses, and ankle-high boots. “I’m Dana, by the way,” and it was said as if Kristi should recognize her. Kristi didn’t. When that was obvious, the woman added, “Dana Metcalf?” Again Kristi drew a blank. “As in president of PCNOLA.” “Oh.” Like that meant anything. Dana sighed, as if Kristi were an absolute dimwit. “Purrbred Cats of New Orleans, Louisiana,” she clarified. “Purrbred rather than purebred.” Her eyes twinkled. “It’s a play on words. Even though we would never allow an owner to join unless his or her cat had legitimate papers, of course.” “Uh-huh.” “And sometimes people think we’re the Personal Computers of New Orleans or the Politically Correct of


were almost to the end of the trenches. They were almost to the woods and Station Fourteen and the road that would lead them to town, but Iris had no choice but to follow the private’s lead, Roman groaning between them at the jolt. She recognized the captain who had brought her and Roman to the front moving through the confusion. Blood was splattered across his face and his teeth gleamed in the light as he grimaced. Wounded soldiers lined the trenches around him; there was no way that Iris was going to be able to get past them, and she panicked as the private began to lower Roman down to the ground. “Wait, wait!” she cried, but the captain caught sight of her. He called out a few more orders before he approached, and Iris watched as the wounded were carried away on stretchers, up and out of the trenches. “Miss Winnow,” the captain said, glancing down at Roman. “Is he breathing?” “Yes, only wounded. Shrapnel, right leg. Captain, can we—” “I’ll have him carried out on a stretcher and loaded into the lorry for transport. Are you wounded?” “No, Captain.” “Then I need you. I’m short of hands, and we need to get as many wounded to this point as possible before Dacre takes them. Here, go with Private Stanley and use this stretcher to bring back as many as possible. You only have as long as the guns fire. Now go!” Iris was stunned as the captain turned and began calling out more orders. She was a correspondent, not a soldier, but Private Stanley was now staring at her, holding one end of a bloodied and vomit-stained stretcher, and time suddenly felt heavy on her skin. Did it matter what she was? Iris knelt before Roman. “Kitt? Can you look at me?” His eyes cracked open. “Iris.” “I’m needed elsewhere, but I’ll find you, Kitt. When this is over, I’ll find you, all right?” “Don’t leave,” he whispered, and his hand flailed, reaching for her. “You and I … we need to stay together. We’re better this way.” A lump lodged in her throat when she saw the panic in his eyes. She laced their fingers together, holding him steady. “You have to stay strong for me. Once you’re healed, I need you to write an article about all of this. I need you to steal the front page from me like you normally do, all right?” She smiled, but her eyes were burning. It was all the smoke, drifting closer from the barrage. “I’ll find you,” she whispered and kissed his knuckles. He tasted like salt and blood. The pain in her chest swelled when she had to shake his hand away, taking the other end of the stretcher. When she had no choice but to turn and leave him, following the steady trot of Private Stanley. They picked up one wounded soldier, carrying her back to the place Iris had left Roman. As she helped Stanley carefully slide the private off the stretcher, Iris’s eyes skimmed the


it, leaving is always the right choice,” Cody said. “Stop. I cannot handle Cody Benham with words of wisdom,” I told him, fending him off with an upheld hand. “Everything changes,” he said. “Except Chester.” But that wasn’t true, was it? “Jesus. This place. I swear, every time I come back it’s like the ground starts crumbling under my feet. And what’s underneath is all the shit I’d rather leave buried.” “I heard about your dad and the house,” Cody said. I groaned. “I don’t know what to do. I know I should help, but how am I supposed to do that if he won’t let me touch a damn thing?” “You could get a crew out. There are specialists for this sort of thing,” Cody suggested. “Sounds expensive.” “Got any of that murder money left?” I snorted at the turn of phrase. “Turned out I wasn’t any better at managing it than Dad. Paid my tuition and then spent the rest as fast as I could. I didn’t like having it,” I admitted. “I’m doing fine, I just don’t have a ton of extra cash lying around.” “You could sell the house. The land’s got to be worth something.” “I’d have to talk Dad into it.” “He won’t have a choice about whether to live there or not if it’s condemned,” Cody pointed out, but I shook my head. “Nobody’s going to pry him out of there.” “Maybe Cass could help you figure something out,” Cody said. “Once she puts her mind to something—” “She steamrolls over everything in her path to make it happen,” I muttered. I stared at my beer, working the last soggy scraps of the label off with my fingernail. Cody looked surprised. “You two were always thick as thieves. Did something happen after … you know.” “No, nothing like that,” I assured him. If anything, the attack had made us closer. We might have grown up and grown apart naturally, drifting off into our disparate interests. But after the attack, we lived in one world, and everyone else lived in another. We’d barely spent a day apart until college. “So you’re still close.” “We don’t see each other as much as we used to, but yeah. I mean, I was a mess before I almost got murdered. I was a disaster after. Still am, in fact. But once Cass sets her mind to something, you can’t talk her out of it—and she decided we were best friends when we were five years old. So here we are.” Anyone else would have done the smart thing and ditched me a long time ago. “What about Liv?” he asked. I dropped my eyes to my bottle. “We don’t get to see each other much, but we talk all the time.” I didn’t mention how many of those calls came at odd hours of the night. Or just how complicated that friendship had become. My bottle was empty; I’d hardly noticed how fast I was drinking. Cody flagged Butterfly for a replacement. Then his phone rang. “Sorry—I have to


Maybe it would be all right. He’d calm down and see her perspective, see that he’d be happier without her too. “I’m going to bed,” Ella said. When Maud started to follow her, Peter shook his head, so she let Ella go. They sat with Louise at the kitchen table, playing Old Maid. Together, they tucked her into bed. Ella was asleep, and they kissed her forehead, one after the other. Then they were alone in the living room. “I think that went okay,” Maud said. Peter’s face cracked into a bitter smile. “It was brilliant. Just brilliant.” “It doesn’t have to be awful.” “I already know what it’s like.” “We aren’t your parents.” She touched his hand, and he yanked his arm away. “Do not try to manage me.” He spat out the words. “Do you want help making up the couch?” she said. When he didn’t answer, she told him there were sheets in the closet and left for her room. Lying in bed, she felt emptied and eerily calm. She wanted Gabriel to hold her, but he was away in Ithaca. She held a pillow to her chest and fell asleep. Someone was tapping on her shoulder. Moonlight pooled through the window. Louise stood by the bed in her pajamas. “Ella’s gone,” she said. “What do you mean, gone?” Maud said. “Not in her bed.” Blinking herself awake, Maud followed Louise down the hall. The alarm clock in the girls’ room read 3:16. Ella’s bed was empty, as was the bathroom. Then Maud noticed that her backpack no longer hung on a hook by the front door and her phone was gone from the charger in the kitchen. She woke up Peter. “Ella went somewhere.” “Where?” “I don’t know. She’s not here. She took her backpack and her phone.” Peter dialed Ella’s number, but the call went straight to voicemail. “She must have turned it off,” he said. “I should have downloaded that tracking app, goddammit.” Maud grabbed flashlights from the kitchen drawer, and they hurried outside, Louise trailing behind. The lights shone on the claw of a tree, the stump of a garbage can. “What if someone took her?” she whispered to Peter. The quiet tempo of worry was becoming the fast beat of panic. “I’ll check the road,” he said. “I’ll check the grounds.” Louise had walked to the edge of the orchard and was shouting out Ella’s name. “Don’t worry,” Maud called. “We’ll find her. She was mad. She probably went somewhere to calm down.” But where would she go in this darkness? Peter was getting into the car and told Louise to come with him. “Your sister might have taken a walk,” he said, as if that made any sense. Maud ran down the drive toward the mansion, through the sticky, damp night, past clumps of trees, the empty lawn, the flash of eyes from a phantom deer. The conservatory glowed in the moonlight. No Ella. The mansion was locked, so she couldn’t be inside. The pond? She looked down the slope, calculating shapes. “Where


attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having signalled to him before seeing him also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against the son." Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some pains," said he, "to single out the very strongest points in the young man's favor. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so outre as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes." It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognizing Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for us. "I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea. "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until you had been on the scene of the crime." "It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered. "It is entirely a question of barometric pressure." Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said. "How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night." Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already formed your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case is as plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very positive one, too. She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my


that secret email account. Gabriel was living in Mexico, waiting for the day when he could pick up Ella and drive her over the border. Maud told Peter that she’d bring up the search with Ella’s therapist, Rita, the next day at Lone Pines. When she sat down in Rita’s office at the end of the session, Ella was playing with a fidget, a stress-relieving toy shaped like a snake, the rainbowed segments clicking as she ran them through her fingers. “Anything you’d like to discuss?” Rita said to Maud. “Ella did an internet search yesterday,” Maud said. She couldn’t say his name. “Yes.” Rita folded her hands over her knees. “She told me.” She turned to Ella. “Maybe your mother needs to hear what we discussed.” “I don’t care what she needs to hear,” Ella said, as the snake clicked. “I thought you said what we talked about stayed between us.” “It does, but if your mom doesn’t hear, she can’t understand. It’s your choice, though.” This is when and where it happens, Maud thought, grinding her teeth. This is where I learn the truth. Ella blinked at Rita, then glanced at Maud. “I wanted to see a picture of him. See what he looked like again.” “And can you tell your mom why?” “Why should I have to?” Her hands moved faster, the clicking louder. “You don’t have to, but I think she’ll worry if you don’t.” Rita tilted her head at Maud. “Is that right?” “Yes,” Maud said. She felt a gratitude for Rita that was close to adoration. “Because I don’t understand why I liked him so much,” Ella said bluntly. “At Montgomery Place, he didn’t seem so old. Or disgusting.” “Why disgusting?” Maud said. Ella shrugged. “He just is.” “Could I have a quick word with your mom?” Rita asked. After Ella had left for the waiting room, Maud said, “Disgusting sounds alarming.” “She knows she had a little crush on him,” Rita said. “She’s said that to you?” “Not in so many words. He listened to her when she was vulnerable. That gave him power. And she understands that his keeping their meetings a secret was inappropriate.” “I keep wondering if more happened with him,” Maud said. “I feel she’s not saying something. It’s this worry that won’t go away.” “Maud,” Rita said, “if I had any suspicion that more had happened, I wouldn’t only tell you and Peter, I’d tell the authorities. Ella is trying to let what happened last summer go. I’m not surprised that she looked him up.” “I can’t let it go,” Maud said. She had pieces of evidence that no one else did. Gabriel had said that he loved her and slept with her, while meeting her daughter in secret over and over. But if she told Rita all this, she would eventually have to tell Peter. And he’d be enraged by her lies. Their marriage wouldn’t survive the blow. “It’s going to be hard to trust Ella again.” Rita leaned forward in her chair, her face both tough and sympathetic.


poking fun at my insecurities. That’s just self-sabotage.” He frowned down at her. “What about the fact that you poke fun at my insecurities, too? Wouldn’t it be self-sabotage for me, as well?” “You are a man. You’d be getting sex. You wouldn’t care.” “Valid point.” His eyes narrowed further. “So you’re saying you would care?” “I’m saying I’d beat myself up over giving in while you snored it up on the other side of the bed.” “You’re so sure you wouldn’t be snoring right there beside me?” “We’re not going to find out.” “I’m inclined to agree to anything right now to make you happy, Natalie, but I’m not agreeing to any no sex rules. Sorry. We’re grown adults and if we both want something, we should be able to take it without consulting some arbitrary rulebook.” His chest rose and fell as he pulled her in closer. “If you don’t directly ask me for sex, I’ll respect that. But if you want to be fucked, you’re going to get it. Period, the end.” Oh damn. That pulse was back and now a damp sensation had been thrown in. She was aware of every erogenous zone she owned. Her hip blades, the insides of her ankles, her neck and throat and breasts. This evening could not end quickly enough. “Ah, here they are,” crooned a man’s voice behind Natalie. She turned to find the general manager of the wine train approaching with his hat sitting jauntily on his head. “The newly engaged lovebirds. Follow me this way, please.” Finally, Natalie unhooked her arms from around August’s neck and trailed after the manager, cool air once again making her arms prickle. “I’ll take you to the Lovers’ Nest.” “Caw,” August chirped in her ear, sounding like a dying crow. “Caw.” Natalie elbowed him in the stomach. He chuckled. And dropped his jacket around her shoulders. I will never, ever let you down again. Is that clear? His words bounced around in her head over and over again on their way up to the second floor of the train. He couldn’t possibly mean that, could he? No way. Just lulling her into a false sense of security. Still, her mind continued to replay that intense vow, the seriousness of his tone. Almost like he’d been trying to engrave those words on her brain. Yet he’d left something unspoken, buried between the lines. But no. That’s ridiculous. The manager led them to the farthest corner of the train’s second floor and stopped in front of a high-backed, red velvet swivel chair, the sides curved for ultimate privacy. It could face the train car or the window, depending on how it was turned. With a smile of pure anticipation on his face, the manager hit a button and a small fireplace bloomed to life beneath the picture window that would display their view of Napa’s rolling hills on the train ride. But . . . “There is only one chair,” Natalie pointed out. “Oh, is there?” The man feigned surprise. “Surely it’s big enough for


articles. It’s replicating the dynamics of the family you grew up in?” He nodded and set his drink on the bar. “I remember turning thirty and I’d just won this big award in the music industry—” “Oh, come on,” I said. “Don’t be modest.” He grinned. “The Grammy for Album of the Year. Thank you for offering me that opportunity.” “If I won a Grammy for Album of the Year, I’d carry it with me at all times, including now. It’s a little statue of a record player, right?” “Except that you have won Emmys, so that doesn’t really check out. Unless they’re in there?” He nodded down toward my fanny pack. Had he googled me? I didn’t have much of an Internet presence—though I’d created social media accounts in order to follow other people, I’d literally never posted anything—but this was one of the few facts that would pop up if someone did a search. I patted my fanny pack. “If there was room for them, I would. As you were saying—you’d turned thirty, you’d won a Grammy, and…?” “Just that I thought I was on the cusp of figuring it all out. I’d had my early success, then I’d had a sophomore-slump album, then I’d redeemed myself critically—I mean, this feels like a misguided way of looking at it now, but it was what I believed at the time. I also thought I was on the cusp of getting married and having kids. For my thirtieth birthday, I’d gone to Costa Rica to surf with some friends. One night I happened to watch the sunset by myself from a balcony in the villa where we were staying, and I was really confident that there was some code I’d cracked. But six years have passed since then, I’m still not married, and I feel a lot more confused about everything—the state of the world, the direction of my life, how much I should use my so-called platform. Comparable to the cheesy versus not cheesy line, where’s the divide when you’re a celebrity who wants to be involved but you know plenty of people would just say, ‘Shut up and play your guitar’?” “When you thought you were on the cusp of getting married,” I said, “was it to someone in particular?” He shook his head and smiled. “You think that could have been part of the problem?” “For what it’s worth, when I was in high school—at my big crappy public school—a math teacher once said at assembly that the point of life is to find the thing you’re good at and enjoy doing, and to do it for other people. Can you imagine having the audacity to declare what the point of life is? But I never forgot it, and I’m not so sure he was wrong.” “I’ve heard worse.” “It might sound silly, but I think of—” I paused. Even after two and a half drinks, this felt like a lot to reveal to a person I barely knew. But I kept going. I said, “I think of TNO


in as indulgent confinement as possible till something less harsh might be done—though indeed I hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview. Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. And so I found him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves. “Bartleby!” “I know you,” he said, without looking round,—”and I want nothing to say to you.” “It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby,” said I, keenly pained at his implied suspicion. “And to you, this should not be so vile a place. Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here. And see, it is not so sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is the grass.” “I know where I am,” he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I left him. As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron, accosted me, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder said—”Is that your friend?” “Yes.” “Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare, that’s all.” “Who are you?” asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially speaking person in such a place. “I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide them with something good to eat.” “Is this so?” said I, turning to the turnkey. He said it was. “Well then,” said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man’s hands (for so they called him). “I want you to give particular attention to my friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be as polite to him as possible.” “Introduce me, will you?” said the grub-man, looking at me with an expression which seem to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to give a specimen of his breeding. Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby. “Bartleby, this is Mr. Cutlets; you will find him very useful to you.” “Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant,” said the grub-man, making a low salutation behind his apron. “Hope you find it pleasant here, sir;—spacious grounds—cool apartments, sir—hope you’ll stay with us some time—try to make it agreeable. May Mrs. Cutlets and I have the pleasure of your company to dinner, sir, in Mrs. Cutlets’ private room?” “I prefer not to dine to-day,” said Bartleby, turning away. “It would disagree with me; I am unused to dinners.” So saying he slowly moved to the other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting


Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

part of Apollius’s plan.” Lore wondered if he’d noticed the smell of August’s flask. What he made of it. “Have you ever tried this with a person, then?” She waved her hand at the garden. He froze, a horrified light in his blue eye. “No one would do this to a person.” Her brow furrowed, and Lore stepped back, guilt teased to life by his stricken expression, resentment rising to meet it. “I’m not implying that you have. I’m just curious, Gabriel.” She swallowed. “You’ve had years to learn about this power, with someone actually teaching you. I’ve just been trying to survive it.” The monk looked at her for a moment that stretched, face inscrutable. Then he turned, started walking again, though it was stiffer than before. “No one knows how channeling Mortem this way into something souled would affect them,” he said finally, sidestepping the matter of Lore’s ignorance entirely. “The position of the Church is that it would send your soul to the Shining Realm—or one of the myriad hells, I suppose, depending on how you’d lived. Once you were brought back, it’d pull you out of your afterlife, with knowledge no mortal should have.” Raising a person from the dead didn’t bring back their soul, just their body—that’s why you had to give them direction. But an insatiable curiosity about the afterlife had been what led to a rash of practicing necromancers right after the Godsfall. People who could channel enough Mortem to raise the dead did it to find out what happened after. To know the secrets of where you went once your body was done. The Church hadn’t liked that, even though it never really worked. No one had ever gotten a straight answer from a corpse. Her eyes flickered to Gabe. “You really believe in the Shining Realm?” “I’m a member of the clergy. Believing in the Shining Realm is quite literally in my job description.” Lore knocked her shoulder into his, companionably. After a moment, he gave her the smallest edge of a smile. The path took them by the well. The statue of Apollius was more austere than most, plain stone with no garnet adornment. Lore eyed it warily. “What’s that?” “Catacombs entrance.” He said it with such nonchalance, Lore was convinced for a moment she’d heard him wrong. But he shot her a wry look, shrugged. “We open it every eclipse, let out the Mortem, channel it into the flowers. It’s efficient, and probably why we haven’t had a significant leak in so long.” The mention of an eclipse made her press her palm to her thigh, hiding her scar. “When’s the next one?” “Midsummer. A solar eclipse, so the Mortem will be particularly strong. Nyxara blocking Apollius, and all that.” He raised a brow. “Isn’t that right around your birthday?” Her twenty-fourth birthday. Her Consecration. Lore masked her unease with a guileless grin. “Are you planning to get me a cake?” “Maybe. Depends on if you’re nice until then.” She rolled her eyes and took his arm, falling into step with


been too embarrassed to meet her at the altar. Back in New York? Persona non grata. In St. Helena? Royalty. Snort. Natalie shed her sleepshirt and stepped beneath the hot shower spray. And if she thought her brother doing the deed constituted an unwanted image, it had nothing on the memory of August Cates yesterday afternoon in all his beefcake glory. I don’t have a bottomless bank account like some people in this town. If only. Natalie didn’t have anything to complain about. She was living in a beautiful guest house on the grounds of a vineyard, for god’s sake. But she’d been living off her savings for more than a month now and she could barely open a lemonade stand, let alone launch a firm, with the amount left over. She had privilege, but financial freedom presented a challenge. One she could hopefully overcome this morning. All it would cost was her pride. The fact that August Cates planned to leave St. Helena imminently had nothing to do with her sudden urgency to leave, too. Nothing whatsoever. That big, incompetent buffoon and his decisions had no bearing on her life. So why the pit in her stomach? It had been there since he approached the table to have his wine judged yesterday. The man had a chip the size of Denver on his shoulder, but he always had kind of a . . . softness in his eyes. A relaxed, observant quality that said I’ve seen everything. I can handle anything. But it was missing yesterday. And it caught Natalie off guard how much it threw her. He’d looked resigned. Closed off. Now, drying her hair in front of the foggy bathroom mirror, she couldn’t pretend that hole in her belly wasn’t yawning wider. Where would August go? What would he do now that winemaking was off the table? Who was August Cates? Part of her—a part she would never admit to out loud—had wondered if she would find out eventually. In a weak moment. Or by accident. Had she been looking forward to that? Natalie turned off the dryer with a snappy movement, ran the brush one final time through her long, black hair, and left the bathroom, crossing to her closet. She put on a sleeveless black sweaterdress and leather loafers, added a swipe of nude lipstick and some gold earrings. By the time she was finished, she could see through the guest room window that lights were on in the main house and she took a long breath, banishing the jitters. The worst Corinne could say was no, Natalie reminded herself on the way up the path that ran alongside the fragrant vineyard. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the barest rim of gold outlined Mount St. Helena. She could almost feel the grapes waking up and turning toward the promise of warmth from above. Part of her truly loved this place. It was impossible not to. The smell of fertile earth, the tradition, the magic, the intricate process. Thousands of years ago, some industrious—and probably bored—people had


distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared, that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold enquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal indifference and brevity, and the other said no more. The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole party; for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table. While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to regret that he came. He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear, than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; -- a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's entrance, exerted herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded, as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility, ``Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family.'' In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him


Mrs. Martelli and her garlic than he would an empty apartment, but he isn’t going to admit this to Nick. When Nick leaves, Andy promptly falls back asleep. He wakes up in the middle of the morning, achy and ragged. He wishes Nick were around to pet his hair. Around lunch, he runs out of orange juice, which is presently the only thing giving him a will to live. Before he can consider whether it’s a good idea to go outside in his current state, he already has his shoes on. He’s all the way down the stairs before he realizes he left his wallet on the kitchen table. He sits down on the stoop and nearly cries. He just wants juice. He doesn’t even have a dime to call Nick from the pay phone, not that he’d really interrupt Nick at work to ask for juice. Probably. It’s just that juice is the only good thing in the world and now he doesn’t have any. Across the street is a uniformed police officer. Andy wonders if he’d lend Andy a quarter or two. It’s not one of the regular beat cops, but a rosy-cheeked stranger who could play a kindly neighborhood policeman on a children’s television show—he looks like he keeps lollipops in his pocket for kids and spends his days helping old ladies cross the street. But Nick would hit the ceiling if he found out Andy was asking for favors from cops, so Andy doesn’t try his luck. “Andy?” Andy looks up and sees Linda carrying a paper sack. “Any chance you have orange juice in there?” “Pigments, copper wiring, lug nuts, and plaster of paris,” she answers. “No juice.” Andy doesn’t cry, which is an accomplishment. “Can I borrow fifty cents? My wallet is upstairs and I don’t have it in me to do those stairs twice today.” “Flu?” It probably is, and for some reason Andy doesn’t feel so bad about admitting it to Linda. “Yeah.” “Jeanne just got over it.” At the best of times, Andy can’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that Linda, with her copper wiring and paint-splattered overalls, is part of Emily and Jeanne’s world. The borders of that tasteful little bubble are more porous than he had once thought. But now, with a fairly significant headache, the fact that Linda Ackerman, Vassar class of ’55, is standing in front of Nick’s Barrow Street stoop seems almost mystically significant. If a girl who went to school with Jeanne and Emily Warburton could find her way to a pair of overalls and a paper sack filled with lug nuts, then maybe it isn’t so strange that Andy is here, too. Maybe Andy can be in this world in a way that isn’t temporary. Linda shifts her sack to a hip and presses the back of her hand to Andy’s forehead. “Not that bad,” she says. Andy wants to protest that actually he’s dying, thank you very much, but his throat hurts quite a bit, so he doesn’t. She reaches a hand into


circles and diagonal lines rippled in tapering tiers from the peak of the palace over the decorated banisters and ornate walls below. The light refracted from each triangle was an opulence rivaling the open skies. “It looks like a honeycomb,” Sefa said. “They are called muqarnas,” Arin said. “Omal is not their original place of conception.” “Jasad is,” I said. Half the Omal palace possessed aspects of Jasad’s architecture. “The only part that originates from Omal is the audacity. Muqarnas date back to Jasad’s Awal. Rovial designed them for his kingdom. Each muqarna is meant to hold a small focal point of magic shining down on Jasad’s vulnerable. The dying came to heal under muqarnas, and the heartsick found peace.” At Arin’s narrowed gaze, I innocently added, “There was one in my villa at Ahr il Uboor.” Mervat Rayan’s villa could have been full of them, for all I knew. I still wasn’t sure if Arin believed the Mervat story, but his attention seemed to have been temporarily rerouted thanks to Soraya and Vaun. The sprawling halls were reminiscent of the twisting tapestries weaving through Lukub’s Ivory Palace. Personally, I found Orban’s economy of space more suited for safety, but at least here the Nizahl assembly had an entire floor to themselves. Chairs were placed next to doors, a thoughtful nod to the guards stationed outside our quarters. Sefa and Marek had shared a room in each kingdom we visited, and Omal was no exception. The head servant motioned at a door to the right, and Sefa bounded inside with glee, Marek following with their luggage. Jeru drew their door shut and set himself in front of it, ignoring the chair. Arin’s chambers opened in the very center of the hall, where an assailant would have to pass a sea of guards, but not so far that a shout couldn’t be heard from the stairwell. Arin did not enter, but walked with me to the very last room. “These will be the quarters for the Nizahl Champion,” the head servant said. His stern civility reminded me of Dawoud. “There are attendants available to assist with preparations for tonight’s meal or guide you through the palace. Please do not hesitate to call upon Omal’s servants, and I thank you again for the honor of your stay.” Arin gestured at Wes. “Her door needs supervision every minute she is inside. Two soldiers may serve as a replacement for you or Jeru, but I prefer one of you be present at all times.” Wes moved in front of my door. He did not mention that this setup left Arin without a single guardsman at his own door. Apparently, it was more likely Felix had designs against me or my companions than the Nizahl Heir. “We cannot leave any window for her or the others to move on you, not without losing the opportunity to capture them,” Arin had said. One benefit of having innumerable people trying to trap or murder me? No more attendants. Arin strode down the hall, a retinue of soldiers falling into


hour away. I just wanted you to be there this weekend so everyone could get to know you and see for themselves how great you are.” Bryce leaned over the counter and massaged his temples. “Lanier, I have a lot going on right now. Impressing your friends isn’t at the tip-top of my to-do list at the moment, believe it or not.” It was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He had spent two weeks being a saint and now this. “It isn’t about impressing my friends, Bryce.” (Okay, it kind of was.) “But you know how important this weekend is to me. Holly Springs is one of the most important places in my life.” “And I could argue that no one has done more to try to help you save it than I have.” I exhaled deeply. I couldn’t respond to that. Because he was right. His phone beeped, and he looked down. “Look, Lanier, I have to go. I just wanted to tell you good luck this weekend. I’m sorry I won’t be there, but if we’re going to get married, you’re going to have to cut me some slack. I can’t be perfect all the time.” That was it. No kiss. No goodbye hug. No “I love you.” I can’t be perfect all the time. I almost laughed as he walked out the door. What did that even mean? These past two weeks had been an act? He’d been pretending to be perfect and now the truth was out? A trio of teenagers walked in, and I pinned on a smile. “Let me know if I can help you girls.” “Where’s your romance?” the shortest one with a tight T-shirt and long cornflower-braided pigtails asked. “I think it’s gone,” I said, under my breath. “What?” one of her friends asked. “It’s in the back.” I gestured toward the boxes. “Anyone want a cupcake?” “I can’t. I’m doing Keto,” the third girl responded. Bless her heart. Her two friends ate their cupcakes right in front of her. “There are parts of your brain only fueled by carbs, you know,” cornflower braids said. “And there are types of cancer only fueled by sugar,” Keto girl shot back. I looked back at the computer screen, thinking that, for all the complications adulthood was handing me right now, I wouldn’t be a teenager again for anything. Although, thinking about being a teenager made me think about Rich and that counter in the sailing hut and… The bell on the door shook me out of my thoughts and I gasped. “Huff! What are you doing here?” He shrugged as he strode over to the counter. I noticed the high school girls whispering and giggling. Oh my gosh. Was Huff hot? Ew. “I had the day off, so I thought I’d come see Mom and Dad.” An idea hit me. “You should go to camp! Bryce can’t come at the last minute. You can be in my cabin! You could be my family!” “I am your family.” “Well, you know what I mean. It’s going