able to recharge her, she said, “Thank you. That is better. I can now assist you. Please show me where it hurts so I can heal you.” And here, now, he said, “It hurts. Here.” He pressed a hand to his chest as the tether jerked a final time. He was in his body once more, and it was dark and quiet inside. “Can you heal me?” Nurse Ratched said, “It is not physical, Victor. I cannot heal it.” He nodded. “I understand.” He looked around. His face was sore, and he realized he was still smiling. It wasn’t appropriate, but he couldn’t stop. He wondered if he should be crying. He felt sad, that ache in his chest only growing bigger, but the dirt in his eyes sucked up all the liquid and he was unable. “I’m erroring.” “I know,” Nurse Ratched said. “Okay,” he said, turning his head. The man—not a man, but Hap—looked at him suspiciously. “Hello.” “Vic,” he said, and Victor felt his smile shake. “Can you h-hear me?” “Yes,” he said. “Of course I can. I am working. Everything is in order.” “What’s wrong w-with him?” Hap asked. “He is in shock,” Nurse Ratched said. “He will recover, but it will take time.” “M-malfunction,” Hap said. “He is m-malfunctioning.” “No,” Nurse Ratched said. “But it can make certain functions more difficult.” “We c-can’t stay down here. He c-can’t.” “At least for now. We do not have a choice. There is more we need to see.” Victor felt something nudge against his leg. He looked down. The little machine was tugging on his pants. Rambo. His name was Rambo. “Vic?” Rambo whispered. “Can you hear me?” “Yes,” Vic said, stepping back, bumping into Hap. Vic recoiled sharply. “Don’t touch me.” Hap looked stunned. He raised a hand toward Vic, but he curled it into a fist before dropping it back to his side. “I w-won’t. I w-won’t touch you. I wwon’t hurt you.” Nurse Ratched said, “Butterflies.” The flutter of wings burst through the static in Vic’s head as spring bloomed on Nurse Ratched’s screen. The trees were green, the flowers blooming. It was almost as if he were there in the forest, breathing in the scents of new growth. Heady, this, and it filled his mouth as he sucked air down greedily, his lungs expanding, blood pumping, heart a furious drumbeat. On the screen, moving through the trees, a vast kaleidoscope of butterflies, their wings orange and black. They swirled in ordered chaos, and he could almost feel them alight upon his arms and shoulders, their wings brushing against his cheeks. He closed his eyes as a large butterfly landed on his face, the sensation uncomfortable as its legs touched his eyelids. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he heard Hap whispering it was nice, it was pretty, it was his. “What is this?” he whispered. Through the storm in his head, he heard Nurse Ratched. She said, “A program. Triggered by a code phrase. Gio installed it in me, hidden away. I did not know


"Everything's so . . . " He shrugged. "Yes. Well, tomorrow we leave. It'll be good to get settled in our new home, put all this upset behind." Paul nodded, suddenly overcome by memory of the Reverend Mother's words: " . . . for the father, nothing." "Father," Paul said, "will Arrakis be as dangerous as everyone says?" The Duke forced himself to the casual gesture, sat down on a corner of the table, smiled. A whole pattern of conversation welled up in his mind -- the kind of thing he might use to dispel the vapors in his men before a battle. The pattern froze before it could be vocalized, confronted by the single thought: This is my son. "It'll be dangerous," he admitted. "Hawat tells me we have a plan for the Fremen," Paul said. And he wondered: Why don't I tell him what that old woman said? How did she seal my tongue? The Duke noted his son's distress, said: "As always, Hawat sees the main chance. But there's much more. I see also the Combine Honnete Ober Advancer Mercantiles -- the CHOAM Company. By giving me Arrakis, His Majesty is forced to give us a CHOAM directorship . . . a subtle gain." "CHOAM controls the spice," Paul said. "And Arrakis with its spice is our avenue into CHOAM," the Duke said. "There's more to CHOAM than melange." "Did the Reverend Mother warn you?" Paul blurted. He clenched his fists, feeling his palms slippery with perspiration. The effort it had taken to ask that question. "Hawat tells me she frightened you with warnings about Arrakis," the Duke said. "Don't let a woman's fears cloud your mind. No woman wants her loved ones endangered. The hand behind those warnings was your mother's. Take this as a sign of her love for us." "Does she know about the Fremen?" "Yes, and about much more." "What?" And the Duke thought: The truth could be worse than he imagines, but even dangerous facts are valuable if you've been trained to deal with them. And there's one place where nothing has been spared for my son -- dealing with dangerous facts. This must be leavened, though; he is young. "Few products escape the CHOAM touch," the Duke said. "Logs, donkeys, horses, cows, lumber, dung, sharks, whale fur -- the most prosaic and the most exotic . . . even our poor pundi rice from Caladan. Anything the Guild will transport, the art forms of Ecaz, the machines of Richesse and Ix. But all fades before melange. A handful of spice will buy a home on Tupile. It cannot be manufactured, it must be mined on Arrakis. It is unique and it has true geriatric properties." "And now we control it?" "To a certain degree. But the important thing is to consider all the Houses that depend on CHOAM profits. And think of the enormous proportion of those profits dependent upon a single product -- the spice. Imagine what would happen if something should reduce spice production." "Whoever had stockpiled melange could make a


and the disappeared again. Before Arthur was able to assimilate this the other man spoke and the word Phouchg appeared by his neck. "Seventy-five thousand generations ago, our ancestors set this program in motion," the second man said, "and in all that time we will be the first to hear the computer speak." "An awesome prospect, Phouchg," agreed the first man, and Arthur suddenly realized that he was watching a recording with subtitles. "We are the ones who will hear," said Phouchg, "the answer to the great question of Life ...!" "The Universe ...!" said Loonquawl. "And Everything ...!" "Shhh," said Loonquawl with a slight gesture, "I think Deep Thought is preparing to speak!" There was a moment's expectant pause whilst panels slowly came to life on the front of the console. Lights flashed on and off experimentally and settled down into a businesslike pattern. A soft low hum came from the communication channel. "Good morning," said Deep Thought at last. "Er ... Good morning, O Deep Thought," said Loonquawl nervously, "do you have ... er, that is ..." "An answer for you?" interrupted Deep Thought majestically. "Yes. I have." The two men shivered with expectancy. Their waiting had not been in vain. "There really is one?" breathed Phouchg. "There really is one," confirmed Deep Thought. "To Everything? To the great Question of Life, the Universe and Everything?" "Yes." Both of the men had been trained for this moment, their lives had been a preparation for it, they had been selected at birth as those who would witness the answer, but even so they found themselves gasping and squirming like excited children. "And you're ready to give it to us?" urged Loonquawl. "I am." "Now?" "Now," said Deep Thought. They both licked their dry lips. "Though I don't think," added Deep Thought, "that you're going to like it." "Doesn't matter!" said Phouchg. "We must know it! Now!" "Now?" inquired Deep Thought. "Yes! Now ..." "Alright," said the computer and settled into silence again. The two men fidgeted. The tension was unbearable. "You're really not going to like it," observed Deep Thought. "Tell us!" "Alright," said Deep Thought. "The Answer to the Great Question ..." "Yes ...!" "Of Life, the Universe and Everything ..." said Deep Thought. "Yes ...!" "Is ..." said Deep Thought, and paused. "Yes ...!" "Is ..." "Yes ...!!!...?" "Forty-two," said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm. ================================================================= Chapter 28 It was a long time before anyone spoke. Out of the corner of his eye Phouchg could see the sea of tense expectant faces down in the square outside. "We're going to get lynched aren't we?" he whispered. "It was a tough assignment," said Deep Thought mildly. "Forty-two!" yelled Loonquawl. "Is that all you've got to show for seven and a half million years' work?" "I checked it very thoroughly," said the computer, "and that quite definitely is the answer. I think the problem, to be quite honest with you, is that you've never actually known what the question is." "But it was the Great Question! The Ultimate Question


with her about my daughter, I could feel her hand pressing down on mine, the warmth of her fingers, the grain of the wooden table at which we sat. I could hear her voice, as clear as it was in life. You can tell me all about it, she said. And then you’ll figure out how to help her, like you always do. When I woke, it occurred to me that perhaps my mind is trying to mother me, now that my mother is gone. 25 At around eight by ten, my office is the smallest of our small bedrooms, squished between the master bedroom and my older daughter’s room. I claimed it as my work space when we moved into this, the first residence of my adult life that has felt semipermanent. I pushed an old table up against the room’s only window, pleased to find that during the day, at least, there is no need for a lamp. We painted the walls a soft blue green that reminds me of sea glass, and I hung up original art and carefully arranged the bookshelves. I hadn’t had a dedicated writing space all to myself, with a door I could close, since I took over the spare bedroom in my childhood home. For our first two years in the house, the study was my primary work space, the backdrop for all my video meetings, the place where I went to brainstorm and to write. Then we got a dog, and I pretty much stopped working there altogether. For years, whenever one of our children asked us if we could get a puppy, Dan or I would offer up a vague response: Maybe someday, when you’re old enough to help. Several friends who also had autistic children had gotten them therapy dogs—mostly Labradors or goldendoodles—and we had thought about doing the same. Both of us had grown up with dogs and cats and were generally pro-pets, but we also knew how much extra work it would mean. Then came the pandemic. Sometime between my mother’s funeral in the spring and back-to-school that never quite happened in the fall, maybe gave way to yes and someday became as soon as possible. Saying yes to the dog was very much about saying yes to our kids in the worst year of their lives. They’d lost so much in such a brief space of time: another grandparent, visits with family, familiar routines, a sense of stability and safety. Their schools were still closed, which meant they spent five hours a day in front of their Chromebook screens, being reminded to sit up straight and keep their cameras on. Their world had shrunk to the four walls of our house, our yard, and the neighborhood we meandered through day after day. We knew that we were luckier than many. We were trying our best. But none of us were doing well, and the first long pandemic winter was on the way. This dog, I decided, was going to be the family comfort animal. The kids picked out


in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to do?" "I am here on no business of my own," said Emma; "I am only waiting for my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home. But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument." "Well--if you advise it.--But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an indifferent tone--what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood." "I do not believe any such thing," replied Emma.--"I am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night." "Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it." He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel. "Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?" asked Mrs. Ford.-- "Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly-- so it had better go to Hartfield--at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?" "It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two parcels." "No more it is." "No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford. "Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's-- I do not know--No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?" "That


said with a crooked smile. The door opened, but before Ryder could step out, I took his arm. “You look around, you evaluate the drives, and then you get to the bridge, pronto. Got that?” “Copy that.” He winked at Akari and left. Waiting for the GravLift’s doors to open, I anticipated being disappointed. Having skippered multiple Hamilton-class dreadnoughts, I knew what they each had in common was a massive main deck, affectionately called Whale’s Alley because of the high arching metal girders above resembling a whale’s huge inner rib cage. The lift slowed, stopped, and the doors slid open. I was the first to step out onto the main deck, which for this vessel was Deck 15. Looking about, craning my neck to see above, I was delighted to see the Whale’s Alley ship architecture was intact, even here on this SpaceWing design. “This is one big fucking main deck,” Wanda said, standing with hands on hips, appraising our surroundings. Akari was already hurrying toward the entrance to the bridge. “Holy shit!” we heard her say. Upon entering the bridge, my jaw dropped open. I knew Akari wasn’t commenting on the fight that went down in here. This was some command center. Far more advanced than what I was used to. There again, this was a prototype vessel of things to come. Things that had yet to materialize, other than here onboard USS Lincoln. I was immediately struck by the advanced technology on display. The console stations were sleek and modern-looking, with touchscreens and holographic displays. Akari, having found the tactical station near the front of the compartment, said, “Each station is immediately customizable to the needs of its user, with different readouts and controls depending on their role on the ship. No one-size-fits-all here, Captain.” With a few taps, she gestured to the front. It was the centerpiece of the bridge, the 3D halo display. Currently it was projecting a detailed map of the surrounding space. “Looks like this celestial map is updating in real time. No nearby alien ships; you can see Adams there,” Akari said, gesturing with an extended finger. “I think the captain knows how to view a halo display, Akari,” Wanda said with a smirk. “Oh, shut up. I’m just excited.” On either side of the halo display were rows of monitors, displaying a dizzying array of data and video feeds. I could see there were sensors monitoring everything from radiation levels to gravitational fluctuations, while cameras provided live feeds from all around the ship. Wanda, having ventured over to a bulkhead, was playing with a wall-mounted display. “Cool! The lighting here on the bridge is totally adjustable.” The compartment was suddenly bathed in aqua-hued illumination. “I guess the different colors are used to indicate different levels of alert or activity.” I crossed my arms, assessing it all. Overall, the bridge of this warship was a marvel of high-tech design and well-thought-out engineering. Akari turned and looked at me. “Well, aren’t you going to try it out?” I raised my brows. “Try what out?” Her eyes


folding my underwear and watching “The One with

Monica and Chandler’s Wedding.”

Besides my own laundry (often laid out to dry on my radiators) I did my

own chores, my own cooking, my own food shopping. There was a

supermarket by the Palace and I went there, casually, at least once a week.

267

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

Of course I’d plan each trip as carefully as a patrol around Musa Qala.

I’d arrive at different times, randomly, to throw off the press. I’d wear a

disguise: low baseball cap, loose coat. I’d run along the aisles at warp speed,

grabbing the salmon fillets I liked, the brand of yogurt I liked. (I’d

memorized a map of the store.) Plus a few Granny Smith apples and

bananas. And, of course, some crisps.

Then I’d sprint to the checkout.

Just as I’d honed my preflight checks in the Apache, I now honed my

grocery shopping time down to ten minutes. But one night I got to the shop

and began to run up and down the aisles and everything...had moved.

I hurried over to an employee: What's happened?

Excuse me?

Where is everything?

Where is—?

Why has everything moved?

Honestly?

Yes, honestly.

To keep people here longer. So they'll buy more stuff.

I was gobsmacked. You can do that? By law?

A bit panicky, I resumed running up and down the aisles, filling my

trolley as best I could, keeping an eye on the clock, then rushed to the

checkout. That was always the trickiest part, because there was no honing

the checkout: it all depended on others. More, the checkout counter stood

right beside the news racks, which held every British tabloid and magazine,

and half the front pages and magazine covers were photos of my family. Or

my mum. Or me.

More than once I watched customers read about me, overheard them

debating me. In 2015


glad if he came down. She met Philip at the door, and when she shook hands with him, said: "You'll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you'll pretend you don't notice anything, won't you, sir? He's that nervous about himself." Philip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room. "Here's Mr. Philip, sir." The Vicar of Blackstable was a dying man. There was no mistaking that when you looked at the Hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. He sat huddled in the arm-chair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over his shoulders. He could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his hands trembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty. "He can't last long now," thought Philip, as he looked at him. "How d'you think I'm looking?" asked the Vicar. "D'you think I've changed since you were here last?" "I think you look stronger than you did last summer." "It was the heat. That always upsets me." Mr. Carey's history of the last few months consisted in the number of weeks he had spent in his bed-room and the number of weeks he had spent downstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it for Mrs. Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to ask on what day of the month he had first left his room. "On the seventh of November, sir." Mr. Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information. "But I eat well still, don't I, Mrs. Foster?" "Yes, sir, you've got a wonderful appetite." "I don't seem to put on flesh though." Nothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thing indomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony of his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he was under the influence of morphia. "It's terrible, the amount of money I have to spend on doctor's bills." He tinkled his bell again. "Mrs. Foster, show Master Philip the chemist's bill." Patiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to Philip. "That's only one month. I was wondering if as you're doctoring yourself you couldn't get me the drugs cheaper. I thought of getting them down from the stores, but then there's the postage." Though apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not trouble to inquire what Phil was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. He asked how long he could stay, and when Philip told him He must leave on Tuesday morning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. He told him minutely all his symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said of him. He broke off to ring his bell, and when Mrs. Foster came in, said: "Oh, I wasn't sure if you were there. I only rang to see if you were." When she had gone he explained to Philip that it made him uneasy if


the doorway she saw against the declining light a figure with the height of a woman and the breadth of a child, a tall, thin, girlish creature whom she did not recognize in the twilight till the girl said "Tess!" "What--is it 'Liza-Lu?" asked Tess, in startled accents. Her sister, whom a little over a year ago she had left at home as a child, had sprung up by a sudden shoot to a form of this presentation, of which as yet Lu seemed herself scarce able to understand the meaning. Her thin legs, visible below her once long frock now short by her growing, and her uncomfortable hands and arms, revealed her youth and inexperience. "Yes, I have been traipsing about all day, Tess," said Lu, with unemotional gravity, "a-trying to find 'ee; and I'm very tired." "What is the matter at home?" "Mother is took very bad, and the doctor says she's dying, and as father is not very well neither, and says 'tis wrong for a man of such a high family as his to slave and drave at common labouring work, we don't know what to do." Tess stood in reverie a long time before she thought of asking 'Liza-Lu to come in and sit down. When she had done so, and 'Liza-Lu was having some tea, she came to a decision. It was imperative that she should go home. Her agreement did not end till Old Lady-Day, the sixth of April, but as the interval thereto was not a long one she resolved to run the risk of starting at once. To go that night would be a gain of twelve-hours; but her sister was too tired to undertake such a distance till the morrow. Tess ran down to where Marian and Izz lived, informed them of what had happened, and begged them to make the best of her case to the farmer. Returning, she got Lu a supper, and after that, having tucked the younger into her own bed, packed up as many of her belongings as would go into a withy basket, and started, directing Lu to follow her next morning. L She plunged into the chilly equinoctial darkness as the clock struck ten, for her fifteen miles' walk under the steely stars. In lone districts night is a protection rather than a danger to a noiseless pedestrian, and knowing this Tess pursued the nearest course along by-lanes that she would almost have feared in the day-time; but marauders were wanting now, and spectral fears were driven out of her mind by thoughts of her mother. Thus she proceeded mile after mile, ascending and descending till she came to Bulbarrow, and about midnight looked from that height into the abyss of chaotic shade which was all that revealed itself of the vale on whose further side she was born. Having already traversed about five miles on the upland she had now some ten or eleven in the lowland before her journey would be finished. The winding road downwards became just visible to her under the


thered to tell me your strategies. But I’ve done my best with what I had to work with. How Katniss sacrificed herself for her sister. How you’ve both successfully struggled to over- come the barbarism of your district.” Barbarism? That’s ironic coming from a woman helping to prepare us for slaughter. And what’s she basing our success on? Our table manners? “Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being from the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, ‘Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!’“ Effie beams at us so brilliantly that we have no choice but to respond enthusiastically to her cleverness even though it’s wrong. Coal doesn’t turn to pearls. They grow in shellfish. Possibly she meant coal turns to diamonds, but that’s untrue, too. I’ve heard they have some sort of machine in District 1 that can turn graphite into diamonds. But we don’t mine graphite in District 12. That was part of District 13’s job until they were destroyed. I wonder if the people she’s been plugging us to all day ei- ther know or care. 74 “Unfortunately, I can’t seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Haymitch can do that,” says Effie grimly. “But don’t worry, I’ll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary.” Although lacking in many departments, Effie Trinket has a certain determination I have to admire. My quarters are larger than our entire house back home. They are plush, like the train car, but also have so many auto- matic gadgets that I’m sure I won’t have time to press all the buttons. The shower alone has a panel with more than a hun- dred options you can choose regulating water temperature, pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents, oils, and massaging sponges. When you step out on a mat, heaters come on that blow-dry your body. Instead of struggling with the knots in my wet hair, I merely place my hand on a box that sends a current through my scalp, untangling, parting, and drying my hair almost instantly. It floats down around my shoulders in a glossy curtain. I program the closet for an outfit to my taste. The windows zoom in and out on parts of the city at my command. You need only whisper a type of food from a gigantic menu into a mouthpiece and it appears, hot and steamy, before you in less than a minute. I walk around the room eating goose liver and puffy bread until there’s a knock on the door. Effie’s calling me to dinner. Good. I’m starving. Peeta, Cinna, and Portia are standing out on a balcony that overlooks the Capitol when we enter the dining room. I’m glad 75 to see the stylists, particularly after I hear that Haymitch will be joining us. A meal presided over by just Effie and Haymitch is bound to be a disaster. Besides, din- ner isn’t really about food, it’s about planning out our strate- gies, and Cinna and Portia have already proven how valuable they


sand and went away. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE When the district commissioner arrived at Okonkwo's compound at the head of an armed band of soldiers and court messengers he found a small crowd of men sitting wearily in the obi. He commanded them to come outside, and they obeyed without a murmur. "Which among you is called Okonkwo?" he asked through his interpreter. "He is not here," replied Obierika. "Where is he?" "He is not here!" The Commissioner became angry and red in the face. He warned the men that unless they produced Okonkwo forthwith he would lock them all up. The men murmured among themselves, and Obierika spoke again. "We can take you where he is, and perhaps your men will help us." The Commissioner did not understand what Obierika meant when he said, "Perhaps your men will help us." One of the most infuriating habits of these people was their love of superfluous words, he thought. Obierika with five or six others led the way. The Commissioner and his men followed their firearms held at the ready. He had warned Obierika that if he and his men played any monkey tricks they would be shot. And so they went. There was a small bush behind Okonkwo's compound. The only opening into this bush from the compound was a little round hole in the red-earth wall through which fowls went in and out in their endless search for food. The hole would not let a man through. It was to this bush that Obierika led the Commissioner and his men. They skirted round the compound, keeping close to the wall. The only sound they made was with their feet as they crushed dry leaves. Then they came to the tree from which Okonkwo's body was dangling, and they stopped dead. "Perhaps your men can help us bring him down and bury him," said Obierika. "We have sent for strangers from another village to do it for us, but they may be a long time coming." The District Commissioner changed instantaneously. The resolute administrator in him gave way to the student of primitive customs. "Why can't you take him down yourselves?" he asked. "It is against our custom," said one of the men. "It is an abomination for a man to take his own life. It is an offence against the Earth, and a man who commits it will not be buried by his clansmen. His body is evil, and only strangers may touch it. That is why we ask your people to bring him down, because you are strangers." "Will you bury him like any other man?" asked the Commissioner. "We cannot bury him. Only strangers can. We shall pay your men to do it. When he has been buried we will then do our duty by him. We shall make sacrifices to cleanse the desecrated land." Obierika, who had been gazing steadily at his friend's dangling body, turned suddenly to the District Commissioner and said ferociously: "That man was one of the greatest men in Umuofia. You drove him to kill himself


to serve Donald Trump. White House Chief of Staff Reince Priebus waxed poetic about how the president’s agenda was “a blessing.” UN Ambassador Nikki Haley gushed about the New York tycoon’s “strong voice” on the international stage. The two generals at the table, John Kelly and Jim Mattis, kept straight faces, declining to fawn over the president before, during, or after the meeting. When Trump turned to them expecting tribute, they said little about the man. Mattis praised “the men and women of the Department of Defense,” while Kelly noted the honor of representing a “quarter of a million men and women that serve the country in DHS.” Afterward, I told Kelly that two spectators would notice his choice of words: a grateful DHS workforce and a seething Donald Trump. He smiled. Privately, deputies to the president were questioning more than just Trump’s thirst for adulation. They worried about the commander in chief’s mental state. Trump was becoming more irascible in meetings, lashing out at staff, frequently repeating himself, and displaying a maddening inability to focus. On June 23, Kirstjen and I went with General Kelly to the White House for a series of meetings. Kelly, Mattis, and Tillerson planned to confront Trump about the creeping state of chaos inside the West Wing, and the scene that morning appeared to prove the point. Unable to get the conversation on track as aides darted in and out of the Oval Office, Secretary Kelly raised his voice, demanding that anyone who wasn’t confirmed by the U.S. Senate needed to leave to room. Staffers shuffled out into the hallway where I was waiting, until the only people left in the Oval were the cabinet members. The president bristled at criticisms of how the West Wing was run, Kelly later recounted. “If it’s so screwed up,” Trump shot back at the general, “come fix it yourself.” It was at least the second time Trump had suggested that John Kelly become his chief of staff at the White House. The secretary declined, in addition to turning down Trump’s request that Kelly take Comey’s place as FBI director. Kelly reassured us he was closer to resigning than accepting a role at Trump’s side, but someone needed to take command soon, or the ship would sink. Trump’s shortcomings stood out particularly during emergencies. I remember briefing the president in the Oval Office on the projected storm track of an Atlantic hurricane. At first, he seemed to grasp the devastating magnitude of the Category 4 superstorm, until he opened his mouth. “Is that the direction they always spin?” the president asked me. “I’m sorry sir,” I responded, “I don’t understand.” “Hurricanes. Do they always spin like that?” He made a swirl in the air with his finger. “Counterclockwise?” I asked. He nodded. “Yes, Mr. President. It’s called the Coriolis effect. It’s the same reason toilet water spins the other direction in the Southern Hemisphere.” “Incredible,” Trump replied, squinting his eyes to look at the foam board presentation. We needed him to urge residents to evacuate from the Carolinas, where it


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

the back seat, there is no way I can carry Juno to the doorstep. Truthfully, I’m not even sure I could get myself to the door right now. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve written sexual tension that could peel wallpaper, and none of it comes close to the last twenty minutes in the car with Connor. “I’ve got her.” Connor ducks around me, bending to unbuckle Juno’s seat belt. His thighs flex beneath his jeans and his shoulders strain against the soft cotton of his new T-shirt as he easily lifts the floppy kid from his back seat. “I really don’t think my ovaries can take any more,” I mumble. He turns, adjusting her weight over his shoulder. “What’s that?” I cough delicately into a fist. “Clear night, don’t think there’s rain in store.” Connor looks skeptical, but seems to trust that if I’m filtering myself, it’s probably a good thing. He turns and heads up when I gesture that he should lead the way. The door opens as we approach. Jess stands in the frame, backlit by a warm, golden glow, and seems to entirely miss the mental flare gun I repeatedly fire into the air. River comes up behind her, reaching to take Juno from Connor, who murmurs a soft “Got her?” as he passes her off. My heart launches itself out a tenth-story window. The little girl reveals her level of consciousness by snaking her arms around her dad’s neck and mumbling, “Thank you, Mr. Prince.” I get it together enough to frown in feigned offense. “Hey, what about me? Ticket hookup, hello?” Her response is a sleepy grunt as she’s carried down the hall to her room. With Juno situated and Stevie asleep in the back seat, Connor jogs down a couple of front steps, and then looks back at me expectantly. “Ready?” I start to follow, propelled like there’s a silken rope connecting us, but hesitate. I think about the warmth of the car and the soothing mood of the music. I think about Connor’s big hands wrapped around the steering wheel, gripping it like it was a vine tethering him to the top of a cliff. I think about his forearms that are corded with veins and muscle, and how when he’s two steps below me we’re finally at eye level. I think about how his eyes lit up with joy tonight watching his daughter in her element, and I think about how his shoulders felt beneath my legs earlier when he lifted me. I think about the defeated growl of his My new best friend and I think about being in the front seat beside him for one second longer and I’m not sure I can do it. I am but a mortal woman after all, and once again I want Connor Prince III to crush me beneath him like a delicate flower under a fallen tree. But sexily. “I think I’ll crash here tonight,” I tell him. “It’s not out of my way,” he assures me. “Really.” “It’s not that.” His


know the men ashore had a musket, and before they could get within you are a good man at bottom, and I dare say not one of the range for pistol shooting, we flattered ourselves we should be lot of you’s as bad as he makes out. I have my watch here in able to give a good account of a half-dozen at least. my hand; I give you thirty seconds to join me in.” The squire was waiting for me at the stern window, all his There was a pause. faintness gone from him. He caught the painter and made it “Come, my fine fellow,” continued the captain; “don’t hang fast, and we fell to loading the boat for our very lives. Pork, so long in stays. I’m risking my life and the lives of these powder, and biscuit was the cargo, with only a musket and a good gentlemen every second.” cutlass apiece for the squire and me and Redruth and the There was a sudden scuffle, a sound of blows, and out captain. The rest of the arms and powder we dropped over- burst Abraham Gray with a knife cut on the side of the cheek, board in two fathoms and a half of water, so that we could see and came running to the captain like a dog to the whistle. the bright steel shining far below us in the sun, on the clean, “I’m with you, sir,” said he. sandy bottom. And the next moment he and the captain had dropped By this time the tide was beginning to ebb, and the ship aboard of us, and we had shoved off and given way. was swinging round to her anchor. Voices were heard faintly We were clear out of the ship, but not yet ashore in our halloaing in the direction of the two gigs; and though this stockade. reassured us for Joyce and Hunter, who were well to the east- ward, it warned our party to be off. Redruth retreated from his place in the gallery and dropped into the boat, which we then brought round to the Contents ship’s counter, to be handier for Captain Smollett. “Now, men,” said he, “do you hear me?” Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 136 137 rippling current running westward through the basin, and then south’ard and seaward down the straits by which we had entered in the morning. Even the ripples were a danger to our overloaded craft, but the worst of it was that we were swept out of our true course and away from our proper land- ing-place behind the point. If we let the current have its way we should come ashore beside the gigs, where the pirates might appear at any moment. “I cannot keep her head for the stockade, sir,” said I to the captain. I was steering, while he and Redruth, two fresh men, Chapter 17. were at the oars. “The tide keeps washing her down. Could Narrative Continued by the Doctor: The Jolly-boat’s you pull a little stronger?” Last Trip. “Not without


the ladies murmured; and Mrs. Archer added, partly to distract her daughter's attention from forbidden topics: "Poor Regina! Her Thanksgiving hasn't been a very cheerful one, I'm afraid. Have you heard the rumours about Beaufort's speculations, Sillerton?" Mr. Jackson nodded carelessly. Every one had heard the rumours in question, and he scorned to confirm a tale that was already common property. A gloomy silence fell upon the party. No one really liked Beaufort, and it was not wholly unpleasant to think the worst of his private life; but the idea of his having brought financial dishonour on his wife's family was too shocking to be enjoyed even by his enemies. Archer's New York tolerated hypocrisy in private relations; but in business matters it exacted a limpid and impeccable honesty. It was a long time since any well- known banker had failed discreditably; but every one remembered the social extinction visited on the heads of the firm when the last event of the kind had happened. It would be the same with the Beauforts, in spite of his power and her popularity; not all the leagued strength of the Dallas connection would save poor Regina if there were any truth in the reports of her husband's unlawful speculations. The talk took refuge in less ominous topics; but everything they touched on seemed to confirm Mrs. Archer's sense of an accelerated trend. "Of course, Newland, I know you let dear May go to Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings--" she began; and May interposed gaily: "Oh, you know, everybody goes to Mrs. Struthers's now; and she was invited to Granny's last reception." It was thus, Archer reflected, that New York managed its transitions: conspiring to ignore them till they were well over, and then, in all good faith, imagining that they had taken place in a preceding age. There was always a traitor in the citadel; and after he (or generally she) had surrendered the keys, what was the use of pretending that it was impregnable? Once people had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy Sunday hospitality they were not likely to sit at home remembering that her champagne was transmuted Shoe-Polish. "I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed. "Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers." A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face; it surprised her husband as much as the other guests about the table. "Oh, ELLEN--" she murmured, much in the same accusing and yet deprecating tone in which her parents might have said: "Oh, THE BLENKERS--." It was the note which the family had taken to sounding on the mention of the Countess Olenska's name, since she had surprised and inconvenienced them by remaining obdurate to her husband's advances; but on May's lips it gave food for thought, and Archer looked at her with the sense of strangeness that sometimes came over him when she was most in the tone of her environment.


since Bùsọ́lá was taken; more than once he’d raised his fist to strike Ẹniọlá but so far had never let it land. Ẹniọlá welcomed the curses as deserved punishment. His mother still hadn’t responded to any of his apologies. Anytime he told her that he was sorry about Bùsọ́lá, she looked elsewhere. To the door of their room, off into the street, towards the ceiling or the skies, her brows arched in almost constant expectation that Bùsọ́lá would return, appear, even descend. * * * When she was a child, Ọ̀túnba would sometimes ask Wúràọlá to sit beside him when he noticed she was in a bad mood. Most times, he did not even ask what she was upset about; he would just put his hand on her shoulder until of her own accord she lay her head on his lap. Then he would rock her to sleep. Wúràọlá felt her phone vibrate. Láyí was calling her. She pressed the power button until the phone went off. He had been right to insist they check the morgues. Did that mean he would be better prepared to handle the news? Should she tell him first? Was it best to inform everyone at the same time? Now Mọ́tárá might finally spill the tears she’d been close to shedding in the last few days. Wúràọlá looked out the window. What she had seen was real, but it did not feel true just yet. It would when she told Yèyé, she was sure of it. * * * Until this afternoon, Ẹniọlá and his parents had obeyed Holy Michael’s warnings. They had told no one about what happened. Not even the landlord or their neighbours. Ẹniọlá did not go to the Honourable’s house. He did not go anywhere. Not to Glorious Destiny or United. He sat by his mother all day and fetched her things she did not ask for: water, food, a hand fan when the room was too hot. He watched the door with her while his father hovered around in the room, asking Ẹniọlá questions about Holy Michael and Sàámú. More alert and involved than he’d been for years, he surprised Ẹniọlá by thinking through the options available and eliminating courses of action that might endanger Bùsọ́lá. Meanwhile, his mother was a deflated version of herself. It felt as though his parents had traded places. Ẹniọlá glanced at his father. Something in his eyes made Ẹniọlá wonder if he might start cursing him again right here in the cab. He looked away from his father to the woman beside him. She was glaring at him, unblinking. He recognised her after a minute. There was a fading bruise on her cheek that wasn’t there the last time he saw her. But it was her. Yèyé’s daughter, the doctor. She would not stop glaring at him. Yèyé must have recognised him somehow that night, this was why her daughter was staring at him. Any moment now she would grab him and drag him to a police station. “I did not know that it was your


It makes me work harder because I’m so scared of slipping behind. But no matter how hard I work I’ll never be able to match their passion, because if I’m honest – if I was brave – I should drop out and figure out what I really want to do.’ ‘You don’t want to be a doctor?’ ‘It’s one of the best jobs in the world. No one ever asks, “Why do you want to be a doctor?”, including me. I never really asked myself the question, so it’s like, I never really made the decision, it just kind of happened. I wanted to do something that mattered. I’m on this path but I don’t know if it’s my path.’ Bewildered at how this confession had tumbled out of her, she added: ‘I’m sorry… I don’t know what that was.’ ‘It was the truth, no?’ ‘If my mom heard me talking about dropping out, she’d have a heart attack and I’d have to revive her, and the first thing she’d tell me, when she opened her eyes, is that I’d saved her life, how could I possibly be thinking of dropping out of medical school.’ Atto asked: ‘Maybe she’d understand?’ ‘My mom? She wouldn’t understand dropping out. She’s never dropped out of anything in her life. She’s like… the fourth most powerful woman in New York.’ ‘For real?’ ‘For real, no. For real, she’s the ninth most powerful woman in New York.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Glossy magazines write these lists – top ten restaurants in New York, top ten most powerful people, top ten restaurants chosen by the top ten most powerful people.’ ‘And your dad?’ ‘He’s a teacher. An English literature teacher. He’s the kindest, most gentle man in the world. I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.’ ‘Liza, can I ask you a question? Do you trust your feelings?’ ‘No.’ ‘Except for today.’ ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be in this boat.’ TORRE DE BELÉM SAME DAY TORRE DE BELÉM WAS A renaissance fortification on the north bank of the river shaped like a giant tooth, located just before the Tagus opened into the Atlantic Ocean. As they passed the tower, Atto dropped the sails, allowing them to drift towards the sunset as though it were an entertainment he’d specially arranged. There were only a few other boats in the vicinity – a tourist shuttle shaped like a squirt of toothpaste returning from the beaches and, in the distance, a cruise ship lumbering on to its next port. Gesturing at the tower, he said: ‘Picture this stretch of water five hundred years ago. Torre de Belém was the gateway to the city. We’re at the spot where the world’s most legendary explorers set sail – Gaspar Corte-Real, Vasco da Gama, Bartolomeu Dias. Right now, we’re at the starting line for some of the most famous adventures in history – the first voyage to India, Southern Africa and Brazil. To our right, there would’ve been trading galleons weighing a thousand tonnes or more. To


been able to bring myself to go for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I’d either stayed in New York or traveled far away, once to the Seychelles with Viv and once, with Viv and also that time with Henrietta, to Mexico City. Jerry spent the holidays with his sister. “I saw on the Internet that your host this week is also the musical guest,” Jerry said. “That sounds awfully tiring.” My mother and I had debriefed about each show on Sunday afternoons, and in her absence, Jerry had, on Sunday afternoons, taken to emailing me two formally written paragraphs sharing his feedback. The kindness of this impulse almost made up for the fact that, apart from appreciating Sugar’s antics, Jerry didn’t have much of a sense of humor and wasn’t familiar with almost any of the pop cultural phenomena or people that TNO satirized. Though he and my mother had been in the studio audience twice, he’d never have even watched it on TV if I didn’t write for it. “You’ve probably heard Noah Brewster’s songs playing in the background in a restaurant or department store,” I said. “And I’m sure it is really tiring to host and be the musical guest, but he gets to promote his new album.” “I meant to tell you,” Jerry said. “I ran into Mrs. Macklin at Hy-Vee, and she said to give you her best. She said Amy just had another baby, which I believe is her third.” Who’s Mrs. Macklin? I thought. Who’s Amy? Then I remembered a high school classmate named Amy Macklin, a girl I’d worked with on the student newspaper. (I’d been the copy editor, not a reporter, because reporting would have required interacting with other humans in a way I couldn’t then have managed.) I said, “Good for Amy.” A third child inspired in me more gratitude for my own circumstances than envy for Amy’s. Jerry described a tapas restaurant he’d eaten at the previous Friday with his sister and her husband, which had featured a garbanzo-bean-and-spinach dish he thought I’d like (though I didn’t perceive myself as having a special relationship with garbanzo beans, Jerry’s belief that I did arose from the fact that when I was staying with him, I often bought hummus). Then we circled back to Sugar. A family with two daughters had moved in next door the month before, and Sugar had taken to sitting on Jerry’s back deck, facing the other house, and barking, as if to summon the sisters. “I think she likes it when they tell her how adorable she is,” Jerry said. “Who wouldn’t?” I said, and Jerry laughed. “All right then,” he said. “Be careful on the subway, honey.” This was how he always ended our conversations. After I’d hung up, I refrigerated the leftovers and took a shower. I still rented the seven-hundred-square-foot apartment I’d moved into almost ten years before, when I’d arrived in New York. The difference was that for the first two years, I’d had a roommate who slept in the real bedroom while I slept in a


I was bound, than of the charms of lea and water.     My ostensible errand on this occasion was to get measured for a pair of shoes; so I discharged that business first, and when it was done, I stepped across the clean and quiet little street from the shoemaker's to the post-office; it was kept by an old dame, who wore horn spectacles on her nose, and black mittens on her hands.     "Are there any letters for J. E.?" I asked.     She peered at me over her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer, and fumbled among its contents for a long time so long that my hopes began to falter. At last, having held a document before her glasses for nearly five minutes, she presented it across the counter, accompanying the act by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance it was for J. E.     "Is there only one?" I demanded.     "There are no more," said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my face homeward: I could not open it then; rules obliged me to be back by eight, and it was already half-past seven.     Various duties awaited me on my arrival. I had to sit with the girls during their hour of study; then it was my turn to read prayers; to see them to bed: afterward I supped with the other teachers. Even when we finally retired for the night, the inevitable Miss Gryce was still my companion: we had only a short end of candle in our candlestick, and I dreaded lest she should talk till it was all burned out; fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect; she was already snoring before I had finished undressing. There still remained an inch of candle: I now took out my letter: the seal was an initial F.; I brote it; the contents were brief:     "If J. E., who advertised in the  shire Heraldof last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil a little girl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J. E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars, to the direction, 'Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote,  shire."'     I examined the document long; the writing was old-fashioned and rather uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was satisfactory; a private fear had haunted me that, in thus acting for myself, and by my own guidance, I ran the risk of getting into some scrape! and, above all things, I wished the result of my endeavors to be respectable, proper,en rgle . I now felt that an elderly lady was no bad ingredient in the business I had on hand.


don’t like no hospital at all. He’d think Ah wuz tired uh doin’ fuh ’im, when God knows Ah ain’t. Ah can’t stand de idea us tyin’ Tea Cake lak he wuz uh mad dawg.” “It almost amounts to dat, Janie. He’s got almost no chance to pull through and he’s liable to bite somebody else, specially you, and then you’ll be in the same fix he’s in. It’s mighty bad.” “Can’t nothin’ be done fuh his case, doctah? Us got plenty money in de bank in Orlandah, doctah. See can’t yuh do somethin’ special tuh save him. Anything it cost, doctah, Ah don’t keer, but please, doctah.” “Do what I can. Ah’ll phone into Palm Beach right away for the serum which he should have had three weeks ago. I’ll do all I can to save him, Janie. But it looks too late. People in his condition can’t swallow water, you know, and in other ways it’s terrible.” Janie fooled around outside awhile to try and think it wasn’t so. If she didn’t see the sickness in his face she could imagine it wasn’t really happening. Well, she thought, that big old dawg with the hatred in his eyes had killed her after all. She wished she had slipped off that cow-tail and drowned Their Eyes Were Watching God 209 then and there and been done. But to kill her through Tea Cake was too much to bear. Tea Cake, the son of Evening Sun, had to die for loving her. She looked hard at the sky for a long time. Somewhere up there beyond blue ether’s bosom sat He. Was He noticing what was going on around here? He must be because He knew everything. Did He mean to do this thing to Tea Cake and her? It wasn’t anything she could fight. She could only ache and wait. Maybe it was some big tease and when He saw it had gone far enough He’d give her a sign. She looked hard for something up there to move for a sign. A star in the daytime, maybe, or the sun to shout, or even a mutter of thunder. Her arms went up in a desperate supplication for a minute. It wasn’t exactly pleading, it was asking questions. The sky stayed hard looking and quiet so she went inside the house. God would do less than He had in His heart. Tea Cake was lying with his eyes closed and Janie hoped he was asleep. He wasn’t. A great fear had took hold of him. What was this thing that set his brains afire and grabbed at his throat with iron fingers? Where did it come from and why did it hang around him? He hoped it would stop before Janie noticed anything. He wanted to try to drink water again but he didn’t want her to see him fail. As soon as she got out of the kitchen he meant to go to the bucket and drink right quick before anything had time to stop him. No need to worry


hair, and the man a severe buzz-cut, but they are both smiling warmly at the camera. The man has his hand draped over the shoulders of a sullen teenage girl. I gaze at each of the children: two boys—identical twins, about twelve—both with sandy blond hair, grinning broadly at the camera; there’s an- other boy, who’s smaller, with reddish blond hair, scowling; and hiding behind him, a copper-haired gray-eyed little boy. Wide-eyed and scared, dressed in mis- matched clothes, and clutching a child’s dirty blanket. Fuck. “This is you,” I whisper, my heart lurching into my throat. I know Christian was four when his mother died. But this child looks much younger. He must have been severely malnourished. I stifle a sob as tears spring to my eyes. Oh, my sweet Fifty. Christian nods. “That’s me.” “Welch brought these photos?” “Yes. I don’t remember any of this.” His voice is flat and lifeless. “Remember being with foster parents? Why should you? Christian, it was a long time ago. Is this what’s worrying you?” “I remember other things, from before and after. When I met my mom and dad. But this . . . It’s like there’s a huge chasm.” My heart twists and understanding dawns. My darling control freak likes everything in its place, and now he’s learned he’s missing part of the jigsaw. “Is Jack in this picture?” “Yes, he’s the older kid.” Christian’s eyes are still screwed shut, and he’s clinging to me as if I’m a life raft. I run my fingers through his hair while I gaze at the older boy who is glaring, defiant and arrogant, at the camera. I can see it’s Jack. But he’s just a kid, a sad eight- or nine-year-old, hiding his fear behind his hostility. A thought occurs to me. “When Jack called to tell me he had Mia, he said if things had been different, it could have been him.” Christian closes his eyes and shudders. “That fucker!” “You think he did all this because the Greys adopted you instead of him?” “Who knows?” Christian’s tone is bitter. “I don’t give a fuck about him.” “Perhaps he knew we were seeing each other when I went for that job inter- view. Perhaps he planned to seduce me all along.” Bile rises in my throat. 473/551 “I don’t think so,” Christian mutters, his eyes now open. “The searches he did on my family didn’t start until a week or so after you began your job at SIP. Bar- ney knows the exact dates. And, Ana, he fucked all his assistants and taped them.” Christian closes his eyes and tightens his grip on me once more. Suppressing the tremor that runs through me, I try to recall my various con- versations with Jack when I first started at SIP. I knew deep down he was bad news, yet I ignored all my instincts. Christian’s right—I have no regard for my own safety. I remember the fight we had about me going to New York with Jack. Jeez—I could have ended up on some


known as Germany, with an industrial heartland, a bohemian Berlin, the financial city of Frankfurt and the spa towns in the mountains. Kasim stepped forward to address the crowds: ‘My name is Kasim. We are here to collect the last of the ice-adapted students. And those ordinary-born who have been chosen to work at McMurdo.’ Liza declared: ‘I’m the mother of one of those ice-adapted children you’ve come to collect. All we’re asking is to travel with them. To see the kind of life they will have in McMurdo. To make sure they are going to be okay. We want to know what’s going on in McMurdo. You tell us nothing. You ask for everything.’ Kasim gestured at his vehicles. ‘I understand the request. But you can see our convoy. We have four vehicles. We have a limited amount of space. Visits can be arranged another time.’ ‘That’s what you always say. But there are never any visits.’ Kasim read the list of names. None of them stepped forward. One of the security officers walked towards Liza, correctly identifying that she was at the heart of this resistance. ‘Please tell the students to get in the convoy.’ ‘I’m going with my daughter.’ The officer turned to Echo, putting a hand on her arm. Atto raised the harpoon gun, levelling the tip at his chest. ‘Let go.’ In response, the officer raised his gun. As he brought the muzzle up, Echo grabbed it, stepping in front of the barrel to protect her parents. In the muddle, an accidental shot was fired, directed at her stomach, the terrible sound of a gunshot reverberating across the vast plateau. Liza stared at her daughter’s body, searching for streams of blue blood. Her scale skin was tough but surely no match for a bullet fired at point-blank range. Echo unclenched her fist, revealing that the officer’s weapon was frozen from the muzzle to his mittens. With a single blow it cracked, breaking like a glass sculpture. She brought the bullet, embalmed in ice, up to her eye and, in the manner of a professional baseball player, threw the ball of ice at the front window of the convoy, punching a hole straight through. Kasim assessed the damage and the strength of this resistance. Liza thought this a good moment to repeat her claim: ‘These families will not be broken up.’ Kasim shrugged. ‘Tell me how four snow vehicles can carry all these people.’ THE TRANS-ANTARCTICA FREEWAY WEST ANTARCTIC ICE SHEET LANDMARK PLATEAU NEXT DAY ECHO SAT ON THE ROOF of the snow vehicle together with the other ice-adapted students. Her solution to the lack of space was inspired by a photo she’d once seen of a crowded Himalayan bus – a beautifully painted multi-coloured bus so crowded there must have been fifty or more people on the roof as it cornered a hairpin bend. The ice-adapted students didn’t need to be inside the convoy; they could easily tolerate the prolonged exposure. Indeed, they much preferred to sit together on the roof compared to the stuffy cabins, which


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive -- ' " With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand. "Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry. "Dudley -- go -- just go." Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure they didn't fail. He had a plan. *** The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights. He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door -- "AAAAARRRGH!" Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat -- something alive! Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink. "I want -- " he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didn't go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot. "See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up." "I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon." "Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him. *** On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides,


like breathing. But the second she broke things off with William she had felt the change. Break wasn’t even the right word. A break was a clean thing. And this was different. She felt him twisting away from her. “I just need a little time,” she said. “To put some affairs in order. It’s not that much to ask.” He shook his head, disbelieving. “You broke things off between us, Dinah.” “For heaven’s sake.” Mrs. King governed herself. “I said we should wait. That’s all.” “We aren’t people who wait. You don’t wait.” His voice was low. “I bought you a ring.” “Oh, enough,” she said, rising to her feet. Mrs. King felt her anger burst through, breaking its bonds. She’d proposed a pause, a temporary suspension of things between them, just until this business was concluded. She needed to concentrate. And to him this represented a schism, a betrayal, an irrevocable parting. It was so completely foolish of him. Her rage passed as quickly as it came, and left the usual shame behind. He was right to judge her. She hadn’t been straight with him; she hadn’t shared one iota of the truth. She would have been furious at him if he’d done the same to her. “Look,” she said. “I’ve got plans. Come with me—if you like.” A long moment passed. William was silent. Then, slowly, he said, “Miss de Vries’s new girl. Alice.” Mrs. King felt her skin tightening. “Who?” she said. Those eyes shimmered. “Don’t ‘who’ me. What’s the connection?” Mrs. King was caught off guard. “Well?” And then, impatient, “She told me she comes from up your way. Same neighborhood. That doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me.” Mrs. King shut her eyes. “Dinah?” “How do you remember which neighborhood I come from?” “You told me.” She frowned. “Ages ago. Years back.” Some understanding crossed his face. “I remember everything when it comes to you,” he said. Mrs. King remembered how it used to be, when she was a house-parlormaid, back when William arrived. Of course the girls went mad for him—half of the men, too, come to that. William knew this, and he handled it gently. He didn’t let it turn his head. He kept himself to himself—he was hard to read, same as she was. The first time their hands touched, they were both buttoned up in their gloves. He’d taken a breath, a deep one, as if steadying himself. They kept it secret, whatever it was between them. They didn’t even call it love for years. It was their thing, theirs alone. On their night walks they skirted Whitechapel, and he pressed her, curious: tell me who you are, tell me where you come from. “Who cares?” she said, laughing. “Let me be a mystery.” She led him down the old street, right past Mr. Parker’s house, in silence. Yellow-gray brick, and a broken lamppost, and a shadowy boy flipping ha’pennies at the end of the lane. She must have gone silent, fretting, remembering Mother. He’d clocked it, yet he didn’t say anything; he


fit these studies around your work here?’ she interrupted. ‘Of course. I’m thinking I might just start with a part-time course.’ Shit. I hadn’t thought about how to ask her about it. Would I still be able to keep my job? A roof over my head? I tried to quieten my thoughts and read her story. Most of the time you could predict someone’s behaviour by their past. Most of the time people didn’t change. Most of the time. I realised she was staring at me. ‘Croissants, Martha. And fresh coffee. Chop-chop!’ And with that, she went back upstairs. ‘So, when did you buy this house?’ I tried to act as casually as possible; as if the answer mattered little, one way or the other. I knew if she thought I was fishing, she wouldn’t bite. Perhaps it was her acting skills that made her so difficult to read. ‘Martha, a person such as myself does not buy a house, one acquires a house.’ It took all of my willpower not to roll my eyes. ‘Okay, well, when did you acquire number 12?’ ‘Oh, it’s hard to say really. I feel as though I’ve always been here. In fact, it’s hard to remember a time when I lived anywhere else.’ I dusted the picture frames on the mantelpiece and picked up the black and white wedding photo. ‘It was 1965,’ she began, settling down to the cosmopolitan-style breakfast I had laid on the dining table. ‘I was a beautiful bride. Many of the guests likened me to Grace Kelly. Oh, you mightn’t think so now, but I was a natural blonde.’ A natural liar, I thought. It was hard to tell if her stories were real or mere fabrications of the truth – stories she had picked up along the way and made her own. I looked at the woman in the picture. It was true, she did look like an old Hollywood starlet, but I couldn’t see the resemblance at all. The man was tall, dark and handsome with the look of someone who had captured the moon in his pocket. ‘He was a pilot,’ she said, slathering butter on her croissant. ‘Far too old for me, or at least that’s what my mother told me. But I was hopelessly in love with him. I thought he was so dashing. He was an American, you know, and to a twenty-something Irish girl, well, he was like Clark Gable.’ She lost herself in the past for a moment. ‘He adored this strange little house. But he was a perfectionist, always trying to fix things. You have to understand, old houses have their quirks. Some things are meant to be flawed. Therein lies beauty.’ She was a captivating storyteller. I knew there was a peculiar history within these walls and whatever it was, it must have happened long before Madame Bowden arrived. ‘What happened to your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?’ ‘Plane crash. We were only married a year when his plane went down over Gibraltar.’ ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

a frantic effort of will that I dragged myself back to the apparatus and completed the process. "I slept during the forenoon, pulling the sheet over my eyes to shut out the light, and about midday I was awakened again by a knocking. My strength had returned. I sat up and listened and heard a whispering. I sprang to my feet and as noiselessly as possible began to detach the connections of my apparatus, and to distribute it about the room, so as to destroy the suggestions of its arrangement. Presently the knocking was renewed and voices called, first my landlord's, and then two others. To gain time I answered them. The invisible rag and pillow came to hand and I opened the window and pitched them out on to the cistern cover. As the window opened, a heavy crash came at the door. Some one had charged it with the idea of smashing the lock. But the stout bolts I had screwed up some days before stopped him. That startled me, made me angry. I began to tremble and do things hurriedly. "I tossed together some loose paper, straw, packing paper and so forth, in the middle of the room, and turned on the gas. Heavy blows began to rain upon the door. I could not find the matches. I beat my hands on the wall with rage. I turned down the gas again, stepped out of the window on the cistern cover, very softly lowered the sash, and sat down, secure and invisible, but quivering with anger, to watch events. They split a panel, I saw, and in another moment they had broken away the staples of the bolts and stood in the open doorway. It was the landlord and his two step-sons, sturdy young men of three or four and twenty. Behind them fluttered the old hag of a woman from downstairs. "You may imagine their astonishment on finding the room empty. One of the younger men rushed to the window at once, flung it up and stared out. His staring eyes and thick-lipped bearded face came a foot from my face. I was half minded to hit his silly countenance, but I arrested my doubled fist. He stared right through me. So did the others as they joined him. The old man went and peered under the bed, and then they all made a rush for the cupboard. They had to argue about it at length in Yiddish and Cockney English. They concluded I had not answered them, that their imagination had deceived them. A feeling of extraordinary elation took the place of my anger as I sat outside the window and watched these four people--for the old lady came in, glancing suspiciously about her like a cat, trying to understand the riddle of my behaviour. "The old man, so far as I could understand his patois, agreed with the old lady that I was a vivisectionist. The sons protested in garbled English that I was an electrician, and appealed to the dynamos and radiators. They were all


Committee of, 21, 140 Judiciary Committee of, 114 Puerto Rican nationalists in attack on, 296 Trump’s first impeachment trial in (2020), 37, 211–12 see also Congress, U.S. Housing and Urban Development Department, U.S., 81 Hummelberg, Hannah, 101, 214–15, 249–52, 282–85, 289, 293–94 Hurricane Dorian (2019), 83–84 Hurricane Lane (2018), 126, 130, 131 Hurricane Maria (2017), 126, 127 Hutchinson, Cassidy, 88 Hwasong-15 missile, 96 I “I Am Part of the Resistance Inside the Trump Administration” (Anonymous; New York Times op-ed), 4–5, 132–33, 135–40, 144, 164, 196, 197–98, 200–201, 231, 249 Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), 190–91 Independents, 7, 11, 38, 244, 299, 300, 301 Indiana, 13, 229–30, 231, 276 Indiana University, 18 Insiders, The: A Warning from Former Trump Officials (CNN special), 242, 244, 246–48 Instagram, 81, 237, 287 Insurrection Act (1807), 9, 225–26, 263 Internal Revenue Service, 156 Iran, 223 Iraq war, 30, 217 ISIS, 50, 55–57, 59, 66, 94, 110, 111, 146, 188, 192, 261 J Jackson, Andrew, 123 Jackson, Ronny, 113 January 6th insurrection (2021), 8, 40, 116, 291–93, 295–96, 305 Japan, 97, 220 Jay, John, 47 Jayapal, Pramila, 260 Jordan, 53, 56, 57 Justice Department, U.S., 2, 5, 78, 79, 105, 106, 111–12, 113, 115, 130, 138, 156, 168, 184, 207, 271 family separation policy of, 107–9, 171–72, 191 as tool against political rivals, 117–20, 123–24, 137 Justice w/ Judge Jeanine (TV show), 233–34 K Karloutsos, Michael, 87 Kelly, John, 6, 28, 60–62, 72, 81–82, 91, 95, 96, 101, 103, 105, 107, 130, 131, 132, 134, 138–39, 140, 146, 184, 232, 240, 244, 253–54 in abrupt appointment to chief of staff, 67–70 Comey’s firing and, 58–59 in departure from Trump administration, 145, 147–48, 217 as DHS secretary, 29–33, 48, 49, 50–51, 52–53, 55, 56, 57, 58–59, 60–61, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 92, 93 in first briefing with Congress, 30–32 ISIS threat and, 56, 57, 66 London attacks (2017) and, 50–51, 53 near-resignation of, 142–43 in public opposition to Trump, 247, 250 son’s death and, 30, 64–65 at Trump’s first cabinet meeting, 61 Trump’s immigration fixation and, 52, 108, 142, 216–17 in 2017 trip to Middle East, 55, 56 Kelly, Karen, 65 Kelly, Robert, 64, 65 Kennedy, John F., 26 Kerry, John, 119, 139 Khashoggi, Jamal, 222 Kilauea volcano, 126 Kim Jong Un, 96, 98, 173 Kinzinger, Adam, 154, 307–8, 309 Kinzinger, Sofia, 308 Kislyak, Sergey, 59 Kobach, Kris, 178 Kolbe, Jim, 49, 295–97, 305 Krebs, Chris, 51, 52, 53, 60, 69, 133, 184, 243–44, 287–88 Kristol, Bill, 243 Kushner, Jared, 27, 69, 142, 162–63, 173 L Lane, Hurricane (2018), 126, 130, 131 La Porte, Ind., 13, 229–30 Las Vegas shooting (2017), 94 Latimer, Matt, 196–97, 200, 201, 205, 213–14, 216 Latin America, 151, 163, 166, 167, 172, 217 Lavrov, Sergey, 59 Lee, Mike, 260 Libertarian Party, 38 “Liberty and Its Enemies” (seminar), 298 Lincoln, Abraham, 42, 123, 253, 285 Lincoln Memorial, 285 London: author in cybersecurity trip to (2019), 174–76 2017 terrorist attacks in, 49, 50–51, 52, 53 Longwell, Sarah, 243 Loudermilk, Barry, 112 M Madison, James, 33, 89, 151, 153, 267 MAGA movement, 8–9, 10, 11, 34–35,


No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke Meg with a "Merry Christmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day. In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given. "Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good and help me through the day." Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face. "How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and they'' explain things if we don't understand," whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters, example. "I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy. and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting. "Where is Mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later. "Goodness only knows. some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant. "She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready," said


tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand. "Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly," said Holmes. "You have but to name it." "This photograph!" The King stared at him in amazement. "Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it." "I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honor to wish you a very good-morning." He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers. And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman. ADVENTURE II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said cordially. "I was afraid that you were engaged." "So I am. Very much so." "Then I can wait in the next room." "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also." The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes. "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures." "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I observed. "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination." "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting." "You did, Doctor, but none the


out. “You don’t want to tell them?” I leaned closer. “Never. I never want to tell anyone.” “Why not?” Sue asked. “It’s humiliating.” “Why? It’s not your fault.” “Trust me. Having your brain malfunction is humiliating.” “If you say so.” But Sue was realizing now that she hadn’t exactly thought this through. “Look,” I said. “The only people in the entire world who know about this are you and my dad and Lucinda … and Parker.” “Parker knows?” “Lucinda told her.” “Then it’s not a secret anymore. She’ll tell everyone.” “Not yet. I think she’s enjoying lording it over me.” “But she will.” “Maybe it’ll fix itself before then.” Sue sighed. “Okay,” she said then. “Here’s the plan. First, you’re going to change out of those wet clothes.” “No argument there.” “And then just stick close to me. Whenever anyone talks to us, I’ll say their name right away, so you’ve got it.” That wasn’t a bad idea. “That could work,” I said. “It’ll totally work.” “Just promise me,” I said then, holding out my hand so we could shake on it, “that you won’t leave my side.” “I promise,” Sue said, pumping my hand up and down, “that I will never ever leave your side.” * * * GUESS WHAT? She left my side. Not on purpose. She just got dragged away. I went into the bathroom to change, and I never saw her again. I was left alone, as Picasso-faced person after Picasso-faced person came up to me and forced me to Sherlock Holmes one theory after another about who I was talking to. Looking back, I could have just left. I could have found Joe’s floppy hair and hipster glasses and steered him off to feed me that meal he’d promised. But he was lost in the faceless crowd, too—and all attempts to search for him got intercepted by faceless people hugging me, until I wound up making way-too-friendly chitchat with my ex-boyfriend for five solid minutes before realizing who he was. All to say, the situation snowballed. Before I even really saw it coming, I was having a panic attack out behind the utility room. At least I think it was a panic attack. Is it a panic attack when your entire body is utterly hijacked by … panic? And you get dizzy? And you sweat and have the chills at the same time? And your heart pounds and your chest hurts and your hands go cold? And you can’t catch your breath? And you feel like you’re dying? And you collapse to your knees in a dark corner and press your forehead to the concrete to try to make the world stop spinning? Is that a panic attack? ’Cause that was me. And I sure as hell wasn’t celebrating. I have no idea how long I’d been there, trying not to pass out, when I heard a voice say, “Are you having a panic attack?” So of course I said, “No.” “You look like you’re … not okay.” Not okay? That was just insulting. Okay was my


and an enemy, and made them catch their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet. "If we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!" whispered Tom, in short catches between breaths. "I can't stand it much longer." Huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it. They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered: "Huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of this?" "If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging'll come of it." "Do you though?" "Why, I know it, Tom." Tom thought a while, then he said: "Who'll tell? We?" "What are you talking about? S'pose something happened and Injun Joe didn't hang? Why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're a laying here." "That's just what I was thinking to myself, Huck." "If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he's fool enough. He's generally drunk enough." Tom said nothing -- went on thinking. Presently he whispered: "Huck, Muff Potter don't know it. How can he tell?" "What's the reason he don't know it?" "Because he'd just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D'you reckon he could see anything? D'you reckon he knowed anything?" "By hokey, that's so, Tom!" "And besides, look-a-here -- maybe that whack done for him!" "No, 'taint likely, Tom. He had liquor in him; I could see that; and besides, he always has. Well, when pap's full, you might take and belt him over the head with a church and you couldn't phase him. He says so, his own self. So it's the same with --------------------------------------------------------- -111- Muff Potter, of course. But if a man was dead sober, I reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; I dono." After another reflective silence, Tom said: "Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?" "Tom, we got to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one another -- that's what we got to do -- swear to keep mum." "I'm agreed. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear that we -- " "Oh no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little rubbishy common things -- specially with gals, cuz they go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff -- but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing like this. And blood." Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with


who aided and abetted it all... “I’m innocent,” she said again, and surveyed all the gray-faced, gray-suited men ranged out before her. “I’ve harmed no one. I know nothing.” Lockwood made his face a mask. “About...?” Miss de Vries wished then very badly to be alone. She stood up from her seat, and went to the vast bay windows overlooking the park. Lockwood moved away from her, as if she were infectious, as if she carried plague. She put her hands on the window ledge and surveyed the road. In the old days Papa would drive up in his carriage, and later in his gigantic motor car, and she would wave to him. He’d squash his hat down over his head, pretending not to see her. It made her laugh in delight. He was always playing jokes and games. All the things she loved, when she was small. Before she understood that he wasn’t joking. That he wasn’t looking, that he hardly thought of her at all. It would have been easier if she felt any self-pity. If she felt the urge to weep. It might have made her able to exist inside her own skin. But the only thing she felt was dread. Nothing had changed yet. Lockwood was grim-faced but clear. Any question of illegal business would need to be properly charged, and in due course clear the courts, and the implicated parties had the best attorneys in London. Yes, there would be newspapermen outside the house from dawn to dusk, and inspectors pouring in from Scotland Yard, and not a single neighbor would call on her. The house would be tainted by gossip, speculation, all things horrid. But surely it would pass? “Go for a walk,” said Lockwood. “Let the neighbors see you. No use hiding away indoors.” Why not? She still had her chauffeur, and her motor, and her faithful footman. And her trousseau, come to that. She picked out the crepe with jet. Alice never did take it, she supposed, throat tightening. The girl had vanished. She remembered the pressure of Alice’s fingers, the scent of her skin, and she felt something hollowing in her chest. She put on her gloves, and a hat, and William walked behind her down the road, saying nothing. A small, rackety motor carriage drew up beside them, incognito—and evidently, by design. She saw the dark maroon-colored leather, stains all over the silverwork. Everything is tarnished, she thought, laughing inwardly. Everything in the world is spoiled. “Lord Ashley,” she said, voice steady. She was astonished to see him. If she were him, she would have stayed home. She would have preserved the greatest possible distance from this house, for safety, for reputation. William was watching her. He put out a hand to her, a tiny bit of kindness. She brushed him away and stepped into Lord Ashley’s motor with a smile. * * * Lord Ashley wore a dangerous expression as he steered the Victoriette. He didn’t ask her how she was, what she was feeling. Didn’t speak a word about the


crossed my threshold in the form of Matthew, coming to collect the rent. I had to tell him. In another month or so he would see for himself. In another six months, there would be two of us living here. It all suddenly felt quite weighty. What would he think of me now? I wished the shop could close in around us and keep us safe, keep the world outside. I wished we could hide within these walls for ever. Chapter Twenty-Six MARTHA Once the autopsy was concluded, the body would be released for burial in a matter of weeks. It was decided that I would have to attend the funeral, to avoid any suspicion. These plans were not mine but Madame Bowden’s. I really did start to wonder if she had, in fact, seen off her husbands, such was her calm approach. And I realised how forward-thinking she had been to ensure I had alibis to corroborate my whereabouts. ‘Why are you doing this for me?’ I asked her later that night when, despite my exhaustion, I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I would replay the scene. ‘Doing what? I’m simply making sure that justice is done.’ ‘But, that’s not how it happened.’ I still couldn’t say for sure what had happened. Had he been so drunk that he lost his footing and fell? Every time I replayed it in my head, I could still see him being pushed, but by whom or what? Some invisible force? Was there more to Madame Bowden than met the eye? I couldn’t decide whether she was my guardian angel or a devil in disguise. Reading her was difficult; there were so many stories distracting me, too many for one lifetime. She told me once that, as an actor, she had to embody her characters. Perhaps they were all still living inside of her, like ghosts. ‘Martha, the facts are that Shane arrived here drunk and abusive with ill-intent. He was the architect of his own demise and that is the only truth worth remembering of that day.’ She sounded so convincing that I tried to hold on to her words like flotation devices every time I felt like I was drowning in the darkness. I wasn’t sure how I was going to face the funeral. My family. Shane’s parents. I thought about asking Henry to come with me, but it would have been wrong on so many levels. Besides, I still hadn’t contacted him. The shock of Shane’s death had paralysed my senses. I tried to text him, but what could I say? I had to see him in person. I took the bus to Rialto and found the bed and breakfast he had taken me to. It felt like a lifetime ago now. ‘Ah, howya love, looking for a room, is it?’ A short man with a comb-over answered the door, with his foot across the threshold as a barking dog attempted to make a dash for freedom. ‘No, actually I’m looking for someone staying here. Henry Carlisle? He’s


had not departed from him. What of the thin and rotten ice he had felt under his feet all day, it seemed that he sensed disaster close at hand, out there ahead on the ice where his master was trying to drive him. He refused to stir. So greatly had he suffered, and so far gone was he, that the blows did not hurt much. And as they continued to fall upon him, the spark of life within flickered and went down. It was nearly out. He felt strangely numb. As though from a great distance, he was aware that he was being beaten. The last sensations of pain left him. He no longer felt anything, though very faintly he could hear the impact of the club upon his body. But it was no longer his body, it seemed so far away. And then, suddenly, without warning, uttering a cry that was inarticulate and more like the cry of an animal, John Thornton sprang upon the man who wielded the club. Hal was hurled backward, as though struck by a failing tree. Mercedes screamed. Charles looked on wistfully, wiped his watery eyes, but did not get up because of his stiffness. John Thornton stood over Buck, struggling to control himself, too convulsed with rage to speak. "If you strike that dog again, I'll kill you," he at last managed to say in a choking voice. "It's my dog," Hal replied, wiping the blood from his mouth as he came back. "Get out of my way, or I'll fix you. I'm going to Dawson." Thornton stood between him and Buck, and evinced no intention of getting out of the way. Hal drew his long hunting-knife. Mercedes screamed. cried, laughed, and manifested the chaotic abandonment of hysteria. Thornton rapped Hal's knuckles with the axe-handle, knocking the knife to the ground. He rapped his knuckles again as he tried to pick it up. Then he stooped, picked it up himself, and with two strokes cut Buck's traces. Hal had no fight left in him. Besides, his hands were full with his sister, or his arms, rather; while Buck was too near dead to be of further use in hauling the sled. A few minutes later they pulled out from the bank and down the river. Buck heard them go and raised his head to see, Pike was leading, Sol-leks was at the wheel, and between were Joe and Teek. They were limping and staggering. Mercedes was riding the loaded sled. Hal guided at the gee-pole, and Charles stumbled along in the rear. As Buck watched them, Thornton knelt beside him and with rough, kindly hands searched for broken bones. By the time his search had disclosed nothing more than many bruises and a state of terrible starvation, the sled was a quarter of a mile away. Dog and man watched it crawling along over the ice. Suddenly, they saw its back end drop down, as into a rut, and the gee-pole, with Hal clinging to it, jerk into the air. Mercedes's scream came to their


say, 'is the best security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within. Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for the beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation less an object of necessity, and consequently of interest.' It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes of nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the mountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where the silence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart, and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like these she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, till the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that broke on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now lost--were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry. Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from the Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent way beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly on the eye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emerging from the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distant landscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores of the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened by distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint. This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of Emily's voice drawn sweetness from the