he can possibly make it. In any case I am to have a letter. "Well, as to the visit, Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I first saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something of the ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. She was very sweet to the Professor (as she always is), and tried to make him feel at ease, though I could see the poor girl was making a hard struggle for it. "I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick look under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of all things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite geniality that I could see poor Lucy's pretense of animation merge into reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the conversation gently round to his visit, and sauvely said, "`My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are so much beloved. That is much, my dear, even were there that which I do not see. They told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a ghastly pale. To them I say "Pouf!" ' And he snapped his fingers at me and went on. `But you and I shall show them how wrong they are. How can he', and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that with which he pointed me out in his class, on, or rather after, a particular occasion which he never fails to remind me of, `know anything of a young ladies? He has his madmen to play with, and to bring them back to happiness, and to those that love them. It is much to do, and, oh, but there are rewards in that we can bestow such happiness. But the young ladies! He has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell themselves to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many sorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away to smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all to ourselves.' I took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the professor came to the window and called me in. He looked grave, but said, ` I have made careful examination, but there is no functional cause. With you I agree that there has been much blood lost, it has been but is not. But the conditions of her are in no way anemic. I have asked her to send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two questions, that so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will say. And yet there is cause. There is always cause for everything. I must go back home and think. You must send me the telegram every day, and if there be cause I shall come again. The disease, for not to be


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

a father and a home and two working eyes. The Church door opened on soundless hinges, and they stepped into the quiet darkness inside. Gabe went in the opposite direction he’d taken on the day of the Mortem leak. The highly polished wooden rafters reflected the light of the stained-glass windows. Six such windows lined the hall they walked down. The first was Apollius, in shades of white and gold, dark hair flowing around His shoulders and blood on His hands. The second was Hestraon, god of fire, pictured bent over a forge and engulfed in orange flame. Lereal of the air was third, Their face upturned to the drifts of iridescent wind carved into the glass above Their head. Then Caeliar of the sea, Her arms outstretched in a sparkling blue wave, followed by Braxtos of the earth, flowers sprouting from His hands. At the end of the hall was a window made of nothing but panels of dark glass, deep blues and purples and shimmering black. Lore frowned as they passed, the light dappling her skirt. “It’s strange that you have depictions of the other gods. I thought Apollius was the only one you were allowed to revere?” “Depiction isn’t reverence,” Gabe said quietly. His eye swung to the dark window, then away. The hallway ended in a short wooden staircase; Gabe jogged up and turned to an arched doorway on the right, rapping a knock. Lore came up the stairs much more slowly. The walk from the Citadel had left her winded; that week abed was doing her no favors. The door creaked open. Malcolm cocked his head curiously. “Gabe? Didn’t expect to see you here.” “We have some questions,” Lore said, trying not to sound as out of breath as she felt. “Questions that will probably involve a lot of religious theory and other technically heretical pursuits,” Gabe grumbled. The head librarian grinned. “Then you, my friends, have come to the right place.” He pushed the door wider and beckoned them inside. The Church library rivaled the one within the Citadel, as far as sheer volume went. It was just as beautiful, too, though in a different way. Where the Citadel library was bright and airy, the Church library was austere, everything made of dark, gleaming wood and lit with the golden glow of gas lamps. The room was at least four stories high, though the upper floors were reached by a sliding ladder rather than clever staircases. Long tables ran the length of the room, and down the center of each was a domed glass lane with small hinges placed at equidistant points. A few ancient-looking books rested beneath the glass, where they could be read but not touched. A small door set into the shelves opened on what looked like a reading room, with another glass-covered table. The shelves in that room were full of much thinner books, with covers embossed in gold lettering too ornate for Lore to make out from a distance. Small potted plants had been placed along the bookcases, green tendrils snaking


was anxious to go straight to London. Mrs. Carey thought there were only four professions for a gentleman, the Army, the Navy, the Law, and the Church. She had added medicine because her brother-in-law practised it, but did not forget that in her young days no one ever considered the doctor a gentleman. The first two were out of the question, and Philip was firm in his refusal to be ordained. Only the law remained. The local doctor had suggested that many gentlemen now went in for engineering, but Mrs. Carey opposed the idea at once. "I shouldn't like Philip to go into trade," she said. "No, he must have a profession," answered the Vicar. "Why not make him a doctor like his father?" "I should hate it," said Philip. Mrs. Carey was not sorry. The Bar seemed out of the question, since he was not going to Oxford, for the Careys were under the impression that a degree was still necessary for success in that calling; and finally it was suggested that he should become articled to a solicitor. They wrote to the family lawyer, Albert Nixon, who was co-executor with the Vicar of Blackstable for the late Henry Carey's estate, and asked him whether he would take Philip. In a day or two the answer came back that he had not a vacancy, and was very much opposed to the whole scheme; the profession was greatly overcrowded, and without capital or connections a man had small chance of becoming more than a managing clerk; he suggested, however, that Philip should become a chartered accountant. Neither the Vicar nor his wife knew in the least what this was, and Philip had never heard of anyone being a chartered accountant; but another letter from the solicitor explained that the growth of modern businesses and the increase of companies had led to the formation of many firms of accountants to examine the books and put into the financial affairs of their clients an order which old-fashioned methods had lacked. Some years before a Royal Charter had been obtained, and the profession was becoming every year more respectable, lucrative, and important. The chartered accountants whom Albert Nixon had employed for thirty years happened to have a vacancy for an articled pupil, and would take Philip for a fee of three hundred pounds. Half of this would be returned during the five years the articles lasted in the form of salary. The prospect was not exciting, but Philip felt that he must decide on something, and the thought of living in London over-balanced the slight shrinking he felt. The Vicar of Blackstable wrote to ask Mr. Nixon whether it was a profession suited to a gentleman; and Mr. Nixon replied that, since the Charter, men were going into it who had been to public schools and a university; moreover, if Philip disliked the work and after a year wished to leave, Herbert Carter, for that was the accountant's name, would return half the money paid for the articles. This settled it, and it was arranged


shoreline and surrounding peaks a thousand shades of green. The lake stretches out fifty li, maybe more. The embankment is built of stone. Bridges—one with four hundred arches—bisect the lake at different spots. Shrines dot the hillsides. A pagoda rises like a ladder fourteen stories into the heavens. A crane swoops and cries out. Up ahead, I see Maoren, who greets me with a beckoning wave. When I reach him, he takes my hands in his. “I’m happy to have you here,” he says. Servants have set up a picnic of freshwater crabs, for which Lake Tai is known, soup, rice dumplings wrapped in leaves and tied with string, pickles, and jars of rice wine. Couples sit together—sometimes by themselves, sometimes in little groups. Second Uncle and Second Aunt have their own circle, with their sons, their wives, and grandchildren. He has rightfully earned the respect befitting an elder in the Yang family, and, after all these years, Second Aunt is content, if not actually happy. Elsewhere, some of the usual divisions have been forgotten as boys and girls play together. Below us, the lake shimmers, reflecting the hills and clouds. In addition to the dragon boats, pleasure vessels—decorated with brocade curtains and fluttering banners—sweep back and forth across the water, each with its own party onboard. The time arrives for the races to begin. The first two boats line up side by side in the middle of the lake. From this vantage point, I can see more clearly the ways in which each boat’s dragon carries its own unique personality—from the curl of its whiskers to the intricacy of its scales. A gong is hit. The lead man on each vessel rhythmically bangs a drum, summoning the dragon heart of his boat to inspire the rowers. Oars fly, disturbing the glistening reflections and sending rippling waves across the lake. Maoren and some of the other men loudly urge their favorite boats to win. During the second race, some of the ladies of the household completely forget themselves and call out too. By the third race, the men and women of the Yang family are shouting together and raising cups of rice wine when their preferred boat crosses the finish line first. Next, the winners of the first heats compete against each other. More favorites are eliminated. In the early afternoon, the two finalists pull into position. I’m happy to see that Maoren’s top pick has made it this far. It would be unseemly for me as Lady Tan to express my emotions by cheering as the gong is hit. Unseemly or not, sounds burst forth from me with such exuberance that I’m forced to clasp my hands over my mouth. For many years my husband has followed the adage that instructs Ascend the bed, act like a husband; descend the bed, act like a gentleman. But in this moment, decorum is forgotten. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close. More wine is poured. Couples, families, and groups of unmarried boys leave our pavilion to ramble the shade-protected


see that all was secure--a duty which I usually leave to Mary but which I thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down the stairs I saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which she closed and fastened as I approached. "'Tell me, dad,' said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed, 'did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?' "'Certainly not.' "'She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is hardly safe and should be stopped.' "'You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it. Are you sure that everything is fastened?' "'Quite sure, dad.' "'Then. good-night.' I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again, where I was soon asleep. "I am endeavoring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon any point which I do not make clear." "On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid." "I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind it as though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound of footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed, all palpitating with fear, and peeped round the comer of my dressing-room door. "'Arthur!' I screamed, 'you villain! you thief! How dare you touch that coronet?' "The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light, holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his grasp and turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing. "'You blackguard!' I shouted, beside myself with rage. 'You have destroyed it! You have dishonored me forever! Where are the jewels which you have stolen?' "'Stolen!' he cried. "'Yes, thief!' I roared, shaking him by the shoulder. "'There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,' said he. "'There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another piece?' "'You have called me names enough,' said he, 'I will not stand it any longer. I shall not say another word


a person with that capacity? “Online,” she says. “Reddit. I connected with this guy and he helped me. I had to go on the dark web!” She sounds thrilled, even proud. “We have to send passport-quality photos. It’s not cheap but they’ll be totally legit.” “I don’t have much money,” I say, thinking of the stash in my trunk that never seems to grow. “It’s fine,” she says, handing me a small plastic bag filled with cinnamon-scented oats, nuts, and seeds. “I sold some jewelry. By the time Benjamin notices, I’ll be long gone.” “I’m sorry you had to do that.” “I was glad to get rid of it,” she says, venom in her voice. “They were makeup gifts, all of them. After Benjamin took things too far. After he hurt me. There was always some shiny expensive trinket.” “I’ll pay you back,” I say around a mouthful of sweet granola. It will take time, but I will not welch on any more debts. She waves her hand dismissively. “You saved my life, Lee. You’re still saving my life. It’s the least I can do.” I smile, embarrassed by the compliment but also relieved. I need to save every penny. “Have you ever been to Panama?” It comes out of left field. “No. Why?” “Benjamin will expect me to go to Europe. France, probably, because I speak a little French. Or Italy. Somewhere he’s taken me before. He won’t look for me in Central America.” I swallow the cereal, now a tasteless paste in my mouth. “Why Panama?” “I’ve heard that if you have cash, you can build a life there. No questions asked.” “Sounds like a good place to disappear.” “I think so, too.” My voice is hoarse. “When will you go?” “The passport will take a couple of weeks. And then I need to plan my escape. It’s not going to be easy with the security guard at our front gate. And the cameras.” “Right.” My throat hurts now, raw with emotion. “I’ll miss you,” I mutter. “I’ll miss you, too.” Her smile is sad. “I wish you could come with me.” She’s being flip, of course. We barely know each other. And my presence would surely complicate her getaway. And then there’s Jesse. Our future may be uncertain, but I’m not ready to give up on it yet. “I wish,” I say with a chuckle. “I could use some sunshine.” We move on to the logistics of obtaining our new identities. Hazel tells me about a nearby drugstore where I can get my photo taken. I’m to deliver it to her in the morning; she’ll take care of the rest. I don’t ask her how she’ll do it when she is under constant surveillance. She’s clearly adept at fooling Benjamin. “I’ve got to get back.” Hazel stands. “Stay. Finish the coffee. I’ll pick up the thermos tomorrow.” I thank her, watch her slim form skip across the rocks to the mouth of the trail. She looks lighter than I’ve ever seen her before, more carefree. I realize she’s excited


there seconds before it was destroyed." "What?" cried Slartibartfast, aghast. "You can't mean that! I've got a thousand glaciers poised and ready to roll over Africa!" "Well perhaps you can take a quick skiing holiday before you dismantle them," said Frankie, acidly. "Skiing holiday!" cried the old man. "Those glaciers are works of art! Elegantly sculptured contours, soaring pinnacles of ice, deep majestic ravines! It would be sacrilege to go skiing on high art!" "Thank you Slartibartfast," said Benji firmly. "That will be all." "Yes sir," said the old man coldly, "thank you very much. Well, goodbye Earthman," he said to Arthur, "hope the lifestyle comes together." With a brief nod to the rest of the company he turned and walked sadly out of the room. Arthur stared after him not knowing what to say. "Now," said Benji mouse, "to business." Ford and Zaphod clinked their glasses together. "To business!" they said. "I beg your pardon?" said Benji. Ford looked round. "Sorry, I thought you were proposing a toast," he said. The two mice scuttled impatiently around in their glass transports. Finally they composed themselves, and Benji moved forward to address Arthur. "Now, Earth creature," he said, "the situation we have in effect is this. We have, as you know, been more or less running your planet for the last ten million years in order to find this wretched thing called the Ultimate Question." "Why?" said Arthur, sharply. "No - we already thought of that one," said Frankie interrupting, "but it doesn't fit the answer. Why? - Forty-Two ... you see, it doesn't work." "No," said Arthur, "I mean why have you been doing it?" "Oh, I see," said Frankie. "Well, eventually just habit I think, to be brutally honest. And this is more or less the point - we're sick to the teeth with the whole thing, and the prospect of doing it all over again on account of those whinnet-ridden Vogons quite frankly gives me the screaming heeby jeebies, you know what I mean? It was by the merest lucky chance that Benji and I finished our particular job and left the planet early for a quick holiday, and have since manipulated our way back to Magrathea by the good offices of your friends." "Magrathea is a gateway back to our own dimension," put in Benji. "Since when," continued his murine colleague, "we have had an offer of a quite enormously fat contract to do the 5D chat show and lecture circuit back in our own dimensional neck of the woods, and we're very much inclined to take it." "I would, wouldn't you Ford?" said Zaphod promptingly. "Oh yes," said Ford, "jump at it, like a shot." Arthur glanced at them, wondering what all this was leading up to. "But we've got to have a product you see," said Frankie, "I mean ideally we still need the Ultimate Question in some form or other." Zaphod leaned forward to Arthur. "You see," he said, "if they're just sitting there in the studio looking very relaxed and, you know, just mentioning that


my stool. “Sit down.” Wyn slips the apron over his neck and perches, his face etched with consternation. “Relax.” I shake his shoulders as I cross to the next stool. I drag it up to his and sit. “It’s like driving. Get your hands a little damp.” “Oh, I never drive with damp hands,” he says. “Well, that’s your first mistake,” I say. “It’s illegal to drive with dry hands.” He says, “I think the laws are different in Montana.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “There are no laws in Montana. If you have a big enough hat, you can just claim whatever you want, and it’s yours.” “True,” he says. “I once owned a slew of Walmarts that way.” “Until a guy with a bigger hat came along,” I say. “I’m not going to make you do this, Wyn. I thought you wanted to.” “I do,” he says. “I’m stalling because I’m afraid I’m going to ruin it.” “I already told you,” I say. “You can’t ruin it. That is the whole point. Now get your hands damp.” I lean forward to drag the bowl of water closer, and with a slight grimace, he dips his hands into it. “Good,” I say. “Now use your left hand to give slight pressure to the side of the vase. Your right is more for balance, to keep it upright.” He sets his palms against the structure’s sides. “Now what?” “Ease onto the pedal,” I say. He does, and because he’s Wyn, he does so beautifully. But as soon as he reaches full speed, he pushes too hard, and I dive to catch his right hand, steadying it before the would-be vase can topple. “Told you I’d ruin it.” “So dramatic,” I tease, brushing my nose against his neck. “You didn’t ruin it. We’re just changing the shape of it.” I lean across him to put my other palm on the outside of his left hand, matching the pressure, the vase narrowing and funneling upward. “Now we really are doing the Ghost thing,” he says. “Not quite,” I say, “but I don’t think my arms are long enough that I could sit behind you and do this.” “Definitely not,” he says. “But you’re welcome to sit in my lap.” “Excuse me,” I say. “I’m the one in charge here. Everyone knows the person sitting in the lap is the amateur.” “So you want me to sit in your lap,” he says. “I don’t have a death wish,” I say. “Glad to hear it.” His gaze flickers back to the clay. Somehow, we’re keeping it from collapsing or tipping over. It flares out, narrows, and flares again, wonky but standing. I catch myself staring at him, without any intention of replying. When he looks up, my heart trips. His mouth curls. “What?” “I have to tell you something,” I whisper. His foot lifts off the pedal, his smile falling. “Okay.” I try to steel myself. I feel like Jell-O. I wish we were in the dark, on opposite sides of the kids’ room. It’s so


linen he weaves for her. Although Silas has no purpose for the coins, he likes them for physical reasons--they feel and look good. His old Puritan work ethic becomes transformed into a desire for the money itself. The new feeling grows like a plant, rooted in old feelings (here is another major strand of imagery). Now you learn the full story of Silas' curing Sally Oates. Though he's trying to shut off memory, when he sees the sick cobbler's wife he remembers how the same disease killed his mother. The memory of his mother reminds him of his herbal medicines, and he treats Sally. In a place like Raveloe, however, there are few private deeds. Soon everyone wants some of Silas' "stuff." Being honest, Silas doesn't claim any special powers, but when he refuses to treat other people, the villagers turn against him more than ever. Eliot notes ironically that this deed, which might have forged human ties for him, only drove him farther away. As Silas' coins begin to pile up, he becomes obsessed with accumulating more. He hides them in a hole in the floor, which Eliot shows you precisely. She explains that there's little robbery in Raveloe, however--everyone would recognize the stolen objects if the thief used them. Some readers believe here that Silas feels his loom and his coins are alive. But others are quick to point out that in the next paragraph, Eliot says he becomes harder, narrower, and bent, until he has a "mechanical relation to the objects of his life." Do you think Silas is a machine? Consider this as you read on. One day, however, Silas drops an old brown pot that he's used for years. The familiar object felt like a real living thing to him. He grieves when it breaks, and he carries the pieces home to keep on a shelf. Notice Eliot's simple language here--what kind of an effect does it create? Before the chapter ends, Eliot gives you another detailed picture of Silas, weaving all day, caressing his coins at night. Once again, he ignores the herbs in the fields for his new "religion" of gold. Notice repeated imagery--the coins are like "unborn children" (another foreshadowing of Eppie) and his life has dwindled to one narrow channel of thought. (Literally, he never walks off the path on his daily journeys. Metaphorically, his life has become like a dried-up rivulet, trickling through the sand.) But now that Silas' metamorphosis is complete, Eliot tells you, an event is coming to change his life. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 3 Eliot leaves you in suspense about Silas' great change while she shifts to the other end of the social spectrum. Squire Cass is the greatest man in Raveloe, she tells you, although her tone is ironic. She first discusses the local gentry as villagers might--pointing out Cass' big brick house, casually mentioning the Osgoods. But then she discusses these landowners with an outsider's perspective. She makes you aware that political conditions later brought this class to ruin, through their wasteful living habits and poor


up the epistle. "He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour." "Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is." He picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he, sitting down and flattening it out upon his knee. "Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral. Hum! Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846. He's forty-one years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something more solid." "I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I, "for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters." "Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van. That is quite cleared up now--though, indeed, it was obvious from the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections." "Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks back: 'A marriage has been arranged,' it says, 'and will, if rumour is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.' That is all." "Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin legs towards the fire. "There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of the same week. Ah, here it is: 'There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage market, for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the last week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little god's arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only child, and it is currently reported that


on it and a large black safety pin and told to pin the card to their leotard, just below their left shoulder. Marion got number 310. Vanessa was number 299. A genial-looking man with a wide forehead and a narrow mustache stepped forward. “Ladies.” He clapped his hands. “You’ll notice that there are numbers marked in tape on the floor. Please stand on one now.” They rushed into place while he waited. Vanessa got a good spot at the front, while Marion sought safety in the very back. “I’m Russell Markert, the director for the Rockettes. We are looking for forty-six girls for this year, thirty-six to be performing at any one time while ten have the week off. I’m not going to lie, this job is not for the lazy or the vain. If you pass the audition, you will become part of a machine that operates day after day entertaining this great city. There will be times when we rehearse into the night, then you’ll get up early and perform first thing the next day. If chosen, you will be exhausted, your body pushed beyond its limit. But in return, you will be part of a company that is the most supportive, wonderful dance troupe in the world.” He paused. “Although maybe I’m a little biased.” The girls laughed. “A little history for you first. I founded a precision women’s dance company in 1925 in St. Louis, known as the Missouri Rockets. We came to New York and performed on Radio City’s opening night, way back in 1932. And we’re still going strong today, God help me.” He put a hand to his forehead and pretended to faint, making the girls laugh again. Marion felt her muscles loosening. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Mr. Markert called for his assistant, a woman named Emily who had thick, short bangs and wore a jangle of charms on her wrist. “Emily’s going to show you a ballet routine, four measures, eight counts each. She’ll demonstrate it twice, and then you’ll do it on your own. Emily ran through the combination, a simple petit allegro followed by an adagio with lots of arabesques. It was hard to see her through the rows of bodies in front of Marion, but she did her best. Ballet came easily to her, thank goodness, and the combination wasn’t too difficult. As Emily counted out the steps, the dancers mimicked her movements but kept them small, eyes glued to their leader, impressing the choreography into their muscle memory. After the second demonstration, Emily went and stood next to Mr. Markert. “Now with music. Beulah, hit it.” A woman sitting behind an upright piano in the corner of the room nodded and began to play. One of the girls next to Marion swayed dangerously close to her during an arabesque, but Marion stayed strong and focused. Next, one row of girls was brought forward to dance while the others watched from the side. Marion’s row was last, giving her even more time to study the steps, and


burst open before she could slip the key into the lock, and Mọ́tárá nearly walked into her as she stormed out of the house, wearing shorts and a tube top that their mother would never have allowed Wúràọlá to wear in the house when she was a teenager. “You, you’ve forgotten how to greet your elders?” Wúràọlá said. Mọ́tárá kept stomping her way towards the cluster of masquerade trees. “Sorry about that,” Wúràọlá said to Kúnlé. “That girl is something else when she’s in a mood.” Kúnlé shrugged. “She’s a brat.” It was something she had said many times to Kúnlé, her parents, Láyí and Mọ́tárá herself, but it irritated her to hear Kúnlé repeat it. She shook his arm off her shoulder as they stepped into the house. There was no one in the living room, but the television was on upstairs. Wúràọlá could make out Bukky Wright’s voice. Her mother was watching Ṣaworoidẹ again. Kúnlé reached for her hand as they went up the stairs, but she pretended not to notice this and went ahead, taking the steps two at a time. The landing spilled into the family room. It was closed off to most visitors except those who, like Kúnlé and his parents, were practically family. Family friends, as her parents called them. Wúràọlá’s mother was reclining on one of the long sofas with her feet propped on two pillows. Her face brightened when she looked away from the television and saw Kúnlé. “Lakúnlé, Lakúnlé! Wúràọlá didn’t tell me you were coming.” Kúnlé was prostrate on the floor, chin touching the edge of a throw rug. “Good afternoon ma.” “Pẹ̀lẹ́, mummy ńkọ́? Àti Professor?” “They are both fine ma. They send their regards.” Wúràọlá hugged her mother from behind. “Yèyé o. The one and only Yèyé Bọ́bajírò of everywhere, any other one is a counterfeit.” “Wúràọlá omo Yèyé, you finally remembered your mother today, ehn?” “Just confess that you’ve missed your favourite child.” “Get up, Lakúnlé, get up. Omo dada, sit down, please.” Yèyé glanced at Wúràọlá. “Such a well-behaved young man. You don’t get so many of them nowadays.” Kúnlé was always welcome here, and most times, Wúràọlá was happy that his presence animated her mother. Once in a while, though, her mother’s warmth towards him annoyed her. She could feel that anger now, incipient and bitter, flooding her throat with something like bile. This same woman had walked past Nonso without responding when he prostrated, chin to the floor, in the same spot Kúnlé had been just now. Poor Nonso. He had stayed that way after Yèyé left the family room, rising to his feet only when a door was slammed shut down the corridor. She had met him at a freshers’ welcome party when she was in her first year of medical school and he was in his third. They did not become friends until her second year, while they worked together on the health week committee. By the end of her third year, they had become friends who spoke on the phone until their batteries


"We mun look as if it wasn't no different from th' other trees," he had said. "We couldn't never tell him how it broke, poor lad. If he says anything about it we mun--we mun try to look cheerful." "Aye, that we mun," had answered Mary. But she had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the tree. She wondered and wondered in those few moments if there was any reality in that other thing Dickon had said. He had gone on rubbing his rust-red hair in a puzzled way, but a nice comforted look had begun to grow in his blue eyes. "Mrs. Craven was a very lovely young lady," he had gone on rather hesitatingly. "An' mother she thinks maybe she's about Misselthwaite many a time lookin' after Mester Colin, same as all mothers do when they're took out o' th' world. They have to come back, tha' sees. Happen she's been in the garden an' happen it was her set us to work, an' told us to bring him here." Mary had thought he meant something about Magic. She was a great believer in Magic. Secretly she quite believed that Dickon worked Magic, of course good Magic, on everything near him and that was why people liked him so much and wild creatures knew he was their friend. She wondered, indeed, if it were not possible that his gift had brought the robin just at the right moment when Colin asked that dangerous question. She felt that his Magic was working all the afternoon and making Colin look like an entirely different boy. It did not seem possible that he could be the crazy creature who had screamed and beaten and bitten his pillow. Even his ivory whiteness seemed to change. The faint glow of color which had shown on his face and neck and hands when he first got inside the garden really never quite died away. He looked as if he were made of flesh instead of ivory or wax. They saw the robin carry food to his mate two or three times, and it was so suggestive of afternoon tea that Colin felt they must have some. "Go and make one of the men servants bring some in a basket to the rhododendron walk," he said. "And then you and Dickon can bring it here." It was an agreeable idea, easily carried out, and when the white cloth was spread upon the grass, with hot tea and buttered toast and crumpets, a delightfully hungry meal was eaten, and several birds on domestic errands paused to inquire what was going on and were led into investigating crumbs with great activity. Nut and Shell whisked up trees with pieces of cake and Soot took the entire half of a buttered crumpet into a corner and pecked at and examined and turned it over and made hoarse remarks about it until he decided to swallow it all joyfully in one gulp. The afternoon was dragging towards its mellow hour. The sun was deepening the gold


parent and I don’t teach there. I do live in a dorm apartment.) I’m forever grateful to that school for both a singular education and generous financial aid. It should be obvious to everyone who knows that school that Granby is a very different place. It should also be clear to anyone who knew me in high school that Bodie is not me, and I hope it’s equally evident that no one in the book is you. If I bent so far over backward on my characters that I accidentally came back around to any real-life similarities to anyone I know now or knew back then, it was in no way intentional. (The one exception: My class did, indeed, have an underwear thief.) You all know that if I wanted to write a book about real people I’d have a hell of a story, but it wouldn’t be this one. The hugest of thanks to Stephanie Hausman, a brilliant and passionate public defender in the state of New Hampshire, who course-corrected and fine-tuned the legal parts of the book, taught me about the New Hampshire penal system, and was generally a great reader. Additional thanks: Paul Holes gamely helped with luminol and blood spatter. Liz Silver answered some legal questions early on. Becky Findlay and Suzy Vaughn helped with the crew parts. Dr. Ciprian Gheorghe helped with emergency medicine. Any errors on those issues are mine alone. Jordyn Kimelheim named Starlet Fever. My kids named the Dragons and chose their colors. Lacy Crawford’s brilliant memoir Notes on a Silencing (please read it!) shed light for me on institutional collusion. As I wrote, my student Rosemary Harp was also working on a boarding school novel (a brilliant one) that reminded me of the magic of a beloved space in the woods. The poet Kaveh Akbar gave a craft lecture that indirectly led me to the book’s closing images. The writer Omer Friedlander solved a Hebrew emergency. I’m grateful to the two dozen people who gave their names to characters in this book—something I offered in exchange for supporting an indie bookstore a few years back. They were all meant to be peripheral characters, but some of them came to life in unexpected ways, and I hope no one is horrified by the result. Names hold magic for me, and these ones inspired me in unexpected ways. This book was started at the Ragdale Foundation—and later, when COVID canceled further residencies, I was grateful for the generosity of Barbara Nagel, Catherine Cooper and Marshall Greenwald, Catherine Merritt and Jack Wuest, and Lika Lopez de Victoria for letting me house-sit and make my own retreats. Rachel DeWoskin, Gina Frangello, Thea Goodman, Dika Lam, Emily Grey Tedrowe, Zoe Zolbrod, Charles Finch, and Eli Finkel were fantastic early readers. Jon Freeman is no longer my first reader but he’s still my last, and also my emotional support human. My students and colleagues at StoryStudio Chicago, Northwestern University, and Sierra Nevada University have provided support and inspiration, especially as the world fell apart. An Illinois Artists Fund grant


and trust me, my head is spinning as well. But now that you’ve seen this, can you tell my father what I’m doing, how great it is? Maybe if he hears it from you, he’ll relent and start talking to me again. It’s awful, not being part of the family.” All her resolve faded away; she hadn’t realized how much she missed her former room with its pink wallpaper and the stability of her old life with her father, her sister, and Mrs. Hornsby. “I hate that I have to choose.” “Your father is old-fashioned, I guess.” “But can you see how it’s unfair? I want to be able to do what I love and get paid for it. What’s wrong with that?” “We both know it’s not the idea of working, it’s the type of work.” “Please, just talk to him.” He stepped back and shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. “I can’t do that.” “Why not?” “Your father would kill me if he knew I came here.” Whose side was Nathaniel on? The excitement at seeing him began to wane as she realized what she was dealing with. “Be your own man, Nathaniel. Are you going to be intimidated by my father for the rest of your life? You and I are supposed to be getting engaged, not you and he.” “I’m thinking of our future.” She didn’t understand his logic. “How is that?” “Your father said that he’ll get me a job at Met Power, in the junior executive training program. It would be as good as going to business school, and I’d get a great salary. I don’t want to derail that, it’s important to me. To us, as a family.” “When did all this happen?” “Just the other day. And get this, the associates in the training program learn not only what goes on in a big organization like Met Power, but we also get to take part in all the fun stuff, like dinners out and golf trips. Your dad even said he could see me following in his footsteps.” Her father had roped Nathaniel into his orbit. The betrayal hurt, and the fact that Nathaniel didn’t see that he was being manipulated made her angry. She stepped back. “I’ve got to go.” “I want to see you, though. Can I see you? Maybe tennis on Saturday?” “I’m living in the city now. And besides, I have four shows that day.” “For goodness’ sake, when do you get a day off?” “We go three weeks on, seven days a week, then one week off. I told you that already.” “That’s inhumane.” “That’s discipline. That’s commitment.” She paused. “And that’s what it means to be a Rockette.” CHAPTER TWELVE Once Marion had that first show under her belt, the days fell into an easy rhythm. On Wednesdays during dinner break, she joined a dozen or so dancers and headed to Moriarty’s, the chophouse across the street, where the stagehands gathered at the bar called out cheerful hellos as they waltzed by. They’d settle in at


a hefty babe, but he’s supposed to be some kind of super sportsman and his biceps are the size of grapefruits. He had me. He did. And then he didn’t. Plus, I landed harder than I would’ve without his oh-so-helpful momentary pawing of my T-shirt because I was too stunned by his audacity to concentrate on falling well. In short, I would be well within my rights to demand blood. Or his firstborn. Or whatever I wanted, really, except his integrity, because he doesn’t have any. Giselle unfolds a never-ending arm and presses her finger between my eyebrows. “Stop scowling, baby. Or the wind will change, and you’ll be stuck like that.” “Good. It would suit my personality.” She rolls onto her back and laughs at the ceiling. My sister is twenty-four—seven years older than me—and when I was a kid, I wanted to be her. Maybe that’s why, even now, whenever she laughs, I do too. We’re still giggling when someone knocks on my door. I wait a second for Mum to breeze in without permission, plonk herself on the bed, and steal my phone to scroll through TikTok. When that doesn’t happen, I frown in confusion and Giselle grins in response. “Oh yeah. Forgot to mention: Bradley’s here.” “What?” It’s supposed to come out frosty and disgusted, but I accidentally squawk like a bird. Giselle snickers and taps my forehead again. “Deep breaths, Cel.” Then she gets up and saunters to the door. I don’t quite believe her until it swings open and, yep, Bradley’s standing right there. I haven’t seen him framed by my doorway in…years. He looks different but the same: taller and older, sure, but wide-eyed and nervous like he used to be. My bedroom lamp is weak and warm, so he’s mostly shadow. Shadowed expression, except for the gleam of his dark eyes; shadowed hands, clutching and releasing the strap of the satchel over his shoulder. Maybe he’s not Bradley at all. Maybe he’s something strange and familiar that crawled out of the past. But, you know. Probably not. We stare at each other for a second in what seems to be mutual shock, although I’m not sure what he’s shocked about since he presumably carried himself over here on his own two legs. Then Giselle flicks him on the head and says, “Brad,” as she leaves, and he jolts like a toy coming to life. “Um.” He clears his throat. “Hi, Giselle. Bye, Giselle.” My sister’s already thundering down the stairs, probably desperate to gossip about this with Mum because they are both nosy cows. Bradley hovers awkwardly in the doorway. I remember, belatedly, that I am sitting in bed wearing pink pajamas with little red lobsters all over them. Dropping my phone, I pull the duvet over my legs and adjust the pillow propping up my left wrist. Bradley’s eyes follow the action, and he winces. Winces! As if he’s got anything to wince about! Then he looks away. His gaze wanders from my dark green walls, to the collection of candles on my


still recovering, emotionally and physically, from her surgeries. My father had his own medical issues and worked long, unpredictable hours at the restaurant. They were often unable to cook, so I learned how to make a few simple meals—meat loaf and baked potatoes, beef stew and bean soup, eggs and waffles, Stroganoff made with cream-of-mushroom soup, pasta with marinara sauce from a jar—and supplemented with fast food and TV dinners bought with money from my minimum-wage job, where I spent fifteen to twenty hours each week. The rest of what I earned went to clothes and shoes, gas for the car, the contact lenses I preferred to glasses, weekday breakfast and lunch; I knew nothing about free or reduced-price meals at school, perhaps because my family disapproved of what they considered “handouts” or perhaps because none of us ever thought to ask. I was able to cover my own SAT and AP exam and college application fees—which I should have been exempt from, though I didn’t know that, either—and pay for my graduation cap and gown. One of my aunts sent me cash whenever she could and purchased the computer I needed for school. If I’d started skipping class, if my grades had dropped, I’m sure someone at school would have checked on me or tried to speak with my parents. But I was a straight-A honors student who looked like a model-minority stereotype, and no one, including me, thought I needed help. If anyone outside my family had asked how I was doing, I would have said fine, kind of stressed about grades, looking forward to graduation, and I would have meant it. And yet when I came home from school or work to study, I don’t remember feeling anything like the heady mix of curiosity and determination that would spur me on in college. What I remember is the fear of unraveling, a sense of quiet dread, and my mother telling me that if I didn’t slow down and relax, I was going to get an ulcer. “I’ll relax when I’m an adult,” I told her, meaning, I’ll relax when I’m out of here. When pressed, I might admit that I was afraid of failure, but what I was really afraid of was that nothing would change, and I would remain stuck in this place where I knew I didn’t fit. No one in my family was sure how to advise me on getting into college. But I had been asking my guidance counselor for advice for years, and my mother had also heard about a consultant who worked with local students. She might have given us a lower rate, or perhaps my parents gritted their teeth and put her bill on the credit card they hated using; however it happened, one day I found myself driving to her beautiful home on the hill. I told her that I wanted to study history and English, hiding a grimace when she suggested that I take a college-level engineering course to show admissions officers that I was “well-rounded.” She added more schools


of the sports where you hopped around in a tiny skirt. Within the week, I found myself rising at dawn to ride the Dragon Wagon to the boathouse down at the wider, deeper part of the Tigerwhip, found myself holding my breath as I climbed into the boat with eight other girls, wondering how easily this thing could capsize, found myself rowing three seat and then, as they discovered I had rhythm, four seat. Part of what I loved was the escape from campus. A boat was a place where no one could reach you, a place where some boy couldn’t slide into your path to make you a prop in his joke. Even when the boys rowed past us, all we’d do was holler or chant; we didn’t have to drop everything to watch them, which was the usual expectation. (Do you remember, for instance, the fake Woodstock that Marco Washington and Mike Stiles set up on the quad? They hauled couches from the dorms, used extension cords for guitars and stand mics. I joined the audience to listen to their terrible playing because it was the thing to do. Just as Open Dorm nights were for girls to feign interest in boys playing video games. Just as the only sporting events with full stands were for boys’ teams. At the time, what rankled was the idea that we were supposed to see these boys as the stars, to fall at their sweaty feet. What bothers me now is those boys internalizing girls as audience, there only to act as mirrors, to make their accomplishments realer.) But out on the boat, we were neither watchers nor watched; there was only the sound of water and of our cox’s voice calling for a power ten, only the muscle burn, only cold air on wet skin. By spring I was signing up again, this time for sprint season, and then I was in it for life. Or at least till senior year, when I flaked out in every way—when I quietly dropped to 115 pounds, when I stopped going to calculus, when I smoked ten cigarettes a day and started mixing Tylenol and vodka. I got in the boat that first week of sprint season and couldn’t do it, quite literally couldn’t pull my weight. I dropped off the team, blamed it on senioritis. But in college I sometimes subbed in for practice, and in New York and LA I joined rowing clubs. When I think of Granby, I see the Tigerwhip and the Connecticut before I see campus itself. I see Robin Facer’s back, her braid swishing as she rows. I see us celebrating at Stotesbury for not embarrassing ourselves, pelting each other with M&M’s in the hotel hallway. This current-day coach pointed out all the crew girls she could see in the dining hall. “There’s one,” she said, indicating a tall girl by the sandwich station. “There are three, those three together.” I said, “I love them at first sight.” I did. They seemed utterly themselves, laughing loudly, filling tall glasses


the strangest way in the world, had, on the instant, and by the very fact of its appearance, become a solitude. To me at least, making my statement here with a deliberation with which I have never made it, the whole feeling of the moment returns. It was as if, while I took in--what I did take in--all the rest of the scene had been stricken with death. I can hear again, as I write, the intense hush in which the sounds of evening dropped. The rooks stopped cawing in the golden sky, and the friendly hour lost, for the minute, all its voice. But there was no other change in nature, unless indeed it were a change that I saw with a stranger sharpness. The gold was still in the sky, the clearness in the air, and the man who looked at me over the battlements was as definite as a picture in a frame. That's how I thought, with extraordinary quickness, of each person that he might have been and that he was not. We were confronted across our distance quite long enough for me to ask myself with intensity who then he was and to feel, as an effect of my inability to say, a wonder that in a few instants more became intense. The great question, or one of these, is, afterward, I know, with regard to certain matters, the question of how long they have lasted. Well, this matter of mine, think what you will of it, lasted while I caught at a dozen possibilities, none of which made a difference for the better, that I could see, in there having been in the house--and for how long, above all?-- a person of whom I was in ignorance. It lasted while I just bridled a little with the sense that my office demanded that there should be no such ignorance and no such person. It lasted while this visitant, at all events--and there was a touch of the strange freedom, as I remember, in the sign of familiarity of his wearing no hat--seemed to fix me, from his position, with just the question, just the scrutiny through the fading light, that his own presence provoked. We were too far apart to call to each other, but there was a moment at which, at shorter range, some challenge between us, breaking the hush, would have been the right result of our straight mutual stare. He was in one of the angles, the one away from the house, very erect, as it struck me, and with both hands on the ledge. So I saw him as I see the letters I form on this page; then, exactly, after a minute, as if to add to the spectacle, he slowly changed his place--passed, looking at me hard all the while, to the opposite corner of the platform. Yes, I had the sharpest sense that during this transit he never took his eyes from me, and I can see at this moment the way his hand, as he went, passed from


the moon crater containing the colony of snow gorillas. These silver-haired creatures, who had never shown any interest in ordinary people, stopped to stare up at this new species entering their realm, all of them standing, one by one, on their back legs, stretching out to their full height. The largest and oldest of the snow gorillas raised a silver-haired fist to his chest, thumping it in salutation. Soon all of them followed suit, pounding their chests, a thunderous sound made not out of fear or anger but devotion to their new king – this emperor of the ice. MCMURDO CITY THE ROSS ICE SHELF SAME DAY FOR THE FIRST TIME IN his life, Eitan saw the sky, an appropriately simple sky for this newcomer to the outside world, without the complication of a single cloud. Keeping his back to the sun, which was too bright for his cave-conditioned eyes, he felt the wind slink through the grooves of his armoured torso as comfortable as a caress. Despite having lived in Antarctica his whole life, he’d never encountered snow before, crushing it between his claws in a gesture that could be described as playful. This was his home, he thought, this was his land. What right did these ordinary people, foreigners to this continent, have to it? What right did they have to keep this place from him as though it was theirs to withhold? They were the immigrants. He was native to this land. Having acclimatized to the sky and the snow, he was ready to face a phenomenon he’d heard so much about yet never seen – the sun. His camera-shutter eyelids, made from wafer-thin bone, narrowed to a pinprick as he slowly manoeuvred himself around. Looking directly up, his vision was scorched. After years of subterrain gloom it took him a while to bring the dazzling light into balance. If he’d read nothing about this universe, he would’ve sworn there were three suns above him, a central one with two smaller ones on either side. But he knew from textbooks that there was only one sun in this solar system and this optical effect was called parhelion, tiny ice crystals in the air refracting the light, creating a glistening halo, a celestial eyeball watching with interest the arrival of a new species on the surface of this ancient world. The procession walked through McMurdo City, which appeared to Eitan to be a ragtag place, a junkyard city assembled from repurposed scrap, a beggar’s settlement suitable for a fallen people. They could’ve created something magnificent from the ice, but they didn’t know how, so downtrodden they couldn’t even glimpse the potential of this continent. He passed the workshops where they made their crude tools and the tailors where they stitched their primitive clothes to keep their fragile bodies warm. He watched as these people encountered him for the first time. Some were dumbfounded, others were scared. Some stepped back, others stepped forward. Only one woman waved, an older woman with a wicker basket of penguin eggs on her back, grey


He walks in the front door and into his spacious kitchen, and I follow him. It’s very, very clean, the marble countertops practically gleaming and the brass range hood spotless. Having a child is probably going to throw a wrench in Huff’s polished life. I hope we’re worth it. He opens the fridge and hands me a sparkling water then pops the top on a beer, leaning over the counter. “What’s up?” “Do you want to stay here?” I ask. “At your house? Henry and I can move. Then you don’t have to quit your job. I mean, your house is bigger, it’s a million times nicer… And Steven hasn’t closed on his house yet, so there’s still time to work that out.” “I love your house,” Huff says. “I love that crooked front porch and the mismatched floor planks in your kitchen and how the upstairs doorways are barely taller than I am.” I try to read his face. Is he serious? “I love that you are happy and comfortable there and that Henry has known that house as home his whole life.” He pulls me to him. “I love that my parents are two blocks away and that we can walk to Lanier’s bookstore and your office. I even love that Steven will be a few houses down so that Henry can see his dad whenever he wants.” I lean into him, my head on his chest. He leans down and kisses me when he sees my eyes fill. I want to tell him he’s right, but I don’t want to cry. Henry tears into the pristine kitchen and eyes us curiously. “Mommy, are you sad?” I shake my head and pick him up. “No, baby. I’m happy. I’m so, so happy.” I look at Huff, and I realize we haven’t planned to tell Henry yet. It hasn’t been as long as I assumed we needed, and I haven’t thought about what I want to say. But I’m standing here with this man who sees my messy little life as superior to his fancy, shiny one, and I feel like there’s no better time than right now. “Sweet boy, there’s something that Mommy wants to tell you.” He nods. “Mommy and Huff are going to get married. It won’t be for a few months, which is a long, long time. But Huff is going to come live at our house with us one day.” Henry looks from me to Huff and back to me. “Is he going to bring the trains?” This is not the question I’m expecting, but he’s four, so I guess this seems fitting. “Oh, yeah, man,” Huff says. “I’m bringing the trains.” Henry nods. “So, are you and me and Huff going to all live in one room together?” I am puzzled by this. “No, sweetie. You’ll still have your room and Huff will live in Mommy’s room with her.” “Oh, okay.” “Why would you think we’d all live in one room?” Huff asks. “Well, because Aunt Becky and Uncle Jesse and Alex and Nicky all


is that she said it was Virginia. Which we all know isn’t the case.” “Why does she think that?” Jessie says. Honestly, I don’t know. My best guess is that talking about the past has Lenora dreaming about it. Those humdinger nightmares that linger. When she wakes, she thinks they’re real. Just for a moment. And that her sister is with her still. But saying that would reveal all. A tempting idea. Tell them everything and see what happens. Admit that I’ve been helping Lenora type her story, that Mary did the same thing, and that it’s why I think someone shoved her off the terrace. I don’t because it would also give away Carter’s secrets. Something the nervous ping-ponging of his eyes tells me he wouldn’t like. “It’s the power of influence,” Mrs. Baker says, answering in my place. “Something in Kit’s body language or the way she spoke our names indicated to Miss Hope it wasn’t the answer she wanted. But the way she mentioned Miss Hope’s sister did. Miss Hope was merely trying to please her.” Not knowing how to respond, I begin to smooth the skirt of my uniform. My tell. “What are you suggesting?” “That the culprit is you, dear,” Mrs. Baker says. “Why would I type this?” “Attention?” Jessie suggests while shooting a quick glance at Carter she probably doesn’t want me to notice. I glare at her. “I don’t need anyone’s attention.” “Then why are we all here?” Mrs. Baker tilts her head, staring directly at me, her blue eyes boring into me like the sunrise. “You’re the one who demanded we all come here so you could show us the words on that page and tell us Miss Hope claims it was her sister. Why go to all that trouble?” “Because I want whoever did it to stop,” I say. “Please. And stop sneaking into Miss Hope’s room at night.” Mrs. Baker’s body goes rigid. “Someone’s been doing that?” “Yes.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I did,” I say. “The morning after my first night here. I told you I heard footsteps in Miss Hope’s bedroom and you said it was just the wind. But I heard it again the next night. And saw someone at that window. And watched a shadow pass the door between our rooms. That wasn’t the wind. So it was either one of you or it was Lenora.” I stare at Mrs. Baker, silently daring her to chastise me for not saying “Miss Hope.” She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Tell me immediately if it ever happens again.” Then she leaves, thereby bringing an end to this melodramatic—and ultimately fruitless—household meeting. Archie is the first to follow her out. Then Carter, who gives me a we-need-to-talk-later look before slipping out the door. Jessie, however, lingers. Remaining on the divan, she says, “Sorry about that. I don’t really think you did it for attention.” “Gee, thanks.” Jessie stands, steps closer, touches my arm. “What I mean is that I don’t think you did it at all.” Out of the corner of


good foot. “Fuck!” He sucked in his breath at the pain of shifting his weight. “Just what I need is to be laid up. Fuck!” The dogs, still making noise in the darkness, came bounding back, causing the chickens to squawk again. “Fred! Wilma! Hush!” Zavala yelled as the hounds, toenails scraping against the weathered decking, rushed madly through the still open door where, Montoya noted, Eileen Hebert was loitering as she eavesdropped. “Anything else you need to know?” Zavala asked, hobbling toward the door as his mother slipped noiselessly toward the far end of the house. “Cuz if there is, you can do what I told yer damned partner to do and talk to my lawyer.” “Just one thing,” Montoya said. “You advertise on the Internet—Craigslist and through Facebook—that you sell baby alligators.” He stopped as he reached the slider, steadying himself on the door frame. “That’s right.” “Anything else? Like other animals—I heard you have chickens.” “Those are for the eggs. Yeah, I sell what I can, what I catch. Frogs. Turtles, sometimes.” One of the dogs—Fred—came up and looked up expectantly. Zavala leaned over and petted his head, causing Fred’s tail to swipe back and forth. “But I don’t sell puppies,” Zavala said, straightening and stepping gingerly inside. “Hell, I wouldn’t breed those two hounds fer nothin’. Puppies would turn out dumb as shit.” “What about snakes?” Montoya asked. “Sure.” Zavala lifted a big shoulder. “If I got one.” From the corner of his eye Montoya saw a movement as Eileen came around the corner from what Montoya guessed was the bedroom area. One side of her housedress sagged, the pocket bulging. A gun? Montoya’s heart stilled. His muscles tensed. Had she gone to the back and picked up a small pistol? “I think we’re about done here,” Eileen said, her lips thin. She nodded toward Zavala. “Ned, here, needs to rest. Same with me. I ain’t been well.” Montoya’s eyes never left her. “Cancer, ya know. Ned, he takes good care of me. We take care of each other. And we don’t need no one comin’ out here, rilin’ up our dogs, makin’ me jumpy, and askin’ all kinda questions that we don’t need to answer.” The bulge in the pocket moved. What? Moved? As whatever it was inside was alive? In a chilling flash he remembered the stark white of the water moccasin’s open mouth, its needle-like fangs. “What have you got there, Eileen?” His own sidearm was holstered at his shoulder. He could retrieve it in a split second. Would that be too late? The bulge moved again. “I heard you asking about the little gators.” She smiled coldly and reached into her pocket. “Stop!” Montoya ordered. “Hands up. Where I can see them!” “I was just gonna show you an itty-bitty baby.” As she began to withdraw her hand, Montoya drew his weapon, aiming it straight at her heart. “Whoa!” Ned yelled, nearly falling down as he held out his palms. “Put down the fuckin’ gun! Great God almighty! Put it the fuck down!” Eileen’s


gray of dawn found them hitting the trail with fresh miles reeled off behind them. And always they pitched camp after dark, eating their bit of fish, and crawling to sleep into the snow. Buck was ravenous. The pound and a half of sun-dried salmon, which was his ration for each day, seemed to go nowhere. He never had enough, and suffered from perpetual hunger pangs. Yet the other dogs, because they weighed less and were born to the life, received a pound only of the fish and managed to keep in good condition. He swiftly lost the fastidiousness which had characterized his old life. A dainty eater, he found that his mates, finishing first, robbed him of his unfinished ration. There was no defending it. While he was fighting off two or three, it was disappearing down the throats of the others. To remedy this, he ate as fast as they; and, so greatly did hunger compel him, he was not above taking what did not belong to him. He watched and learned. When he saw Pike, one of the new dogs, a clever malingerer and thief, slyly steal a slice of bacon when Perrault's back was turned, he duplicated the performance the following day, getting away with the whole chunk. A great uproar was raised, but he was unsuspected; while Dub, an awkward blunderer who was always getting caught, was punished for Buck's misdeed. This first theft marked Buck as fit to survive in the hostile Northland environment. It marked his adaptability, his capacity to adjust himself to changing conditions, the lack of which would have meant swift and terrible death. It marked, further, the decay or going to pieces of his moral nature, a vain thing and a handicap in the ruthless struggle for existence. It was all well enough in the Southland, under the law of love and fellowship, to respect private property and personal feelings; but in the Northland, under the law of club and fang, whoso took such things into account was a fool, and in so far as he observed them he would fail to prosper. Not that Buck reasoned it out. He was fit, that was all, and unconsciously he accommodated himself to the new mode of life. All his days, no matter what the odds, he had never run from a fight. But the club of the man in the red sweater had beaten into him a more fundamental and primitive code. Civilized, he could have died for a moral consideration, say the defence of Judge Miller's riding-whip; but the completeness of his decivilization was now evidenced by his ability to flee from the defence of a moral consideration and so save his hide. He did not steal for joy of it, but because of the clamor of his stomach. He did not rob openly, but stole secretly and cunningly, out of respect for club and fang. In short, the things he did were done because it was easier to do them than not to do them. His development (or retrogression) was rapid.


the inn, was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last. __ CHAPTER XVII (40) ELIZABETH'S impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no longer be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself. Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him. ``His being so sure of succeeding, was wrong,'' said she; ``and certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his disappointment.'' ``Indeed,'' replied Elizabeth, ``I am heartily sorry for him; but he has other feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?'' ``Blame you! Oh, no.'' ``But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham.'' ``No -- I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.'' ``But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the very next day.'' She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane! who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear one without involving the other. ``This will not do,'' said Elizabeth. ``You never will be able to make both of them good for any thing. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr. Darcy's, but you shall do as you chuse.'' It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane. ``I do not know when I have been more shocked,'' said she. ``Wickham so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a thing of his


metal pail filled with loose screws, rough and jangling. “I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.” The Coachman laughed. “Oh, don’t be that way! We’re old friends, Bernard. We have history.” “Yes,” Bernard said. “And it’s this history that makes me want to destroy you where you stand.” The Coachman held up his hands. “Let’s not be too hasty here. I thought we left things on good terms.” “Are your memory circuits faulty? What about how you left the last time suggests we should be on good terms? I was almost decommissioned.” “That’s what I like about you, Bernard. You always were able to hold a grudge with the best of them.” The Coachman glanced back at Vic and the others before turning to Bernard once more. “Need I remind you about what I did for you? The Blue Fairy told me you quite enjoyed when they stuck their hand into your—” Bernard rushed toward the Coachman, covering his mouth with one hand, two gripping his arms, the fourth quivering as the finger folded. His head spun completely around as if looking to see if anyone was listening in. The blocky machines were not, continuing to move crate after crate. “Keep your mouth shut,” Bernard growled. The Coachman knocked his hands away. “Yes, yes. Let’s dispense with all the formalities, shall we? It’s time for you to repay what’s owed.” The Coachman glanced back at them once more before he took Bernard by one of his arms, leading him away, dropping his voice. Vic couldn’t hear what they were saying, but each word the Coachman spoke was punctuated by a finger tapping against Bernard’s chest pointedly. For his part, Bernard didn’t try to shove the Coachman away. Vic hoped that meant he was listening. As the Coachman spoke, Bernard’s head spun until it faced Vic and the others. Rambo waved before they could stop him. “He seems nice.” “I worry about you,” Nurse Ratched said. “Aw, thank you!” It took longer than Vic was comfortable with. He felt exposed, standing out here in the shadows of the city. At any moment, he expected alarms to begin to blare. They could run as the Coachman had told them to do, but he doubted they’d make it far. Hap must have been thinking the same thing, because he leaned over, voice quiet in Vic’s ear when he said, “I’ll grab Rambo. You r-run. We’ll b-be right b-behind you.” Vic turned his head slightly, cheek scraping against Hap’s stubble. It sent a shiver down his spine. “Will we make it?” “N-no,” Hap said, not pulling away. “B-but we have to t-try.” He was tense when the Coachman whirled around and began to move swiftly toward them, face blank. Bernard stood still, staring after the Coachman. “Well?” Nurse Ratched asked when the Coachman reached them. “Is there cause for concern?” The Coachman shook his head. “Of course not! I told you that I’d get you in, and I meant it. Not a problem. Not a problem at all.” “White lie?” Rambo


was only birdsong left behind. Winnie unpinned her hat and felt the sun on her neck. “This is the right place,” she said out loud, testing the fact. She’d copied out the particulars, but she didn’t need to check them: she’d committed them to memory. Take a right at the station, follow the road till it comes to a fork, then head uphill. I trust myself, she thought, setting off down the lane. I know where I’m going. A horse chestnut stood sentinel at the gate. The breeze lifted its boughs and the house peeped through, a flash of pale blue and white, a twinkling of diamond panes. Winnie fetched a key from the neighbor. “No, don’t come with me. I’ll judge the place better myself.” The neighbor wore a marvelously hefty jersey, and tiny wire-rimmed spectacles. She gave Winnie a shrewd, appraising look—and smiled. She had very large teeth. They seemed to indicate great strength. “Of course.” Winnie examined the bedrooms first. Judged how big they were, how comfortable they’d be, how private. Made herself ignore the gentle curves of the garden, the yellow scattering of cowslips, the dense and lovely tangle of the hedgerows. She had to be very sensible about this. She measured the cupboards and the closets. She counted Sue’s list of names. The ones she’d kept her eye on, the ones she knew were in trouble. The ones who’d left Park Lane in a hurry, without explanation, in the night. The ones who might need a place to stay. “It’s a long list,” Mrs. King had said when she looked at it. Winnie had taken her hand gingerly. “If you ever want anywhere yourself, you only need to ask.” Mrs. King had returned the pressure in her fingers. “Thanks,” she said. Winnie marched back to the neighbor’s house. The woman opened the door, frowning over her spectacles. “You’re taking it?” “I live quietly,” Winnie said, “but I shall have people visiting from time to time. Ladies. People needing sanctuary. To get back on their feet. I shan’t want any trouble about it. No gossip.” The woman considered this, twirling the latchkey around her finger. She had bookcases in the hall, and there were pamphlets and newspapers piled high by the door. She looked at Winnie with understanding. “Just what we need around here,” she said. “Tea?” A week after the ball Hephzibah did what you should do when you come into a great fortune. She ordered champagne. Then she ordered some more. It was one of those nights when her chest tightened so badly that she feared her heart might stop beating, when the walls rattled and zigzagged around her. This still happened to her. She’d hoped it would end when the Park Lane job was finished. The others were so happy, so exhilarated: Winnie was brimming with purpose. All right for her. Hephzibah sat by herself in a restaurant like a woman of dubious means and then she walked home alone. How she managed it she didn’t know. In the morning she had a deeply strange


him?” Hap asked the Coachman. The Coachman shrugged. “I trust Bernard to know that if he screws us over, I have enough blackmail material on him to get him censured. Or worse, decommissioned.” “I never want to see your face again,” Bernard told him. “After today, we’re even.” The Coachman patted him on one of his arms. “You say that now, but you’ll miss me in a hundred years or so.” “I highly doubt it.” His head stopped spinning as he approached the crate. The screen on the top came to life as he tapped a finger against it. The crate shuddered and shook before it collapsed completely, unfolding until it lay flat on the ground. The Coachman took Nurse Ratched by one of her tentacles, leading her onto the crate. “I’ll have to lay you on your back,” he told her, a mischievous twitch to his mustache. “I promise to make it as pleasant as possible.” “You old flirt,” Nurse Ratched said in her flat voice. “I know your type.” The Coachman grinned at her. “I bet you do.” He grunted as he tipped her over, her screen facing the ceiling. “Do protect him, won’t you? He’s … precious.” “I know,” Nurse Ratched said. “Coachman?” “Yes, my sweet?” “If we are betrayed, if Bernard attempts to notify anyone of our presence in the city, I will find a way out. I will come for him first. And when I have finished with him, I will find you. There is nowhere in the world you can run. Every day, for the rest of your life, you will have to look over your shoulder. When you least expect it, I will be there. I will stick my drill so far inside you that you will taste it. And then I will turn it on and scramble everything that makes you who you are.” “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” the Coachman said. He pressed his hand against her screen. “If that happens, I will wait for you with open arms.” “Seriously,” Rambo said. “This is really gross.” Hap shoved the Coachman out of the way, setting Rambo on top of Nurse Ratched’s casing. “No t-talking,” he warned them. “Hap?” Rambo asked. “What.” “I love you.” Hap scowled at him. He turned to stalk away, but paused at the last second, face twisting. He turned back around again and bent over Rambo. Vic was stunned when he said, “I t-tolerate your existence.” He took one of Rambo’s pincers in his hand and moved it up and down. “Whoa,” Rambo whispered as Hap let go. “Nurse Ratched, did you hear that? He loves me too!” “Th-that’s not what I said.” “It is. And you can’t take it back!” “I am going to die in this box,” Nurse Ratched said. Bernard stepped forward, extending an arm toward the screen. He tapped it once more, and the crate walls rose around Nurse Ratched and Rambo. The last Vic saw of them was Rambo waving frantically. “Goodbye,” Vic said quietly as the lid closed over them. Bernard motioned toward


-- a "pinchbug," he called it. It was in a percussion-cap box. The first thing the beetle did was to take him by the finger. A natural fillip followed, the beetle went floundering into the aisle and lit on its back, and the hurt finger went into the boy's mouth. The beetle lay there working its helpless legs, unable to turn over. Tom eyed it, and longed for it; but it was safe out of his reach. Other people uninterested in the sermon found relief in the beetle, and they eyed it too. Presently a vagrant poodle dog came idling along, sad at heart, lazy with the summer softness and the quiet, weary of captivity, sighing for change. He spied the beetle; the drooping tail lifted and wagged. He surveyed the prize; walked around it; smelt at it from a safe distance; walked around it again; grew bolder, and took a closer smell; then lifted his lip and made a gingerly snatch at it, just missing it; made another, and another; began to enjoy the diversion; subsided to his stomach with the beetle between his paws, and continued his experiments; grew weary at last, and then indifferent and absent-minded. His head nodded, and little by little his chin descended and touched the enemy, who seized it. There was a sharp yelp, a flirt of the poodle's head, and the beetle fell a couple of yards away, and lit on its back once more. The neighboring spectators shook with a gentle inward joy, several faces went behind --------------------------------------------------------- -64- fans and handkerchiefs, and Tomwas entirely happy. The dog looked foolish, and probably felt so; but there was resentment in his heart, too, and a craving for revenge. So he went to the beetle and began a wary attack on it again; jumping at it from every point of a circle, lighting with his fore-paws within an inch of the creature, making even closer snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking his head till his ears flapped again. But he grew tired once more, after a while; tried to amuse himself with a fly but found no relief; followed an ant around, with his nose close to the floor, and quickly wearied of that; yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and sat down on it. Then there was a wild yelp of agony and the poodle went sailing up the aisle; the yelps continued, and so did the dog; he crossed the house in front of the altar; he flew down the other aisle; he crossed before the doors; he clamored up the home-stretch; his anguish grew with his progress, till presently he was but a woolly comet moving in its orbit with the gleam and the speed of light. At last the frantic sufferer sheered from its course, and sprang into its master's lap; he flung it out of the window, and the voice of distress quickly thinned away and died in the distance. By this time the whole church was red-faced and suffocating with suppressed laughter, and the sermon had come


from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.' 'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man, should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours-- I go in search of health, as much as of amusement.' St. Aubert sighed, and paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: 'If I can hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can, perhaps, give me information on the subject.' The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon. They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a cottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which they entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father's countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skins and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was admitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; and here the scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of liquors) was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such scenes, and looked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the young stranger seemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer of his own bed. 'It is a decent one,' said he, 'when compared with what we have just seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should be ashamed to offer you.' St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young stranger would take no denial. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir,' said he, 'that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shew you the way. I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady also.' St. Aubert


the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.' He fell back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon, and am waiting her reply. . ." "She has come and told me that the Chaplain of the English mission church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as soon after as Jonathan awakes." "Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his `I will' firmly and strong. I could hardly speak. My heart was so full that even those words seemed to choke me. "The dear sisters were so kind. Please, God, I shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband-- oh, Lucy, it is the first time I have written the words `my husband'-- left me alone with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing wax, and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it to my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other, that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took his wifes' hand, and said that it was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the year. "Well, my dear, could I say? I could only tell him that I was the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me, and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a solemn pledge between us. "Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very


his voice. "Anything outside yourself, this you can see and apply your logic to it," she said. "But it's a human trait that when we encounter personal problems, those things most deeply personal are the most difficult to bring out for our logic to scan. We tend to flounder around, blaming everything but the actual, deep-seated thing that's really chewing on us." "You're deliberately attempting to undermine my faith in my abilities as a Mentat," he rasped. "Were I to find one of our people attempting thus to sabotage any other weapon in our arsenal, I should not hesitate to denounce and destroy him." "The finest Mentats have a healthy respect for the error factor in their computations," she said. "I've never said otherwise!" "Then apply yourself to these symptoms we've both seen: drunkenness among the men, quarrels--they gossip and exchange wild rumors about Arrakis; they ignore the most simple--" "Idleness, no more," he said. "Don't try to divert my attention by trying to make a simple matter appear mysterious." She stared at him, thinking of the Duke's men rubbing their woes together in the barracks until you could almost smell the charge there, like burnt insulation. They're becoming like the men of the pre-Guild legend, she thought: Like the men of the lost star-searcher, Ampoliros--sick at their guns--forever seeking, forever prepared and forever unready. "Why have you never made full use of my abilities in your service to the Duke?" she asked. "Do you fear a rival for your position?" He glared at her, the old eyes blazing. "I know some of the training they give you Bene Gesserit . . . " He broke off, scowling. "Go ahead, say it," she said. "Bene Gesserit witches." "I know something of the real training they give you," he said. "I've seen it come out in Paul. I'm not fooled by what your schools tell the public: you exist only to serve." The shock must be severe and he's almost ready for it, she thought. "You listen respectfully to me in Council," she said, "yet you seldom heed my advice. Why?" "I don't trust your Bene Gesserit motives," he said. "You may think you can look through a man; you may think you can make a man do exactly what you--" "You poor fool, Thufir!" she raged. He scowled, pushing himself back in the chair. "Whatever rumors you've heard about our schools," she said, "the truth is far greater. If I wished to destroy the Duke . . . or you, or any other person within my reach, you could not stop me." And she thought: Why do I let pride drive such words out of me? This is not the way I was trained. This is not how I must shock him. Hawat slipped a hand beneath his tunic where he kept a tiny projector of poison darts. She wears no shield, he thought. Is this just a brag she makes? I could slay her now . . . but, ah-h-h-h, the consequences if I'm wrong. Jessica saw the gesture toward his


miseries. I could have no other motive, Trot, in keeping anything from you.' 'I know that well,' said I. 'But tell me now.' 'Would you ride with me a little way tomorrow morning?' asked my aunt. 'Of course.' 'At nine,' said she. 'I'll tell you then, my dear.' At nine, accordingly, we went out in a little chariot, and drove to London. We drove a long way through the streets, until we came to one of the large hospitals. Standing hard by the building was a plain hearse. The driver recognized my aunt, and, in obedience to a motion of her hand at the window, drove slowly off; we following. 'You understand it now, Trot,' said my aunt. 'He is gone!' 'Did he die in the hospital?' 'Yes.' She sat immovable beside me; but, again I saw the stray tears on her face. 'He was there once before,' said my aunt presently. 'He was ailing a long time - a shattered, broken man, these many years. When he knew his state in this last illness, he asked them to send for me. He was sorry then. Very sorry.' 'You went, I know, aunt.' 'I went. I was with him a good deal afterwards.' 'He died the night before we went to Canterbury?' said I. My aunt nodded. 'No one can harm him now,' she said. 'It was a vain threat.' We drove away, out of town, to the churchyard at Hornsey. 'Better here than in the streets,' said my aunt. 'He was born here.' We alighted; and followed the plain coffin to a corner I remember well, where the service was read consigning it to the dust. 'Six-and-thirty years ago, this day, my dear,' said my aunt, as we walked back to the chariot, 'I was married. God forgive us all!' We took our seats in silence; and so she sat beside me for a long time, holding my hand. At length she suddenly burst into tears, and said: 'He was a fine-looking man when I married him, Trot - and he was sadly changed!' It did not last long. After the relief of tears, she soon became composed, and even cheerful. Her nerves were a little shaken, she said, or she would not have given way to it. God forgive us all! So we rode back to her little cottage at Highgate, where we found the following short note, which had arrived by that morning's post from Mr. Micawber: 'Canterbury, 'Friday. 'My dear Madam, and Copperfield, 'The fair land of promise lately looming on the horizon is again enveloped in impenetrable mists, and for ever withdrawn from the eyes of a drifting wretch whose Doom is sealed! 'Another writ has been issued (in His Majesty's High Court of King's Bench at Westminster), in another cause of HEEP V. MICAWBER, and the defendant in that cause is the prey of the sheriff having legal jurisdiction in this bailiwick. 'Now's the day, and now's the hour, See the front of battle lower, See approach proud EDWARD'S power - Chains and slavery! 'Consigned to


it hadn’t gone incredibly well but also hadn’t been a disaster; and about how in the Indigo Girls’ “Dairy Queen,” there was a lyric I’d never been clear on because it kind of sounded like “to hold you” but it also kind of sounded like “to haunt you” and if you looked it up online it said hold, but I wanted it to be haunt; and about the Dairy Queen chain and how he’d never been to one, and I said that was because he’d never lived in the Midwest; and about how I’d never been to In-N-Out Burger, and he said that was because I’d never lived in California. By then, it was almost three-thirty my time and I felt like the teenager I’d never been, drugged on lust and conversation. Just before we hung up, I said, “Usually I hate talking on the phone, but I don’t hate talking on the phone to you.” “I’ll try not to let that go to my head.” He sounded very happy, and I felt a squeezing around my heart. Wasn’t this all too good to be true? For the last week, whenever I hadn’t actively been writing an email to or reading an email from Noah, as I’d scrambled eggs or dragged the trash and recycling bins to the curb, I’d often pulled my phone from my pocket and reread both the messages he’d sent me and the ones I’d sent him, especially if I was waiting for a response; more than once I read all the emails, in order, in their entirety. I also had continuously composed future emails in my head and assessed almost any experience I was having—not, admittedly, that I was having many—through the filter of whether they’d be worth describing to Noah. And now we’d spoken and it hadn’t ruined everything! He added, “Can I call you again tomorrow night?” “You definitely can,” I said. “Can I email you seven times before I call you tomorrow night?” “I’m hoping you will.” This was when he said, “I almost suggested facetiming now instead of calling. What are your feelings about facetime?” “It depends on the face in question.” After a pause, I said, “In your case, I’m pro.” He laughed. “What a relief.” Then he said, “Good night, Sally. This was very fun.” “I agree,” I said. “Good night, Noah.” But he didn’t email the next day; instead, at noon my time, he texted, Hope it’s OK I just ordered these for you, followed by a screenshot of a pink pillow that said Good Vibes Please in white cursive, followed by another screenshot of an orange pillow that said Good Vibes Welcome with an image of a sun below the words, followed by another text that said It was hard to decide so I got both. I texted back, That’s an incredible coincidence because I just ordered this for you, and sent a screenshot of a distressed wooden sign that said In this house, we keep it real, we give hugs, and we dance badly. He texted back, Truly


the neck of a lute, tuned to something that moved closer by the hour. ‘Nikeya,’ Unora said quietly, touching her shoulder, ‘will you leave us a moment, and watch over Epabo?’ ‘Of course.’ Nikeya dealt Dumai a concerned look and went back to the tent. Unora took Dumai by the cheek. ‘Do not go to Muysima.’ ‘I have to—’ ‘I wished, Dumai. When I was twenty.’ Her voice strained. ‘I asked a wish of Pajati the White.’ Dumai stared at her. ‘I wished for a way to reach the court, so I could save my father. Sipwo dreamed of me that night.’ Unora spoke in little more than a whisper. ‘Pajati is an elder dragon – born of the stars themselves, not the sea. His light was still within me when you were conceived.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘He told me it would last one turn of the sun.’ She pressed one hand to her stomach, low down. ‘I think it woke the old gifts of your line, in the waters of my womb.’ ‘You could have been executed. It was forbidden.’ ‘A blade would have been kinder than a death by thirst, or a wasting sickness. I had nothing left to lose, but now I do.’ Unora kept hold of her face. ‘Muysima is where my father perished. A curse lies on that island. Please, my kite – stay here, where it’s safe.’ Unora was no longer the hardened woman who had survived a hostile mountain. One mention of that island, and she was the dying girl from a dust province, alone in the world. Dumai drew up her sleeve. ‘You must stay here. The people in this camp need a leader they trust.’ She reached for the fraying strand at her wrist and worked it off. ‘Kanifa gave this to me, from our rope, before I left for court. Hold it for me, like the end of a line. Take it and know I am your kite.’ Unora clasped the strand between their hands. ‘I can never regret that wish,’ she finally said. ‘If I had not gone to the great Pajati, my bones would lie in the dusts of Afa, and I would never have had you.’ Dumai pressed their foreheads together. ‘I will let you go, as your grandmother taught me. I will keep hold of this line and wait for your return to me.’ ‘As soon as I can,’ Dumai whispered to her. ‘No matter how long I am gone, I am coming.’ **** Dumai prepared herself in her tent. She wove a rainbow through the darkness of her hair, cords in every colour she had worn when her father brought her to Antuma. Once she had fastened her armour, she picked up her ice sickles and made to secure them to her hips. ‘When do we leave?’ She turned. Nikeya was already dressed for the saddle, bundled in thick furs, eyebrows raised. ‘You must stay here,’ Dumai told her. ‘My mother will need help.’ ‘So will you.’ ‘Nikeya, if anything happens to me, you will be