Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

If you don’t want to have sex with me, that’s fine.” Pulling back, Fizzy smiles up at me. “You can just eat my pussy and head home, and everyone is happy.” Laughter rises up out of me and I couldn’t resist her even if I was shackled to the wall by my wrists and ankles. I am so fucked for this woman. So I do the only thing I can imagine: I give in, turning my face down to hers, and let the night dissolve between us. thirty-five FIZZY I used to think first kisses were the most powerful of all the kisses. That first, hyperaware contact with such uniquely soft, responsive skin. The discovery of someone else’s sounds and tastes and desire. The ultimate reveal: Is there real passion there? But I was wrong. First kisses are great, but the one hundredth, the one thousandth kisses are better. There’s familiarity and comfort, satiating a need but with enough knowledge to know how to tease and play. Whoever invented kissing is my favorite historical figure ever. “I want to kiss you for the rest of the weekend,” I mumble into his mouth. With a laugh, he rolls over onto me, his hand running up and down my thigh, gripping and stroking until I arch into his touch, coaxing his fingers up my hip, along my ribs, over my breast. I could be satisfied with kissing, but I want everything else. Being with Connor feels like a devastating inevitability. I have this pit-deep need for something not just fast and satisfying but slow and whole. I sense the same surrender in him, too. It’s in the way he kisses me so slow and deep, the patient mapping of his hands across my body, over my clothes, before he drags one item of clothing at a time up over my head or down my legs with deliberate, patient purpose. “You’re so beautiful,” he says into the sensitive skin below my ear, and then repeats it quietly into my neck, my shoulder, my breasts. This isn’t rushed foreplay. This is like someone put the whole world on pause. He’s solid and strong above me, and I become a pliable, languid tangle of limbs and skin under his attention. His lips linger on my breasts, tongue and teeth teasing me expertly, mouth sucking. It hits me like a thunderbolt: only someone who knows me from the inside out can satisfy and torture me like this in equal measure. I’ve never felt such a longing to be someone’s the way I do with Connor. I want to eat his possessive, open-mouthed kisses for every meal. I want him to have a memory of kissing every place on my body. I want my hands to instinctively mold to the shape of him. I want him to know by the heat of my skin and the pitch of my sounds how close I am. Connor tells me he can’t stop thinking about me, that all he wants to do is touch me. He kisses down my body to settle


with his fiancée, and she had made him run late. As soon as Iris imagined that, she recoiled from it with a grimace, returning to her typewriter. Not five minutes later, Roman walked into the office. He was dressed impeccably as usual, in a freshly starched shirt, leather braces on his shoulders, and black trousers without a speck of lint on their pressed front. His dark hair was slicked back, but his countenance was pale. Iris watched beneath her lashes as he set his messenger bag down with a heavy thud at his cubicle. She waited for it—for him to notice the disorder at his desk. To frown and cast a glare at her. Because she was the only one who took the time to annoy him in such a way. She waited, but Roman made no response. He was staring at his desk, but his face was frozen. There was hardly any light in his eyes, and she knew that something was wrong. Even dressed to the nines and only a few minutes late, something was eating at him. He walked to the sideboard, selecting one of the teapots—there were always at least five brewing at a time—and poured the biggest cup he could find, carrying it back to his chair. Once he sat, she could no longer see him, and even though the office was humming with noise, Iris knew Roman Kitt was sitting there, staring blankly at his typewriter. As if all the words had vanished within him. She typed up her stack of announcements and classifieds by noon, setting them on the corner of Zeb’s desk. And then she grabbed her bag and stopped at Roman’s desk. She noticed two things: First the paper tucked into his typewriter was woefully blank, even though his handwritten notes were scattered across his desk. Second, he was taking a sip of tea, scowling at that blank piece of paper as if it owned him. “Congratulations, Kitt,” said Iris. Roman startled. The tea spewed from his mouth as he coughed, and then those blue eyes of his cut upward to where she stood, pinning her with a furious gleam. She watched as that anger burned away into shock. His gaze traced her long, wild hair. Down her body, although she was wearing her typical drab raiment. And then back up to her cherry-red mouth. “Winnow,” he said carefully. “Why are you congratulating me?” “Your engagement, Kitt.” He winced, as if she had hit a bruise. “How do you know about that?” “Your father wants it announced in the paper tomorrow,” she replied. “Front and center.” Roman glanced away, back to his blank page. “Wonderful,” he said drolly. “I cannot wait.” This wasn’t the reaction she was expecting from him. It only heightened her curiosity. “Do you need help with your missing soldier article?” she asked on a whim. “Because I can give that to you.” “How?” He sounded suspicious. “Because my brother is missing at war.” Roman blinked, as if he couldn’t believe those words had come out of her mouth. She


she added: “Also known as face blindness.” Five AND AFTER ALL that, to add massive insult to once-in-a-lifetime injury, who should I run into in the elevator of my building on the very morning I came home? You guessed it. The one-night-stand guy. The Weasel. Fresh back from the hospital, I had walked in slow motion through the lobby of my building, holding my breath as faceless people wandered blithely around me. I kept my eyes to the carpet, stepped gingerly through the elevator doors, and pressed the button to the top floor—my hair smelling of hospital shampoo and gathered in a careful, stitches-covering ponytail. I was trying with all my might not to accidentally knock that cork in my skull loose while also holding back a tsunami of life-altering realizations about the week I’d just been through … just as the Weasel himself catapulted through the closing doors and tossed his arms up in victory as he cleared them at the last second. Let’s just say he wasn’t matching my fragile energy. I couldn’t recognize his face now, of course. Or anything else about his rather nondescript self. What I did recognize—other than his terrible personality—was the red-and-white non-vintage vintage bowling jacket. There couldn’t be more than one of those walking around. Oh my god! The Weasel! I’d forgotten about the woman in his bed. I’d meant to go find his apartment that night and wake her up and get her the hell out of there—but in all the hubbub of, ya know, the brain surgery, I’d forgotten. He wasn’t still holding her captive in there, was he? I thought about asking. But that’s when he turned to me, all friendly and breathless, and said, “Made it!” The way a nice person might talk to another nice person. I kept my eyes down and edged away. Really, pal? You think you can just wildly bad-mouth your one-night stands and also get to be a normal member of society? Not on my watch, buddy. I wasn’t going to be complicit in this nice-guy gaslighting. Also: What the hell? What adult just sprints through a building lobby willy-nilly like that? What if he’d slammed into me? What if I’d hit my head and the plug in my skull had popped like a champagne cork—and then it was right back to the hospital? I wasn’t used to feeling fragile. And I definitely didn’t like it. So I glared at him, like, Thanks a lot for reminding me. I could deduce that he was smiling, even despite his puzzle-piece face. Those big teeth were pretty unmistakable. How dare he? It was frustrating beyond measure to look straight at a person and have no idea what he looked like. Especially since I really might have to pick him out of a lineup someday. One of the tips Dr. Nicole had given me for coping with the sudden lack of faces in the world was to notice other things about people. Most of us used faces by default, she’d explained, but there were plenty of other details


If Montserrat even hinted that she was planning on being alone, Araceli would never leave the city without her. She shook her head vehemently. “Of course not. I imagine Tristán and I will order takeout.” “You are an adventurous duo. Then he’s not going anywhere, either.” “No. It’s the two of us.” “You should make sure you have a smidgen of Christmas cheer. Put up the tree, go to a party.” When they were done with their hot chocolate, Montserrat drove her sister back home. Araceli surely noticed that she was distracted, but Montserrat hoped she chalked it up to the imaginary shifts she was working. On the way home, she stopped at the same store where she’d bought books on Crowley and other occultists and bought more items. She didn’t have money to burn on this stuff, but Tristán was right: they didn’t understand the rules of the game they were playing. More reading material might be useless. Then again, her growing collection, spread across her desk, or resting atop a chair, comforted her. It wasn’t exactly Christmas cheer, like Araceli suggested, but it was keeping her busy. In the back of a closet Montserrat stored an old plastic tree. She pulled it out and dragged it to the living room, along with a box full of glass ornaments. She strung lights around it. The tree looked shabby, but she plugged the lights in and contemplated her handiwork. Montserrat pulled the curtain aside, looking at the building on the other side of the street where someone was having a party. On the floor below her they were playing “Campana Sobre Campana.” She went to her office, pulled out the headphones, and put on a tape with Huizar’s “Pecado Capital” that she’d traded in exchange for a couple of bootleg Motörhead tapes two years before and listened to “Nota Roja.” She opened one of the books she’d bought and found a story about a group of amateur sorcerers in Washington who, in January of 1941, had tried to cast a spell against Hitler. The story had made it into an issue of Life. “The death that comes to you, let it come to him,” they had said as they stuck pins into a doll made to look like Hitler. Wilhelm Ewers had a section on sympathetic magic—though he didn’t call it that—and another on reflecting hexes, and now she turned to that. She wondered what Ewers would have been up to if he hadn’t died. Would he still be roaming around Mexico? Or would he have tried his luck somewhere else? He was an opportunist, after all. And what flavor of magic would he serve his acolytes nowadays? Clarimonde Bauer had reprinted his book with no changes to the text, but he would have altered it. Made it sound attractive for modern readers. You are special and therefore you deserve this knowledge, he would have said. Or else, You are not special, but I could make you so very special. Either way worked; he had tried both approaches depending on whom he


does, and his mouth, too, and completely disappears. Most of what I judge to be his body is actually under a layer of mud and plants. His face and arms are so artfully disguised as to be invisible. I kneel beside him. “I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off.” Peeta smiles. “Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying.” 248 “You’re not going to die,” I tell him firmly. “Says who?” His voice is so ragged. “Says me. We’re on the same team now, you know,” I tell him. His eyes open. “So, I heard. Nice of you to find what’s left of me.” I pull out my water bottle and give him a drink. “Did Cato cut you?” I ask. “Left leg. Up high,” he answers. “Let’s get you in the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you’ve got,” I say. “Lean down a minute first,” he says. “Need to tell you some- thing.” I lean over and put my good ear to his lips, which tickle as he whispers. “Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.” I jerk my head back but end up laughing. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” At least, he’s still able to joke around. But when I start to help him to the stream, all the levity disappears. It’s only two feet away, how hard can it be? Very hard when I real- ize he’s unable to move an inch on his own. He’s so weak that the best he can do is not to resist. I try to drag him, but despite the fact that I know he’s doing all he can to keep quiet, sharp cries of pain escape him. The mud and plants seem to have imprisoned him and I finally have to give a gigantic tug to break him from their clutches. He’s still two feet from the wa- ter, lying there, teeth gritted, tears cutting trails in the dirt on his face. “Look, Peeta, I’m going to roll you into the stream. It’s very shallow here, okay?” I say. 249 “Excellent,” he says. I crouch down beside him. No matter what happens, I tell myself, don’t stop until he’s in the water. “On three,” I say. “One, two, three!” I can only manage one full roll before I have to stop because of the horrible sound he’s making. Now he’s on the edge of the stream. Maybe this is better anyway. “Okay, change of plans. I’m not going to put you all the way in,” I tell him. Besides, if I get him in, who knows if I’d ever be able to get him out? “No more rolling?” he asks. “That’s all done. Let’s get you cleaned up. Keep an eye on the woods for me, okay?” I say. It’s hard to know where to start. He so caked with mud and matted leaves, I can’t even see his clothes. If he’s wearing clothes. The thought makes me hesitate a moment, but


patterns on them with uli. "Tortoise saw all these preparations and soon discovered what it all meant. Nothing that happened in the world of the animals ever escaped his notice,- he was full of cunning. As soon as he heard of the great feast in the sky his throat began to itch at the very thought. There was a famine in those days and Tortoise had not eaten a good meal for two moons. His body rattled like a piece of dry stick in his empty shell. So he began to plan how he would go to the sky." "But he had no wings," said Ezinma. "Be patient," replied her mother. "That is the story. Tortoise had no wings, but he went to the birds and asked to be allowed to go with them. "'We know you too well,' said the birds when they had heard him. 'You are full of cunning and you are ungrateful. If we allow you to come with us you will soon begin your mischief.' "'You do not know me,' said Tortoise. 'I am a changed man. I have learned that a man who makes trouble for others is also making it for himself.' "Tortoise had a sweet tongue, and within a short time all the birds agreed that he was a changed man, and they each gave him a feather, with which he made two wings. "At last the great day came and Tortoise was the first to arrive at the meeting place. When all the birds had gathered together, they set off in a body. Tortoise was very happy and voluble as he flew among the birds, and he was soon chosen as the man to speak for the party because he was a great orator. "There is one important thing which we must not forget,' he said as they flew on their way. 'When people are invited to a great feast like this, they take new names for the occasion. Our hosts in the sky will expect us to honour this age-old custom.' "None of the birds had heard of this custom but they knew that Tortoise, in spite of his failings in other directions, was a widely-travelled man who knew the customs of different peoples. And so they each took a new name. When they had all taken, Tortoise also took one. He was to be called 'All of you'. "At last the party arrived in the sky and their hosts were very happy to see them. Tortoise stood up in his many-coloured plumage and thanked them for their invitation. His speech was so eloquent that all the birds were glad they had brought him, and nodded their heads in approval of all he said. Their hosts took him as the king of the birds, especially as he looked somewhat different from the others. "After kola nuts had been presented and eaten, the people of the sky set before their guests the most delectable dishes Tortoise had even seen or dreamed of. The soup was brought out hot from the fire and in


en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp- meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. De yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way. "Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what I's agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's arter; it doan' MAKE no track. "I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift- wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a- risin', en dey wuz a good current; so I reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' I'd be twenty-five mile down de river, en den I'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim asho', en take to de woods on de Illinois side. "But I didn' have no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn't no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had a notion I could lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't -- bank too bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' I found' a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all right." "And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why didn't you get mud-turkles?" "How you gwyne to git 'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night? En I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime." "Well, that's so. You've had to


interest, and before the show even opened I’d sold half the prints for more money than I’d ever thought possible. Seventeen photographs, one for every scar, the broken pieces of me against the backdrop of the forest, the cracked asphalt behind the gas station, the rusted junkers in my father’s yard. Each one was like cutting myself open all over again. Each time, I healed a little cleaner. I sent Mitch an invitation, a message scrawled on the corner. Dear Mitch: You were right, it turns out. So fuck you. He showed up with a girl who cried when she talked to me. They were perfect together. I wondered if Ethan would show, but he didn’t. I’d searched for his name sometimes, but he seemed to have vanished again, and I didn’t look too hard. After the gallery show I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, stripped down to my skin, and splayed my mutilated fingers under the whorl of scar tissue the bullet had left on my stomach on its way out of my body. Eighteen, I thought. Nineteen. But the numbers were a lie, like everything else. The cracks on my skin were too many to count. * * * Ten months after the second time I almost died, we were cleaning the house again. It was a lurching process, steps forward followed by frantic backsliding, but Dad was still trying. The sun beat down, a rare day without a cloud in the sky. I tossed the trash bag I was carrying onto the pile by the front steps and peeled off my gloves. Dad was already outside, hands on hips, squinting at the old Chevy. “I think I could get this running again,” he said as I made my way over. “But you won’t,” I told him. “But I won’t,” he agreed. He sighed and scrubbed at his patchy scalp. “You think we could burn it all down and start over?” “We could do that,” I replied amiably. It was only about the thirtieth time we’d had this conversation and that he’d suggested that particular remedy. “But then you’d always wonder what you’d left buried.” “You really think there’s anything worth saving?” “You asking about the house, or about you?” I asked. He snorted. “I get enough of that crap from my shrink, I don’t need it from you, too.” Wheels crunched on gravel. I shaded my eyes with my hand. We didn’t have much in the way of visitors these days, and I didn’t recognize the car. “Expecting someone?” I asked. “Hell, no,” Dad said. The car parked. The door opened, and Ethan stepped out, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. “Should I get the shotgun?” Dad asked. “Dad.” I gave him a look. “Maybe the baseball bat. Just in case.” He chuckled. Ethan hadn’t moved, standing by the car with one hand on the door. I approached slowly, arms crossed. “Hey,” he said. He’d lost weight since I last saw him, the hollows of his cheeks deeper. He was holding a little stuffed hedgehog, which he


hes like that he cant keep a thing back I know every turn in him Ill tighten my bottom well and let out a few smutty words smellrump or lick my shit or the first mad thing comes into my head then Ill suggest about yes O wait now sonny my turn is coming Ill be quite gay and friendly over it O but I was forgetting this bloody pest of a thing pfooh you wouldnt know which to laugh or cry were such a mixture of plum and apple no Ill have to wear the old things so much the better itll be more pointed hell never know whether he did it or not there thats good enough for you any old thing at all then Ill wipe him off me just like a business his omission then Ill go out Ill have him eying up at the ceiling where is she gone now make him want me thats the only way a quarter after what an unearthly hour I suppose theyre just getting up in China now combing out their pigtails for the day well soon have the nuns ringing the angelus theyve nobody coming in to spoil their sleep except an odd priest or two for his night office or the alarmclock next door at cockshout clattering the brains out of itself let me see if I can doze off 1 2 3 4 5 what kind of flowers are those they invented like the stars the wallpaper in Lombard street was much nicer the apron he gave me was like that something only I only wore it twice better lower this lamp and try again so as I can get up early Ill go to Lambes there beside Findlaters and get them to send us some flowers to put about the place in case he brings him home tomorrow today I mean no no Fridays an unlucky day first I want to do the place up someway the dust grows in it I think while Im asleep then we can have music and cigarettes I can accompany him first I must clean the keys of the piano with milk whatll I wear shall I wear a white rose or those fairy cakes in Liptons I love the smell of a rich big shop at 7 1/2d a lb or the other ones with the cherries in them and the pinky sugar 11d a couple of lbs of those a nice plant for the middle of the table Id get that cheaper in wait wheres this I saw them not long ago I love flowers Id love to have the whole place swimming in roses God of heaven theres nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and the waves rushing then the beautiful country with the fields of oats and wheat and all kinds of things and all the fine cattle going about that would do your heart good to see rivers and lakes and flowers all sorts of shapes and smells and colours springing up even


Each Fremen had faced it. They gave him this last few moments of isolation now that he might prepare himself. It must be done today, he told himself. He thought of the power he wielded in the face of the pogrom -- the old men who sent their sons to him to be trained in the weirding way of battle, the old men who listened to him now in council and followed his plans, the men who returned to pay him that highest Fremen compliment: "Your plan worked, Muad'Dib." Yet the meanest and smallest of the Fremen warriors could do a thing that he had never done. And Paul knew his leadership suffered from the omnipresent knowledge of this difference between them. He had not ridden the maker. Oh, he'd gone up with the others for training trips and raids, but he had not made his own voyage. Until he did, his world was bounded by the abilities of others. No true Fremen could permit this. Until he did this thing himself, even the great southlands -- the area some twenty thumpers beyond the erg -- were denied him unless he ordered a palanquin and rode like a Reverend Mother or one of the sick and wounded. Memory returned to him of his wrestling with his inner awareness during the night. He saw a strange parallel here -- if he mastered the maker, his rule was strengthened; if he mastered the inward eye, this carried its own measure of command. But beyond them both lay the clouded area, the Great Unrest where all the universe seemed embroiled. The differences in the ways he comprehended the universe haunted him -- accuracy matched with inaccuracy. He saw it in situ. Yet, when it was born, when it came into the pressures of reality, the now had its own life and grew with its own subtle differences. Terrible purpose remained. Race consciousness remained. And over all loomed the jihad, bloody and wild. Chani joined him outside the tent, hugging her elbows, looking up at him from the corners of her eyes the way she did when she studied his mood. "Tell me again about the waters of thy birthworld, Usul," she said. He saw that she was trying to distract him, ease his mind of tensions before the deadly test. It was growing lighter, and he noted that some of his Fedaykin were already striking their tents. "I'd rather you told me about the sietch and about our son," he said. "Does our Leto yet hold my mother in his palm?" "It's Alia he holds as well," she said. "And he grows rapidly. He'll be a big man." "What's it like in the south?" he asked. "When you ride the maker you'll see for yourself," she said. "But I wish to see it first through your eyes." "It's powerfully lonely," she said. He touched the nezhoni scarf at her forehead where it protruded from her stillsuit cap. "Why will you not talk about the sietch?" "I have talked about it. The sietch is a lonely


removal of a distraction. Athena…would never forgive Maurice, but even if she killed him back, that doesn’t do me any good at all. Just how bad is the friction between those two? While I’m thinking this, he wakes up and starts swearing at me. I tape up his mouth and call Orhan back because we didn’t finish our conversation. “Tell me about Denton.” “Throws his weight around, thinks that’s how Titans do,” Orhan says. “In fairness he’s sort of right about that.” “Your guy got a bonus from a consultancy contract he had. Corporate hospitality account. I’m looking at it now but I can already tell you it’s a shell.” “Was it a big bonus?” “Depends who you are. But for you and me, it was fucking huge.” “You got any kind of sense of what lives in the shell?” “Another shell and another. But the lawyers are Dietrich Hellawil in Chersenesos.” Right around the corner from the Tonfamecasca company. Figure if I go there and lie to them they will show me their exterior security tapes and I will recognise Maurice coming in that day. I say goodbye to Orhan and sit down behind my desk. I look at Maurice. “Who was Roddy Tebbit?” No answer. I get myself a glass of water and sit down again. “What happened with Peter and Lillian?” No reply. “When I got beat down the other day, Stefan said he just noticed I was coming in, but I don’t think that’s true. Did you play him, Maurice? Just happen to drop my name?” A thought occurs to me, really late in the game. “You were trying to use me to score points against Athena.” There’s something in my throat. Figure it must be rage. Maurice looks back at me through narrow eyes. He’s full of the same thing, viscous and violent. There’s a lot of fight hormones in this room. A lot of inhalable bad decisions. Get smart, Cal. Think. I drink some water and say some affirmations in my head. There’s a yoga class across the street, and in the summer, with the windows open, I can hear the things they murmur as they salute the sun. I am a calm person. I am not governed by negative emotions. Rage and pain wash over me as the river washes over the stone. They polish the surface of my serenity, but I remain as I am. To pass the time while I wait for the surface of my serenity to get all shiny, I talk to Maurice a bit more. “From where I’m standing it looks like you paid Mac Denton to fuck me up at Victor’s and when that didn’t work you made sure Stefan saw I was coming in so he’d do it for you. I’m wondering whether I’m gonna find out that Officer Mullen was yours, too, and Mac was just to distract me. Was it all to knock Athena off her game, Maurice? Get your job back?” Two dark eyes staring at me from the floor. Dark as Othrys, and as


shine by day, and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge's strange romance "A Margarite of America" it was stated that in the chamber of Margarite were seen "all the chaste ladies of the world, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults." Marco Polo had watched the inhabitants of Zipangu place a rose-colored pearl in the mouth of the dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven moons over his loss. When the Huns lured the king into the great pit, he flung it away,-- Procopius tells the story,--nor was it ever found again, though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown a Venetian a rosary of one hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he worshipped. When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI., visited Louis XII. of France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to Brantme, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great light. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with three hundred and twenty-one diamonds. Richard II. had a coat, valued at thirty thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described Henry VIII., on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as wearing "a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses." The favorites of James I. wore ear-rings of emeralds set in gold filigrane. Edward II. gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold armor studded with jacinths, and a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap parsem with pearls. Henry II. wore jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove set with twelve rubies and fifty-two great pearls. The ducal hat of Charles the Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was studded with sapphires and hung with pear- shaped pearls. How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and decoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful. Then he turned his attention to embroideries, and to the tapestries that performed the office of frescos in the chill rooms of the Northern nations of Europe. As he investigated the subject,--and he always had an extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in whatever he took up,--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any rate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face or stained his flower-like bloom. How different it was with material things! Where had they gone to? Where was the great crocus-colored robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been


In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the next few days. Chapter 10 Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am compelled to abandon this method and to trust once more to my recollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the time. A few extracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes which are indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I proceed, then, from the morning which followed our abortive chase of the convict and our other strange experiences upon the moor. October 16th. A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain. The house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes upon their wet faces. It is melancholy outside and in. The baronet is in a black reaction after the excitements of the night. I am conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a feeling of impending danger -- ever present dan- ger, which is the more terrible because I am unable to define it. And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which is at work around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports from peas- ants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resem- bled the distant baying of a hound. It is incredible, impossible, that it should really be outside the ordinary laws of nature. A spectral hound which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with its howling is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also, but if I have one quality upon earth it is common sense, and nothing will persuade me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to descend to the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with a mere fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some huge hound loose upon it; that would go far to explain everything. But where could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get its food, where did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explana-


so small in comparison, and Vic had never felt so lonely in his life. “We lived here, once,” Vic said. “Do you remember?” He looked around the clearing: the broken trees, the cracked brick of the ground house, wires dangling from branches, shattered glass sparkling in the winter sun. “No,” Dad finally said. “I do not remember.” Vic nodded, teeth grinding together painfully as he breathed. They did not stay. Vic thought about it, considered starting again and rebuilding what his father had created, but in the end, the memory of what had come before proved to be too great. Though he wanted to believe no machines would come for them, he couldn’t take the chance. Making quick work, Vic and Nurse Ratched and Rambo salvaged what they could, loading it up into the Terrible Dogfish. It was Nurse Ratched who found it. Buried under a layer of broken glass and pieces of the collapsed roof, a cracked screen. At the bottom, a little tray partially open. Inside, the glimmer of a disc with two words faintly visible. Top Hat. Rambo screamed. After he’d calmed himself, he asked if it still worked. “Only one way to find out,” Nurse Ratched said. That night, on the Terrible Dogfish, Jerry Travers and Dale Tremont were cheek to cheek. Dad watched without speaking, head cocked. In the belly of the great whale, another machine lay silent, unmoving. They left their former home behind, snow whipping in a whiteout as the whale rose above the clearing into a deep blue winter sky. Heading north and into the wilds, they flew above the forest. Even with all he’d seen and done, somehow, Victor still marveled at the sight of it, the winter woods stretching as far as the eye could see. It did not bring with it the uncertainty the City of Electric Dreams had. That was unknown: this was the forest, his home. It took them two hours before they found something suitable: a mostly flat, empty stretch of snow-covered earth. Large old-growth trees surrounded three sides of the clearing. The remaining side butted up against a sheer rock face at least forty feet high. It wasn’t like where they’d come from. It was different. “Come on,” Vic said, wiping his eyes. “We have work to do.” Once, a machine named Giovanni Lawson had made a home where one should not exist. Decades later, his son and the rest of their family endeavored to do the same. They did not build up and into the trees, for there was no need. They had shelter in the form of the Terrible Dogfish, the skin and skeleton keeping the chill at bay. As winter wore on around them, they spent their days cataloguing every inch of the flying machine, Nurse Ratched plugged in and soaking up information. By the end of the first week, she was an expert in the inner workings of the Terrible Dogfish, and could control it however she pleased. She proved this by providing a demonstration of the whale’s weapon systems. One moment, a


militia officer's skewered feather, and trailing behind like his sash. Why don't ye be sensible, Flask? it's easy to be sensible; why don't ye, then? any man with half an eye can be sensible. I don't know that, Stubb. You sometimes find it rather hard. Yes, when a fellow's soaked through, it's hard to be sensible, that's a fact. And I am about drenched with this spray. Never mind; catch the turn there, and pass it. Seems to me we are lashing down these anchors now as if they were never going to be used again. tying these two anchors here, Flask, seems like tying a man's hands behind him. And what big generous hands they are, to be sure. These are your iron fists, hey? What a hold they have, too! I wonder, Flask, whether the world is anchored anywhere; if she is, she swings with an uncommon long cable, though. There, hammer that knot down, and we've done. So; next to touching land, lighting on deck is the most satisfactory. I say, just wring out my jacket skirts, will ye? Thank ye. They laugh at long-togs so, Flask; but seems to me, a long tailed coat ought always to be worn in all storms afloat. The tails tapering down that way, serve to carry off the water, d'ye see. Same with cocked hats; the cocks form gable-end eave-troughs, Flask. No more monkey-jackets and tarpaulins for me; I must mount a swallow-tail, and drive down a beaver; so. Halloa! whew! there goes my tarpaulin overboard; Lord, Lord, that the winds that come from heaven should be so unmannerly! This is a nasty night, lad. .. <p 505 > .. < chapter cxxii 2 MIDNIGHT ALOFT--THUNDER AND LIGHTNING > The Main-top-sail yard. --Tashtego passing new lashings around it. Um, um, um. Stop that thunder! Plenty too much thunder up here. What's the use of thunder? Um, um, um. We don't want thunder; we want rum; give us a glass of rum. Um, um, um! .. <p 505 > .. < chapter cxxiii 10 THE MUSKET > During the most violent shocks of the Typhoon, the man at the Pequod's jaw-bone tiller had several times been reelingly hurled to the deck by its spasmodic motions, even though preventer tackles had been attached to it --for they were slack -- because some play to the tiller was indispensable. In a severe gale like this, while the ship is but a tossed shuttle-cock to the blast, it is by no means uncommon to see the needles in the compasses, at intervals, go round and round. It was thus with the Pequod's; at almost every shock the helmsman had not failed to notice the whirling velocity with which they revolved upon the cards; it is a sight that hardly any one can behold without some sort of unwonted emotion. Some hours after midnight, the Typhoon abated so much, that through the strenuous exertions of Starbuck and Stubb --one engaged forward and the other aft --the shivered remnants of the jib and fore and main-top-sails were cut


together had not been successful even though they’d had an “amazing connection.” I then read a 2016 interview with Noah in Rolling Stone, which included several facts I had somehow already known, through either his TNO bio or pop cultural osmosis: that he had attended an elite all-boys’ prep school in Washington, D.C., and was the son of a lawyer father and a mother who worked in education, who’d both initially been concerned about his decision not to attend college; that in his early twenties, after becoming famous, he’d had a period of heavy alcohol and drug use culminating in an accident in Miami when all the members of his band scaled a rising drawbridge and the drummer fell off and died, after which Noah became sober and gave a million dollars to the drummer’s girlfriend for their child’s college fund; that Noah had from 2010 to 2012 dated a model named Maribel Johnson, who was a decade his junior, was from a small town in Wisconsin, and had appeared during that time on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue; that his most recent girlfriend had been Louisiana Williams, a jewelry designer to the stars, though the viability of her profession was difficult for me to assess because she was also the heiress to, of all things, a pest control fortune; that he was deeply interested in architecture and had sought out meetings with leading architects who were “impressed” by his knowledge; and that he was involved in several charities, including one that funded residential rehab for people in the music industry who might not otherwise be able to afford it. Unstated in the article was that he clearly had an excellent publicist, or probably more than one. Having interacted with him, I believed he was genuinely nice, but the leading architects’ supposed pleasure at being sought out by a dilettante made me snicker. By this point, I was on BestBrewstyFanBarcelona’s sixth selection, “The Bishop’s Garden.” It was about a high school boy—the lyrics pointed to but didn’t confirm its being Noah—whose classmates hooked up with girls from the neighboring school in a walled garden between the two campuses, and how the boy never participated in this ritual even though he wanted to. If the song was autobiographical, I thought, then surely the nutritionist in Sacramento and the various models had righted this past injustice. But again, the song was melancholy and evocative—it made me think of the guys I hadn’t hooked up with in high school—and it was not remotely cheesy. In fact, it was the kind of folky, poppy music I liked. If only I’d done this modicum of homework twenty-four hours earlier, I thought, I could have effortlessly answered his question about which of his songs were my three favorites. Though already, the memory of sitting side by side with him at my computer, revising his sketch in the middle of the night, felt like a dream the way life at TNO often felt like a dream: so vivid and goofy in the moment, so ephemeral once it


the Janes were consulting the instruction labels ironed into their petticoats. This was the most delicate part of the operation: sweeping the rooms in the public parts of the house. They got to work on the library, with Hephzibah’s decoy guests stationed right outside, guarding the door. Mrs. Bone’s men, still dressed in their tunics, stood on extendable ladders, handing books down the line and stacking them in towers. It was taking longer than Winnie had calculated. “Come on,” muttered Jane-one, her eyes fixed on the clock. “What time is it?” said Jane-two. “Don’t ask.” The men heard. Fear, the first true prickle of it, shimmered across the room. Someone dropped a book. Jane-one saw it happen. It simply slipped from a man’s hand, toppling into a tower of leather-bound volumes already on the floor. She knew what would follow. Her mind unspooled it, several seconds ahead. The first tower fell into the next. Dominoes. The men looked on, aghast, as the towers crumbled. Jane-one felt the tremor as hundreds upon hundreds of books hit the bare floor. It was a rumble she could feel in all directions, passing through the walls. “Lock that door,” she said. “Right now.” A fist hammered on the library door. “Open up!” One of the footmen, thought Jane-one. They’d heard a commotion in the library and come running, pushing past Hephzibah’s actresses. She pressed her finger to her lips. The men all stared at her, pale and sweating. They were trapped. Books lay scattered on the floor around them. Silence outside. “Hello?” the footman said, uncertain. “Everything all right?” Jane-one pressed her finger to the keyhole so he couldn’t peer in. She used her other hand to point to the window. Mouthed to Jane-two. Perch act. Jane-two frowned. You’re not serious. Got another idea? Jane-two considered this, quite seriously. Then sighed. Marched to the window, hauled it open. Reached out, feeling for the drainpipe. Glanced back over her shoulder. Mouthed, Two minutes. Jane-one motioned one of the men to cover the keyhole. Tiptoed to the center of the room. Twirled a finger in the air. At first the men didn’t understand. Then she kicked off her shoes, pulled her apron over her head, unbuttoned her black twill dress. Their mouths dropped open. She stood there in her chemise and her bloomers. The men turned around in a hurry. Jane-one felt a tingling in her muscles, and began her stretches. 35 1:00 a.m. Hephzibah had a new problem. There was a man heading upstairs. She recognized the ashen gleam to his hair from the old days. The family lawyer. Mr. Lockwood. As soon as the princess had gone in for supper, he’d slipped away from the royal party. Hephzibah had watched him beetling toward the stairs. She’d planted several of her best people by the banister to head off any real guests who tried to leave the saloon floor, but the crush was too great—they couldn’t waylay him. No, no. She hastened after him. He took the stairs two at a time, as if he were in


God done met you round de corner and talked His inside business wid yuh. ’Tain’t no use in you askin’ me nothin’. Ah’m questionizin’ you.” “How you gointuh do dat, Sam, when Ah arrived dis conversation mahself? Ah’m askin’ you.” “Askin’ me what? You ain’t told me de subjick yit.” “Don’t aim tuh tell yuh! Ah aims tuh keep yuh in de dark all de time. If you’se smart lak you let on you is, you kin find out.” “Yuh skeered to lemme know whut it is, ’cause yuh know Ah’ll tear it tuh pieces. You got to have a subjick tuh talk from, or yuh can’t talk. If uh man ain’t got no bounds, he ain’t got no place tuh stop.” By this time, they are the center of the world. “Well all right then. Since you own up you ain’t smart enough tuh find out whut Ah’m talkin’ ’bout, Ah’ll tell you. Whut is it dat keeps uh man from gettin’ burnt on uh red-hot stove—caution or nature?” “Shucks! Ah thought you had somethin’ hard tuh ast me. Walter kin tell yuh dat.” 76 Zora Neale Hurston “If de conversation is too deep for yuh, how come yuh don’t tell me so, and hush up? Walter can’t tell me nothin’ uh de kind. Ah’m uh educated man, Ah keeps mah arrangements in mah hands, and if it kept me up all night long studyin’ ’bout it, Walter ain’t liable tuh be no help to me. Ah needs uh man lak you.” “And then agin, Lige, Ah’m gointuh tell yuh. Ah’m goin- tuh run dis conversation from uh gnat heel to uh lice. It’s nature dat keeps uh man off of uh red-hot stove.” “Uuh huuh! Ah knowed you would going tuh crawl up in dat holler! But Ah aims tuh smoke yuh right out. ’Tain’t no nature at all, it’s caution, Sam.” “’Tain’t no sich uh thing! Nature tells yuh not tuh fool wid no red-hot stove, and you don’t do it neither.” “Listen, Sam, if it was nature, nobody wouldn’t have tuh look out for babies touchin’ stoves, would they? ’Cause dey just naturally wouldn’t touch it. But dey sho will. So it’s cau- tion.” “Naw it ain’t, it’s nature, cause nature makes caution. It’s de strongest thing dat God ever made, now. Fact is it’s de onliest thing God ever made. He made nature and nature made everything else.” “Naw nature didn’t neither. A whole heap of things ain’t even been made yit.” “Tell me somethin’ you know of dat nature ain’t made.” “She ain’t made it so you kin ride uh butt-headed cow and hold on tuh de horns.” “Yeah, but dat ain’t yo’ point.” “Yeah it is too.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 77 “Naw it ain’t neither.” “Well what is mah point?” “You ain’t got none, so far.” “Yeah he is too,” Walter cut in. “De red-hot stove is his point.” “He know mighty much, but he ain’t proved it yit.” “Sam, Ah say it’s caution, not nature dat keeps folks off uh red-hot stove.”


enough. When it was over, I flew down the stairs to my mother’s side. It was clear she was mortally wounded. Her face had become stark white, and there was blood everywhere. It soaked into my nightgown as I screamed at Ricky to call for help. “Help us! Please!” The knife remained in Ricky’s grip. He stared at it in disbelief for a moment before looking directly at me and my dying mother. “I-I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to--” “Get out,” I said, my voice a ragged whisper. “It’s true, Ginny. You have to believe me.” “Get out!” I said again, this time in a roar borne of pain, anger, and fear. Ricky dropped the knife and fled out the front door and into the dark night. A minute after he left, so, too, did my mother. I was holding her hand when I felt the last flicker of her pulse. I kept holding it even as the skin grew cold, not knowing what else to do. My parents were dead. My child was gone. The man I had once loved but didn’t any longer had fled. How is one supposed to carry on when they have nothing left? The only thing that pulled me away from my mother’s corpse was the knife that killed her. Still on the foyer floor, it caught the light in a way that felt like a taunt. “Use me,” it seemed to say. “That’s what you need to do now. Here’s your way out.” I went to it, picked it up, and considered driving it into my heart. I stopped myself before I could do so, worried that once the blade entered my chest, there’d be no heart left for it to pierce. Instead, I walked out to the terrace, buffeted by the wind and driving rain, and threw the knife into the ocean. Something capable of such violence deserved to be in a place where no one could find it. Yet I still wanted to end my life. No, that’s not quite it. I felt like I had to end my life. To me, it already seemed over. All those hopes and dreams I’d held close to my heart had gone with everything else. In their place was a dark void from which I never thought I’d escape. My body might have been alive, but my soul was dead. The quickest and easiest thing to do would have been throwing myself off the terrace. But then I’d be as lost as the knife I’d just tossed into the waves. I wanted to be found, so people would understand the depths of my despair. I decided to go to the garage, where I knew rope was stored. I grabbed a long loop of it and carried it back inside, to the ballroom. I chose that room because it seemed the most like myself. Lovely, yes, but also empty and neglected. In the kitchen, I heard Lenora on the phone, frantically calling the police. I should have considered how the night’s events would affect her.


amazed, myself, at the spirit I had still in reserve, and therefore perhaps a trifle the more disconcerted at the way in which, in spite of this fine example of it, she hesitated. "There's one thing, of course," I went on: "they mustn't, before she goes, see each other for three seconds." Then it came over me that, in spite of Flora's presumable sequestration from the instant of her return from the pool, it might already be too late. "Do you mean," I anxiously asked, "that they HAVE met?" At this she quite flushed. "Ah, miss, I'm not such a fool as that! If I've been obliged to leave her three or four times, it has been each time with one of the maids, and at present, though she's alone, she's locked in safe. And yet--and yet!" There were too many things. "And yet what?" "Well, are you so sure of the little gentleman?" "I'm not sure of anything but YOU. But I have, since last evening, a new hope. I think he wants to give me an opening. I do believe that--poor little exquisite wretch!--he wants to speak. Last evening, in the firelight and the silence, he sat with me for two hours as if it were just coming." Mrs. Grose looked hard, through the window, at the gray, gathering day. "And did it come?" "No, though I waited and waited, I confess it didn't, and it was without a breach of the silence or so much as a faint allusion to his sister's condition and absence that we at last kissed for good night. All the same," I continued, "I can't, if her uncle sees her, consent to his seeing her brother without my having given the boy-- and most of all because things have got so bad--a little more time." My friend appeared on this ground more reluctant than I could quite understand. "What do you mean by more time?" "Well, a day or two--really to bring it out. He'll then be on MY side--of which you see the importance. If nothing comes, I shall only fail, and you will, at the worst, have helped me by doing, on your arrival in town, whatever you may have found possible." So I put it before her, but she continued for a little so inscrutably embarrassed that I came again to her aid. "Unless, indeed," I wound up, "you really want NOT to go." I could see it, in her face, at last clear itself; she put out her hand to me as a pledge. "I'll go--I'll go. I'll go this morning." I wanted to be very just. "If you SHOULD wish still to wait, I would engage she shouldn't see me." "No, no: it's the place itself. She must leave it." She held me a moment with heavy eyes, then brought out the rest. "Your idea's the right one. I myself, miss--" "Well?" "I can't stay." The look she gave me with it made me jump at possibilities. "You mean that, since yesterday, you HAVE seen--?" She shook her head


a most disturbing influence, and, if shown to be a fact, comes with fearful and startling effect on minds of the trim, orderly, and limit-loving class, in which we find our little country-girl. Dispositions more boldly speculative may derive a stern enjoyment from the discovery, since there must be evil in the world, that a high man is as likely to grasp his share of it as a low one. A wider scope of view, and a deeper insight, may see rank, dignity, and station, all proved illusory, so far as regards their claim to human reverence, and yet not feel as if the universe were thereby tumbled headlong into chaos. But Phoebe, in order to keep the universe in its old place, was fain to smother, in some degree, her own intuitions as to Judge Pyncheon's character. And as for her cousin's testimony in disparagement of it, she concluded that Hepzibah's judgment was embittered by one of those family feuds which render hatred the more deadly by the dead and corrupted love that they intermingle with its native poison. IX Clifford and Phoebe TRULY was there something high, generous, and noble in the native composition of our poor old Hepzibah! Or else,--and it was quite as probably the case,--she had been enriched by poverty, developed by sorrow, elevated by the strong and solitary affection of her life, and thus endowed with heroism, which never could have characterized her in what are called happier circumstances. Through dreary years Hepzibah had looked forward--for the most part despairingly, never with any confidence of hope, but always with the feeling that it was her brightest possibility--to the very position in which she now found herself. In her own behalf, she had asked nothing of Providence but the opportunity of devoting herself to this brother, whom she had so loved,--so admired for what he was, or might have been, --and to whom she had kept her faith, alone of all the world, wholly, unfalteringly, at every instant, and throughout life. And here, in his late decline, the lost one had come back out of his long and strange misfortune, and was thrown on her sympathy, as it seemed, not merely for the bread of his physical existence, but for everything that should keep him morally alive. She had responded to the call. She had come forward,--our poor, gaunt Hepzibah, in her rusty silks, with her rigid joints, and the sad perversity of her scowl,-- ready to do her utmost; and with affection enough, if that were all, to do a hundred times as much! There could be few more tearful sights,--and Heaven forgive us if a smile insist on mingling with our conception of it!--few sights with truer pathos in them, than Hepzibah presented on that first afternoon. How patiently did she endeavor to wrap Clifford up in her great, warm love, and make it all the world to him, so that he should retain no torturing sense of the coldness and dreariness without! Her little efforts to amuse him! How pitiful, yet magnanimous, they were!


Cambridge?” I don’t want him to, obviously. But he could almost certainly get in, so why wouldn’t he try? Bradley rolls his eyes. The sun is low and the windows in this room are massive, so he looks like the human embodiment of whiskey and woods and an ancient sepia Instagram filter. It’s honestly atrocious. “Why would I?” he asks. “Just to spend another three years being the only Black kid in the room?” I scowl. “Hello, I’m literally sitting right here.” “Hello, it’s a turn of phrase. There are six of us in the entire year. What, do you like that or something?” “I’d like it better if there were five.” The worst thing about being a minority is occasionally needing to back Bradley up in public. Like that time last year when someone from a rival school said something vile to him during a football tournament and I had to throw a bottle of Coke at the guy (as a matter of principle). “Nothing changes if we don’t make it change.” “It’s not my job to change their minds,” he says, which is all right for him. He has a soon-to-be-successful scientist for an older sister, and his little brother, who’s signed to the Forest Academy, will probably end up playing for England at the World Cup or some such rubbish, and both of their parents are useful human beings with a sense of duty and loyalty. Brad can afford to go to a second- or third-rate university and have a second- or third-rate career because he has a perfect family and zero single-parent pressure and no shitty absent father to shame into oblivion. My older sister swears up and down she’s going to be the next Georgia O’Keeffe, but who knows how long that’ll take? Until then, I’m the only one who can prove our worth. I’m the only one who can pay Mum back for years of blood and sweat. (Bangura women don’t do tears.) But all I say is “Hmm,” and then I focus on my textbook. “Hmm?” he repeats. “What’s hmm?” As if I’m about to explain. I needle him instead. “You don’t think you could get in?” He scoffs at the ceiling. “Of course I could get in—” “Well, it’s not exactly of course, is it?” “If you can get in, I can get in,” he says stonily. “We got the same grades last year.” “Almost,” I correct lightly. Like I said, our mums are best friends, so I know exactly what marks Bradley got last year. And I know mine were better. Clearly, he knows it, too, if his stormy expression is anything to go by. Good. He can take his shiny new friends and his star position on the football team; I’ll take my average exam score of 98.5. He left me behind in the hellhole that is secondary school, but when it comes to real life—when it comes to the future, when it comes to success—I’m leaving him in the dust. “Celine,” Sonam says, nudging my shoulder. It’s a surprise, when I


stands beyond the reach of the in-blown rain. As Calaphas arrives, this agitated specimen expresses his impatience with obscenities. His nose is bandaged, bruises extending under his eyes. “Where the hell’s your car? No one said you’d walk in.” “I had dinner nearby. This kind of weather invigorates me.” “You was supposed to be here at nine o’clock.” “Isn’t it nine?” Calaphas asks. “You’re twenty-five minutes late.” “Really? That much?” “You didn’t call or nothin’.” “Like I said, I was at dinner.” “You don’t have no watch?” “A quite good one,” Calaphas says, pulling his coat sleeve up to reveal a gold Rolex. “It was my brother’s. His widow wanted me to have it, to remember him by.” The man answers that with a hard stare, as if he has killed people for less than being late for an appointment. “You kept us waitin’.” “After dessert and coffee, I had a good port. You know how it is with port—you want to savor it. You don’t just slug it down.” Exasperated, the man repeats, “You kept us waitin’.” “And who might you be?” “Santana. Woodbine’s bein’ pissed off in his apartment. Harris, too. They been here since eight thirty.” “Then why are we chatting and making them wait even longer?” After considering Calaphas in silence for a moment, Santana says, “Somethin’ wrong with you?” “How do you mean?” “How do I mean?” “If you’re asking if I’m ill, the answer is no. If you’re asking if I’ve had too much to drink, I haven’t. But maybe you’re implying something else.” After another silence, Santana says, “I see you now.” “Do you?” “Real clear.” “Because I could always administer a vision test.” As Santana goes to a control box mounted on the wall and puts down the big roll-up, Durand considers a glass-walled cubicle with a sign above its door that reads VALET. Against the back wall of that space is a pegboard on which only a few electronic keys hang. As an experienced player, he often notices things that seem mundane but that eventually prove to be essential to a winning strategy. Santana opens an interior door, and Calaphas follows him into a vestibule. “Leave your raincoat. Don’t go drippin’ all over the place.” As they proceed along a hallway toward the lobby at the front of the building, Santana speaks a name and says, “Know who that is?” “He’s a United States senator.” Santana mentions another name. Calaphas says, “Investment fund boss. Oversees trillions.” The third name is Katherine Ormond-Wattley, the director of the ISA, to whom Calaphas answers if he answers to anyone. “Them three,” Santana says, “is so tight with Woodbine they’re Siamese twins.” “Four twins.” “You get what I’m sayin’?” “With some effort.” “Get it outta your head how Woodbine’s just some mouthpiece you can keep waitin’ while you have port. I don’t work for no pocket-change pussy. The man is on the ladder, not just on it, high up.” “Good for him. Good for you. Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day, that’s all.” Although of


of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the road, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, who heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly understood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his own condition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he reached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him had occasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While he said this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was still bleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formed some handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of the blood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was at two leagues' distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how Valancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When he mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would not suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had no doubt he should be able to support himself very well; and then he talked of the accident as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned with Valancourt's horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now revived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu. St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by this accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained his unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for society; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude. I determined, therefore, since my object was merely amusement, to change the scene; and I took this road, because I knew it led through a more romantic tract of mountains than the spot I have left. Besides,' added he, hesitating for an instant, 'I will own, and why should I not? that I had some hope of overtaking you.' 'And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,' said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced the accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt seemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, still struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt particularly addressed her, and there was at those times a tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much. They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could distinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way


I didn't tell you, but I made sure." She breathed a vague relief: this was, oddly, so much to the good. It only went indeed a little way. "But if he isn't a gentleman--" "What IS he? He's a horror." "A horror?" "He's--God help me if I know WHAT he is!" Mrs. Grose looked round once more; she fixed her eyes on the duskier distance, then, pulling herself together, turned to me with abrupt inconsequence. "It's time we should be at church." "Oh, I'm not fit for church!" "Won't it do you good?" "It won't do THEM--! I nodded at the house. "The children?" "I can't leave them now." "You're afraid--?" I spoke boldly. "I'm afraid of HIM." Mrs. Grose's large face showed me, at this, for the first time, the faraway faint glimmer of a consciousness more acute: I somehow made out in it the delayed dawn of an idea I myself had not given her and that was as yet quite obscure to me. It comes back to me that I thought instantly of this as something I could get from her; and I felt it to be connected with the desire she presently showed to know more. "When was it--on the tower?" "About the middle of the month. At this same hour." "Almost at dark," said Mrs. Grose. "Oh, no, not nearly. I saw him as I see you." "Then how did he get in?" "And how did he get out?" I laughed. "I had no opportunity to ask him! This evening, you see," I pursued, "he has not been able to get in." "He only peeps?" "I hope it will be confined to that!" She had now let go my hand; she turned away a little. I waited an instant; then I brought out: "Go to church. Goodbye. I must watch." Slowly she faced me again. "Do you fear for them?" We met in another long look. "Don't YOU?" Instead of answering she came nearer to the window and, for a minute, applied her face to the glass. "You see how he could see," I meanwhile went on. She didn't move. "How long was he here?" "Till I came out. I came to meet him." Mrs. Grose at last turned round, and there was still more in her face. "_I_ couldn't have come out." "Neither could I!" I laughed again. "But I did come. I have my duty." "So have I mine," she replied; after which she added: "What is he like?" "I've been dying to tell you. But he's like nobody." "Nobody?" she echoed. "He has no hat." Then seeing in her face that she already, in this, with a deeper dismay, found a touch of picture, I quickly added stroke to stroke. "He has red hair, very red, close-curling, and a pale face, long in shape, with straight, good features and little, rather queer whiskers that are as red as his hair. His eyebrows are, somehow, darker; they look particularly arched and as if they might move a good deal. His eyes are sharp, strange--awfully; but


and staring that she thought they must ache over their own bareness. The floor was bare, too, except for a round braided mat in the middle such as Anne had never seen before. In one corner was the bed, a high, old-fashioned one, with four dark, lowturned posts. In the other corner was the aforesaid threecorner table adorned with a fat, red velvet pincushion hard enough to turn the point of the most adventurous pin. Above it hung a little six by eight mirror. Midway between table and bed was the window, with an icy white muslin frill over it, and opposite it was the wash-stand. The whole apartment was of a rigidity not to be described in words, but which sent a shiver to the very marrow of Anne's bones. With a sob she hastily discarded her garments, put on the skimpy nightgown and sprang into bed where she burrowed face downward into the pillow and pulled the clothes over her head. When Marilla came up for the light various skimpy articles of raiment scattered most untidily over the floor and a certain tempestuous appearance of the bed were the only indications of any presence save her own. She deliberately picked up Anne's clothes, placed them neatly on a prim yellow chair, and then, taking up the candle, went over to the bed. "Good night," she said, a little awkwardly, but not unkindly. Anne's white face and big eyes appeared over the bedclothes with a startling suddenness. "How can you call it a GOOD night when you know it must be the very worst night I've ever had?" she said reproachfully. Then she dived down into invisibility again. Marilla went slowly down to the kitchen and proceeded to wash the supper dishes. Matthew was smoking-a sure sign of perturbation of mind. He seldom smoked, for Marilla set her face against it as a filthy habit; but at certain times and seasons he felt driven to it and them Marilla winked at the practice, realizing that a mere man must have some vent for his emotions. "Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish," she said wrathfully. "This is what comes of sending word instead of going ourselves. Robert Spencer's folks have twisted that message somehow. One of us will have to drive over and see Mrs. Spencer tomorrow, that's certain. This girl will have to be sent back to the asylum." "Yes, I suppose so," said Matthew reluctantly. "You SUPPOSE so! Don't you know it?" "Well now, she's a real nice little thing, Marilla. It's kind of a pity to send her back when she's so set on staying here." "Matthew Cuthbert, you don't mean to say you think we ought to keep her!" Marilla's astonishment could not have been greater if Matthew had expressed a predilection for standing on his head. "Well, now, no, I suppose not-not exactly," stammered Matthew, uncomfortably driven into a corner for his precise meaning. "I suppose-we could hardly be expected to keep her." "I should say not. What good would she be to us?" "We


what you came here to say. We did not get off to the best start and now you’re here in my apartment and I’m all kinds of fucked up. Just…get to it. Please.” “I wanted to make a deal.” “If it’s a plea deal, you’re talking to the wrong guy.” “It’s not a plea deal,” she snaps, but she looks brittle and maybe even scared. “If it’s a sex deal I’m not interested in that either.” “You made that clear, thank you.” “Well, sorry. Now I’m just being an asshole because I feel like hell. Come on, Ms. Denton. What’ve you got?” “I know something you probably want to hear. I want—I wanted something in exchange.” “What’s my end?” “I wanted you to train me.” She turns her head away. “To fight whom?” Zoegar the grammar freak would be pleased with himself. “An opponent bigger and stronger and heavier than I am. In a confined space.” “But now you look at me and you’re not sure.” “Someone messed you up pretty good, Mr. Sounder.” “I got shot.” “That was before. When you came to Victor’s.” “Marcus told you?” She stares at me. “Are you kidding? Everyone knows that. Victor ran the security footage over dessert. It was basically the first thing I saw after I got the lipstick out of my eyes.” “Gee, thanks, Vic.” “I guess you guys are friends or something. I feel kind of stupid for what happened.” “Yeah, you ought to. More than stupid. That was some coercive shit.” “I know.” “You’re fucking lucky Victor didn’t just cancel your subscription.” “She never has before.” That’s a surprise, sort of. Maybe they’ve been escalating. Maybe Victor’s getting a little bit less picky in her old age. I hope not. The club runs on a high wire between vice and horror, and she’s what keeps it up there. If she slips, it’ll get really bad. “How long have you been going?” “A few months. Mac got us in. Business thing.” “What you tried on me…If that’s your jam I’m not teaching you shit.” The brittle look again. “It’s not. Who did this to you?” I tell her the truth. “Stefan.” For a cold minute, I swear, she’s about to ask “Stefan who?” and then she gets it. “You fought Stefan Tonfamecasca?” “No.” “But you said—” “He laughed at me, Ms. Denton. He got right up in my face and he laughed hard enough to cause bruising. That’s the track you’re chasing so hard. That’s what it means that we have Titans in the world. It has nothing to do with your aerobicised ass muscles, however great they are. A four-dose Titan isn’t just a big guy with a nine-figure bank account. When they talk about the speciation rich that’s not a political metaphor. It’s just the truth.” “So they’re unbeatable.” “No. Titans fight at Victor’s from time to time. Sometimes they lose. First-dosers, mostly. You want to beat a Titan like Stefan, you drop him in the lake without a breather pack.” “What?” I shrug. “Titans past the second dose


and laughing heartily. Without presuming to give my opinion on this question, I delivered my message. 'Well,' said Mr. Dick, in answer, 'my compliments to her, and I - I believe I have made a start. I think I have made a start,' said Mr. Dick, passing his hand among his grey hair, and casting anything but a confident look at his manuscript. 'You have been to school?' 'Yes, sir,' I answered; 'for a short time.' 'Do you recollect the date,' said Mr. Dick, looking earnestly at me, and taking up his pen to note it down, 'when King Charles the First had his head cut off?' I said I believed it happened in the year sixteen hundred and forty-nine. 'Well,' returned Mr. Dick, scratching his ear with his pen, and looking dubiously at me. 'So the books say; but I don't see how that can be. Because, if it was so long ago, how could the people about him have made that mistake of putting some of the trouble out of his head, after it was taken off, into mine?' I was very much surprised by the inquiry; but could give no information on this point. 'It's very strange,' said Mr. Dick, with a despondent look upon his papers, and with his hand among his hair again, 'that I never can get that quite right. I never can make that perfectly clear. But no matter, no matter!' he said cheerfully, and rousing himself, 'there's time enough! My compliments to Miss Trotwood, I am getting on very well indeed.' I was going away, when he directed my attention to the kite. 'What do you think of that for a kite?' he said. I answered that it was a beautiful one. I should think it must have been as much as seven feet high. 'I made it. We'll go and fly it, you and I,' said Mr. Dick. 'Do you see this?' He showed me that it was covered with manuscript, very closely and laboriously written; but so plainly, that as I looked along the lines, I thought I saw some allusion to King Charles the First's head again, in one or two places. 'There's plenty of string,' said Mr. Dick, 'and when it flies high, it takes the facts a long way. That's my manner of diffusing 'em. I don't know where they may come down. It's according to circumstances, and the wind, and so forth; but I take my chance of that.' His face was so very mild and pleasant, and had something so reverend in it, though it was hale and hearty, that I was not sure but that he was having a good-humoured jest with me. So I laughed, and he laughed, and we parted the best friends possible. 'Well, child,' said my aunt, when I went downstairs. 'And what of Mr. Dick, this morning?' I informed her that he sent his compliments, and was getting on very well indeed. 'What do you think of him?' said my aunt. I had some shadowy idea of endeavouring to evade the


here or within the palace walls,” he says. “Do you understand?” Miss Zhao and I nod. Poppy is somewhere, already unpacking our trunks. “Those of us who run the lodge not only select doctors, midwives, and wet nurses to serve in the Forbidden City but also dispatch punishment,” he continues. I keep my eyes lowered out of respect and because I’m afraid I would stare too hard at the eunuch. My few dared glimpses show me he matches the descriptions I’ve heard whispered about his kind. Without his three precious things, his voice is high. Although Lin Ta is tall and thin, his flesh hangs loose on his face and his opulent robes can’t hide the layer of fat that droops from his waist as though he were a woman who has reached sitting-quietly days. “Do not steal,” he intones. “Do not lie. Do not gossip. Do not think too highly of yourself.” Miss Zhao and I don’t say a word. “Most important,” he goes on, “do nothing that might inflame or arouse undesirable emotions in the ladies of the imperial household—” “We would not do that.” I’m not accustomed to being spoken to in such a dismissive manner, and the words have flown from my mouth before I could stop them. Lin Ta ignores my outburst. “Punishments include expulsion from the palace, flogging, and beheading. Your family will be required to pay restitution, as well as reimburse the palace for all expenses accrued during your visit to the capital—whether you are dead or alive.” He looks us over. “You are protected here, so your bodyguards will remain on your boat until I receive the order to send you back to Wuxi. Do you have any questions?” Miss Zhao and I shake our heads. “Tonight I will send food to your room,” he says. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll be taken to the Great Within—those rooms in the palace reserved exclusively for women. Please dress appropriately. Now follow me.” I’ve been told that eunuchs have a peculiar walk that makes them recognizable even from a great distance. This turns out to be true. Lin Ta leans slightly forward. He keeps his thighs close together as he takes short, choppy steps, with his toes turned outward. We women trail an aroma from our feet. Lin Ta smells of leaking urine. Once he sees us to our room and closes the door behind him, Miss Zhao whispers, “I’ve heard that the Great Within has the largest private gathering of women anywhere in the world. The empress, the ladies of the royal family, and thousands of concubines all serve the Imperial Presence. The spoutless teapots guarantee that any child born in the Great Within is the emperor’s alone.” “I’ll never be as informed as you, Miss Zhao, but please don’t repeat the words spoutless teapot again. Or tailless dog. Even I know these are the worst things you can call those creatures. Maoren says eunuchs are powerful—” “They are watchdogs and spies!” “So refrain from using either epithet while we’re here as we don’t know the punishment


would spread throughout Liquilid vessels, cascading from one system to another. The Liquilid Empire, caught off guard by this unforeseen phenomenon, would struggle to regain control of their, our, ships. The destabilization of our energy fields would lead to catastrophic power surges, crippling vital systems, including propulsion, weapons, and shields. With our technology compromised and ships in disarray, our Liquilid forces would be left defenseless against any subsequent human warships’ onslaught.” “Well put, #5 … Well put indeed. This information may be of use to me … We shall see. For now, you shall be rewarded with a ration of a Billet’s hindquarters.” In truth, #5 might have just handed Lu-puk a promotion and a means of getting off this desolate rock post once and for all. A sudden, all-too-familiar tingle flared within his head, an indication that Admiral Plu-tik would soon, all too obtrusively, be entering his mind. Admiral Plu-tik said, “You have failed me for the last time, Commander Lu-puk.” And there he was, the arrogant gas bag, his smug expression in need of a little payback. Ignoring the reprimand, Lu-puk dove right in, “Ah … Admiral, you have contacted me at a very important juncture. If I might speak freely,” Lu-puk said, stealing from #5’s recent phrasing, “You are on the verge of making a mistake of epic proportions. One, I fear your vaunted career would not survive.” “You dare speak to me in such a manner? I will have you torn limb from limb and fed to—” “If you do not wish to learn of the humans’ secret weapon, a weapon that will, most assuredly, destroy all of your approaching, valued red ships … then by all means, give that order.” The admiral, momentarily quelled, gestured with a modestly interested wave of a claw, and said, “You best mind your words carefully, Commander.” “I am but a mere servant of the Liquilid Empire … and I have only the best of intentions here. But I do fear ignoring my input would be nothing less than catastrophic.” “I already said, proceed. You don’t want to test my patience.” “You are aware of how, specifically, the humans prevailed, yes?” The admiral smirked. “Your not unexpected incompetence, of course.” “No. It was the use of ingeniously directed, modified EMP discharges. Discharges that immobilized not only our advanced Slisset nanite constructs, but also our frigate warships. Augmented with resonance emissions, this proved to be the turning point in the battle. All of which, as you know, has led to a number of immobilized Liquilid Empire assets. But Admiral, there is an unexpected silver lining here, for you … for us.” “I don’t see how losing valued frigate assets—” “Come, come, Admiral … This unexpected scientific phenomenon, this weapon, has already unleashed chaos within our ranks, has allowed these humans to seize an advantage. We may not want to admit it, but even a minor victory here could lead to an even bigger victory right here in our own backyard. One that could be repeated with our, your, red ship armada. Do we


her abdomen. She found her voice and called weakly, ‘Dad…?’ Florence sank onto the top step and listened to the continued snoring. Dave was fast asleep. She thought for a moment; his leg wasn’t properly recovered, so driving might be difficult. Florence knew there was only one person she wanted with her now. She moved slowly back to her bedroom and perched on the end of her bed, reaching for the phone and pressing a button. A voice spoke to her almost immediately, and she whispered, ‘Adam. It’s started. The baby’s coming.’ ‘How often are the contractions?’ Adam was calm, his tone steady. ‘I don’t know. But they are coming fast.’ ‘I’m on my way.’ ‘My bag’s packed in the hall, I’m ready to go.’ ‘This is it, then,’ Adam murmured. ‘I’ll be with you in minutes.’ ‘Thanks…’ Florence said, then another wave of pain came and she groaned. She closed her eyes: this was it. Her baby would be in her arms soon. Florence was cold, her skin prickled but she felt something akin to relief and resignation. An hour later, Florence leaned against Adam in a small room in the hospital as the contractions came and went. A cheery midwife stood next to them, smiling confidently, hands on her hips. ‘Right, Florence – all is going just as it should. Baby’s heartbeat is good – you’re not fully dilated yet, so I’ll be back in a while to see how your labour is progressing. We’ve some time to go yet, but you’re doing really well. Walk about if you can, or find a comfortable position on the bed.’ ‘What about pain relief?’ Adam asked anxiously as Florence gripped his sweatshirt in her fist, twisting the material. ‘I’m all right for now…’ Florence muttered. ‘We’ll keep an eye on it.’ The midwife winked. ‘Don’t worry, Dad – Mum’s doing fine.’ Adam watched the midwife leave. ‘She thinks I’m the baby’s father…’ ‘I wish you were…’ Florence blurted without thinking. ‘It makes me so cross…’ She leaned against Adam and they moved to sit at the edge of the bed. ‘What makes you cross?’ ‘Fatherhood. Mothers have all the stress. The man who made me pregnant – his contribution was so short…’ Florence groaned again and Adam put a hand to her brow to soothe her. ‘Do you want to lie down?’ ‘I’ll try; I’ll see how I feel,’ Florence panted, rolling onto the bed, curling on her side. ‘I want to tell you what happened…’ Adam took her hand. ‘Only if you feel all right about it.’ Florence frowned. ‘I was stupid. I can’t believe how stupid I was.’ Adam sighed. ‘Everyone makes mistakes.’ Florence groaned and shifted uncomfortably. ‘But my mistake will be with me for the rest of my life. I don’t mean the baby – I’m so pleased that I’m going to be a mum – but the shame of it. I won’t name the father on the birth certificate – he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve anything.’ Adam squeezed her hand. ‘He doesn’t matter.’ Florence wriggled


of comfort. 24 REAL LIFE Thursday WE SIT WITH our toes in the icy water and eat the cheese, fruit, and bread we brought from home. We doze in the sun and watch the clouds drift. Afterward we hike along the pine-needle-dusted trail in the woods, moss and ferns all glistening with dew, the ground soft and hollow. Cleo seems to have entirely let the moment of tension go, but Sabrina’s uncommonly quiet and keeps stalling toward the back of the pack as we walk. Every time I slow down to walk with her, though, she seems to speed up and chime in on whatever conversation the others are having. When we get back to the shore, we’re not ready to leave, so we stretch out along the red-brown rocks, watching birds dive toward the whitecaps in the distance. “What’s one tiny thing you’ll miss about these trips?” Cleo asks. “The Warm Cup,” Parth says. “I love walking down to get coffee while it’s still cool and gray out and the streets are empty. And Sab and I are both totally silent because we haven’t had caffeine yet, but it’s nice. At home we’re always rushing in the morning.” “I’ll miss that too,” Kimmy says. “And sitting on the bench next to the walk-up window, petting all the dogs that come past. And all the junk shops and yard sales. Every time I come here, I end up trying to convince Cleo to rent a U-Haul to drive back.” “A garden filled with lobster traps has a different aesthetic effect in upstate New York,” Cleo says. “Yeah, but we could at least cover our walls with wood-burned signs that say Wicked Pissah.” “Well, now we know what to get you for your birthday,” I say. “Should we all get wicked pissah tattoos?” Parth jokes. “We can do better than that,” Sabrina says. “Giant lobsters,” Wyn puts in. “Mermaids that look like Bratz dolls,” I suggest. “I’ll come up with something.” Sabrina props her chin in one hand, the other fluttering through the shallow water. “What’s something you’ll miss, Harry?” Cleo asks. “Something small.” I say, “Seeing everyone so happy together.” Cleo bats her hand against my leg. “Something for you.” I think some more. “I guess . . . going to sleep.” Parth bursts into laughter. “I’m serious!” I cry. “Your favorite part,” Sabrina says, “of this amazing trip I planned for us . . . is going to sleep.” “No.” I toss a seashell shard toward the sparkling lip of the tide. “It’s going to sleep so tired, in a good way. Feeling content and exhausted and relaxed, but also excited to wake up and still be here.” I catch Wyn’s eyes and look away. “It feels like nothing can go too wrong here. At least once you’re off Ray’s airplane.” Sabrina grabs my hand a little too hard, then lets go on a sigh. “I’ll miss that too. Hell, I’ll even miss Ray.” “I’ll miss Bernie’s,” Cleo says. “Even though it gave you a phantom hangover?” Wyn asks. “For all


on her journey, or to provide a satisfying B-story arc—but rarely are they there to become stars in their own right. We never had a good answer to this, but the more people asked, the more we realized we really needed one; saying “Never say never” didn’t fly with many of you. And then, one day, the right idea appeared. It probably didn’t happen like a light bulb going on, but in hindsight it feels a little like that, like the beginning of Fizzy’s story just popped up in a conversation between the two of us: she had lost her joy, and finds it again in the most unlikely place—with a man who evades all of her attempts to slap a convenient label on him, who sees her many layers and depths, and who finds his own joy in her infectious exuberance. To be clear, if we had planned on writing a romance author as a main character from the get-go, we would have probably created Fizzy a bit differently in The Soulmate Equation. Romance authors are, to put it bluntly, given a lot of shit for what we do. We get asked in interviews whether we are writing our fantasies; we get asked what our fathers and husbands think of our careers; we get asked if we’ve done everything we describe in our books. So, for obvious reasons, we struggled at first to know how much to lean in to Fizzy’s sex-positivity and exuberant dating life. We didn’t want to play into those outside stereotypes. But it turns out that it was as easy as typing the word Prologue. Fizzy flowed out of us like we were exhaling. It meant that the real trouble blindsided us: What hero could possibly deserve her? It took a while to find Connor in the pages. He’s a quieter hero, a sturdy, bedrock presence. We wrote him in layers, carefully carving him into the story with each passing revision until he was as fully formed and dimensional as was our bold and bright Fizzy. And tonight, as we read it through one last time before it goes to press, we think it is the best thing we’ve ever done. The True Love Experiment is the thirtieth book we’ve written together and is our love letter to romance and fandom and fangirls everywhere. And as always, although we write the words, it takes an enormous team of wonderful people working tirelessly behind the scenes to get it into your hands. Holly Root, our Diamond Match, we must always put you first. You found us in the slush pile almost exactly eleven years ago; twenty-nine published books later and we still stare at you with heart-eyes. You are wise and kind, funny and intuitive, ruthless and brilliant—perfect for us in all ways. Kristin Dwyer is our PR Rep, our Precious, our safe space. Thank you for getting our books into the world, for wearing dorky hats with us at Disneyland, and always being up for book tour hotel breakfast. Dracarys. Jen Prokop is one of the most


As a rule, he never left his shop. He waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in favor of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody. It was a pleasure even to see him. "What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled hands. "I thought I would do myself the honor of coming round in person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited for a religious picture, Mr. Gray." "I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. Ashton. I will certainly drop in and look at the frame,--though I don't go in much for religious art,--but to-day I only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men." "No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to you. Which is the work of art, sir?" "This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it, covering and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratched going up-stairs." "There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where shall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?" "I will show you the way, Mr. Ashton, if you will kindly follow me. Or perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider." He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of Mr. Ashton, who had a true tradesman's dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it so as to help them. "Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man, when they reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead. "A terrible load to carry," murmured Dorian, as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men. He had not entered the place for more than four years,--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, well- proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord Sherard for the use of the little nephew whom, being himself childless, and perhaps for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at


adult to me. I’d seen him around the Seam and at school. And one other time. He’d lost his father in the same blast that killed mine. In January, I’d stood by while he received his medal of valor in the Justice Building, another oldest child with no father. I remembered his two little brothers clutching his mother, a woman whose swollen belly announced she was just days away from giving birth. “What’s your name?” he said, coming over and disengaging the rabbit from the snare. He had another three hanging from his belt. “Katniss,” I said, barely audible. “Well, Catnip, stealing’s punishable by death, or hadn’t you heard?” he said. “Katniss,” I said louder. “And I wasn’t stealing it. I just wanted to look at your snare. Mine never catch anything.” He scowled at me, not convinced. “So where’d you get the squirrel?” “I shot it.” I pulled my bow off my shoulder. I was still using the small version my father had made me, but I’d been practic- ing with the full-size one when I could. I was hoping that by spring I might be able to bring down some bigger game. Gale’s eyes fastened on the bow. “Can I see that?” I handed it over. “Just remember, stealing’s punishable by death.” 110 That was the first time I ever saw him smile. It transformed him from someone menacing to someone you wished you knew. But it took several months before I returned that smile. We talked hunting then. I told him I might be able to get him a bow if he had something to trade. Not food. I wanted knowledge. I wanted to set my own snares that caught a belt of fat rabbits in one day. He agreed something might be worked out. As the seasons went by, we grudgingly began to share our knowledge, our weapons, our secret places that were thick with wild plums or turkeys. He taught me snares and fishing. I showed him what plants to eat and eventually gave him one of our precious bows. And then one day, without either of us saying it, we became a team. Dividing the work and the spoils. Making sure that both our families had food. Gale gave me a sense of security I’d lacked since my father’s death. His companionship replaced the long solitary hours in the woods. I became a much better hunter when I didn’t have to look over my shoulder constantly, when someone was watching my back. But he turned into so much more than a hunting partner. He became my confidante, someone with whom I could share thoughts I could never voice inside the fence. In exchange, he trusted me with his. Being out in the woods with Gale . . . sometimes I was actually happy. I call him my friend, but in the last year it’s seemed too ca- sual a word for what Gale is to me. A pang of longing shoots through my chest. If only he was with me now! But, of course, I don’t