in her household. As an imperial scholar, Grandfather also had an interest in medicine. Just as every wife must give her husband at least one son, it is a man’s duty to ensure the family line. The best way to accomplish this is to see that wives and concubines not only get pregnant and give birth but also survive. Grandfather, even as a young man, liked to read ancient medical texts. When he served as Grand Master for Governance, he worked in the secondary capital of Nanjing, where he was an official on the Board of Punishments. He continued his personal studies even as he spent years away from home, traveling to perform his duties—just as my father might if he passes the next level of imperial exams. When Grandfather returned from his years in Nanjing, he was recognized as a ming yi—a “famous doctor”—in the tradition of literati physicians. His learning comes from reading books; Grandmother Ru’s training comes from following her parents, who learned from their parents, who learned from their parents, and so on. “Then what do you suggest?” Grandfather asks. He is not just a man of distinction but also the headman of our clan. His word rules, and we are all to obey. That said, he respects Grandmother’s expertise and often follows her advice. “I’ll examine her first before I decide,” she answers. Grandfather nods slowly. “In a few days, Midwife Shi will come to see Lady Huang,” Grandmother adds. At this, Grandfather pauses and looks sternly at Grandmother. “You know I don’t approve of midwives.” When he turns to me, I know I’m about to be tested. “Tell me why.” I don’t want to answer, because whatever I say will irritate Grandmother. But what else can I do? “There is no place for the Three Aunties and Six Grannies in a gentry family’s home,” I recite, my head down so I don’t have to see Grandmother’s reaction. “And who are they?” he asks. I stare at my slippers, torn between the two people who care for me. A finger lifts my chin. Grandmother says, “Answer your grandfather.” “The Three Aunties are Buddhist nuns, Taoist nuns, and fortune-tellers. The Six Grannies are matchmakers, shamans, drug sellers, brokers, procuresses, and midwives.” I recite the list from memory without knowing what some of those on it are. “Respectable families don’t allow religious women into our homes because we follow Confucian ideals,” Grandfather says. “As for the others, they are snakes and scorpions to be avoided at all costs.” “Husband, you know perfectly well that—” “Beyond this,” Grandfather grumbles, “midwives are linked to wicked deeds like abortion and infanticide. Who hasn’t heard of the sort of midwife who, when confronted by a baby who refuses to leave the child palace, cuts off its arm so she might bring it into the world?” Grandmother shakes her head. “This happens on the rarest occasions and is done only to save a mother’s life—” “Their standing is further lowered,” Grandfather continues, “because they’re often called upon to check a woman’s virginity in court


my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!" He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words. Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire. "Do you receive much company?" he asked. "None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one else, I think." "Do you go out much in society?" "Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it." "That is unusual in a young girl." "She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is four-and-twenty." "This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her also." "Terrible! She is even more affected than I." "You have neither of you any doubt as to your son's guilt?" "How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in his hands." "I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the coronet at all injured?" "Yes, it was twisted." "Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten it?" "God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose were innocent, why did he not say so?" "Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular points about the case. What did the police think of the noise which awoke you from your sleep?" "They considered that it might be caused by Arthur's closing his bedroom door." "A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of these gems?" "They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in the hope of finding them." "Have they thought of looking outside the house?" "Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has already been minutely examined." "Now, my dear sir," said Holmes. "is it not obvious to you now that this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau, took out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it, went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then returned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed himself


the news all morning—another downside of being at home—before finally giving it a rest. There were no reports of what the search of Brody’s home yielded, and she wonders what Ethan might have found. Despite Brody’s confidence that he has nothing to hide. Remembering his strong body against hers in the cabin of his boat causes a ripple of revulsion through her core. How could she possibly have enjoyed being with such a creep? Brody texted her prepaid phone that morning with his new number and had kept the message brief. Too brief. The point of the secret communication was for him to alert her about the investigation—to Brody’s mind, so she could help him stay one step ahead of Ethan and the rest of Seattle Homicide. Now nothing. She called his new number a few hours ago, but it went to an automated voicemail. And Brody hasn’t returned her call. Her kettle whistles, drowning out her thoughts. She flicks off the stove and pours steaming water onto her tea bag at the bottom of her mug. Sloane watches the transformation and takes a breath. She has to convince Ethan what they have is still worth fighting for. Before it’s too late. After squeezing what’s left in her honey container into her tea, she goes to toss the tea-bag wrapper into the kitchen garbage. Seeing it is past overflowing, she grabs the bag and carries it to the garage. The concrete is cold against her bare feet as she glances at her dented Porsche and recalls the day Ethan told her with tears in his eyes that he had slept with his homicide partner. How he— A clang of metal clamoring against the concrete causes Sloane to whip around. The trash bag slips from her grip as Brody jumps out from behind the shelving against the wall. Chapter 36 Laughter erupts from the room at the end of the hallway as Ethan and Jonah follow the firefighter captain through Seattle Fire Station 29. Maybe I should’ve leaked the photos, Ethan thinks. Or at least given a damning statement against Carr to the media. But he couldn’t let his personal vendetta against Carr allow him to do something to jeopardize their case, or the safety of any of the girls in the photos. Jonah turns to Ethan. “My brother’s a firefighter. He only works like nine shifts a month. Sometimes I think I chose the wrong career path.” “Yeah, maybe.” Ethan nods, feeling a twist in his gut at the cascade of events that will occur once Jonah discovers Sloane is the woman on Carr’s security footage. Jonah has already set up a meeting with a judge first thing in the morning to get the warrant approved for the security cameras at Carr’s San Juan Island home. Ethan could warn Sloane. Have her ask Brody to get rid of it. But the thought of her contacting him again, asking him to destroy evidence, makes him sick. He could tell Sloane to come forward, which would look better than being found out, if Jonah


from his pocket; ``but perhaps you would like to read it.'' Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up. ``Read it aloud,'' said their father, ``for I hardly know myself what it is about.'' ``Gracechurch-street, Monday, August 2. MY DEAR BROTHER, At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet. It is enough to know they are discovered; I have seen them both --'' ``Then it is as I always hoped,'' cried Jane; ``they are married!'' Elizabeth read on: ``I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is required of you is to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which, considering every thing, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and, I am happy to say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore, stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as any thing more is determined on. Your's, &c. EDW. GARDINER.'' ``Is it possible!'' cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. -- ``Can it be possible that he will marry her?'' ``Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him!'' said her sister. ``My dear father, I congratulate you.'' ``And have you answered the letter?'' said Elizabeth. ``No; but it must be done soon.'' Most earnestly did she then intreat him to lose no more time before


and warm.” He paused. “As a kid, I had a horse named Rusty, who was pretty much my best friend growing up. When Rusty came down with colic one freezing winter night, my mother walked him around and around for hours until the emergency had passed. She knew I’d have been devastated if something had happened to him.” He paused and looked up at Marion. “Sorry. I haven’t talked about it in a while.” “Remember, no more apologies. And I understand. As I mentioned when we talked in the Roxy apartment, you were correct in your analysis of me. I did lose my mother, when I was seven. We have that in common.” “I was rude to bring that up without any warning.” “I appreciate that you walked it back so fast. But I’ve been wondering ever since, how did you know?” “The way you looked to Bunny for guidance. You tended to echo what she was doing, which made me think you hadn’t had a female role model growing up.” He paused. “How did it happen?” “She went up to Boston to take care of a sick friend. She was always doing things like that, baking muffins for the family down the block who’d just had a baby or sitting with someone’s grandparent who was ailing. My sister and I didn’t think twice about it, just carried on with our lives. Then one morning our dad sat us down and said that she’d been killed the night before. A driver hadn’t seen her as she was crossing the street.” They stared at each other a moment without talking, members of the same tragic club. Their food came, and Marion welcomed the interruption, the bustle of setting down plates and refilling water glasses. Enough talk of the past. For once Marion was hungry. She had to consciously slow down in order to not inhale the burger too quickly. “When did you decide to study premed?” asked Marion in between bites. “After my sophomore year. I wanted to see if I could help people who had the same kinds of illnesses as my mother.” “And do you find you’re able to do that?” She was fairly certain she already knew the answer. “Not at the moment, no. Not at Creedmoor. There, it’s all about medicating patients.” “Would that have worked for your mom?” she asked, wiping her hands on her napkin. “It might have helped. At least she would have stabilized, but it shouldn’t be a long-term solution.” Marion had been so young when her mother died that she hadn’t understood exactly what was happening. For weeks after, she expected Lucille to be waiting for her at home after school. Peter had been older, but that hadn’t made the loss any easier. “What do you want to do after your residency is over?” He let out a long breath. “There’s so much. I’d like to research and eventually publish articles about the role of mental illness in people who are considered indigent. Eventually I’d like to have my own practice, working with patients


“What should I do?” “Your first responsibility is to tell Lady Kuo.” When Miss Chen hesitates, I ask, “Would you like me to go with you?” She’s a smart one, and I can see her weighing what my offer might mean. From her perspective, she came to me, which is bound to upset Lady Kuo. I also gave the concubine a diagnosis when Lady Kuo has explicitly ordered me not to use my medical skills. Of the two of us, Miss Chen must think Lady Kuo’s anger will fall on me, because she says, “I would be honored and grateful for you to accompany me.” Early the next morning, Miss Chen meets me outside my room so we can go together to Lady Kuo’s chambers. My mother-in-law tries to hide her surprise when the two of us enter, but she remains silent as I pour her tea. Then I position myself next to Miss Chen. The concubine tucks her hands up her sleeves, and I do the same, so we look like a pair of matching puppets. “Miss Chen would like you to know that a resident is dwelling in her child palace,” I announce. My mother-in-law flushes. I suspect she’s angry. Before she can start to yell, I add news of my own. “I too am with child.” Lady Kuo startles. “You’re full with child?” She gives me a flinty look. “How do you know?” “I have not had my monthly moon water in three months.” “Three months!” She flushes another shade darker. “And you’re only just telling me?” “I wanted to be sure,” I say. Lady Kuo looks flustered. “Only one person determines who is pregnant in this household,” she says unsteadily, “and that is Doctor Wong.” She motions to Sparrow, her servant. “Send for him.” A shiver runs through me as I recall Grandmother warning me about the methods male doctors use to confirm this diagnosis. This is Miss Chen’s first child and she was not raised by physicians, so she must not be aware of the procedure, because she says, “I will do whatever is required.” Lady Kuo regards the concubine. “And how long have you kept your secret? Or have you already told my husband?” Next to me, Miss Chen sways ever so slightly. “Answer me!” Lady Kuo snaps. Tears well in the concubine’s eyes. I hold on to my elbows deep within my sleeves. Miss Chen may have thought my presence would benefit her, but I had read the situation differently and planned accordingly. I cannot say my motives were pure of heart. I wanted to put myself in a better light. My chance came a couple of weeks ago, when I first suspected that Miss Chen was pregnant. I just had to wait. I would not like to call myself devious, but I needed both to be sure of my own condition and to present the news in such a way that my mother-in-law might look kindly on me. Maybe kindly is the wrong word. I hoped Lady Kuo would be pleased to learn her


able to throw some light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down to us. 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


outside the tent and George Ledbury rushed in, his expression aghast. ‘Nadine… Nadine…’ Everyone turned to look at him. Penny Ledbury called out, ‘I’ve always said he thinks too much of that pig.’ ‘She won first prize in the Best Pet group.’ Andrew the vicar beamed happily. ‘I just pinned the rosette on her.’ ‘She’s gone…’ George gasped. ‘I went to the tent to collect my prize and Nadine’s disappeared.’ ‘With a bit of luck, she’s roasting on the barbecue,’ Penny smirked cruelly, but there was a glint of concern in her eye. ‘She’s not in the tent, where I left her…’ George cried again. ‘She won’t be far away,’ Cecily said kindly. ‘We should go and find her,’ Josie suggested. ‘She’s probably digging up someone’s flower bed,’ Gerald grunted. Margaret arranged her face to look shocked. ‘Someone please give me a hand.’ Cecily grasped the arm Lin offered gratefully. ‘We’ll all go together and search. Don’t worry, George – we’ll find Nadine. She can’t have gone far…’ The search party wandered around, past the drinks tent and the fortune teller, the stalls selling pies and cakes and jams, the craft stands, the New Age jewellery. George and Penny Ledbury tagged behind, talking animatedly about the pig, and with them Jimmy and Kenny, keeping their eyes peeled. They followed each other into the churchyard, where the birds tweeted, breaking the heavy silence. Josie passed Harry’s grave and pressed her fingers to her lips. The graveyard was quiet, a stillness hanging over it, as if filled with unspoken thoughts. There was no sign of Nadine. Josie led the way as they passed the willow tree. Jack Loveday was sitting there, strumming his guitar, singing to himself. Cecily paused. ‘Hello, Jack. I thought you were performing at the festival?’ ‘I’ve done my set…’ He beamed. ‘I’m practising some folk songs. I’ve got to learn “Scarborough Fair”, “The Cuckoo’s Nest” and “Matty Groves” by the weekend. I was chatting to a couple of the guys in Glyndŵr, the folk band that played this afternoon. Their guitarist is leaving and they asked me to join. They have gigs everywhere, all over the country.’ He met her eyes. ‘I’m just so pleased – it’s what I want.’ ‘And it’s richly deserved – I’m delighted.’ Cecily smiled, then she remembered. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen George’s pig?’ ‘Nadine? Not recently.’ Jack returned to playing chords, then he looked up again and sniffed the air. ‘But I can smell meat cooking.’ ‘I told you she’d end up on a hog roast,’ Penny gasped. ‘Oh, I hope not.’ She was concerned now and George’s face was distraught. ‘I can smell it too…’ George pointed towards the riverbank. ‘Over by the Cherwell.’ The party scurried forward as one before Lin stopped suddenly. ‘It’s coming from the Toomeys’ barge, and it’s definitely roasting pork.’ ‘Surely they wouldn’t hurt Nadine,’ Josie said. Jimmy chuckled. ‘The Toomeys kill rabbits and pheasants and fish to eat on their barge. Why not a pig?’ ‘That pig’s a lot of bacon…’ Kenny protested. ‘You’re all being silly.


press. You can’t turn on a local station without someone bringing up ‘Father John,’ and his resurrection from the swamp or something like that. I’ve seen pictures of the victims from way back when and now . . . now you can’t find him?” Montoya said, “We don’t know it’s the same—” “Are you kidding me?” she said, and actually stood. “Marianne,” Alan Thayer said reproachfully. “Please sit—” “What? Sit down and shut up? Well, no thank you, Alan. I want answers.” She jabbed a finger at the tabletop, her rings glittering under the harsh light, her bracelets jangling. “These people came into Dad’s house and practically accused him or me or Vince, here, of having something to do with Helene’s death.” She let out a huff, and as the attorney was still holding up his hand to silently ask her to sit, she plopped back into the chair. “We need answers.” “She’s right,” Hugo said. “The press have been camped outside the house and I’ve been contacted not just by friends but by other people on the board of two of the charities I’m attached to. They’re . . . Well, they’re uncomfortable having the Laroche name attached to them.” “Big surprise! You marry a psycho tramp, some kind of nympho, and it all comes out and what do you expect?” she asked, glaring at her father. Vincent said, “Marianne, just—” “Just what, Vince? Huh? Just shut up?” He cleared his throat and a little flush climbed up his neck. “I couldn’t hope for that,” he said, glancing at Montoya, “but let’s just hear what the detectives have to say.” Marianne rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard it and it hasn’t changed.” “Marianne,” her father intoned. “Oh, God, you’re all against me and that’s just crazy! We’re all on the same side.” Then she sent a scathing look at the detectives, indicating that they—the cops—were the enemy. Why was that? Bentz wondered as she ranted on. “Look, we want this wrapped up. Dad’s right, it’s not good for us to be in the middle of this media circus involving hookers and priests and . . . ugh.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “It’s . . . it’s too bad about Helene, but there it is. We all have to deal with it. We’d just like you to release the body so we can bury her and move forward.” Hugo visibly winced at her statement, but the attorney didn’t interrupt her, and for once, it seemed, emotionless Vincent was in agreement with his sister. He finally asked, “What about Helene’s roommate? She had one, right, a place she shared with another woman? I—I read about her. Sherry something-or-other.” “Sherilynn Gordon,” Marianne supplied, and glanced at her father. “You know her, right, Dad?” “We’ve met.” “Ooooh-kay,” Alan Thayer said, slapping his hands on his knees and standing. “Do you have any more questions for my clients? Because if not, we all have places to be. And Marianne’s right. The family would like Mrs. Laroche’s body released so that we can schedule a service. ASAP.”


his palm moving to roll heavily against me. “Tell me to kiss you, Harriet,” he rasps. I don’t know if it’s wounded pride or fear of this all-consuming want or something else, but I can’t stand to ask for more of him. “Tell me to kiss you,” he says again, nudging my thighs wider to ease in between my hips. I rake my hands down his back, take hold of his waist, keeping us pinned together. I feel his pulse in his groin, or maybe it’s mine. The lines between him and me have become fuzzy, insubstantial. “What are we doing?” he asks. “I thought that was obvious,” I say. His hips rock into me, and god help me, my hands go straight to his ass. He lifts me against the door, my thighs around his hips, my arms hooked behind his head, his erection hard against me. I want him on top of me, beneath me, behind me. I want him in my mouth, his clothes in a pile on the floor, his sweat on my stomach, his voice rough against my ear. I want anything other than to stop. “What does this mean,” he asks raggedly, still cupping me, kissing me. “I don’t know,” I say. A low, frustrated sound dies in the back of his throat, and he stills, holding me firmly against the door. “This is a bad idea, Harriet,” he says hoarsely after a few seconds, lowering me but not stepping back. “We can’t be together.” The words knock the wind out of me. “I know that,” I say. And I do. He broke my heart, destroyed it. And even if I could forgive him, he’s happy in his new life. I know there’s no going back. So why does hearing it make my chest feel like a split log? I push against Wyn’s shoulders, pull my straps back up. He steps back, murmuring, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” “I’m not sure you started it,” I get out. He runs a hand up the back of his head, his brow deeply grooved. “I’m not sure that I didn’t either.” “Then I guess I should say I’m sorry too,” I say. His mouth twitches, a smile that’s anything but happy. He sighs. “This place.” This place, indeed. It’s too easy to forget about the real world here, our circumstances, the things that broke us. All the reasons there’s no finding our way back. I flatten my palms against the door’s smooth wood. “We got swept up in it. That’s all.” After a beat, he says, “I don’t want to do anything else that hurts you.” “You didn’t,” I say. I hurt myself, I think. He looks over my shoulder at the door, almost guiltily. “I think I should take a walk. Cool down.” The thought of being any farther away from him than this is torment. I nod. His eyes scrape down me and back up once more, heat washing from my head to my toes, a heavy pulse of need between my thighs. “The bed’s all yours,”


in a fascinator, since you Americans refuse to respect their majesty.” “Bye, Lavinia,” Hallie called, drawing Julian’s notice. Julian’s eyes widened slightly and he gravitated toward Hallie, as if entranced, a smile curving his mouth. As much as listening to her brother and his girlfriend slam the headboard into the wall every morning had scarred her for life, Natalie could admit to swooning just a little at the straight-edged professor’s reaction to spotting the troublemaker gardener. But as Julian and Hallie reunited with quiet murmurs to her left, she could see only August. Obviously. His head almost brushed the low pendant light that hung from the ceiling. One did not miss a being so enormous. In fact, a lot of women in Jed’s were having the same problem. Some women really went for the whole muscle-bound hero thing, apparently. Natalie tried not to care. She really did. But when a young woman fanned herself in Natalie’s periphery, she found herself pushing up out of her chair and planting one on August’s surprised mouth. “Hi,” she said brightly, brushing back her hair. “You’re here.” “Yeah.” His gaze ping-ponged between her mouth and eyes. “Can we try that again? I wasn’t expecting it. My tongue is ready now.” “I don’t think this is an appropriate time for tongue.” “When will it be?” Natalie dropped her head back so she could groan at the ceiling. “Literally thirty seconds into this conversation and I’m exhausted.” “You think you’re tired now?” He winked. “Wait until after tongue time.” “Don’t ever say ‘tongue time’ again. Or I swear to God.” August chuckled, his hand settling into the curve of her waist naturally, brushing his thumb up and down her rib cage, as if he did it all the time. She wanted to push his hand away, because that light touch was stiffening her nipples. Ironically, that was the same reason she wanted his hand to remain exactly where it was. “Should I be worried that we’re in a bar where weaponry is readily available?” “Yup.” She chopped the air with her hand. “Watch your wang, Cates.” He shuddered, glancing over his shoulder long enough to watch someone throw an axe—badly—missing the bull’s-eye by a good two feet. “You’re not the only one I have to worry about, princess. Pretty sure Julian would bury one of those in my back at any sign of premarital discord. Be nice to me for once, huh? I’m too young to die.” “Say ‘tongue time’ again and we’ll test that theory.” A waitress stopped in front of them and held up her notepad with a smile, prompting August to order a pint of Blue Moon. “What did my brother say to you?” Natalie tried to be casual about posing the question. She must not have pulled it off entirely, though, because August seemed to look deeper. “Usual brother stuff.” “I don’t know what that means.” “Why not?” She shrugged a shoulder. “We haven’t been close. I mean, he didn’t even meet Morrison, let alone threaten him with axe violence.” “Guess I’m special like


so ill-advised!" "Forget it? Never, never! O, it was no levity to me!" He felt how richly he deserved the reproach that the wounded cry conveyed, and, in a sorrow that was inexpressible, leapt down and took her hand. "Well, but, Izz, we'll part friends, anyhow? You don't know what I've had to bear!" She was a really generous girl, and allowed no further bitterness to mar their adieux. "I forgive 'ee, sir!" she said. "Now, Izz," he said, while she stood beside him there, forcing himself to the mentor's part he was far from feeling; "I want you to tell Marian when you see her that she is to be a good woman, and not to give way to folly. Promise that, and tell Retty that there are more worthy men than I in the world, that for my sake she is to act wisely and well--remember the words--wisely and well--for my sake. I send this message to them as a dying man to the dying; for I shall never see them again. And you, Izzy, you have saved me by your honest words about my wife from an incredible impulse towards folly and treachery. Women may be bad, but they are not so bad as men in these things! On that one account I can never forget you. Be always the good and sincere girl you have hitherto been; and think of me as a worthless lover, but a faithful friend. Promise." She gave the promise. "Heaven bless and keep you, sir. Goodbye!" He drove on; but no sooner had Izz turned into the lane, and Clare was out of sight, than she flung herself down on the bank in a fit of racking anguish; and it was with a strained unnatural face that she entered her mother's cottage late that night. Nobody ever was told how Izz spent the dark hours that intervened between Angel Clare's parting from her and her arrival home. Clare, too, after bidding the girl farewell, was wrought to aching thoughts and quivering lips. But his sorrow was not for Izz. That evening he was within a feather-weight's turn of abandoning his road to the nearest station, and driving across that elevated dorsal line of South Wessex which divided him from his Tess's home. It was neither a contempt for her nature, nor the probable state of her heart, which deterred him. No; it was a sense that, despite her love, as corroborated by Izz's admission, the facts had not changed. If he was right at first, he was right now. And the momentum of the course on which he had embarked tended to keep him going in it, unless diverted by a stronger, more sustained force than had played upon him this afternoon. He could soon come back to her. He took the train that night for London, and five days after shook hands in farewell of his brothers at the port of embarkation. XLI From the foregoing events of the winter-time let us press on to an October day, more than eight months


with the bombs a yard, a foot, an inch from her building. He saw her leaning toward the great shimmering walls of colour and motion where the family talked and talked and talked to her, where the family prattled and chatted and said her name and smiled at her and said nothing of the bomb that was an inch, now a half-inch, now a quarter-inch from the top of the hotel. Leaning into the wall as if all of the hunger of looking would find the secret of her sleepless unease there. Mildred, leaning anxiously, nervously, as if to plunge, drop, fall into that swarming immensity of colour to drown in its bright happiness. The first bomb struck. "Mildred! " Perhaps, who would ever know? Perhaps the great broadcasting stations with their beams of colour and light and talk and chatter went first into oblivion. Montag, falling flat, going down, saw or felt, or imagined he saw or felt the walls go dark in Millie's face, heard her screaming, because in the millionth part of time left, she saw her own face reflected there, in a mirror instead of a crystal ball, and it was such a wildly empty face, all by itself in the room, touching nothing, starved and eating of itself, that at last she recognized it as her own and looked quickly up at the ceiling as it and the entire structure of the hotel blasted down upon her, carrying her with a million pounds of brick, metal, plaster, and wood, to meet other people in the hives below, all on their quick way down to the cellar where the explosion rid itself of them in its own unreasonable way. I remember. Montag clung to the earth. I remember. Chicago. Chicago, a long time ago. Millie and I. That's where we met! I remember now. Chicago. A long time ago. The concussion knocked the air across and down the river, turned the men over like dominoes in a line, blew the water in lifting sprays, and blew the dust and made the trees above them mourn with a great wind passing away south. Montag crushed himself down, squeezing himself small, eyes tight. He blinked once. And in that instant saw the city, instead of the bombs, in the air. They had displaced each other. For another of those impossible instants the city stood, rebuilt and unrecognizable, taller than it had ever hoped or strived to be, taller than man had built it, erected at last in gouts of shattered concrete and sparkles of torn metal into a mural hung like a reversed avalanche, a million colours, a million oddities, a door where a window should be, a top for a bottom, a side for a back, and then the city rolled over and fell down dead. Montag, lying there, eyes gritted shut with dust, a fine wet cement of dust in his now shut mouth, gasping and crying, now thought again, I remember, I remember, I remember something else. What is it? Yes, yes, part of the Ecclesiastes and


backs and covers are by far the best parts.' 'I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,' said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding. 'Not always those,' said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; 'there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?' 'I think I would rather read them, sir,' replied Oliver. 'What! wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?' said the old gentleman. Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it was. 'Well, well,' said the old gentleman, composing his features. 'Don't be afraid! We won't make an author of you, while there's an honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.' 'Thank you, sir,' said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the old gentleman laughed again; and said something about a curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to. 'Now,' said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him assume yet, 'I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve; because I am sure you are well able to understand me, as many older persons would be.' 'Oh, don't tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!' exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman's commencement! 'Don't turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don't send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!' 'My dear child,' said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver's sudden appeal; 'you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause.' 'I never, never will, sir,' interposed Oliver. 'I hope not,' rejoined the old gentleman. 'I do not think you ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.' As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to his


want her to marry into a good family.” “Of course. And if you have a son, I will ask Maoren if the boy can attend our school in the Garden of Fragrant Delights. The tutors we employ are exceptional.” I leave unspoken that it’s not unheard of for a family such as mine to invite the sons of poor relatives or friends to benefit from a clan’s generosity. “If I’m also given a son, then the two boys can become study partners from the first days of practicing their calligraphy until the day they arrive in the capital to take the exams.” “If we both have daughters, I hope they’ll be as close as we have been.” “And will always be.” “If one of us has a son and the other has a daughter—” “Are you already thinking about a matchmaker?” I say it lightly and hope she takes it the right way, because as much as I love Meiling, this match could never happen—not even if her daughter has a pair of perfectly bound feet. “Let me dream, Yunxian. Let me dream.” Poppy, realizing I’ll spend the night here again, arranges coals under the kang and feeds the braziers. She makes a little nest for herself with her satchel of clothes and the box she brought with her from Wuxi. (Sometimes I wake in the night and see her sitting over her belongings, going through them as though there’d be something I might be tempted to steal. Just the thought makes me smile.) Next to me, Meiling’s body relaxes against mine as she drifts to sleep. Her breath deepens and her expelled air passes warmly down my chest and floats out over my hands. I should wake her, so we can change into our nightclothes. Instead, I run my fingers through the ends of her hair, smoothing the strands against my thigh. I stay awake a long time, as I often do, and let my mind wander over the possibilities and improbabilities. Meiling and I may share similar status in the Great Within, and I only want the very best for her, but our lives are different. Nothing will change that, even if we wish it so. And I worry… Just as the phoenix rises from the ashes—and as Meiling has risen in status—there is another truth: The higher you fly, the more crushing the fall. I keep my eyes open just long enough for the first wick to burn out and for the golden light in the room and the sparks in my mind to dim. * * * Night follows day and day follows night. A second month has passed since Miss Zhao and I arrived in Beijing. Empress Zhang has entered the month and could go into labor at any time. Meiling and I will enter our months in another four weeks. I will spend my month not in confinement as a lady but as a working woman like Meiling. My emotions have continued to be in turmoil. I constantly remind myself of Grandmother’s warnings about my weaknesses.


just to see how far the rot goes. I search Twitter, Reddit, YouTube (already three book bloggers have put up videos titled variations of “Spilling the tea on Juniper ‘Song’!”), Google News, and even TikTok (yes, this has reached the infants on TikTok) by the hour. It’s debilitating. I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t even leave my apartment; all I do is lie curled up in my bed, scrolling alternately on my laptop or my phone, reading and rereading the same updates across the same five websites. People make up absurd rumors about me. Someone says my past reviews on Goodreads are racist. (All I did was write once that I couldn’t relate to an Indian writer’s romance novel, because all the characters were unlikable and way too obsessed with their family duties to the point of disbelief.) Someone says that I regularly harass and bully people who criticize my work. (I put out a snide subtweet about a particularly dumb review of Over the Sycamore, once, and that was three years ago!) Someone claims that I once hit on them at a convention by “complimenting their skin in a very racist way.” (All I said was that their red dress really brought out the yellow undertones in their skin. Jesus, I was just being nice. I didn’t even like the dress that much.) And yet the Twitterati have now spun that into a narrative about how I have a fetish for Asian people, which is proven by my recent BTS retweets and the fact that I played some Japanese video games once and tweeted about how hot the characters were, which means I obviously have a perverted obsession with emasculated and submissive Asian people. (Except I don’t even like BTS that much, and the video game characters in question were designed to be European, so what gives?) All the red flags are in the text itself, writes an anonymous Tumblr account, which I found by clicking through “citations” on a Reddit exposé. See on page 317, where she describes A Geng’s almond eyes and smooth skin. Almond eyes? Really??? White women have been fantasizing about Asian men for decades. (But I didn’t even write that description! Athena did!) Someone who did a text comparison of The Last Front and Athena’s other works using NLP programming on Python announces that there is a “stunning frequency in overlap of key words in both texts.” But the words in question are things like “said,” “fought,” “he,” “she,” and “they.” By that standard, couldn’t one argue that I plagiarized from Hemingway? My detractors scour every public statement I’ve ever made about The Last Front to cherry-pick them for further proof of my awfulness. Apparently it’s not appropriate to call stories about Chinese people “romantic,” “exotic,” or “fascinating.” Apparently my description of this book as a drama undercuts its potential critique of racial capitalism. “I object to the characterization of the laborers as indentured servants,” I said once. “The Chinese government volunteered these troops for World War One in an attempt to win soft


the ways whereby it might be found and assailed. Great indeed was the Joy of Morgoth, and to Maeglin he promised the lordship of Gondolin as his vassal, and the possession of Idril Celebrindal, when the city should be taken; and indeed desire for Idril and hatred for Tuor led Maeglin the easier to his treachery, most infamous in all the histories of the Elder Days. But Morgoth sent him back to Gondolin, lest any should suspect the betrayal, and so that Maeglin should aid the assault from within, when the hour came; and he abode in the halls of the King with smiling face and evil in his heart, while the darkness gathered ever deeper upon Idril. At last, in the year when Erendil was seven years old, Morgoth was ready, and he loosed upon Gondolin his Balrogs, and his Orcs, and his wolves; and with them came dragons of the brood of Glaurung, and they were become now many and terrible. The host of Morgoth came over the northern hills where the height was greatest and the watch least vigilant, and it came at night upon a time of festival, when all the people of Gondolin were upon the walls to await the rising sun, and sing their songs at its uplifting; for the morrow was the great feast that they named the Gates of Summer. But the red light mounted the hills in the north and not in the east; and there was no stay in the advance of the foe until they were beneath the very walls of Gondolin, and the city was beleaguered without hope. Of the deeds of desperate valour there done, by the chieftains of the noble houses and their warriors, and not least by Tuor, much is told in The Fall of Gondolin: of the battle of Ecthelion of the Fountain with Gothmog Lord of Balrogs in the very square of the King, where each slew the other, and of the defence of the tower of Turgon by the people of his household, until the tower was overthrown; and mighty was its fall and the fall of Turgon in its ruin. Tuor sought to rescue Idril from the sack of the city, but Maeglin had laid hands on her, and on Erendil; and Tuor fought with Maeglin on the walls, and cast him far out, and his body as it fell smote the rocky slopes of Amon Gwareth thrice ere it pitched into the flames below. Then Tuor and Idril led such remnants of the people of Gondolin as they could gather in the confusion of the burning down the secret way which Idril had prepared; and of that passage the captains of Angband knew nothing, and thought not that any fugitives would take a path towards the north and the highest parts of the mountains and the nighest to Angband. The fume of the burning, and the steam of the fair fountains of Gondolin withering in the flame of the dragons of the north, fell upon the vale of Tumladen in mournful mists;


a pot of wine. They were all fully dressed as if they were going to a big clan meeting or to pay a visit to a neighbouring village. They passed their cloths under the right arm-pit, and hung their goatskin bags and sheathed machetes over their left shoulders. Okonkwo got ready quickly and the party set out with Ikemefuna carrying the pot of wine. A deathly silence descended on Okonkwo's compound. Even the very little children seemed to know. Throughout that day Nwoye sat in his mother's hut and tears stood in his eyes. At the beginning of their journey the men of Umuofia talked and laughed about the locusts, about their women, and about some effeminate men who had refused to come with them. But as they drew near to the outskirts of Umuofia silence fell upon them too. The sun rose slowly to the centre of the sky, and the dry, sandy footway began to throw up the heat that lay buried in it. Some birds chirruped in the forests around. The men trod dry leaves on the sand. All else was silent. Then from the distance came the faint beating of the ekwe. It rose and faded with the wind--a peaceful dance from a distant clan. "It is an ozo dance," the men said among themselves. But no one was sure where it was coming from. Some said Ezimili, others Abame or Aninta. They argued for a short while and fell into silence again, and the elusive dance rose and fell with the wind. Somewhere a man was taking one of the titles of his clan, with music and dancing and a great feast. The footway had now become a narrow line in the heart of the forest. The short trees and sparse undergrowth which surrounded the men's village began to give way to giant trees and climbers which perhaps had stood from the beginning of things, untouched by the axe and the bush-fire. The sun breaking through their leaves and branches threw a pattern of light and shade on the sandy footway. Ikemefuna heard a whisper close behind him and turned round sharply. The man who had whispered now called out aloud, urging the others to hurry up. "We still have a long way to go," he said. Then he and another man went before Ikemefuna and set a faster pace. Thus the men of Umuofia pursued their way, armed with sheathed machetes, and Ikemefuna, carrying a pot of palm-wine on his head, walked in their midst. Although he had felt uneasy at first, he was not afraid now. Okonkwo walked behind him. He could hardly imagine that Okonkwo was not his real father. He had never been fond of his real father, and at the end of three years he had become very distant indeed. But his mother and his three-year-old sister... of course she would not be three now, but six. Would he recognise her now? She must have grown quite big. How his mother would weep for joy, and thank Okonkwo for having looked after


will do me much favor." I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit, I suppose it is some taste of the original apple that remains still in our mouths, so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful bow, and said, "May I read it?" "If you wish," I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed. "Oh, you so clever woman!" he said. "I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a man of much thankfulness, but see, his wife have all the good things. And will you not so much honor me and so help me as to read it for me? Alas! I know not the shorthand." By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed. So I took the typewritten copy from my work basket and handed it to him. "Forgive me," I said. "I could not help it, but I had been thinking that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not have time to wait, not on my account, but because I know your time must be precious, I have written it out on the typewriter for you." He took it and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said. "And may I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read." "By all means," I said. "read it over whilst I order lunch, and then you can ask me questions whilst we eat." He bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the light, and became so absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and took me by both hands. "Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you? This paper is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am dazed, I am dazzled, with so much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that you do not, cannot comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so clever woman. Madame," he said this very solemnly, "if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know. It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend, as a friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights. You are one of the lights. You will have a happy life and a good life, and your husband will be blessed in you." "But, doctor, you praise me too much, and you do not know me." "Not know you, I, who


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

right then, I wouldn’t leave at all. “Hi,” I say now, taking a step back and motioning for her to come inside. “Hi.” Her hair is in a sleek ponytail, her cropped pants and sweater both black but feet framed in bright orange heels that bring her a few inches closer to eye level. She’s wearing a slash of dark eyeliner, her lips a screeching, house-on-fire red. I want to see that color smeared all over my skin. I’m glad we’re alone because the air pulses with shimmering want. “Should we get the awkward out of the way,” I ask, “or drag it out for peak discomfort later?” She lets out a small, relieved laugh. “Let’s take pity on everyone and kick the elephant out of the room now.” She pulls in a steadying breath. “I’ve been practicing this.” “By all means, let me have it.” “Last night was one hell of a way to break a dry spell.” She’s close enough that anyone in a nearby room wouldn’t be able to hear, and her eyes are molten and intimate. “But it’s also really complicated. I think we both get that.” I nod. She’s giving me this out and I’m going to take it. I’m going to take it and run with it and do my best to ignore how naive we’re being and dig my head deep into the sand. “Absolutely.” “We’ll just have to drive everyone nuts with all this unresolved sexual tension.” She grins. “I’ve written about it, I’m an expert, you know.” “I’m pretty sure I know how those books end.” “Then let’s agree this is a buddy comedy, not a romance.” With a little wink and a squeeze to my forearm, she steps in past me. I follow the way her eyes move over everything and wonder what she sees. It’s a nice place, with tall ceilings, weathered wood beams, a good-sized yard for the area, and a great kitchen. I bought it about three years ago, and while I’ve never had much of a need or a want to really decorate it, I’ve tried to make it feel like a home for Stevie. Fizzy stops in front of a snapshot of twenty-three-year-old me holding a newborn Stevie. “Oh, this is unfair,” she says, picking up the frame. I look exhausted, young, and stupidly, naively happy. I had no idea what I was doing, or what it even meant to be a dad, but I instantly loved that little girl in a way I hadn’t known was possible. There were already cracks showing between Nat and me, but I figured we could make it work. I’d find a way. “Nobody told me that Fizzy was here!” Stevie races around the corner in her socks and wraps her arms around Fizzy in a tight hug. “It just happened!” Fizzy says. “And I have something for you.” Stevie steps away long enough for Fizzy to reach into her purse and pull out a small package with Wonderland’s logo emblazoned in iridescent lettering. Stevie tears into it and I realize


about Michael Mace’s appearance. The guy looks like a TV game-show host whose smile and pleasant banter with contestants help the lonely, the unemployed, and the homebound get through the pain of living. “Julian Grantworth might already have told you that we’re after this man. The photo will help.” Woodbine says, “What did Mace do that has you on his trail?” “I’m not at liberty to say.” “I’m not an average citizen, Mr. Calaphas.” “Yes, I am aware of that.” “Your agency and I have mutual interests.” “But this,” Calaphas says, “is a matter of national security.” Woodbine nods and considers his Scotch without bringing it to his lips. “National security. So let’s speak in private.” “It’ll still be national security in another room.” “Come with me,” Woodbine insists. Calaphas remembers what Grantworth said at the restaurant. Woodbine has something else he wants to discuss with you, something he’s not keen to share with just everyone, not even with me. Leaving Santana and Harris without a target for their bitter incensement, Calaphas follows the attorney through the glamorously furnished apartment to the gym. The room measures perhaps twenty feet by twenty feet. It contains no exercise equipment. “It used to be lined with circuit-training machines,” Woodbine says, “but I’m of an age when all that bores me. I had it removed.” The exercise equipment has been replaced by one item, a chaise longue upholstered in a fabric with a leopard-skin pattern. As Calaphas ponders the furniture, Woodbine feels the need to explain. “It’s a meditation room now.” The walls are paneled in floor-to-ceiling mirrors, as is the door by which they entered. If a window exists, it’s been concealed by a mirror. One reflection repeats another, making a multitude of this two-man meeting, and the ceiling reflects everything below it. Although curious about the nature of the attorney’s meditation sessions, Calaphas restrains himself from asking, because he doesn’t wish to have his excellent dinner turn sour in his stomach. Woodbine says, “This Mace character, the crazy things he can do—I realize that’s a national security matter. You can’t tell me, and I don’t want to know. However, I have a mutual opportunity to discuss with you.” They lock eyes. Woodbine must see something that he needs to see, because he continues. “For some of us, there’s going to be more opportunity in the new America than you ever dreamed.” “That’s why I’m aboard for it.” “You’re aware that your agency and I are business partners.” “It was suggested, yes.” “It’s a lucrative business, enough profits to go around, plus the agency and I share certain ideological goals.” “The New Truth,” says Calaphas. “If you did a bit of business with me, it would be no different from your director, Katherine Ormond-Wattley, or deputy director doing business with me, which they do. It’s all in the family.” After a silence in which he seems to be reflecting on a series of profound personal losses, Calaphas says, “The agency is the only family I have now.” The attorney conjures a courtroom expression of sympathy.


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

violently firing out its humanity. They saw Mrs. Hall fall down and Mr. Teddy Henfrey jump to avoid tumbling over her, and then they heard the frightful screams of Millie, who, emerging suddenly from the kitchen at the noise of the tumult, had come upon the headless stranger from behind. Forthwith every one all down the street, the sweet-stuff seller, cocoanut shy proprietor and his assistant, the swing man, little boys and girls, rustic dandies, smart wenches, smocked elders and aproned gipsies, began running towards the inn; and in a miraculously short space of time a crowd of perhaps forty people, and rapidly increasing, swayed and hooted and inquired and exclaimed and suggested, in front of Mrs. Hall's establishment. Every one seemed eager to talk at once, and the result was babel. A small group supported Mrs. Hall, who was picked up in a state of collapse. There was a conference, and the incredible evidence of a vociferous eyewitness. "O'Bogey!" "What's he been doin', then?" "Ain't hurt the girl, 'as 'e?" "Run at en with a knife, I believe." "No 'ed, I tell ye. I don't mean no manner of speaking, I mean marn 'without a' ed!" "Narnsense! 'tas some conjuring trick." "Fetched off 'is wrappin's, 'e did--" In its struggles to see in through the open door, the crowd formed itself into a straggling wedge, with the more adventurous apex nearest the inn. "He stood for a moment, I heerd the gal scream, and he turned. I saw her skirts whisk, and he went after her. Didn't take ten seconds. Back he comes with a knife in uz hand and a loaf; stood just as if he was staring. Not a moment ago. Went in that there door. I tell 'e, 'e ain't gart no 'ed 't all. You just missed en--" There was a disturbance behind, and the speaker stopped to step aside for a little procession that was marching very resolutely towards the house--first Mr. Hall, very red and determined, then Mr. Bobby Jaffers, the village constable, and then the wary Mr. Wadgers. They had come now armed with a warrant. People shouted conflicting information of the recent circumstances. "'Ed or no 'ed," said Jaffers, "I got to 'rest en, and 'rest en I will." Mr. Hall marched up the steps, marched straight to the door of the parlour and flung it open. "Constable," he said, "do your duty." Jaffers marched in, Hall next, Wadgers last. They saw in the dim light the headless figure facing them, with a gnawed crust of bread in one gloved hand and a chunk of cheese in the other. "That's him!" said Hall. "What the devil's this?" came in a tone of angry expostulation from above the collar of the figure. "You're a damned rum customer, mister," said Mr. Jaffers. "But 'ed or no 'ed, the warrant says 'body,' and duty's duty--" "Keep off!" said the figure, starting back. Abruptly he whipped down the bread and cheese, and Mr. Hall just grasped the knife on the table in time to save it. Off


side so they could access the right spot, and then erecting a plastic tent around me so the surgeons could see only the area of my skull they needed and nothing else. Hell of a to-do list. But it made sense. A disembodied patch of skull was probably far easier to drill a hole into than, ya know, a person. Next, they’d wash my hair with Betadine solution to sterilize everything, and then they’d comb it with a sterile comb, and then they’d shave just the tiniest bit, and then they’d cut and peel a flap of my scalp back … and then they’d drill a four-inch hole in my head. Like they were going ice fishing. No big deal at all. * * * I STAYED IN the hospital for the full four days after surgery, which made me feel like I was getting my money’s worth. I took a lot of naps. I slept partially sitting up on a bolster pillow to help with drainage. I ate a lot of Jell-O and wondered why I’d never appreciated it before. The incisions in my scalp were sore for several days afterward. I had a few headaches and some shooting pains from time to time near the wound. My eyes got swollen enough that Dr. Nicole suggested I avoid the mirror for a while. All normal postsurgical stuff. All in all, I felt back to my usual self surprisingly fast. The doctors were impressed with my resilience, and they chalked it up to my “youth and good health.” I took full credit for both. I even caught myself wondering if I was doing my dad proud. By Sunday, my last day there, I was feeling so good, I felt silly for the way I’d resisted the surgery. In fact, I felt so good so fast, I had to remind myself I was an invalid. I was just getting discharge instructions for the next day—things like no alcohol, no driving for three weeks, no ladder climbing for three months—when a stranger came to visit me. I mean, I’d been surrounded by strangers that whole week—nurses in bubble-gum-pink scrubs coming and going, checking stitches, vitals, surgical tape. Those pink scrubs really gave the whole staff a very uniform vibe. But this stranger wasn’t in scrubs, she was in street clothes. She came right in and pulled up a chair, and I remember wondering if she was maybe a social worker or even a reporter doing some kind of piece on cavernomas. Maybe she’d ask me to star in a documentary. I wondered what people got paid for that. But that’s when she started talking. And as the words accumulated, I started wondering if she really was a stranger after all. “I came the first day,” she said, “but you were so out of it. And then Witt’s grandma got sick, so we had to drive to San Antonio to check on her. But don’t worry, I boarded Peanut at that vet clinic around the corner from your place. Which is probably better, anyway, because


Meiling, a midwife with much experience. I’m a doctor, but I find both women look to me more for my personal experience, having gone through labor and successfully brought into the world three babies, albeit girls, than for the herbs they should take. “Doctor Tan.” I shake myself out of my thoughts. “Yes, Compassionate One?” “What ingredients does your family use for making mother’s soup?” Empress Zhang asks. She’s questioned me about this many times these past weeks, hoping, I believe, that I’ll name something that will require her to dispatch men to find a rare ingredient. She is the embodiment of One eye on the dish in front of her and one eye on the saucepan. “Everyone makes mother’s soup a little differently,” I answer. “Some add extra rice liquor to help bring in a mother’s milk—” “We have imperial wet nurses for that,” she says with a sniff. “Of course,” I agree. “Others add extra ginger and peanuts to the soup, which help a woman regain her strength after birth. I will make sure the cooks prepare a soup perfect for your particular needs.” But already she has lost interest. “Who wants to play a game?” My baby pushes an elbow or knee against the inside of my ribs on the right side of my body. He likes this spot. (He, he, he… Maybe if I say it enough times, it will come true.) He’s kicked or stretched on it so often that I feel sure the undersides of my ribs are black and blue. I push back against the bones with my palm and glance over at Meiling. She’s lost in thought, with a hand on her belly. Later, when I examine her, I’m troubled to find her pulse erratic. I review her formula. It is correct. I suggest that she stay in bed for a few days, which she does. On the fifth day, she rises, determined to return to the Great Within. “I did not come this far only to fail,” she murmurs. “You know as well as I do that the empress must be comfortable with me when it comes time to catch her baby.” “Do you continue to have nausea? Any dizziness or pain?” “I’m fine. Truly.” But she still looks pale to me. * * * During the empress’s second week of entering the month, she goes into labor. To pass the time until she sends for me, I’m interviewing a woman who’s applying to be an imperial wet nurse. She sits across from me, her soft white hands folded on the table before her. “My husband is in the army and far away,” she answers when I ask why she’d like the job. “Your age?” “I just turned nineteen.” “How many children do you have?” “Three, and they have all nursed well.” Three children is the required number. In fact, she’s met all the qualifications for a wet nurse: between the ages of fifteen and twenty, has proper deportment, married to someone in the military, has breasts that even through her clothes look


fuck you.” “That is the general consensus.” “Take your general and consensually shove it—” “Oh Jesus, shut up!” Musgrave says. “Felton, he was a Titan. One dose, for services rendered. Contractual perk, for God’s sake. I never saw that before. Sounder, stop being an asshole.” “Fuck we need him for?” Felton says. “So you can blame someone when you fuck it up,” I tell him, and apparently that’s just too far. Felton raises his fist like he’s showing it to me, then turns away like he’s done. Then he actually goes for it. It’s a good punch and I don’t know if I’d slip it, because I really wasn’t expecting things to get physical, but it doesn’t matter because Musgrave, without looking, reaches back and tases him. I’m serious. With her off hand she sticks a Taser into his backside and fires it, what they call a shunt tap: the barest contact. Felton jerks once, the strong muscles in his stomach crunching him forwards. He yells and falls over, gets his hands in front of his face so that he doesn’t break the nose, but still catches himself a good one. “You’re welcome,” Musgrave says. “Now you’re not gonna punch a civilian consultant during an autopsy, spoil the trace evidence, and get fired and sued and all that shit.” “Are you out of your mind?” Felton yells at her. “You’re bleeding, detective,” Musgrave says, because there’s a little red line coming out of his nose now. “That’s a big no-no in my space.” She tosses him a bottle of aspirin. “Get him out of here, Tidbo. And you,” she adds to me, “don’t imagine for one second I don’t blame you for that shit.” “Fuck did I do?” “Just don’t do it any more.” Tidbo rolls his eyes and helps Felton out to clean up. I don’t argue with Musgrave. I just sit there and wait for her to be ready, and eventually she is. She tosses me a mask and starts to cut. * * * — Autopsies aren’t as bad as people make out. There’s a stink, for sure. In fact there’s all kinds of stink from all kinds of different places, and there’s wet stuff. But mostly what there is is a wonderful, broken thing. Most times the interior landscape is hidden, and we only get to see it when it goes wrong, but there’s an astonishing beauty beneath the skin. We are remarkable. Musgrave is gentle as she works, and she’s not afraid to touch the dead, even to embrace them so she can reach what she needs to tell their story. In her hands, a corpse is like one of those old Bibles chained up in a dusty room, not only the printed text and the rich colours of the pictures, but the records of marriages and births and deaths in the back pages, the history of a town. It’s a shame we don’t think of ourselves that way more often. Musgrave sees me watching and puts a thermometer spike directly into Roddy Tebbit’s liver. “Time of


about my patients? The injured pilots in HealthBay? Have you thought about them?” I felt a pang of guilt at her words. She was right. HealthBay held dozens of injured pilots, relying on specialized equipment and medical supplies within its bulkheads. “None of this is going to be easy, but we’ll get it done. We’ll do everything we can to ensure a smooth transition. Your patients, your medical staff, will be the first to go over … along with any necessary medical equipment and supplies,” I said, keeping my voice firm but tinged with regret. Viv shook her head, her frustration turning into desperation. “Dammit, I don’t want to move those patients.” I continued to stare at her. Sure, I heard her words, but they weren’t ringing true. This certainly wasn’t the first time we’d had to abandon one ship for another. In fact, it was nearly becoming a common practice. So what’s really going on here? Seeing the pain in her eyes, I took a step closer. “I know it’s difficult, Viv. But you’re not alone. I’ll be with you, just as I’ve always been.” She looked away, her gaze fixed upon the deck. The compartment fell into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the distant hum of the ship’s drives. It was a moment pregnant with unspoken emotions, the weight of an unresolved past and an equally uncertain future. Finally, Viv sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. Her words were barely audible. “Fine, Galvin. Do what you have to do. We’ll just throw this on the growing pile of reasons we should never have …” She let her words die. I nodded, my heart heavy with regret. My Jadoo ring was vibrating. “I’m needed on the bridge.” She nodded. As I turned to leave, the air between us was still thick with unresolved tension. I stopped and looked back at her. “Think about what you want, Viv … what you really want. I’ll support you in any way I can.” Chapter 44 I reached the captain’s mount and took a seat, eyes locked onto the halo display. “We’re just entering the asteroid field, Captain,” Grimes said. “Yeah, well, there’s no clear path to Adams,” Akari added. “This field has obviously moved, drifted, since Lincoln traversed this rocky maze almost a decade ago. I’ll try to use rail guns sparingly.” A sudden burst of rail spikes eviscerated an asteroid the size of the Hub Gunther, clearing their slow, methodical progression deeper into the field. Seeing Akari’s profile, I glimpsed a smile—at least someone still loved her job here. Bosun Polk joined me at the captain’s mount. “Sitrep, Bosun?” “The crew is … begrudgingly making preparations to abandon ship. Only what someone can carry with them on their person goes onboard Lincoln.” “Let’s dedicate extra resources to HealthBay … kid gloves when it comes to moving the patients—” “Met with Doc Viv an hour ago; we’ll be using hovercarts to move the patients. They’ll hardly know they’re being moved.” I looked over to Polk. “Wait, she didn’t have a problem with moving


Mayor. But de mayor’s wife is somethin’ different again. Anyhow they’s liable tuh need me tuh say uh few words over de car- cass, dis bein’ uh special case. But you ain’t goin’ off in all dat mess uh commonness. Ah’m surprised at yuh fuh askin’.” He wiped his lips of ham gravy and put on his hat. “Shet de door behind yuh, Janie. Lum is too busy wid de hawses.” After more shouting of advice and orders and useless comments, the town escorted the carcass off. No, the carcass moved off with the town, and left Janie standing in the door- way. Out in the swamp they made great ceremony over the mule. They mocked everything human in death. Starks led off with a great eulogy on our departed citizen, our most dis- tinguished citizen and the grief he left behind him, and the people loved the speech. It made him more solid than build- ing the schoolhouse had done. He stood on the distended belly of the mule for a platform and made gestures. When he stepped down, they hoisted Sam up and he talked about the mule as a school teacher first. Then he set his hat like John Pearson and imitated his preaching. He spoke of the joys of mule-heaven to which the dear brother had departed this val- ley of sorrow; the mule-angels flying around; the miles of green corn and cool water, a pasture of pure bran with a 72 Zora Neale Hurston river of molasses running through it; and most glorious of all, No Matt Bonner with plow lines and halters to come in and corrupt. Up there, mule-angels would have people to ride on and from his place beside the glittering throne, the dear departed brother would look down into hell and see the devil plowing Matt Bonner all day long in a hell-hot sun and lay- ing the rawhide to his back. With that the sisters got mock-happy and shouted and had to be held up by the menfolks. Everybody enjoyed themselves to the highest and then finally the mule was left to the already impatient buzzards. They were holding a great flying-meet way up over the heads of the mourners and some of the nearby trees were already peopled with the stoop-shouldered forms. As soon as the crowd was out of sight they closed in cir- cles. The near ones got nearer and the far ones got near. A circle, a swoop and a hop with spread-out wings. Close in, close in till some of the more hungry or daring perched on the carcass. They wanted to begin, but the Parson wasn’t there, so a messenger was sent to the ruler in a tree where he sat. The flock had to wait the white-headed leader, but it was hard. They jostled each other and pecked at heads in hungry irritation. Some walked up and down the beast from head to tail, tail to head. The Parson sat motionless in a dead pine tree about two miles off. He had scented the matter


That was a grim meeting. At last Fingon stood alone with his guard dead about him; and he fought with Gothmog, until another Balrog came behind and cast a thong of fire about him. Then Gothmog hewed him with his black axe, and a white flame sprang up from the helm of Fingon as it was cloven. Thus fell the High King of the Noldor; and they beat him into the dust with their maces, and his banner, blue and silver, they trod into the mire of his blood. The field was lost; but still Hrin and Huor and the remnant of the house of Hador stood firm with Turgon of Gondolin, and the hosts of Morgoth could not yet win the Pass of Sirion. Then Hrin spoke to Turgon, saying: 'Go now, lord, while time is! For in you lives the last hope of the Eldar, and while Gondolin stands Morgoth shall still know fear in his heart.' But Turgon answered: 'Not long now can Gondolin be hidden; and being discovered it must fall.' Then Huor spoke and said: 'Yet if it stands but a little while, then out of your house shall come the hope of Elves and Men. This I say to you, lord, with the eyes of death: though we part here for ever, and I shall not look on your white walls again, from you and from me a new star shall arise. Farewell!' And Maeglin, Turgon's sister-son, who stood by, heard these words, and did not forget them; but he said nothing. Then Turgon took the counsel of Hrin and Huor, and summoning all that remained of the host of Gondolin and such of Fingon's people as could be gathered he retreated towards the Pass of Sirion; and his captains Ecthelion and Glorfindel guarded the flanks to right and left, so that none of the enemy should pass them by. But the Men of Dor-lmin held the rearguard, as Hrin and Huor desired; for they did not wish in their hearts to leave the Northlands, and if they could not win back to their homes, there they would stand to the end. Thus was the treachery of Uldor redressed; and of all the deeds of war that the fathers of Men wrought in behalf of the Eldar, the last stand of the Men of Dor-lmin is most renowned. So it was that Turgon fought his way southward, until coming behind the guard of Hrin and Huor he passed down Sirion and escaped; and he vanished into the mountains and was hidden from the eyes of Morgoth. But the brothers drew the remnant of the Men of the house of Hador about them, and foot by foot they withdrew, until they came behind the Fen of Serech, and had the stream of Rivil before them. There they stood and gave way no more. Then all the hosts of Angband swarmed against them, and they bridged the stream with their dead, and encircled the remnant of Hithlum as a gathering tide about a rock. There as the sun


throat. I returned Zeinab’s wave distractedly and moved my dagger into the same pocket as the coins. Puddles of foul-smelling rain rippled in the pocked dirt road. Most of the homes on the street could more accurately be described as hovels, their thatched roofs shivering above walls joined together with mud and uneven patches of brick. I dodged a line of green mule manure, its waterlogged, grassy smell stinging my nose. Did Omal’s upper towns have excrement in their streets? Zeinab’s neighbor had scattered chicken feathers outside her door to showcase their good fortune to their neighbors. Their daughter had married a merchant from Dawar, and her dowry had earned them enough to eat chicken all month. From now on, the finest clothes would furnish her body. The choicest meats and hardest-grown vegetables for her plate. She’d never need to dodge mule droppings in Mahair again. I turned the corner, absently counting the coins in my pocket, and rammed into a body. I stumbled, catching myself against a pile of cracked clay bricks. The Nizahl soldier didn’t budge beyond a tightening of his frown. “Identify yourself.” Heavy wings of panic unfurled in my throat. Though our movements around town weren’t constrained by an official curfew, not many risked a late-night stroll. The Nizahl soldiers usually patrolled in pairs, which meant this man’s partner was probably harassing someone else on the other side of the village. I smothered the panic, snapping its fluttering limbs. Panic was a plague. Its sole purpose was to spread until it tore through every thought, every instinct. I immediately lowered my eyes. Holding a Nizahl soldier’s gaze invited nothing but trouble. “My name is Sylvia. I live in Raya’s keep and apprentice for the chemist Rory. I apologize for startling you. An elderly woman urgently needed care, and my employer is indisposed.” From the lines on his face, the soldier was somewhere in his late forties. If he had been an Omalian patrolman, his age would have signified little. But Nizahl soldiers tended to die young and bloody. For this man to survive long enough to see the lines of his forehead wrinkle, he was either a deadly adversary or a coward. “What is your father’s name?” “I am a ward in Raya’s keep,” I repeated. He must be new to Mahair. Everyone knew Raya’s house of orphans on the hill. “I have no mother or father.” He didn’t belabor the issue. “Have you witnessed activity that might lead to the capture of a Jasadi?” Even though it was a standard question from the soldiers, intended to encourage vigilance toward any signs of magic, I inwardly flinched. The most recent arrest of a Jasadi had happened in our neighboring village a mere month ago. From the whispers, I’d surmised a girl reported seeing her friend fix a crack in her floorboard with a wave of her hand. I had overheard all manner of praise showered on the girl for her bravery in turning in the fifteen-year-old. Praise and jealousy—they couldn’t wait for their own opportunities to be heroes.


dinner, we grilled shrimp out on the deck the night before our departure. The Larsens were also on their deck, and Chloe, who was the nine-year-old, asked, “Do you think Sugar knows she’s a dog?” Before I could respond, Stella, who was the eleven-year-old, eyed the Greek salad Noah had made and said, “I don’t like cucumber because the best part of a cucumber tastes like the worst part of a watermelon.” Noah and I looked at each other, and I said, “I can’t disagree.” To surprise Jerry, I’d baked pupcakes for dessert—I’d found a recipe that was indeed edible for both humans and dogs, with flour and peanut butter as the main ingredients—but after we finished dinner, Noah said, “Before you bring out the you-know-whats, there’s something I want to do. I’ll be right back.” When he reemerged from the house, he was carrying a guitar—not the Target one he’d made do with for a few days but one of his fancier models that Leah had sent from California, along with some clothes, after it had become clear we’d be staying awhile—and I heard Charlotte Larsen gasp. Around his neck, Noah wore a metal contraption that at first glance looked like an intense form of orthodontia but in fact was a harmonica in a holder. He walked to the eastern side of the deck and stood with the railing behind him. Noah glanced at Jerry and me, then at the Larsens, then back at me, and said, “I want to dedicate a song to you, Sally.” Addressing the five other people and one dog, he said, “Sally and I met a couple years ago, but it’s only recently that we’ve reconnected. I feel very grateful. And since the way I express my feelings is through music, I want to sing a little something tonight. Thank you all for humoring me.” Looking at me, he said, “So, Sally Milz, this goes out to you.” Next to Jerry, sitting at the table where we’d just eaten, I experienced a sort of internal lurching. Had Noah written a song for me? Was he calling my bluff after I’d said that maybe I’d like such a thing? Could I handle this in front of Jerry and the Larsens? In a different way, could Charlotte Larsen handle this? Then Noah glanced down and began strumming. I knew right away, just from the first few chords, even before he looked at me and sang, “I heard that you were drunk and mean / Down at the Dairy Queen…” I didn’t need to fake-smile; I didn’t need to make an effort to express my delight or conceal my distress. It was better than if he’d written a song for me, though perhaps, as I realized he hadn’t, I did sort of hope he would in the future? It also was better than if he’d sung some happily-ever-after ballad. There was nothing about Noah Brewster standing on Jerry’s deck singing “Dairy Queen” that I didn’t love. He sang, “Ain’t it funny how we lose one day / And a


laughable, comical, idiocy, folly, delirium, insaneness; humble grotesque, derisory, droll, (adj, n) furor, rage, desperation, loin: (n) hip, haunch, dorsum, preposterous, jocular. ANTONYMS: furore. ANTONYMS: (n) sense, buttock, side, croup, breech, (adj) sane, impressive calmness, order backside scut, flank, loins, lukewarm: (adj) indifferent, warm, magician: (n) enchanter, conjurer, tenderloin cold, listless, halfhearted, mild, cool, illusionist, wizard, conjuror, loiter: (v) dawdle, dally, tarry, hang unenthusiastic, apathetic, genial, thaumaturge, magicians, performer, around, prowl; (adj, v) loaf, delay, frigid. ANTONYMS: (adj) hot, cool, magus, necromancer, prestidigitator lounge, hesitate; (adv, v) lag; (n, v) cold, keen magistracy: (n) post, situation, spot, saunter. ANTONYMS: (v) leave, lumber: (n) timber, wood; (adj, n) position, office, place, jurisdiction, lead jumble, rubbish; (v) log, trail; (adv, berth loneliness: (n) desolation, aloneness, v) plod; (adj) junk, litter, huddle, magistrate: (n) judge, jurist, isolation, solitariness, lonesomeness, disarray justiciary, adjudicator, beak, official, bleakness, forlornness, desolateness, lumbering: (adj) heavy, clumsy, provost, recorder, archon, doge, temperament, unhappiness; (adj, n) ungainly, ponderous, maladroit, chancellor solitude. ANTONYMS: (n) gruelling, hulking, accented, all magnate: (n) tycoon, mogul, baron, inclusion, cheerfulness, hopefulness thumbs, unwieldy; (n) logging. celebrity, bigwig, power, business lonesome: (adj) lone, desolate, ANTONYMS: (adj) nimble, adroit, leader, big businessman, nobleman, forlorn, dreary, dismal, solitary, agile, graceful, elegant, dainty personage, prince secluded, gloomy, unfrequented; luminary: (n) celebrity, star, leading magnet: (n) lodestone, magnetic, (adj, n) isolated, alone. ANTONYM: light, personality, guiding light, VIP, seduction, siderite, prestige, (n) foe authority, worthy, shining light, permanent magnet, magnetic force, long-established: (adj) traditional, Magnus Apollo, shiner temptation, magnets, loadstone, confirmed lunacy: (adj, n) frenzy, craziness, magnetism longing: (n, v) desire, aspiration; (adj) madness, derangement, aberration; magnetism: (n) attraction, charisma, eager, wistful, nostalgic; (n) (n) folly, foolishness, mania, charm, allure, magnetics, appeal, nostalgia, wish, hankering, urge, delirium, dementia; (adj) distraction. glamour, magic, magnet, pull; (adj) appetite; (adj, n) yearning. ANTONYM: (n) sanity gravity. ANTONYMS: (n) ANTONYMS: (n) apathy, lurid: (adj) ghastly, grisly, gruesome, repulsiveness, ugliness disinclination; (adj) satisfied, loud, frightful, sharp, shocking, magnificence: (adj, n) splendor, unconcerned gaudy, sensational, hideous, brilliancy, gorgeousness; (n) glory, loom: (v) appear, threaten, emerge, horrific. ANTONYMS: (adj) subtle, pomp, brilliance, grandness, impend, overshadow, rise, menace, muted, bland, dull, modest greatness, dignity, majesty, loftiness. 302 The Scarlet Letter ANTONYMS: (n) paucity, modesty, benignity ersatz, insincere, contrived, shabbiness, poverty, austerity, malleable: (adj) flexible, elastic, unnatural, pretend, feigned, man- unattractiveness pliable, soft, supple, pliant, yielding, made, factory, affected, false magnifying: (adj) cumulative adaptable, plastic, tensile, tractable. manuscript: (n, v) writing; (n) book, mahogany: (n) brown, kalantas, ANTONYMS: (adj) inflexible, handwriting, record, copy, text, hardtack, tree, wood, table, stubborn, hard, rigid, firm document, Ms, holograph, mahogany tree, cedar mahogany, manhood: (n) majority, maturity, transcript, palimpsest mahogany wood valor, resolution, personality, marches: (n) precinct, Marche, stint maiden: (n) maid, girl, demoiselle, humanity, integrity, bravery; (adj) marching: (n) walking, mar, drill; damosel, wench, fille, lass, miss; manliness, ripe age, maturity full (adj) ongoing, moving (adj) first, initiatory, unmarried age mariner: (n) sailor, gob, seafarer, tar, maidenhood: (n) maidenhead, manifest: (adj) evident, distinct, warrener, bosun, bargee, bargeman, chastity, virginity, maidhood, conspicuous, clear, patent, plain; (v) boatswain, lighterman, sea dog celibacy, purity, childhood, display, demonstrate, exhibit,


the river, still hugging himself in both arms, and picking his way with his sore feet among the great stones dropped into the marshes here and there, for stepping-places when the rains were heavy, or the tide was in. The marshes were just a long black horizontal line then, as I stopped to look after him; and the river was just another horizontal line, not nearly so broad nor yet so black; and the sky was just a row of long angry red lines and dense black lines intermixed. On the edge of the river I could faintly make out the only two black things in all the prospect that seemed to be standing upright; one of these was the beacon by which the sailors steered - like an unhooped cask upon a pole - an ugly thing when you were near it; the other a gibbet, with some chains hanging to it which had once held a pirate. The man was limping on towards this latter, as if he were the pirate come to life, and come down, and going back to hook himself up again. It gave me a terrible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lifting their heads to gaze after him, I wondered whether they thought so too. I looked all round for the horrible young man, and could see no signs of him. But, now I was frightened again, and ran home without stopping. Chapter 2 My sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I, and had established a great reputation with herself and the neighbours because she had brought me up "by hand." Having at that time to find out for myself what the expression meant, and knowing her to have a hard and heavy hand, and to be much in the habit of laying it upon her husband as well as upon me, I supposed that Joe Gargery and I were both brought up by hand. She was not a good-looking woman, my sister; and I had a general impression that she must have made Joe Gargery marry her by hand. Joe was a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth face, and with eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to have somehow got mixed with their own whites. He was a mild, good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow - a sort of Hercules in strength, and also in weakness. My sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing redness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether it was possible she washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap. She was tall and bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened over her figure behind with two loops, and having a square impregnable bib in front, that was stuck full of pins and needles. She made it a powerful merit in herself, and a strong reproach against Joe, that she wore this apron so much. Though I really see


the phone.

I soon received a long email from him saying we’d have to sit down and

discuss the whole thing in person. He’d like us to come back as soon as

possible.

You’re in luck, Pa! We’re coming back to Britain in the next few days—

to see Granny. So...when can we meet?

Not before the end of January.

What? Thats more than a month away.

I’m in Scotland. I cant get there before then.

I really hope and trust that we will be able to have further

conversations without this getting into the public domain and it becoming

a circus, | wrote.

He responded with what felt like an ominous threat: You’ll be

disobeying orders from the monarch and myself if you persist in this

course of action before we have a chance to sit down.

73.

RANG GRANNY on January 3.

We’re coming back to Britain, I said. We’d love to see you.

I told her explicitly that we hoped to discuss with her our plan to create

a different working arrangement.

She wasn’t pleased. Neither was she shocked. She knew how unhappy

we were, she’d seen this day on the horizon.

One good chat with my grandmother, I felt, would bring this ordeal to

an end.

405

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

I said: Granny, are you free?

Yes, of course! I’m free all week. The diary is clear.

Thats great. Meg and I can come up for tea and then drive back to

London. We have an engagement at Canada House the next day.

You'll be exhausted from the travel. Do you want to stay here?

By “here” she meant Sandringham. Yes, that would be easier, and I told

her so.

That would be lovely, thank you.

Are you planning to see your father


not being a pussycat, I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I'm going to find some." Meg went back to toast her feet and read IVANHOE, and Jo began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still countrylike, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson. To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not been seen lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another. "That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself. "His grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!" The idea amused Jo. who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of `going over' was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window. "There he is," thought Jo, "Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snowball and


is if you can wave a hand vaguely around the office and have me sat in the middle of it. No, don’t think like that—you’ll get the job because you’re qualified. * * * Penny Reaser is in her midforties, tanned, with brown eyes enhanced by blue eye shadow. Her blond hair is cropped short and appears to be in no particular style. She offers me a seat, and I think of Katherine’s office at CGT, its clutter-free space and neat stacks of paper. Penny’s bookcases are heaving and each smooth surface is covered in colorful books. Her desk is piled high with book catalogs, stationery bits, and loose sheets of paper despite there being a tall filing cabinet in the corner. I think the cabinet is probably full. Katherine had a shredder under her desk. I might suggest Penny get a shredder. We talk about OTP’s list (a variety of nonfiction, but my main focus will be on food and drink) and my experience, before going on to my role here. “The role will start off admin-heavy with my diary, minute-taking, meeting prep, online orders—very much things you’ll have already done and are proficient at,” Penny says. When she reaches for a sip of her tea, I notice her plain wedding band and that her nails are painted Barbie pink by someone who has difficulty coloring within lines. I wonder if she has any children. “You’ll be trained in our database MDX where all our data is stored,” she continues, “and there’s a lot you’ll learn on the job. We pair all our assistants with a senior editor so you gain invaluable insight into what it means to be an editor from the very beginning.” This sounds promising. Not so much the admin portion, especially since I know “meeting prep” is industry talk for making tea and coffee, but if I can get through that period, I’ll get to learn the realities of the publishing trade. Maybe move to a fiction department in a year or two. Look at that—I have a career plan. Next I have to complete two fifteen-minute tasks: mark up a printout of Penny’s calendar with any changes I’d make or concerns I might have. Then read through a short story and correct any errors. I start with the short story, and spot all the to/too/two and they’re/their/there errors, as well as inconsistencies (the little girl’s been called three different names within the first paragraph) and mark up the relentless use of commas. I move on to Penny’s diary and this task is easy; I’ve been managing diaries of the overworked for years now. I already know you can’t have back-to-back meetings in two different buildings and that an hour for lunch should always be set aside, even if that’s not what it’s used for. I move clashes, but without access to other diaries, I can only suggest changes. On paper I query if some of these meetings are in her diary for information’s sake and which ones she’ll be chairing and may need to bring material