uncharitable remarks obtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But thus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears out at last the best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure, when I reflected upon it, it was not strange that people entering my office should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable Bartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations concerning him. Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and calling at my office and finding no one but the scrivener there, would undertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him touching my whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby would remain standing immovable in the middle of the room. So after contemplating him in that position for a time, the attorney would depart, no wiser than he came. Also, when a Reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and witnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupied legal gentleman present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him to run round to his (the legal gentleman’s) office and fetch some papers for him. Thereupon, Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet remain idle as before. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say? At last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was running round, having reference to the strange creature I kept at my office. This worried me very much. And as the idea came upon me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my chambers, and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and scandalizing my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable incubus. Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determination remained the same in short, that he still preferred to abide with me. What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust


fighting, for the beatings and the executions. If Clytemnestra’s rage was a fire, Helen’s was a lamp, warm and thin in the darkness but burning if you came too close. And now Menelaus has made her sister angry, and she has left. Did Helen leave before Castor was killed? How could she leave Polydeuces alone and little Hermione behind? She tries to picture her sister on a ship to Troy with Paris, but the thought slips away like sea breeze. Some drunken men stumble in the street, walking back to their houses. The trees are one with the sky, and the last sounds of the night are dying out. “Do goddesses sleep?” Castor asked her once. She chuckled. “I don’t think so. Why?” “I want to catch one. I want to see what they look like.” “And then what will you do?” “Seduce her, of course,” he said, and they laughed. So that night, when everyone slept, they sneaked outside and walked to the river. There they waited and waited for Artemis to appear until Clytemnestra fell asleep on Castor’s shoulder. Artemis never came, and for years after, Castor would make fun of that night spent together shivering, wishing to see a goddess who wouldn’t pay them any attention. Clytemnestra feels her heart clench. He’s gone. He’s dead and now you must live with that. * * * In front of the door that leads to the gynaeceum, Calchas is waiting for her. His head looks like a crumpled, sickly leaf in the torchlight. She has the urge to walk past him but instead she asks, “Have you come to give me the news of someone else’s death?” “No,” he says. “Your remaining brother and sisters will live for a long time.” “That is good to hear.” He tilts his head as if to study her better. “Do I unnerve you?” “I am not easily unnerved.” “I thought so. Yet you don’t respect me. You should be careful with that. Disrespecting me means disrespecting the gods.” She has never heard such a sweet voice speak such menacing words. It is like drinking mulled wine, savoring it on the tongue before realizing it is poisoned. “We each serve the gods in our own ways. You kill a sheep and tear open its belly to look at the liver. I rule a city and its people.” “Your husband rules.” “We both do. I am sure he would agree with me.” Calchas sighs. The sound is a hiss. “Power is strange. All men want it, but few achieve it.” “I am sure you have something to say about the gods now.” “The gods have nothing to do with it.” “Then what?” she asks. “Who gets it and who doesn’t?” The light casts moving shadows on his scarred face. One moment, he looks like an ordinary man; the next, he seems monstrous. “If you ask the people of Mycenae who rules their city,” he asks, “what do they say?” “King Agamemnon,” she replies. “And yet you say you rule the city with your husband.” “There is


Britain to be her husband might then have rested in its proper place. He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to any one should be forwarded at the sole expence of his brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could. When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly useless; for, of course, they were to have a son. This son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their income. Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with regard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser, by the hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her through her mother's hands, Lydia's expences had been very little within that sum. That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise; for his chief wish at present was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to know farther particulars of what he was indebted to his brother; but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her. The good news quickly spread through the house; and with proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of conversation, had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the


she saw Alice come out on the porch with two bowls. “Lunch,” she yelled. The bowl Alice handed her was filled with grains Maud didn’t recognize, crushed nuts, and dates, all swimming in a glumpy sauce. “Enjoy,” Alice said. She tore a date in half and shared it with Clark. Maud sat down next to her on the bench. They seemed, already, to have entered a new phase. Alice no longer appeared interested in challenging Maud, as if some hesitation had been laid to rest. But as they ate, she didn’t utter a single word. “Is this cumin I taste?” Maud said, three-quarters of the way through her bowl. “I like it with the cashews. I’ll tell my husband. He’s been making Indian food lately.” “Correct.” Alice glanced over. “Are you worried I want to sleep with you?” “No,” Maud said. “Why?” “You seem nervous. And you just flashed the husband badge.” “I was just trying to make conversation.” “That’s why people shouldn’t try to make conversation,” Alice said. “They can suggest a subtext they don’t mean.” She fed Clark another date. “For the record, when you walked into that conference room, I knew you couldn’t be straighter.” “I’m sure I could be straighter,” Maud said, feeling strangely hurt. “Sorry.” Alice ran her finger inside her bowl and licked off the sauce. “I didn’t mean anything by that. Except that I’m not trying to sleep with you. I have a lover. And other lovers. I don’t need to make a play for a straight woman who doesn’t wear a wedding ring.” “I don’t wear it when I work,” Maud said. “Uh-huh,” Alice said. They went back to eating in silence until Alice looked over at her contemplatively and said, “Have you ever slept with a woman?” “Not completely.” “What, just waist-up? Wearing a blindfold?” “A couple of make-out sessions,” Maud said. “Liberal arts college experimentation.” It was embarrassing to remember how liberated she’d felt at the time. She set her bowl on her lap. “How does it work? Having a lover and other lovers?” Alice was picking a piece of kale from her teeth. “My partner and I sleep with other people.” “I mean emotionally.” “It works well.” Alice looked at her as if she’d asked an unanswerable question. “It’s not a problem when it’s not a problem.” Back in the car, Maud looked at her phone and saw that Ella had texted: Threw up in science. Have a fever. Throat hurts. Nurse says pick me up. Below was a text from Peter. Can you get Ella? And another text, a half-hour later. I’ll do it. Sorry I missed your messages, she texted them both. Working. Peter replied. We’re home. I was in a meeting. Have to leave ASAP. You coming? Driving back, Maud thought about Alice’s romantic arrangement. A lover and other lovers. She’d never considered talking to Peter about an open marriage, even though each of them had opened the door on their own. An open marriage had worked well for Virginia and Leonard Woolf—she used to marvel at their


by no means rapturously grateful for that destiny yet, when would she begin to be interested in me? When should I awaken the heart within her, that was mute and sleeping now? Ah me! I thought those were high and great emotions. But I never thought there was anything low and small in my keeping away from Joe, because I knew she would be contemptuous of him. It was but a day gone, and Joe had brought the tears into my eyes; they had soon dried, God forgive me! soon dried. Chapter 30 After well considering the matter while I was dressing at the Blue Boar in the morning, I resolved to tell my guardian that I doubted Orlick's being the right sort of man to fill a post of trust at Miss Havisham's. "Why, of course he is not the right sort of man, Pip," said my guardian, comfortably satisfied beforehand on the general head, "because the man who fills the post of trust never is the right sort of man." It seemed quite to put him into spirits, to find that this particular post was not exceptionally held by the right sort of man, and he listened in a satisfied manner while I told him what knowledge I had of Orlick. "Very good, Pip," he observed, when I had concluded, "I'll go round presently, and pay our friend off." Rather alarmed by this summary action, I was for a little delay, and even hinted that our friend himself might be difficult to deal with. "Oh no he won't," said my guardian, making his pocket-handkerchief-point, with perfect confidence; "I should like to see him argue the question with me." As we were going back together to London by the mid-day coach, and as I breakfasted under such terrors of Pumblechook that I could scarcely hold my cup, this gave me an opportunity of saying that I wanted a walk, and that I would go on along the London-road while Mr. Jaggers was occupied, if he would let the coachman know that I would get into my place when overtaken. I was thus enabled to fly from the Blue Boar immediately after breakfast. By then making a loop of about a couple of miles into the open country at the back of Pumblechook's premises, I got round into the High-street again, a little beyond that pitfall, and felt myself in comparative security. It was interesting to be in the quiet old town once more, and it was not disagreeable to be here and there suddenly recognized and stared after. One or two of the tradespeople even darted out of their shops and went a little way down the street before me, that they might turn, as if they had forgotten something, and pass me face to face - on which occasions I don't know whether they or I made the worse pretence; they of not doing it, or I of not seeing it. Still my position was a distinguished one, and I was not at all dissatisfied with it, until Fate threw


the passenger seat. The cabin smells like leather, Jack, and bad ideas. I should say something. Hi, how are you? Did you have a good week? Favorite Teletubby? Off-year elections thoughts? I’ve done this a million times—gone out with people. A million fake dates. Then why? Why? Why can’t I . . . Why? “I think,” he drawls, “I just heard your head explode.” I turn to him. He’s handsome in a near-painful way, and my head is still in mid-explosion. “Want to go back up?” The smile. Uneven. Amused. All-knowing. “Try this another day?” I shake my head before I change my mind. “I want to do this now.” I swallow. Face straight ahead. “I think.” He starts the engine. “Look at you.” “Look at me?” He puts his hand on the headrest of the seat to back out of the spot. His fingers brush against my hair, soft, distracted. “Yeah. Look at you, telling the truth.” • • • “T WO FRIENDS ARE IN TOWN FOR A CONFERENCE ,” HE TELLS ME , “and another friend is hosting a small get-together. I figured with witnesses you’d be more . . . relaxed.” He’s probably right, but also: “I don’t want to intrude.” “I’d love for you to meet them.” Is it a good idea, hanging out when his friends are around? I’m probably very lame in comparison. I’m just not that entertaining—not at my best, and definitely not with Jack, who so far has gotten my worst. “Are all your friends scientists?” I ask. “Some.” A pause. “Jesus. I can’t think of one who isn’t.” I nod. It’s truly hard to expand one’s social circle. Academics become friends, hang out, and above all sleep almost exclusively with other academics. Because academia is a bit like the Olympic Village—sans opening ceremony with condom distribution. We park in front of a narrow brownstone, and after ringing the bell at a yellow door, he turns to me. “Hey.” I turn, too. Under his coat he’s wearing jeans and a dark henley, and he’s big and attractive, and it occurs to me for the first time in years that nights in which people go out together—not all nights, but some nights, maybe several nights—don’t just end with a hug and good night. I shiver. “Honesty,” he reminds me. “You don’t need to impress anyone. No need for the usual party tricks.” I smile. “I was going to carve a recorder out of a carrot and play it for your friends.” He gives me a long look, like I’m the single most charming person he’s ever met. “Not gonna lie, that’d be pretty cool.” Even before I knew about his mother, Jack always seemed to me like a lone wolf, set apart from the rest of the Smiths. It’s instantly clear, though, that his friend group is his chosen family. There are over fifteen people in the house, and not only are they all delighted to see him, they welcome me just as warmly. The single exception: Andrea, Jack’s MIT colleague. She stares at me


others stared at him in surprise, and jumped to their feet. George hurriedly flung some more sticks on the fire to keep it going, and then she and the others quickly followed Julian out into the rain. The storm seemed to be passing over a little now. The rain was not pelting down quite so hard. The thunder was rolling a little farther off, and the lightning did not flash so often. Julian led the way to the wall on which he had climbed to watch the sea. Everyone climbed up to gaze out to sea. They saw a great tumbled, heaving mass of grey-green water, with waves rearing up everywhere. Their tops broke over the rocks and they rushed up to the island as if they would gobble it whole. Anne slipped her arm through Julian's. She felt rather small and scared. "You're all right, Anne", said Julian, loudly. "Now just watch- you'll see something queer in a minute." They all watched. At first they saw nothing, for the waves reared up so high that they hid everything a little way out. Then suddenly George saw what Julian meant. "Gracious!" she shouted, 'it is a ship! Yes, it is! Is it being wrecked? It's a big ship- not a sailing-boat, or fishing-smack!" "Oh, is anyone in it?" wailed Anne. The four children watched and Tim began to bark as he saw the queer dark shape lurching here and there in the enormous waves. The sea was bringing the ship nearer to shore. "It will be dashed on to those rocks," said Julian, suddenly. "Look- there it goes!" As he spoke there came a tremendous crashing, splintering sound, and the dark shape of the ship settled down on to the sharp teeth of the dangerous rocks on the southwest side of the island. It stayed there, shifting only slightly as the big waves ran under it and lifted it a little. "She's stuck there," said Julian. "She won't move now. The sea will soon be going down a bit, and then the ship will find herself held by those rocks." As he spoke, a ray of pale sunshine came wavering out between a gap in the thinning clouds. It was gone almost at once. "Good!" said Dick, looking upwards. "The sun will be out again soon. We can warm ourselves then and get dry- and maybe we can find out what that poor ship is. Oh Julian- I do so hope there was nobody in it. I hope they've all taken to boats and got safely to land." The clouds thinned out a little more. The wind stopped roaring and dropped to a steady breeze. The sun shone out again for a longer time, and the children felt its welcome warmth. They all stared at the ship on the rocks. The sun shone on it and lighted it up. "There's something queer about it somehow," said Julian, slowly. "Something awfully queer. I've never seen a ship quite like it." George was staring at it with a strange look in her eyes. She


Defect. DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this "Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, or: [1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as *EITHER*: [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and does *not* contain characters other than those intended by the author of the work, although tilde (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may be used to convey punctuation intended by the author, and additional characters may be used to indicate hypertext links; OR [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent form by the program that displays the etext (as is the case, for instance, with most word processors); OR [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC or other equivalent proprietary form). [2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this "Small Print!" statement. [3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the net profits you derive calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois Benedictine College" within the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois Benedictine College". *END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* DRACULA by Bram Stoker 1897 edition CHAPTER 1 Jonathan Harker's Journal 3 May. Bistritz.-- Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule. We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh.


in a railway carriage. 'Vesper,' he said, holding her cold hands in his, 'we can't go on like this. We must finish with it. We are torturing each other and there is only one way of stopping it. Either you must tell me what all this is about or we must leave. At once.' She said nothing and her hands were lifeless in his. 'My darling,' he said. 'Won't you tell me? Do you know, that first morning I was coming back to ask you to marry me. Can't we go back to the beginning again? What is this dreadful nightmare that is killing us?' At first she said nothing, then a tear rolled slowly down her cheek. 'You mean you would have married me?' Bond nodded. 'Oh my God,' she said. 'My God.' She turned and clutched him, pressing her face against his chest. He held her closely to him. 'Tell me, my love,' he said. 'Tell me what's hurting you.' Her sobs became quieter. 'Leave me for a little,' she said and a new note had come into her voice. A note of resignation. 'Let me think for a little.' She kissed his face and held it between her hands. She looked at him with yearning. 'Darling, I'm trying to do what's best for us. Please believe me. But it's terrible. I'm in a frightful . . .' She wept again, clutching him like a child with nightmares. He soothed her, stroking the long black hair and kissing her softly. 'Go away now,' she said. 'I must have time to think. We've got to do something.' She took his handkerchief and dried her eyes. She led him to the door and there they held tightly to each other. Then he kissed her again and she shut the door behind him. That evening most of the gayness and intimacy of their first night came back. She was excited and some of her laughter sounded brittle, but Bond was determined to fall in with her new mood and it was only at the end of dinner that he made a passing remark which made her pause. She put her hand over his. 'Don't talk about it now,' she said. 'Forget it now. It's all past. I'll tell you about it in the morning.' She looked at him and suddenly her eyes were full of tears. She found a handkerchief in her bag and dabbed at them. 'Give me some more champagne,' she said. She gave a queer little laugh. 'I want a lot more. You drink much more than me. It's not fair.' They sat and drank together until the bottle was finished. Then she got to her feet. She knocked against her chair and giggled. 'I do believe I'm tight,' she said, 'how disgraceful. Please, James, don't be ashamed of me. I did so want to be gay. And I am gay.' She stood behind him and ran her fingers through his black hair. 'Come up quickly,' she said. 'I want you badly tonight.' She blew a kiss at him and


taken it alone once before, after her father had died, and while the experience hadn’t been pleasant, neither had it been dangerous. This journey was simply another in what she suspected would be a long line of them. With her father gone and no money or prospects to her name, she would likely never find somewhere to truly call home. She would never belong anywhere, and she had come to terms with that fact. “We have only a few hours to go,” Lucy said, though she knew nothing of the sort. The way Rebecca was staring out the window at the utter darkness was making her nervous. “It’s nearly pitch-black out there,” the maid argued. “We’re likely to stop soon.” Not thirty seconds later, the coach slowed until it came to a halt, and the other three passengers of the coach breathed a collective sigh of relief. The roads truly had been slippery, knocking them all about as the driver struggled to keep them from sliding off the road. From her window, Lucy could see the lights of a little inn glowing through the rain, and she winced. She would not part easily with the money it would cost to pay for a room for the night, but what could she do? They couldn’t very well keep driving through a storm so violent, and she wasn’t due to meet the Winthrop family until late tomorrow. She had time yet. “Let’s get inside, then,” she said to Rebecca, gratefully taking the waterlogged coachman’s hand as he helped her climb down. The sooner she could go to sleep, the sooner tomorrow would come and her new future along with it, but that was only if she managed to fall asleep in the first place. She had always had a hard time sleeping anywhere but her home, and she had endured nearly a full week of sleepless nights at the Grangers’ before finally settling in there when she’d first come to them. Tonight would likely be several hours of staring at the ceiling, but at least she would be out of the rain and in a warm bed. Or perhaps not. When she entered the inn, Lucy’s stomach twisted at the sight of so many people inside. There must have been others caught in the storm, and the whole gathering room was full of soaked men and women. Standing out of the way with Rebecca, Lucy prayed there would be room for them. “I don’t like this either,” Rebecca whispered, leaning in close. She had her eyes fixed on the crowd of weary travelers, and she jumped when the door opened behind them to let in even more. Lucy frowned. Rebecca was supposed to be the brave one between them. She had, after all, been the only one to befriend the gentleman’s daughter-turned-governess when the rest of the staff had turned their noses up at Lucy. Her father had been a gentleman, technically, but after a series of disasters destroyed most of the income from their land, he had taken up tailoring in order to


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

where they fit. “He didn’t look at the tapestry where Bellegarde hid the note, but they were talking when I left. Something about groups being processed, about bindings—” Danielle’s bright voice cut her off. “Bastian! We found the wine. It isn’t sparkling, but I suppose it will suffice.” “Well, I didn’t know you wanted sparkling.” The Sun Prince flipped from serious to jovial in an instant. Even the way he held himself changed, rigid tension softening into lazy lines as he settled into his still-backward chair. “That’s in one of the second-floor guest rooms.” “This will do.” Dani wagged the bottle in the air, a slight frown drawing a line between her brows when she looked at Lore. “Are you all right, Lore? You look pale.” “Just my stomach,” she said, picking up her now-cold tea and taking a long sip. “I’ll have some of that sent to your rooms,” Brigitte said, nodding to the teacup as she wrapped the cork of the wine bottle in her skirt and tugged. It came off with a pop, and Alie offered quiet applause. Brigitte bowed and poured the wine into the now-empty cups. “It’s the only way I get through the cramps.” “Thank you,” Lore murmured. Lying to Brigitte felt rotten. Repaying kindness with dishonesty always did. Bastian stood so the four women could have the chairs—“I will lean fetchingly against the wall instead, and if any of you feel the sudden inspiration to paint me, I won’t even charge a modeling fee”—while Alie and the others sipped their wine and idly gossiped. Lore sipped her wine and thought about how in the myriad hells she was going to find where August, Anton, and now Bellegarde were hiding seventy-five-plus bodies. “I’m hoping to see Luc again next week,” Danielle said. Her eyes darted from her teacup to Lore. “He’s on a business trip with his father for a few days.” Luc. The docks. Lore frowned, putting something together. “You said someone was hiring people from the docks to move cargo?” For the second time, curious eyes turned Lore’s way, not quite sure what to make of her question. Lore forced a grin, hoping they thought her strangeness was due to social ineptitude bred in country isolation. “I… ah… have an interest in transportation,” she stuttered. “The… the mechanics of it. What are they moving? And how?” Well done, Lore. Not only will they think you’re socially deficient, they’ll also think you have the most boring interests in all of human history. An unreadable look flickered over Dani’s face. “Like I said before, I don’t know what it is they’re moving. Just that they’re being paid quite a lot to do it.” “I’m telling you, it has to be poison.” Brigitte settled back in her chair, holding the slender stem of her wineglass. “What else would someone pay good coin to haul from one place to another?” Dani waved a dismissive hand. “Luc said it’s far too heavy to be plants. It takes at least three men to push the carts to the drop-off point.


Then he went back to the rocky steps and disappeared down them. He followed his chalk-marks, and soon came to where George was attacking the door. She had smashed it well round the lock- but it simply would not give way. Julian took the axe from her and drove it hard into the wood. After a blow or two something seemed to happen to the lock. It became loose, and hung a little sideways. Julian put down his axe. "I think somehow that we can open the door now," he said, in an exited voice. "Get out of the way, Tim, old fellow. Now then, push, George!" They both pushed- and the lock gave way with a grating noise. The big door opened creakingly, and the two children went inside, flashing their torches in excitement. The room was not much more than a cave, hollowed out of the rock- but in it was something quite different from the old barrels and boxes the children had found before. At the back, in untidy piles, were curious, brick-shaped things of dull yellow-brown metal. Julian picked one up. "George!" he cried. "The ingots! These are real gold! Oh, I know they don't look like it- but they are, all the same. George, oh George, there's a small fortune here in this cellar- and it's yours! We've found it at last!" Chapter Fourteen PRISONERS! Contents- Prev/Next GEORGE couldn't say a word. She just stood there, staring at the pile of ingots, holding one in her hand. She could hardly believe that these strange brick-shaped things were really gold. Her heart thumped fast. What a wonderful, marvellous find! Suddenly Tim began to bark loudly. He stood with his back to the children, his nose towards the door- and how he barked! "Shut up, Tim!" said Julian. "What can you hear? Is it the others coming back?" He went to the door and yelled down the passage outside. "Dick! Anne! Is it you? Come quickly, because we've found the ingots! WE'VE FOUND THEM! HURRY! HURRY!" Tim stopped barking and began to growl. George looked puzzled. "Whatever can be the matter with Tim?" she said. "He surely can't be growling at Dick and Anne." Then both children got a most tremendous shock- for a man's voice came booming down the dark passage, making queer echoes all around. "Who is here? Who is down here?" George clutched Julian in fright. Tim went on growling, all the hairs on his neck standing up straight. "Do be quiet, Tim!" whispered George, snapping off her torch. But Tim simply would not be quiet. He went on growling as if he were a small thunderstorm. The children saw the beam of a powerful torchlight coming round the corner of the dungeon passage. Then the light picked them out, and the holder of the torch came to a surprised stop. "Well, well, well!" said a voice. "Look who's here! Two children in the dungeons of my castle." "What do you mean, your castle!" cried George. "Well, my dear little girl, it is my castle, because


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

head and was sitting looking at her. For a moment she stood gaping at him, too surprised to speak. He held a white cloth--it was a serviette he had brought with him--over the lower part of his face, so that his mouth and jaws were completely hidden, and that was the reason of his muffled voice. But it was not that which startled Mrs. Hall. It was the fact that all his forehead above his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and that another covered his ears, leaving not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose. It was bright pink, and shiny just as it had been at first. He wore a dark-brown velvet jacket with a high black linen lined collar turned up about his neck. The thick black hair, escaping as it could below and between the cross bandages, projected in curious tails and horns, giving him the strangest appearance conceivable. This muffled and bandaged head was so unlike what she had anticipated, that for a moment she was rigid. He did not remove the serviette, but remained holding it, as she saw now, with a brown gloved hand, and regarding her with his inscrutable blue glasses. "Leave the hat," he said, speaking very distinctly through the white cloth. Her nerves began to recover from the shock they had received. She placed the hat on the chair again by the fire. "I didn't know, sir," she began, "that--" and she stopped embarrassed. "Thank you," he said drily, glancing from her to the door and then at her again. "I'll have them nicely dried, sir, at once," she said, and carried his clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity. "I never," she whispered. "There!" She went quite softly to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was messing about with now, when she got there. The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul's had an accident or an op'ration or something," said Mrs. Hall. "What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!" She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the traveller's coat upon this. "And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin' helmet than a human man!" She hung his muffler on a


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

doom shredded your curtains within, what, thirty minutes?” “I think,” I say, putting a single finger up as if to test the direction of the wind. “Yes, I think it’s time I find a new best friend.” She laughs. “Should I even ask about Isaac? You said you saw a possible future there.” “You know I don’t do love triangles!” I look up at the ceiling. “It’s like she doesn’t know me at all.” She reaches across the expanse of couch, pulling me toward her and into her arms. “Connor did something dumb when he was in his twenties. Fizz, you of anyone should understand that.” She doesn’t mean it as a dig. She’s paying homage to my battle scars, my medals of honor for adventure, my backlist of sexual exploration. And I went through this exact thought process, too, when I sat there on the floor in the dark. First, there was my indignation, my bright, hot panic that the person I had big heart and pants feelings for was a cheater. But then my blood cooled and the other things he said echoed a little louder: That it was the worst thing he’s ever done. That he’s done a lot of work on himself, gone to therapy. That Nat has forgiven him. But even if I could view his past with some perspective, my fight-or-flight moment left me feeling unsteady, remorseful, and anxious. How are the heroines in my books so sure of themselves and the person they fall in love with? How does anyone really know what and who they want? It’s all such a risk. Who chooses to fling their heart out into the blackness of uncertainty, blindly hoping someone catches it? “The thing is,” I say into her shoulder, “I signed a contract saying I wouldn’t date during this show. They’re paying me a lot of money to do this. And this isn’t just a little lie. I could be in breach of contract if I’m caught with him. Like, actual Big Legal Trouble. He could lose his job. I haven’t finished a book in more than a year, I’m avoiding my agent’s phone calls like I’m hiding from the mob, and I’m starting to feel like I can’t even do dating right. But last night in the hotel room, I didn’t care about any of that because I just wanted to be with him.” She hums, listening. “I’ve never felt that—that insatiable thing, you know? I want to be near him every second. If I eat something delicious, I want him there to take a bite. If I see something beautiful, I want to turn to him and point it out. If I hear something hilarious, I immediately want to call him and tell him everything.” “Oh, honey.” “But if it got out or I couldn’t fake it well enough, it would mess up his life, and mine.” I swallow as the hardest one bubbles to the surface. “I know that and still none of it mattered.” “We do crazy things when we fall for someone,


plenty loud, to Orhan. “What about Mullen?” “I got more on the shitbag.” There’s a loose board in the hall but it’s not that loose. I worked pretty hard to get it right. It creaks when someone steps on it, but only if that person weighs in excess of one hundred and fifty kilos. I listen, and I hear the faintest whisper. My visitor is standing right on the board, very still. “We’ll come back to that. Mullen.” Creak. Orhan says: “The other kind of asshole. Sad story.” “Oh yeah, how so?” Creak. There’s a Taser in the top drawer of my desk, and next to it a five-inch knuckle knife, like vanilla brass knuckles grew a single sharp tooth. There’s a real gun, too, but if I use that I can’t ask questions later. Hanging on a wall hook there’s a megaphone. Figure I can summon assistance with that and it’ll be here in an hour or so. If I dump the call with Orhan and dial emergency, or tell him to call the cops, Gratton will be here in twelve minutes, give or take, but the person on the other side of the door will hear and things will kick off. Twelve minutes is a long damn time in a small room with a Titan. I take the Taser and the knife, make some “uh huh” sounds to cover the noise as I turn the carpet over and run the Taser cable from the lamp stand to the wall by the door, then flip the carpet back on top. Orhan is still talking about Mullen. “I think he was a good guy. Like we all could play pool together. Drink tea.” I hear the board release, like a sigh. Still can’t hear the footfall, but now I can hear the shape of a body in the hall just outside, the shadow in the room tone. “Orhan, he absolutely shot me.” “Yes, obviously, we cannot play pool together now. He shot you and also he shot himself. But still basically I think he was a decent fellow.” I go over to the door, crouch on the far side from the hinge. My door opens to your left because for the majority of people that’s weird and uncomfortable. I say: “That is a flexible fucking definition of that word.” The door smashes open. Huge fucking shape in black, two and half metres high and proportionately broad. Superhero big. He’s wearing a ski mask over his face and executive tactical gear: black camo slash-stop trousers with a non-conductive chain weave boxer built in to stop anyone stabbing or electrocuting you in the private parts. Steel-toe boots and some sort of gi-inflected combat jacket in the same ballistic fabric Susan Green’s shawl was made from. I fire the Taser before he can look around. The current goes straight into the desk lamp and makes it explode. The guy flinches back from it: flying plastic and stink, but he’s smart. He tucks and goes into a punch combo in case someone’s coming for him, puts


it; then Alice dodged behind a great thistle, to keep herself from being run over; and the moment she appeared on the other side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head over heels in its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was very like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again; then the puppy began a series of short charges at the stick, running a very little way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely all the while, till at last it sat down a good way off, panting, with its tongue hanging out of its mouth, and its great eyes half shut. This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape; so she set off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath, and till the puppy's bark sounded quite faint in the distance. `And yet what a dear little puppy it was!' said Alice, as she leant against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with one of the leaves: `I should have liked teaching it tricks very much, if--if I'd only been the right size to do it! Oh dear! I'd nearly forgotten that I've got to grow up again! Let me see--how IS it to be managed? I suppose I ought to eat or drink something or other; but the great question is, what?' The great question certainly was, what? Alice looked all round her at the flowers and the blades of grass, but she did not see anything that looked like the right thing to eat or drink under the circumstances. There was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as herself; and when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and behind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what was on the top of it. She stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the mushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large caterpillar, that was sitting on the top with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else. CHAPTER V Advice from a Caterpillar The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. `Who are YOU?' said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, `I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.' `What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!' `I can't explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, `because I'm not myself, you see.' `I don't see,' said


cue. She wants to ask him questions, to spill stories from him and know what lies behind that troubled face. But she doubts he would talk. A man like him probably hasn’t talked in his entire life. She imagines his thoughts crawling inside him, like worms in the earth, doomed to stay in the shadows. Helen would have charmed him with her beauty and subtle cleverness, softening him until he opened like a peach. Castor would have mocked him, pricked him with words like needles until he talked. Timandra and Polydeuces wouldn’t have tried. “He is dangerous,” they would have said. “Better get rid of him.” And they would have been right. He is dangerous, but she can’t get rid of him, so she has to find a way to crack him. She must dirty her hands and dig into the earth until she finds those wriggling worms. * * * She walks back through the corridors alone. The noises of the palace are dying out, fading like sounds underwater. She has ordered Aegisthus to be escorted back to the guests’ quarters, and now all she can think about is whether he will be able to sleep. She knows she won’t—she must keep cautious and awake. When she reaches her room, a familiar figure emerges from the shadows. Leon. “I told you to make sure Aegisthus stayed in his room,” she says. “I left five guards outside. He won’t come out without you knowing.” “Good.” She walks past him and opens her bedroom door. “Shouldn’t you send him away, my queen?” he asks. She turns. “That is my decision, not yours.” “He is dangerous. You know how long the elders have been looking for him. Everyone thought him dead. And now he comes here, after everything he suffered in this place . . .” He takes a deep breath. “He is like a rabid dog that has been beaten to death but somehow survived. He has made it inside these walls but can bite at any moment.” “He hasn’t attempted to harm me or my children so far.” His voice cracks. “You also trusted Odysseus when we were called to his tent.” She strikes him so quickly he doesn’t have time to react. When he looks back at her, there is sadness in his eyes. She clenches her fist, laying each word out as a knife. “You decided to come with me instead of keeping my daughter safe. I asked you to protect her. Instead you chose to protect me, not understanding that my life without her is nothing. Do not speak of it again, or you will be the one sent away.” “Yes, my queen.” He has spoken so softly she might have imagined it. Either way, she closes her bedroom door behind her, locking him out. * * * When she slides out of her room to walk in the garden, the sun has long fallen behind the mountains, and the sky is black and cloudless. She stands alone among the flowers and finds herself thinking of her sister, as


kind of labour in demand here was of the roughest kind; but it was time to rest from searching, and she resolved to stay, particularly as it began to rain. At the entrance to the village was a cottage whose gable jutted into the road, and before applying for a lodging she stood under its shelter, and watched the evening close in. "Who would think I was Mrs Angel Clare!" she said. The wall felt warm to her back and shoulders, and she found that immediately within the gable was the cottage fireplace, the heat of which came through the bricks. She warmed her hands upon them, and also put her cheek--red and moist with the drizzle--against their comforting surface. The wall seemed to be the only friend she had. She had so little wish to leave it that she could have stayed there all night. Tess could hear the occupants of the cottage--gathered together after their day's labour--talking to each other within, and the rattle of their supper-plates was also audible. But in the village-street she had seen no soul as yet. The solitude was at last broken by the approach of one feminine figure, who, though the evening was cold, wore the print gown and the tilt-bonnet of summer time. Tess instinctively thought it might be Marian, and when she came near enough to be distinguishable in the gloom surely enough it was she. Marian was even stouter and redder in the face than formerly, and decidedly shabbier in attire. At any previous period of her existence Tess would hardly have cared to renew the acquaintance in such conditions; but her loneliness was excessive, and she responded readily to Marian's greeting. Marian was quite respectful in her inquiries, but seemed much moved by the fact that Tess should still continue in no better condition than at first; though she had dimly heard of the separation. "Tess--Mrs Clare--the dear wife of dear he! And is it really so bad as this, my child? Why is your cwomely face tied up in such a way? Anybody been beating 'ee? Not HE?" "No, no, no! I merely did it not to be clipsed or colled, Marian." She pulled off in disgust a bandage which could suggest such wild thoughts. "And you've got no collar on" (Tess had been accustomed to wear a little white collar at the dairy). "I know it, Marian." "You've lost it travelling." "I've not lost it. The truth is, I don't care anything about my looks; and so I didn't put it on." "And you don't wear your wedding-ring?" "Yes, I do; but not in public. I wear it round my neck on a ribbon. I don't wish people to think who I am by marriage, or that I am married at all; it would be so awkward while I lead my present life." Marian paused. "But you BE a gentleman's wife; and it seems hardly fair that you should live like this!" "O yes it is, quite fair; though I am very unhappy." "Well, well. HE married you--and


tut, tut! That was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?" "Doing nicely, sir." And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were. "Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea bell, we have it early on the boy's account. Come down and go on being neighborly." "If you'd like to have me, sir." "Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't." And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. "What would Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home. "Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable grandfather. "I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance. "That's evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman." And having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo. The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh. "She's right, the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself. If the Laurences had been what Jo called `prim and poky', she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward. But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the finest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying, with the happy look Jo liked to see, "Please give these to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much." They found Mr. Laurence standing


then it’s that part, then it’s another little tiny part. So we won’t do it.” I felt secondhand embarrassment for the briefer in circumstances like this. He or she would stand there awkwardly waiting to get back on topic, while witnessing in person—often for the first time—how genuinely incompetent our president was. It was one of many reasons General Kelly was circumspect about who had access to Trump. Word came down from the White House in mid-2017 to stop providing the president with lengthy documents. If there was a staple in it, the briefing paper was probably too long and needed to be cut. Fifteen-page updates on complex issues were chopped down to one. Bold fonts. Simple words. BIG pictures. Know your audience, they say, and the “audience of one” (as we called the president) had the temperament of a child, albeit a child with a finger lingering over the nuclear button. We were forced to dumb down life-and-death decisions. Nowhere was this more relevant than on Afghanistan and Syria, two places Trump knew nothing about. The president was dismissive of his national security team’s advice. He wanted out of foreign countries altogether, was eager to please the people who had applauded him on the campaign trail for saying so, and balked at the idea that he needed to give the concept of a massive U.S. military withdrawal any thoughtful deliberation. Military leaders reminded Trump that he liked boasting about how hard we were fighting terrorists. Well, Afghanistan and Syria just so happened to be the places where we were fighting terrorists, they told him. If we pulled out too fast, extremist operatives would be able to carry out their plots with impunity, and Trump would get blamed for it by the public. The national security ramifications didn’t matter to the president, but the political implications mattered to him a great deal. I could tell that Trump’s careless handling of military decisions weighed on General Kelly. Amid the internal debates, he made a speech in New York City about honoring U.S. service members. As Kelly spoke, I was sitting close to the stage, reviewing his written remarks, when I realized he was going off script. He brought up the death of his son Robert, who had been killed several years earlier by a land mine in Afghanistan. The room went quiet. When a parent loses a son or daughter in combat, Kelly explained, they are visited in person by a U.S. military casualty officer who delivers the news. In November 2010, there was a knock on John Kelly’s door from his close friend, Joseph Dunford, who was then the number two of the Marine Corps. That morning General Dunford had volunteered to personally break the terrible news to Kelly and his wife Karen. As soon as they saw their friend’s face at the door, they knew that it meant their lives would be forever changed. “It’s a kind of grief that is unbearable to the mind and antagonizing to the heart,” Kelly recounted. He had been on the other side of the


Wyn already knows, because, well, we had to give him the full picture so he understood why it was so essential that he’s here this week. That all of us are.” “Oh my god!” Kimmy half screams, instantly ecstatic. “Are you two having a—” “Oh god, no!” Sabrina says. “No. No! Definitely not. It’s—it’s the house.” She pauses for a breath, then swallows and lifts her chin. “Dad’s selling it. Next month.” The kitchen goes pin-drop silent. Not comfortable quiet, shocked quiet. Cleo wilts onto a stool at the counter. Wyn’s hands scrape clear of me, and he immediately puts several feet of distance between us, no longer considering me at risk of confessing, apparently. I stand there, an astronaut untethered from her spaceship, drifting into nothingness. I’ve already lost the person I expected to marry. I’ve already moved across the country from all my best friends. And now this house—our house, this pocket universe where we always belong, where no matter what else is happening, we’re safe and happy—that’s going away too. All the panic I felt at finding myself trapped here with Wyn is instantly eclipsed by this new dread. Our house. Where, the summer after sophomore year, Cleo, Sabrina, and I slept in a row of mattresses we’d dragged to the middle of the living room floor and dubbed “super bed,” staying up most nights talking and laughing until the first rays of sunrise spilled in from the patio doors. Where Cleo whispered, as if it were a secret or a prayer, I’ve never had friends like this, and Sabrina and I nodded solemnly, the three of us holding hands until we drifted off. The firepit out back where, in lieu of a blood pact (which struck me as dangerously unsanitary), the three of us had burned the same spot on our pointer fingers against the hot metal, then made ourselves laugh until we cried, concocting increasingly ridiculous scenarios where we could use our fingerprint scars to frame one another for various heists. The wooden staircase on which Parth once orchestrated an elaborate cardboard luge race for us, and the little wood-paneled library in front of whose hearth Cleo first told us about a girl named Kimmy. The nail that stuck up from the pier where, a year later, Kimmy cut her foot open, and the rickety staircase Wyn had carried her up afterward while she demanded the rest of us chuck grapes at her open mouth, fan her with invisible palm fronds. And Wyn. The first time I kissed him. The first time I touched him, period. Here. This house is all that’s left of us. “This will be our last trip.” Sabrina tugs her scarf from her head and tosses the slip of silk across the counter. “Our last trip here, anyway.” The words hang in the air. I wonder if the others are also scrambling for a solution, like maybe if we pass around a hat and combine our spare change, we’ll find six million dollars to buy a vacation home. “Can’t you—” Kimmy begins. “No,”


it was any deprivation to her he was very much mistaken. She had no doubt of her power over him. He was peculiar, but she knew him through and through. He had so often quarrelled with her and sworn he would never see her again, and then in a little while he had come on his knees begging to be forgiven. It gave her a thrill to think how he had cringed before her. He would have been glad to lie down on the ground for her to walk on him. She had seen him cry. She knew exactly how to treat him, pay no attention to him, just pretend you didn't notice his tempers, leave him severely alone, and in a little while he was sure to grovel. She laughed a little to herself, good-humouredly, when she thought how he had come and eaten dirt before her. She had had her fling now. She knew what men were and did not want to have anything more to do with them. She was quite ready to settle down with Philip. When all was said, he was a gentleman in every sense of the word, and that was something not to be sneezed at, wasn't it? Anyhow she was in no hurry, and she was not going to take the first step. She was glad to see how fond he was growing of the baby, though it tickled her a good deal; it was comic that he should set so much store on another man's child. He was peculiar and no mistake. But one or two things surprised her. She had been used to his subservience: he was only too glad to do anything for her in the old days, she was accustomed to see him cast down by a cross word and in ecstasy at a kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself that he had not improved in the last year. It never struck her for a moment that there could be any change in his feelings, and she thought it was only acting when he paid no heed to her bad temper. He wanted to read sometimes and told her to stop talking: she did not know whether to flare up or to sulk, and was so puzzled that she did neither. Then came the conversation in which he told her that he intended their relations to be platonic, and, remembering an incident of their common past, it occurred to her that he dreaded the possibility of her being pregnant. She took pains to reassure him. It made no difference. She was the sort of woman who was unable to realise that a man might not have her own obsession with sex; her relations with men had been purely on those lines; and she could not understand that they ever had other interests. The thought struck her that Philip was in love with somebody else, and she watched him, suspecting nurses at the hospital or people he met out; but artful questions led her to the


men, who had not hastened to enter the gate while no intruder was in the way, now dropped in quickly, and soon the couples became leavened with rustic youth to a marked extent, till at length the plainest woman in the club was no longer compelled to foot it on the masculine side of the figure. The church clock struck, when suddenly the student said that he must leave--he had been forgetting himself-- he had to join his companions. As he fell out of the dance his eyes lighted on Tess Durbeyfield, whose own large orbs wore, to tell the truth, the faintest aspect of reproach that he had not chosen her. He, too, was sorry then that, owing to her backwardness, he had not observed her; and with that in his mind he left the pasture. On account of his long delay he started in a flying-run down the lane westward, and had soon passed the hollow and mounted the next rise. He had not yet overtaken his brothers, but he paused to get breath, and looked back. He could see the white figures of the girls in the green enclosure whirling about as they had whirled when he was among them. They seemed to have quite forgotten him already. All of them, except, perhaps, one. This white shape stood apart by the hedge alone. From her position he knew it to be the pretty maiden with whom he had not danced. Trifling as the matter was, he yet instinctively felt that she was hurt by his oversight. He wished that he had asked her; he wished that he had inquired her name. She was so modest, so expressive, she had looked so soft in her thin white gown that he felt he had acted stupidly. However, it could not be helped, and turning, and bending himself to a rapid walk, he dismissed the subject from his mind. III As for Tess Durbeyfield, she did not so easily dislodge the incident from her consideration. She had no spirit to dance again for a long time, though she might have had plenty of partners; but ah! they did not speak so nicely as the strange young man had done. It was not till the rays of the sun had absorbed the young stranger's retreating figure on the hill that she shook off her temporary sadness and answered her would-be partner in the affirmative. She remained with her comrades till dusk, and participated with a certain zest in the dancing; though, being heart-whole as yet, she enjoyed treading a measure purely for its own sake; little divining when she saw "the soft torments, the bitter sweets, the pleasing pains, and the agreeable distresses" of those girls who had been wooed and won, what she herself was capable of in that kind. The struggles and wrangles of the lads for her hand in a jig were an amusement to her--no more; and when they became fierce she rebuked them. She might have stayed even later, but the incident of her father's odd appearance and


and I had a pretty full, dynamic early painted sketch, I thanked him, like he could go. “Anyway,” I said, washing my hands at the sink. “I really appreciate you doing this for me. Congratulations. You’re almost free.” “Free from what?” Joe asked. “From me. Once the art show is over, we won’t have to see each other anymore.” “Why wouldn’t we see each other?” “I’m just saying. I’ve taken up a lot of your time.” “I was hoping you’d give me roller-skating lessons.” “But how would Dr. Michaux feel about that?” Joe frowned. “Why would Dr. Michaux feel anything about that?” “Aren’t you … you know?” “What?” Joe took a swig of water. “Didn’t we talk about this?” “You said you weren’t dating. But I figured you must be hooking up.” Joe coughed. “What?” “You’re always … coming out of her apartment,” I said. And a bunch of others. “Yeah? So?” “So aren’t you guys … together?” “Wait—you thought we were—what?” My fingers were still tingling from touching him. I shrugged. Joe started laughing then, but I didn’t think it was funny. He leaned his head back and let out a big sigh. “I’m not dating Dr. Michaux. I am pet-sitting her snakes.” Now it was my turn to be befuddled. “You’re what-sitting her whats?” “Her snakes,” Joe confirmed. “Remember? Herpetologist? She has a whole den of snakes in there. Even an Indonesian flying snake. It’s pretty complicated, keeping them healthy.” Okay. I could freak out about a penthouse full of flying snakes later. First things first. I needed to get this straight: “You’re … a snake sitter?” “Pet sitter,” Joe corrected. “Why do you think I was feeding Parker’s cat?” “That’s what you do for a living?” I could feel Joe frowning, like that question was really odd. “It’s one of the things I do for a living,” he said. “All that time … you were going in there to feed snakes?” Joe nodded. “ “And so the brown bags were full of…?” “Live mice,” Joe confirmed. “Oh my god.” Joe shrugged. “Food chain.” “But,” I said as I tried to snap the pieces into place, “what about that time I saw you stumbling drunkenly into Dr. Michaux’s apartment?” “Do you mean the time she had a stomach virus? And I was helping her down the hall from the elevator?” “You weren’t hooking up?” Joe shook his head. “You were just helping her? Just being a Boy Scout? Kinda like when Parker pretended to faint?” “I’m not a Boy Scout,” Joe said. “But, yes, I was helping.” I was still working to take it in. “That’s what you’ve been doing? All this time?” “Yep,” Joe said. “Mostly cats on this floor. And one bunny. Wait. Did you think that I was sleeping with all those people?” “I mean, I hoped it was something else. But I couldn’t imagine what that would be.” “You have a very limited imagination.” “Well, I definitely wasn’t picturing flying snakes.” “I don’t know if I should be flattered that you think all those people would


“It’ll work.” “If he can’t help.” “Okay, that.” “If he can’t help, I need to talk to Elaine.” She sighs. “Now, there’s someone who really doesn’t like you.” “Yeah, but that’s fair.” “Why is that fair?” “She’s your mother. She thinks I took advantage of you.” She snorts. “You should try, see what that gets you.” It comes out before I can stop it. “I know what it would get me.” Truth. I do. It would get me a life on the far side of the mirror. It would get me Athena, and everything as it was, but in a penthouse like this one, working for Stefan one way or another. Sooner or later I’d be like all of them, and then a little later so would she. The traitor part of me always asks what would be so bad about being a Titan. Everyone wants it. Why not? But I know the answer: there wouldn’t be anything bad about it at all. Not for me. I could do good things for the little people forever, for as long as I wanted to. One lifetime, perhaps. Not two. Stung, Athena leans down and touches her open lips briefly to mine; not a kiss, but the forerunner, the hanging instant in which you know what’s happening, but it has not yet become thing itself. I taste her breath in my mouth. Then she draws away. “I’ll talk to Maurice. And yes, Elaine too. Now get out of here. You’re testing my resolve.” And mine. I get out. * * * — The voice on the phone is deep and precise. “Mr. Sounder. You know who this is?” I do. “Mr. Nugent.” “Mr. Sounder, I hear there was an unfortunate incident last night.” “Yes. Very unfortunate. I was quite shocked.” “It has caused me some concern. I thought perhaps I wasn’t the only person bidding for your services in this matter.” “Funnily enough, I had a similar concern. I thought maybe you’d reached out to a third party. That would be hurtful.” “Yes, of course, if you had nothing to do with the unfortunate situation now evident, you might well think in that direction.” “Now, your Mr. Zoegar thinks we can’t work together, you and I. Says there’s no trust.” I want to ask him about the genetic file stash, but even assuming he tells me something I don’t know enough to recognise another lie. They say an investigator should never ask a question they don’t already know the answer to, and no doubt that’s hilarious but it doesn’t make any damn sense. “Mr. Zoegar is a cynic, sir. I am an optimist. If I extend you my trust in this matter, will I be disappointed?” “No, Mr. Nugent. I think you will find me extremely effective. But turnabout is fair play. Is there anything you want to tell me about this little commission of yours?” That’s as close as I can get without giving it away. Doublewide doesn’t say anything for the longest time. Figure he actually doesn’t like to break his word,


soft, kind, gracious, infectious: (adj) communicable, indifferently: (adv) carelessly, coldly, tolerant, merciful, compassionate; catching, pestiferous, infective, nonchalantly, listlessly, (adj, v) permissive. ANTONYMS: epidemic, infect, transmittable, unconcernedly, uninterestedly, (adj) intolerant, unsympathetic, taking, virulent, vitiating, easily neutrally, middlingly, casually, severe, restrained, harsh, spread. ANTONYM: (adj) unbiasedly, disinterestedly. hardhearted, abstemious, noninfectious ANTONYMS: (adv) passionately, disapproving infer: (v) deduce, guess, derive, obsessively, carefully, eagerly, indulging: (n) pampering, excess, conclude, construe, imagine, energetically, warmly, anxiously, indulgence, orgy, folly, foolery, conjecture, gather, deduct; (adj, v) enthusiastically, sympathetically gratification understand, imply indistinct: (adj) indefinite, ineffectual: (adj) ineffective, futile, inference: (n) corollary, implication, inarticulate, faint, dull, fuzzy, useless, feeble, abortive, powerless, illation, conclusion, assumption, indeterminate, hazy, neutral; (adj, n) idle, weak, unable, void, vain. judgment, surmise, derivation, confused, cloudy, dark. ANTONYMS: (adj) strong, effectual, analogy, guess, result. ANTONYM: ANTONYMS: (adj) clear, slight, effective, useful, viable, competent, (n) fact separate, certain, precise, audible, invulnerable, helpful, decisive inferior: (adj) secondary, bad, strong, definite inefficacious: (adj) ineffective, futile, humble, poor, junior, petty, lesser, indistinctly: (adv) vaguely, dimly, inefficient, bootless, useless, cheap, base, feeble, vulgar. hazily, mistily, inarticulately, inoperative, inutile, null, feckless, ANTONYMS: (adj) better, choice, shadowily, obscurely, unclearly, nugatory, fruitless excellent, premium, adscript, fuzzily, confusedly, ambiguously. inexhaustible: (adj) indefatigable, perfect, higher, quality, senior; (adj, ANTONYMS: (adv) precisely, immeasurable, unfailing, infinite, n) superscript; (n) boss audibly, coherently, distinctly boundless, illimitable, unlimited, infernal: (adj) devilish, fiendish, indistinctness: (n) faintness, incalculable, unexhaustible, diabolical, demonic, damned, fuzziness, vagueness, blurriness, unapproachable, unfathomable. cursed, blasted, unholy, wicked; fogginess, Intellectual indistinctness, ANTONYMS: (adj) limited, (adj, v) diabolic, satanic opaqueness, opacity, uncertainty, unproductive inferred: (adj) subtle, tacit, assumed, ambiguity, obscurity. ANTONYMS: inexplicable: (adj) incomprehensible, incidental, latent, unsaid, unspoken, (n) distinctness, clearness, certainty, mysterious, unaccountable, understood, contingent, implied, clarity inscrutable, unfathomable, derivative. ANTONYM: (adj) indistinguishable: (adj) identical, enigmatic, baffling, indecipherable, explicit alike, imperceptible, obscure, unexplained, incognizable, infinitely: (adv) greatly, vastly, undistinguishable, same, equivalent, preternatural. ANTONYMS: (adj) immensely, immeasurably, 296 The Scarlet Letter boundlessly, enormously, inherit, own, receive, come in for, to unfortunate, untimely, untoward. unboundedly, hugely, ceaselessly, succeed, follow, descend, accede ANTONYMS: (adj) opportune, unendingly; (adj, adv) incalculably. inimical: (adj) harmful, adverse, timely, appropriate, fortunate, ANTONYM: (adv) finitely detrimental, malign, contrary, convenient, suitable infirm: (adj, n, v) feeble; (adj, v) faint, antagonistic, injurious, noxious, inopportuneness: (n) untimeliness, weak, sickly, debilitated; (adj) pernicious, repugnant, unfriendly. awkwardness impotent, fragile, decrepit, ill, ANTONYMS: (adj) helpful, friendly, inquietude: (n) anxiety, disturbance, delicate, shaky. ANTONYMS: (adj) favorable unrest, perturbation, disquiet, whole, well, hearty iniquity: (adj, n) depravity; (n) restlessness, uneasiness, edginess, infirmity: (adj, n) frailty, foible, inequity, wickedness, immorality, trepidation; (n, v) discomfort, imbecility; (n) feebleness, injustice, crime, sin, vice, darkness, vexation of spirit impotence, disability, decrepitude, villainy, sinfulness. ANTONYMS: inquire: (v) demand, ask, explore, illness, sickness, disease, weakness. (n) goodness, good enquire, inspect, research, consult, ANTONYMS: (n) health, wellness, injustice: (n) iniquity, wrong, pry, request, wonder; (n, v) strength unfairness, bigotry, wickedness, question. ANTONYM: (v) answer inflexible: (adj) rigid, fixed, prejudice, crime; (adj, n) injury, evil, inquisitively: (adv) pryingly, nosily, uncompromising, immovable, harm, damage. ANTONYMS: (n) inquiringly, questioningly, rigorous, unbending, inexorable, fairness, evenhandedness, meddlesomely, speculatively, dogged; (adj, n) hard, firm, harsh. reasonableness, goodness, tolerance searchingly, meddlingly,


flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us, and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove away. "It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand. "'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not keep you waiting an instant,' said he, and vanished into the darkness. "I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all.


she describes the vain efforts to find the gypsy peddler. Meanwhile, she says, nobody seems concerned that Dunstan still hasn't come home. NOTE: THE MYSTERY For you, unlike the villagers, the real mystery here is Dunstan's disappearance. You know Dunstan disappeared after robbing Silas. Why hasn't anyone in Raveloe made the connection? To some readers, this is a flaw in the plot. Yet Eliot explains that Godfrey is too blinded by an image of Dunstan off enjoying himself. And the villagers simply can't imagine that a member of the gentry would be involved with sordid theft. Some other readers suggest that Eliot has kept these two Raveloe worlds so far apart that it's easy to forget they ever connect with one another. Do you find this part of the plot believable? People in town still speculate about Silas' robbery, but interest has died down. Eliot focuses your attention now on Silas, who's been offstage for a while. His loss has made him more shrunken and withered than ever. In retrospect, the author suggests his gold was good because it kept his emotions alive (gold's value changes again). Silas feels cut off from life--yet life is beginning to reach out to him. His loss has changed his reputation in town; now people feel sorry for him. Eliot talks about how clumsy such kindness can be--but it's still well meant. Her first dramatized example is of Mr. Macey, stopping by the cottage to chat. Listen to his typical thoughtless speech as if you were Silas--which phrases would make you wince? Silas, however, sits there dumbly, too crushed to respond. The next caller, Dolly Winthrop, is more sensitive. Her role in Raveloe is as a nurse, mourner, and sympathizer. She puts up with her husband Ben's sharp jokes, but her natural inclination is toward sad, serious matters. She's drawn to the cottage by Silas' suffering. NOTE: CHURCH-GOING Both Mr. Macey and Dolly think it's important for Silas to start going to church, Neither one, however, is pushing religion on him. Going to church is important for Raveloers because it is neighborly. It isn't necessary to go every week, Eliot tells you, but it is important to go on holy days, when the sacrament (communion) is given. This forms a bond with others in the community. Notice how important the outward forms of church-going are to both of them. Compare the Raveloe attitude toward church-going to your community's attitude. How are they different? How are they alike? When Dolly knocks at Silas' door, Eliot describes his reaction to this visit in more detail than she did with Mr. Macey's. A need for other people is faintly stirring in Silas. Dolly offers him her homemade lard-cakes, speaking gently. Dolly is surprised that Silas can read the letters she traced on the tops of the--I.H.S.-which she copied from the pulpit-cloth at church. Though Dolly doesn't know the formal meaning of these letters (they stand for the Greek spelling of "Jesus"), she has the spirit right. Silas, on the other hand, can read, but these letters weren't part of


cheer Edgar and take care of the baby, for two things, and because the Grange is my right home. But I tell you he wouldn't let me. Do you think he could bear to see me grow fat and merry, could bear to think that we were tranquil, and not resolve on poisoning our com- fort? Now, I have the satisfaction of being sure that he detests me to the point of its annoying him seriously to have me within earshot or eyesight. I notice, when I enter his presence, the muscles of his countenance are involuntarily distorted into an expression of hatred, partly arising from his knowledge of the good causes I have to feel that sentiment for him, and partly from original aversion. It is strong enough to make me feel pretty certain that he would not chase me over England supposing I contrived a clear escape, and therefore I must get quite away. I've recovered from my first de- sire to be killed by him; I'd rather he'd kill himself! He has extinguished my love effectually, and so I'm at my ease. I can recollect yet how I loved him, and can dimly imagine that I could still be loving him, if---no, no! Even if he had doted on me, the devilish nature would have revealed its existence somehow. Catherine had an awfully perverted taste to esteem him so dearly, knowing him so well. Monster! Would that he could be blotted out of creation and out of my memory!" "Hush, hush! He's a human being," I said. "Be more charitable. There are worse men than he is yet." "He's not a human being," she retorted, "and he has no claim on my charity. I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death, and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen; and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him, and I would not, though he groaned from this to his dy- ing day, and wept tears of blood for Catherine! No, in- deed, indeed, I wouldn't!" And here Isabella began to cry; but, immediately dashing the water from her lashes, she recommenced. "You asked, what has driven me to flight at last? I was compelled to attempt it, because I had succeeded in rousing his rage a pitch above his malignity. Pulling out the nerves with red- hot pincers requires more coolness than knocking on the head. He was worked up to forget the fiendish pru- dence he boasted of, and proceeded to murderous vio- lence. I experienced pleasure in being able to exasper- ate him; the sense of pleasure woke my instinct of self- preservation, so I fairly broke free; and if ever I come into his hands again, he is welcome to a signal revenge. "Yesterday, you know, Mr. Earnshaw should have been at the funeral. He kept himself sober for the pur- pose, tolerably sober---not going to bed mad at six o'clock and getting up drunk at twelve. Consequently he rose, in suicidal


I've got a bright new shilling somewhere in my pocket, and if I have, the boy shall have it." He looked it out from a handful of small change, folded it in some crumpled paper, and gave it to me. "Yours!" said he. "Mind! Your own." I thanked him, staring at him far beyond the bounds of good manners, and holding tight to Joe. He gave Joe good-night, and he gave Mr. Wopsle good-night (who went out with us), and he gave me only a look with his aiming eye - no, not a look, for he shut it up, but wonders may be done with an eye by hiding it. On the way home, if I had been in a humour for talking, the talk must have been all on my side, for Mr. Wopsle parted from us at the door of the Jolly Bargemen, and Joe went all the way home with his mouth wide open, to rinse the rum out with as much air as possible. But I was in a manner stupefied by this turning up of my old misdeed and old acquaintance, and could think of nothing else. My sister was not in a very bad temper when we presented ourselves in the kitchen, and Joe was encouraged by that unusual circumstance to tell her about the bright shilling. "A bad un, I'll be bound," said Mrs. Joe triumphantly, "or he wouldn't have given it to the boy! Let's look at it." I took it out of the paper, and it proved to be a good one. "But what's this?" said Mrs. Joe, throwing down the shilling and catching up the paper. "Two One-Pound notes?" Nothing less than two fat sweltering one-pound notes that seemed to have been on terms of the warmest intimacy with all the cattle markets in the county. Joe caught up his hat again, and ran with them to the Jolly Bargemen to restore them to their owner. While he was gone, I sat down on my usual stool and looked vacantly at my sister, feeling pretty sure that the man would not be there. Presently, Joe came back, saying that the man was gone, but that he, Joe, had left word at the Three Jolly Bargemen concerning the notes. Then my sister sealed them up in a piece of paper, and put them under some dried rose-leaves in an ornamental tea-pot on the top of a press in the state parlour. There they remained, a nightmare to me, many and many a night and day. I had sadly broken sleep when I got to bed, through thinking of the strange man taking aim at me with his invisible gun, and of the guiltily coarse and common thing it was, to be on secret terms of conspiracy with convicts - a feature in my low career that I had previously forgotten. I was haunted by the file too. A dread possessed me that when I least expected it, the file would reappear. I coaxed myself to sleep by thinking of Miss Havisham's, next


I’m so scared of getting hurt again.’ There was a moment of silence, where I almost regretted saying everything out loud. ‘What do you really want?’ I looked up at him, tears in my eyes. ‘You.’ We collided as if our lives depended on it. He swept me up in his arms and kissed me in a way that held nothing back. My entire life focused down to this point – like adjusting the lens of a microscope to find the one thing that matters most. Love. Chapter Fifty-One HENRY We lay in Martha’s single bed, every inch of our skin touching. The wall between us had crumbled with every heart-sore word she spoke in the kitchen, like an exorcism of the past. The truth shall set you free, that’s what they say. We were both laid bare now and I knew then and there that she was my destiny. Every stupid, seemingly pointless, difficult, lonely, challenging thing I had done in my life before this had led me here, to Ha'penny Lane. ‘Are you okay?’ I felt her head nodding against my chest and I pulled her even closer into me. My heart felt ten times its usual size. I felt like I could lift a car, if I needed to. Probably best not to try, but the feeling was there nonetheless. ‘There’s something I never told you,’ I said. ‘Oh God, you’re not engaged to somebody else, are you?’ ‘Very funny. I’ll engage you in a minute if you’re not careful.’ ‘If you’re not careful, I might say yes.’ ‘Did we just get married?’ She laughed a little hoarsely, directly into my ear, which was ridiculously sexy. ‘I might give the whole marriage thing a miss for a while, I think, if that’s okay.’ ‘Same.’ She rested her chin on my chest, waiting for the thing I’d never told her. Here went nothing. ‘I’ve been in the bookshop.’ ‘What bookshop?’ ‘THE bookshop. Next door.’ She shook her head slightly, trying to make sense of my words. ‘It exists, Martha. Or at least it did, for a time. The night I arrived in Ireland.’ ‘You’ve seen it?’ I nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I pulled my ‘why do you think’ face. ‘You already thought I was a weirdo.’ ‘That’s not true!’ she said, laughing again. ‘I thought you were a perv.’ ‘Well, there you are. I didn’t want to be a perv and a weirdo, might have blown my chances with you altogether.’ ‘Are you saying you fancied me right from the start?’ ‘Fishing for compliments?’ She rolled over and pretended she was going to get up. I hauled her back until she was lying on top of me and I felt a desire for her aching through my body. ‘I think I knew from the minute I saw you.’ She kissed me softly and let her fingers run through my hair. It was like a dream I never wanted to wake from – after all of the times I’d had to leave this house knowing she would never be


Natalie, a frown on his face and a beer glass in his hand. He stretched out to touch her as she edged closer to Finn Toomey. Natalie launched herself at Finn, kissing him as hard as she could. Then she turned to Brandon, her face furious. ‘Just go away, Brandon.’ Brandon tried again. ‘Natalie?’ ‘I told you. We’re done.’ She pulled the ring from her finger and pushed it into his hand. ‘There. Now go away.’ ‘Wait…’ She ignored him, stood on tiptoes and snogged Finn once more. Brandon glanced around to see who was looking. Those who had noticed shifted away and went back to their business. Brandon slunk off through the crowd. Finn extracted himself from the kiss, confused. All attention was on Josie now: she held out another present and the applause rang out as Florence unwrapped a musical mobile in a rainbow design. Neil whispered into Lin’s ear. ‘I thought George’s granddaughter was going to marry that bloke. Did they just split up?’ ‘I’m sure he deserved what he got.’ Lin wrinkled her nose. She inhaled aftershave, not his usual brand, a new one. Neil smelled of something delicious that a man would wear when he wanted to impress a woman, a warm spicy scent that made Lin want to kiss him. She met his eyes and her own were small with contempt. ‘I expect Brandon’s been cheating,’ she said simply. ‘All men who cheat are pigs.’ Then she turned on her heel and, without another word, she tottered away, heading towards the village green, hurrying home as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her. She didn’t want to talk to Neil now. She wasn’t sure what to say. She had no idea how she’d ever be able to talk to him about the affair with Carole Frost. Perhaps it was better just to say nothing at all right now. She’d go home, lie down, sober up and her head would clear. Then she’d know what to do. Lin was determined to find out the facts. She needed to be calm, lucid and assertive, to be sure about what was going on. She’d ask straight questions, demand honest answers. And once she knew the truth, she’d tell her cheating husband of fifty years exactly what she thought of him. 29 September was the warmest month of the year, the sun beating down so hard in Middleton Ferris that only Tina Gilchrist stayed outside during the fierce noonday heat. She was working in her allotment, watering vegetables in the sweltering sunlight with a hose pipe while everyone else did their best to stay cool. The Toomeys lazed on their barge, Devlin and Finn swimming in the river, Fergal cooking Joe Grey on the stove or dozing below deck. Gerald Harris abandoned the weeds in his garden to watch cricket on TV. Dangerous Dave retreated to the cool interior of his garage; he was busier than ever, and the money would be useful for Florence and the soon-to-arrive baby. It was as if Middleton Ferris was a melting oil


or demon or hellbeast he’s in service to, but he didn’t. What did he say about the host?” “Nothing. Just that Sandow had killed for gain. He said greed was a sin in any language.” “So Darlington may be bound to Mammon or Plutus or Gullveig or some other god of greed. That might help us if we can figure out where the Gauntlet is and how to reveal it. What else?” “Nothing. He wanted books and I brought him books. He said he was bored.” “That’s it?” “That’s it. He said something about loving books more than his mother.” Dawes’s lips softened in a smile. “It’s an Egyptian proverb. Suits him well.” Egyptian. Alex sat up straighter, her feet sliding from the pillow. Dawes yelped. “Please don’t get that on the rug!” “When the books didn’t burn, he said stories were immutable.” “So?” Dawes asked, bustling into the kitchen for a towel. Alex remembered walking beneath the entry to Sterling with Darlington. There were four stone scribes over the entrance. One of them was Egyptian. “When was Sterling Library built?” “1931, I think?” Dawes said from the kitchen. “People really hated it at the time. I think the term used was cathedral orgy. They said it looked too much like…” Dawes halted in the doorway, wet towel in her hands. “They said it looked like a church.” “Hallowed ground.” She and Dawes had taken what long-dead Bunchy said too literally. They’d been looking in the wrong places. Dawes drifted slowly back into the parlor, the towel still dripping in her hands. “John Sterling donated the money for the library.” She sat down. “He was in Skull and Bones.” “That doesn’t mean much,” Alex said cautiously. “There are a lot of rich guys in Skull and Bones.” Dawes nodded, still slow, as if she were underwater. “The architect died suddenly and someone else had to take over.” Alex waited. “James Gamble Rogers took the job. He was in Scroll and Key. Punter is another word for a gambler.” Johnny and Punter’s friends built a Gauntlet. On hallowed ground. Dawes was clutching the towel with both hands now, as if it were a microphone she was about to sing into. “Would that I might make thee love books more than thy mother. That quote is above the entry, above the scribe. It’s written in hieroglyphs.” Stories were immutable. And what was a library but a house full of stories? “It’s Sterling,” Alex said. “The library is the portal to hell.” Erected in memory of JOHN WILLIAM STERLING BORN 12 MAY 1844 DIED 5 JULY 1918 B.A. 1864: M.A. 1874 LL.D. 1893: LAWYER LOYAL FRIEND TRUSTED ADVISER AGGRESSIVE LEADER DEVOTED ALUMNUS James Gamble Rogers Architect —Memorial inscription, entrance to Sterling Memorial Library If I must be a prisoner I would desire to have no other prison than that library. —James I, engraved above the entrance to the exhibition corridor of Sterling Memorial Library 11 Alex had every intention of helping Dawes research, but the next thing she knew she was waking up in the


started, pretended that there were still some tremors in her body. He cast a glance her way, but slammed the door shut, started the car, and hit the gas, rapidly backing up, hitting the brakes, then switching gears, punching the accelerator. Sam was thrown backward and forward and in that moment, her fingers scraped the back of the driver’s seat. The cross caught between her fingers. As the car bumped and shimmied onto the smooth pavement of the parish road, she tugged. Like a snake sliding out of its den, the rosary finally slithered from the pocket to twine through her waiting fingers. CHAPTER 37 I pace. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over again as the television glows, mocking me. I feel the old anxiety building with every passing moment. I’ve been patient, but my patience has worn razor thin. I know it’s risky, but I can’t wait any longer. I click off the television after watching the segment of Bonjour, New Orleans! with Kristi Bentz over and over again. I can nearly recite the personal, provocative questions from that twit Renee-Claire. The whole segment was intended to embarrass me all over again. And it did. Even now I can feel my blood boiling, a tic starting near my eye. I touch my face to stop it and feel the scab, now nearly healed, from Kristi Bentz’s umbrella, but still visible. She nearly took out my eye with that pointed tip. Bitch! I rewind the show again, this time to Kristi Bentz’s segment, and there she is talking about her book, her story, as if it wasn’t my life she’d exposed, baring all the flaws for the whole damned world to see. The tic becomes stronger. Humiliating, that’s what it is! Embarrassing. But the program holds a sick fascination for me and I can’t seem to stop myself from sitting here, in my private quarters, replaying the whole mortifying, disgraceful show. I’ve even suffered through the segments with the near-dead-looking saxophonist and the inane cat lady with her nearly comatose feline on his tufted pillow. But those parts of the show were only filler; the real show was the drama of Hamilton Cooke, Reggie, and that bitch Kristi Bentz. That’s why viewers have tuned in. Revulsion curdles my blood. I rewind once more, seeing the disjointed images reverse in quick jerky movements, the sound a garbled babble until I reach the interview again. Then I study the screen as a smiling Renee-Claire asks her guests questions, each more personal than the last. The host is loving it, too, nearly creaming herself. I can see it in Renee-Claire’s eyes, so bright with interest at exposing all the dark, scandalous secrets of her guests’ lives. No more. I clench my teeth. Tonight it ends. No more pain. No more suffering. Time for retribution. I lick my lips in anticipation. I’ve waited so, so long. With new fortitude, I walk to the small closet, find my poncho, ski mask, and dark glasses inside. After I’m dressed, I see that the television is