They seemed much surprised at my appearance, but instead of offering me any assistance, whispered together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they spoke English, and I therefore addressed them in that language. "My good friends," said I, "will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town and inform me where I am?" "You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a hoarse voice. "Maybe you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste, but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you." I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a stranger, and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and angry countenances of his companions. "Why do you answer me so roughly?" I replied. "Surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers so inhospitably." "I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the English may be, but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains." While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which annoyed and in some degree alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn, but no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me, when an ill-looking man approaching tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Come, sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's to give an account of yourself." "Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not this a free country?" "Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate, and you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found murdered here last night." This answer startled me, but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent; that could easily be proved; accordingly I followed my conductor in silence and was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger, but being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm me and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death. I must pause here, for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my recollection. Chapter 21 I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old benevolent man with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however, with some degree of severity, and then, turning towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion. About half a dozen men came forward; and,


the West saw an explosion in economic prosperity (GDP per capita soared year over year), unprecedented levels of security (armed conflict among democracies declined), and a surge in political freedom (democracies went from a minority of the world to the majority of nations). Regardless, pro-Trump forces want to turn back the clock. They are urging U.S. allies to embrace anti-immigrant policies and economic protectionism, from Britain and France to Hungary and Italy. A select group of foreign leaders are eager to see this happen. They want the United States and its allies to retreat, put up their walls, and look inward. Those observers are not our friends. The world’s autocrats will benefit from an isolationist America. In October 2018, U.S.-based journalist Jamal Khashoggi went into the Saudi Arabian consulate in Istanbul and never came out. According to reports, he was killed and dismembered inside by Saudi operatives at the behest of the country’s leader, Mohammed bin Salman, who wanted the dissident silenced. Following the incident, Donald Trump welcomed reporters into the Oval Office for a conversation. He was under pressure to condemn the brutal killing and sever ties with Saudi Arabia. Down the hall, I was meeting with National Security Advisor John Bolton about an unrelated issue, when there was a knock on the door. It was White House Press Secretary Sarah Sanders. “Ambassador,” she said to Bolton, “I think you should know something.” He ushered her in. Sanders recapped Trump’s forty-five-minute interview, during which he begrudgingly acknowledged that Khashoggi had been killed. Then, she said, the president picked up classified documents on his desk and showed them to the reporters, remarking, “See? Many countries have given us intelligence on this.” There was an audible gasp from Bolton. “Oh, God,” he said under his breath. “Yeah,” Sarah replied, “but he didn’t say it was from a specific country on record, just off. You could see pictures but not read any text from where they were sitting.” “Was that part on record?” Bolton asked. “No,” she said. Bolton asked if there were cameras in the room. “No,” Sarah replied. The national security advisor breathed a sigh of relief. We were all disturbed by the lapse in protocol and poor protection of classified information. Equally as disturbing was that Trump couldn’t quite bring himself to condemn the Saudis. “It’s not a positive, not a positive,” he told the reporters about the killing, but then he proceeded to defend the regime. “They’ve been a very good ally, and they’ve bought massive amounts of various things and investments in this country, which I appreciate.” In a meeting with the president in the Oval Office months later, Trump expressed his opinion to us in blunter terms. “I am not going to talk about this anymore,” he fumed. “Oil is at fifty dollars a barrel. Do you know how stupid it would be to pick this fight? Oil would go up to one hundred fifty dollars a barrel. Jesus. How fucking stupid would I be?” He thought the Saudis would retaliate and that higher gas prices would hurt


a hand on his forehead which he associated with his dream. He tried to lift an arm and smash it sideways into the owner of the hand, but his arms were immovable, secured to the sides of his bed. His whole body was strapped down and something like a large white coffin covered him from chest to feet and obscured his view of the end of the bed. He shouted a string of obscenities, but the effort took all his strength and the words tailed off into a sob. Tears of forlornness and self-pity welled out of his eyes. A woman's voice was speaking and the words gradually penetrated to him. It seemed to be a kind voice and it slowly came to him that he was being comforted and that this was a friend and not an enemy. He could hardly believe it. He had been so certain that he was still a captive and that the torture was about to begin again. He felt his face being softly wiped with a cool cloth which smelt of lavender and then he sank back into his dreams. When he awoke again some hours later all his terrors had gone and he felt warm and languorous. Sun was streaming into the bright room and garden sounds came through the window. In the background there was the noise of small waves on a beach. As he moved his head he heard a rustle, and a nurse who had been sitting beside his pillow rose and came into his line of vision. She was pretty and she smiled as she put her hand on his pulse. 'Well, I'm certainly glad you've woken up at last. I've never heard such dreadful language in my life.' Bond smiled back at her. 'Where am I?' he asked and was surprised that his voice sounded firm and clear. 'You're in a nursing home at Royale and I've been sent over from England to look after you. There are two of us and I'm Nurse Gibson. Now just lie quiet and I'll go and tell the doctor you're awake. You've been unconscious since they brought you in and we've been quite worried.' Bond closed his eyes and mentally explored his body. The worst pain was in his wrists and ankles and in his right hand where the Russian had cut him. In the centre of the body there was no feeling. He assumed that he had been given a local anaesthetic. The rest of his body ached dully as if he had been beaten all over. He could feel the pressure of bandages everywhere and his unshaven neck and chin prickled against the sheets. From the feel of the bristles he knew that he must have been at least three days without shaving. That meant two since the morning of the torture. He was preparing a short list of questions in his mind when the door opened and the doctor came in followed by the nurse and in the background the dear figure of Mathis, a Mathis looking anxious behind


at her with half-lidded eyes. She was wearing an oversize t-shirt that reached her thighs and thick socks that were pulled almost to her knees. Her big toe poked out from one of the socks. “You sleep in that?” “Are you coming to consult on my wardrobe?” “I came to tell you I lost the campaign. They’re going with someone younger. They want to reach the twenty-something demo. Something like that. They’re going with a blond dude. A clone of Luismi who cut a record two seconds ago. Maybe he modeled instead of singing, who the fuck knows. I’ll tell you, I—” Montserrat hit him in the face with a cushion. She wasn’t gentle about it, either. She swung it with all the force she could muster. “You’re a thoughtless, drunk prick! I’m exhausted!” “It’s not that late!” he yelled, tossing the cushion back at her. She swatted it away. “No? Maybe you’re confused; this is not a nightclub. Were you partying and forgot your address?” Tristán stared at Montserrat, rubbing a hand against his face, his eyes now wide open. “Did Yolanda dump you a second time?” she continued. “Or were you unable to score at the bar? What’s the motherfucking stupid reason why you’re here at this hour?” “Karina’s ten-year anniversary is next week,” he said, his voice low and rough. Montserrat’s angry snarl turned into a shocked open mouth. She grabbed hold of the hem of her t-shirt and twisted it with one hand. “I’m sorry, I forgot,” she said. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically soft. It reminded him of when they’d been kids. She’d been sweeter, then. Not with everyone, but with him. She’d made sure to cover his eyes when there was a monster that was too scary on the screen and told him when he could look again. When he broke his arm, she wrote in their secret alphabet on his cast. She composed the eulogy for his pet turtle’s funeral. “So did I. For a second. I agreed to an interview, and I didn’t think it would be about that.” She stood next to the couch, looking at him, and he in turn looked at the ceiling, clasping his hands together and resting them against his chest. They’d played at pirates, but Montserrat played at vampires. Sometimes she made him pretend he was the vampire in a coffin made of cardboard, his hands pressed against his heart like that. But vampires didn’t grow old, and when he’d looked in the mirror a few hours earlier, he was definitely riddled with gray hairs. “Ten years,” she said. Tristán clasped his hands tighter. Karina would have been thirty-six. He could hardly believe it. Time had slipped through his fingers. “I forgot about it, yeah: a whole decade next week. The reporter started asking questions, and I thought she wanted a story about me. But it was about her.” “I forgot, too.” Tristán shook his head. “Yes, but I wouldn’t expect you to remember. She didn’t die in your car, after all.” “What did the reporter say?” “You know


the table (for the servants generally sat in the house then, after their work was done). Miss Cathy had been sick, and that made her still. She leant against her father's knee, and Heathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap. I remember the master, before he fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair--it pleased him rarely to see her gentle--and saying-- "Why canst thou not always be a good lass, Cathy?" And she turned her face up to his, and laughed, and answered-- "Why cannot you always be a good man, father?" But as soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said she would sing him to sleep. She began singing very low, till his fingers dropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast. Then I told her to hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him. We all kept as mute as mice a full half-hour, and should have done so longer, only Joseph, having finished his chapter, got up and said that he must rouse the master for prayers and bed. He stepped forward, and called him by name, and touched his shoulder, but he would not move--so he took the candle and looked at him. I thought there was something wrong as he set down the light; and seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them to "frame upstairs, and make little din--they might pray alone that evening--he had summut to do." "I shall bid father good-night first," said Catherine, putting her arms round his neck, before we could hinder her. The poor thing discovered her loss directly--she screamed out-- "Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's dead!" And they both set up a heart-breaking cry. I joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter; but Joseph asked what we could be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in heaven. He told me to put on my cloak and run to Gimmerton for the doctor and the parson. I could not guess the use that either would be of, then. However, I went, through wind and rain, and brought one, the doctor, back with me; the other said he would come in the morning. Leaving Joseph to explain matters, I ran to the children's room; their door was ajar, I saw they had never laid down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer, and did not need me to console them. The little souls were comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on; no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their innocent talk; and, while I sobbed and listened, I could not help wishing we were all there safe together. CHAPTER VI. Mr. Hindley came home to the funeral; and--a thing that amazed us, and set the neighbours gossipping right and left--he brought a wife with him. What she was, and where she was born he never informed us; probably, she had neither money nor name to recommend


“Thank you. For all of this,” he says, reaching to give my arm a haphazard pat, not quite making it. “I mean it. I’d probably be a husk of a human being by now if it weren’t for you.” The way he says it makes me wonder whether anyone else has taken care of him like this before. Whether he’s let them. “Of course,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. His head lolls to one side of the pillow, and it’s clear those meds are stronger than either of us thought. “Chandler, Chandler, Chandler. I must be hell to work with. I can hardly believe you’re putting up with me.” “It’s the paycheck, mostly.” His eyes open wider and he looks at me hard, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place. “I reeeeeally shouldn’t tell you this, but . . . I know someone who has a crush on you.” He says this in a singsong, like we’re at fourth grade recess and he’s relaying a message from a friend. “Ha, ha,” I say. “Well, we don’t have many mutual friends, so—” “It’s me,” he clarifies, holding up his thumb and forefinger. “Just an itty bitty crush when we first met.” “I did, too. That’s kind of why I went back to your hotel room.” His grin deepens, and he wags that finger back and forth. “After that,” he says. “Not just that first time. A little bit in Portland, too, and maybe also Arizona.” A wrinkle of his nose. “I know we’re supposed to be professionals, but maybe . . . maybe also right now, too.” I crane my neck to look over at the desk, hoping he won’t notice the way my cheeks are heating up. “How much of that medicine did you take?” “I’m serious, Chandler Cohen.” He rolls closer to me in bed, his long lashes and freckles and mess of hair. Even with his eyes beginning to droop, he’s still stunning. “But—but you can’t,” I say, as though simply denying it will make it untrue. You can’t and we’ll rewind to thirty seconds ago, back when our relationship still made sense. Because that wasn’t how this was supposed to work. It takes every ounce of strength in me to scoot to the edge of the bed, so violently that I nearly fall off. It’s not real. It’s purely chemical, his brain convincing him that he feels something for the person he’s sleeping with. There should have been a warning on those meds: do not mix with oxytocin. Despite the fact that we’ve seen each other naked a handful of times now, his words linger, wrapping around my heart and setting down roots there, where they could grow into something even more invasive. There’s a terrifying sweetness to them, an innocence that isn’t always there when our hotel room doors are locked. Maybe also right now, too. “Can’t, schmant.” He seems to get another burst of energy, sitting up in bed. “You’re just . . . so smart. So nice. And you wear socks when you


the goatskin bag by his side. The priestess' voice was already growing faint in the distance. Ekwefi hurried to the main footpath and turned left in the direction of the voice. Her eyes were useless to her in the darkness. But she picked her way easily on the sandy footpath hedged on either side by branches and damp leaves. She began to run, holding her breasts with her hands to stop them flapping noisily against her body. She hit her left foot against an outcropped root, and terror seized her. It was an ill omen. She ran faster. But Chielo's voice was still a long way away. Had she been running too? How could she go so fast with Ezinma on her back? Although the night was cool, Ekwefi was beginning to feel hot from her running. She continually ran into the luxuriant weeds and creepers that walled in the path. Once she tripped up and fell. Only then did she realise, with a start, that Chielo had stopped her chanting. Her heart beat violently and she stood still. Then Chielo's renewed outburst came from only a few paces ahead. But Ekwefi could not see her. She shut her eyes for a while and opened them again in an effort to see. But it was useless. She could not see beyond her nose. There were no stars in the sky because there was a rain-cloud. Fireflies went about with their tiny green lamps, which only made the darkness more profound. Between Chielo's outbursts the night was alive with the shrill tremor of forest insects woven into the darkness. "Agbala do-o-o-o!... Agbala ekeneo-o-o-o!..." Ekwefi trudged behind, neither getting too near nor keeping too far back. She thought they must be going towards the sacred cave. Now that she walked slowly she had time to think. What would she do when they got to the cave? She would not dare to enter. She would wait at the mouth, all alone in that fearful place. She thought of all the terrors of the night. She remembered that night, long ago, when she had seen Ogbu-agali-odu, one of those evil essences loosed upon the world by the potent "medicines" which the tribe had made in the distant past against its enemies but had now forgotten how to control. Ekwefi had been returning from the stream with her mother on a dark night like this when they saw its glow as it flew in their direction. They had thrown down their waterpots and lain by the roadside expecting the sinister light to descend on them and kill them. That was the only time Ekwefi ever saw Ogbu-agali-odu. But although it had happened so long ago, her blood still ran cold whenever she remembered that night. The priestess' voice came at longer intervals now, but its vigour was undiminished. The air was cool and damp with dew. Ezinma sneezed. Ekwefi muttered, "Life to you." At the same time the priestess also said, "Life to you, my daughter." Ezinma's voice from the darkness warmed her mother's heart. She trudged


imagined that she would one day own that camp whose stories captured her imagination from toddlerhood. But here I was, now fifty years old, sitting at the desk that had been in this same camp office since my mother’s Songbird Summer. I always thought about my niece, Daphne, in moments like this, when I was trying to find ways to stretch the dwindling money in the camp account, the ledger I still kept by hand open in front of me. I thought about her when I had calls from developers offering me obscene amounts of money to level the fifty-two waterfront cabins, mess hall, offices, dance building, craft center, and sailing hut that had been my life’s work. But I especially thought of her when Jillian, my perky assistant and a former camper, burst through the door, a thick printout in her hand. “Final roster!” she practically sang. I couldn’t help but smile. With the opening session of Camp Holly Springs’s four two-week summer sessions beginning in three months (some girls, like Melanie and I, stayed all four!), there would still be a bit of movement in this list. A few girls would get cold feet, strep throat, a broken arm—but, by and large, this list contained the names that would fill our slice of paradise with their sweet smiles and big voices all summer. I tried to ignore what Jillian and I had discussed ad nauseam over the past few weeks: the list was smaller than we needed it to be. Instead, I focused on the good. The front page was filled with campers attending their first summer here. “This is so exciting!” I exclaimed. And despite my financial woes, I meant it. This was why I did this job. I loved to watch these girls develop the sea legs and self-confidence that weeks of independence gave them. As Jillian handed me a cup of coffee, I sank into my happiness. “It’s worth fighting for, June. I know we need to get creative about how to keep camp open, but we can do this.” I nodded, but my eyes flipped to the business card that was clipped to my ledger. Price Development. A number was written, in Sharpie: $5,000,000. Their starting offer had been $3,500,000 for the three hundred fifty acres of pristine, unobstructed water view. When I said I wasn’t interested in selling, most developers went away. David Price kept raising his offer. I would lie in bed at night here, alone, listening to the cicadas chirping, the frogs conversing, the moonlight streaming through the windows, and reason that I had bought this summer camp more than twenty-five years ago—the first time it was failing—and had a good run. Now it was time to let it go. Not for the money. But because, after the pandemic shut our doors for a whole summer, I couldn’t, even with the moderately successful next year we had, keep it open. But then morning would come, and I would have a change of heart, not wanting to take away the place where little girls


“That’s just it, though,” I said. “I don’t write from a point of clarity. I write out of confusion.” “Then how about this—can you define cheese for me? Because I still haven’t figured out, after two decades, where the line is between cheese and emotional extravagance that’s acceptable. What makes a song or a movie or a moment in real life land on one side or the other? This is part of why the Cheesemonger sketch hit a nerve for me.” I was quiet for a few seconds and finally said, “That’s a good question. But the line is subjective, right? Kind of like the Supreme Court definition of obscenity being ‘I know it when I see it.’ ” “What’s a song you think is legitimately, non-cheesily romantic?” “At the risk of being predictable, there’s an Indigo Girls song called ‘Dairy Queen.’ ” “But isn’t that about a relationship that doesn’t work out?” “Romance doesn’t require a happy ending.” Though I didn’t convey it, I was surprised that he knew the song. Fans liked it, but it was no “Closer to Fine.” “Right,” Noah said. “But you have to admit it’s easier not to be cheesy when you’re writing about lost love. Are your romantic comedies going to end sadly and that’s their twist?” I laughed. “I don’t know how they end because I haven’t finished writing one yet.” He was looking at me with intense curiosity, which wasn’t a way I was often looked at. Then he said, “Have you ever been in love?” “Well—” I paused. “I’ve actually been married.” He glanced down at my left hand, the hand in which I held my drink, so I switched the glass to the other hand and wiggled my bare left fingers. “And divorced,” I added. “I’m a brassy divorcée. I had a starter marriage in my early twenties, right after college.” “Does that explain why you’re not a fan of songs about people who stayed married through all the ups and downs?” He took a sip of his club soda. “Or am I being facile?” “Well, I definitely don’t think divorces are inherently tragic. I saw my own as a personal failure, but it also was a huge relief. I’d never have had this career if I’d stayed married.” “In the beginning, when you and your husband were first together, did you feel like, ‘Am I in heaven’?” I laughed. “No.” He laughed, too, a surprised-seeming laugh, and I said, “I think I’ve sort of been in love. Just not with my husband.” Noah was still regarding me with an expression that was both amused and strangely rapt, as if he found me riveting. This was the problem with celebrities, that they could deploy their charisma at will, and you basked in its glow, and then they shifted it away from you and the world reverted to being cold. “How does sort of in love work?” he asked. Elliot had been at the after-party at the big French restaurant—he was far too ambitious to skip it—but he wasn’t at the after-after-party;


The best! I’ll text you her contact information.” “You don’t have to.” “I know, Kristi. But I want to. You know I do.” She pulled her phone from her back pocket, pressed several keys, and looked up. A fresh smile was pinned to her face. “Okay. You call her. There’s no reason you have to go through this alone, and if you don’t feel comfortable talking with me or other friends or even your dad, you can talk to her.” Kristi’s cell phone dinged, indicating a message had been received. “I don’t know that I’ll call her.” “Okay, okay, I get it. I really do. You might need more time. Sure. But the way I see it, you’re avoiding fun, avoiding life.” “Oh, give me a break. I am not.” Her friend’s knowing eyes narrowed. “Fine. Truth time. I’m worried about you. Okay? And so are Sarah and Jess.” “I’ll be fine.” “Will you?” “Yes! Jesus.” She stood suddenly. “Let’s just pay the bill and go.” “Why?” Bella demanded. “Do you have a million things to do?” “Yeah, yeah, I do,” she lied. “I’m late on a deadline.” “It’ll wait.” “I need to let the dog out.” Bella’s eyebrows drew together. “Really? I thought . . . didn’t your dog . . . Geez, Kristi, you don’t have to lie.” “I didn’t mean . . .” She let the sentence fall away and didn’t argue, because of course right now she had no dog. All of the pets that she and Jay had adopted had passed on. “Sorry.” “If you don’t want to go, just say so. What’s with you? You never were one to make excuses or lie, for God’s sake.” “Okay, okay. You caught me. It’s not that I don’t want to go, it’s just that right now . . . I just can’t.” Bella flipped a hand up as if to say, “Whatever.” And then she said, “It’s whatever you want, Kristi. Who am I to try to talk you out of living the rest of your life as a monk, er, a nun?” Her eyebrows arched. “Just your best frickin’ friend. But, hey! Go! Go on. Get out. Go home.” She made shooing motions with her hands. “Hole up in your house by yourself if that’s what you want.” “I do. It is exactly what I want.” “Fine!” Then Bella calmed a bit. “Look, you just survived a horrific attack and lost your husband, watched him die in your arms, for God’s sake. That’s . . . that’s unthinkable. Horrific. The worst! But even so, there’s so much to life, so much to live for.” Kristi’s eyes grew hot. She thought of the baby. Her baby. Jay’s. Growing inside her. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted, and her voice sounded rough. “I know I’ve got some things to work through, but . . . but I’ll be fine.” She was on the edge of telling her friend about her pregnancy, but didn’t. It seemed traitorous somehow, that Bella Lyons would know the truth and Jay wouldn’t. Not ever. Of


to change if I do that." "You're wise already!" Montag felt his feet moving him on the sidewalk.toward his house. "Keep talking." "Would you like me to read? I'll read so you can remember. I go to bed only five hours a night. Nothing to do. So if you like; I'll read you to sleep nights. They say you retain knowledge even when you're sleeping, if someone whispers it in your ear." "Yes." "Here." Far away across town in the night, the faintest whisper of a turned page. "The Book of Job." The moon rose in the sky as Montag walked, his lips moving just a trifle. He was eating a light supper at nine in the evening when the front door cried out in the hall and Mildred ran from the parlour like a native fleeing an eruption of Vesuvius. Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. Bowles came through the front door and vanished into the volcano's mouth with martinis in their hands: Montag stopped eating. They were like a monstrous crystal chandelier tinkling in a thousand chimes, he saw their Cheshire Cat smiles burning through the walls of the house, and now they were screaming at each other above the din. Montag found himself at the parlour door with his food still in his mouth. "Doesn't everyone look nice!" "Nice." "You look fine, Millie! " "Fine." "Everyone looks swell." "Swell! "Montag stood watching them. "Patience," whispered Faber. "I shouldn't be here," whispered Montag, almost to himself. "I should be on my way back to you with the money!" "Tomorrow's time enough. Careful!" "Isn't this show wonderful?" cried Mildred. "Wonderful!" On one wall a woman smiled and drank orange juice simultaneously. How does she do both at once, thought Montag, insanely. In the other walls an X-ray of the same woman revealed the contracting journey of the refreshing beverage on its way to her delightful stomach! Abruptly the room took off on a rocket flight into the clouds, it plunged into a lime-green sea where blue fish ate red and yellow fish. A minute later, Three White Cartoon Clowns chopped off each other's limbs to the accompaniment of immense incoming tides of laughter. Two minutes more and the room whipped out of town to the jet cars wildly circling an arena, bashing and backing up and bashing each other again. Montag saw a number of bodies fly in the air. "Millie, did you see that?" "I saw it, I saw it! " Montag reached inside the parlour wall and pulled the main switch. The images drained away, as if the water had been let out from a gigantic crystal bowl of hysterical fish. The three women turned slowly and looked with unconcealed irritation and then dislike at Montag. "When do you suppose the war will start?" he said. "I notice your husbands aren't here tonight?" "Oh, they come and go, come and go," said Mrs. Phelps. "In again out again Finnegan, the Army called Pete yesterday. He'll be back next week. The Army said so. Quick war. Forty-eight hours they said, and everyone


it be too forward to suggest a nightcap at his place? I’ve already slept over, so it’s not out of the question. But I don’t want to come on too strong. One-night stands were common in my old life, but this feels… different. It feels like potential. We approach Uncle Jack’s. The fluorescent lighting and noise of late-night diners—most of them drunk—spill into the street. As we pass, Jesse’s hand slips into mine and I like the way it feels. Like we are together, a couple even. When we reach the alleyway, we turn. It is dark, strongly scented with cooking and garbage. Behind a dumpster there are two men—smoking something? shooting up?—but Jesse’s presence, his strong hand in mine, makes me feel safe. “Here we are,” he says, stopping near my Corolla. I swallow, all the words I want to say stuck in my mouth like glue. Finally, I manage to speak. “How about—” But his lips come down on mine. His mouth is warm and soft and tastes of beer. I melt into him, my arms sliding around his waist. I haven’t been touched, held, caressed in so long. His hands are in my hair, cradling the back of my head, and my knees weaken. My desire is like hunger, like thirst, startling in its intensity. I press myself against him, hands tugging at his hips. Abruptly, he pulls away. “I should go.” My cheeks burn. I feel embarrassed by my own lust. “Yeah,” I mumble. “Me too.” His fingers tilt my chin up so our eyes meet. “I like you, Lee.” “I like you, too.” He kisses me again—once, softly—and steps back. It’s my cue to get into my car and leave. I move robotically to the driver’s side and open the door. As I’m about to get in, he says: “Have a good sleep.” He thinks I’m going home to a warm bed, to cuddle under soft blankets, to think about him. He has no idea that I’ll be cold and alone, frightened and on edge. That I’ll sip whisky to numb myself, that I’ll cradle a hunting knife in my lap. “You too,” I say, and my voice wobbles. I slide into the car and close the door. 14 IN THE MORNING, HAZEL IS there, tapping gently at my window. It takes me a few moments to gather my bearings, to focus my thoughts through the dull throb between my eyebrows, the furry feeling in my mouth. The near-empty whisky bottle sits in the console next to me; last night, it had been almost half full. After I left Jesse, self-pity had consumed me. My time with him had felt so normal, so promising, but as I sat alone in my car, the tattered sleeping bag pulled up to my chin, my optimism had abandoned me. I felt hopeless and ashamed. How could I build a relationship with a man who had no idea who I really was? The horrible secrets I was keeping? If I told him, he’d be disgusted. He’d end our relationship before it


alloy. tome: (n) volume, compass, periodical, conclusion. ANTONYMS: (n) trunk, pursuits: (n) diversion, duties. part, opuscule, mass, magazine, average, minimum, head, leniency. residences: (n) grove. journal, bulk, convolution, work. folio: (n) leaf, sheet, number, page sternness: (n) harshness, rigor, towers: (n) edifice. 98 The Scarlet Letter At about the centre of the oaken panels that lined the hall was suspended a suit of mail, not, like the pictures, an ancestral relic, but of the most modern date; for it had been manufactured by a skilful armourer in London, the same year in which Governor Bellingham came over to New England. There was a steel head- piece, a cuirass, a gorget and greaves, with a pair of gauntlets and a sword hanging beneath; all, and especially the helmet and breastplate, so highly burnished as to glow with white radiance, and scatter an illumination everywhere about upon the floor. This bright panoply was not meant for mere idle show, but had been worn by the Governor on many a solemn muster and draining field, and had glittered, moreover, at the head of a regiment in the Pequod war. For, though bred a lawyer, and accustomed to speak of Bacon, Coke, Noye, and Finch, as his professional associates, the exigenties of this new country had transformed Governor Bellingham into a soldier, as well as a statesman and ruler.% Little Pearl, who was as greatly pleased with the gleaming armour as she had been with the glittering frontispiece of the house, spent some time looking into the polished mirror of the breastplate. "Mother," cried she, "I see you here. Look! look!" Hester looked by way of humouring the child; and she saw that, owing to the peculiar effect of this convex mirror, the scarlet letter was represented in exaggerated and gigantic proportions, so as to be greatly the most prominent feature of her appearance. In truth, she seemed absolutely hidden behind it. Pearl pointed upwards also, at a similar picture in the head-piece; smiling at her mother, with the elfish intelligence that was so familiar an expression on her small physiognomy. That look of naughty merriment was likewise reflected in the mirror, with so much breadth and intensity of effect, that it made Hester Prynne feel as if it could not be the image of her own child, but of an imp who was seeking to mould itself into Pearl's shape. "Come along, Pearl," said she, drawing her away, "Come and look into this fair garden. It may be we shall see flowers there; more beautiful ones than we find in the woods." Thesaurus armourer: (n) maker, manufacturer, cuirass: (v) breastplate, fender, armor, plate. artificer. mask, thimble, shield, scutum, aegis; panoply: (n) stand of arms, show, associates: (n) staff, membership, (n) coat of mail, hauberk, body parade, clothing, fanfare; (v) protect, circle, entourage, intimates, people. armor. clothe, defend, guard. breastplate: (n) corselet, armour plate, flowers: (n) analecta, anthology. physiognomy: (n) face, kisser, phiz, armor plating, armor plate; (n, v) frontispiece: (n) front, heading, visage, mug, look, brow, contour, shield, bulletproof vest; (v) cuirass, frontage, facia, face,


are as close as family to Silas and Eppie. Godfrey has given Silas and Eppie a lot of financial help, which they accept innocently, with respect. NOTE: GARDENS Eppie's wish for a garden fits in with a cluster of plant imagery here. Eppie, a child of nature, has a mystical relation to flowers--she thinks they can hear people. Nourishing souls, like Dolly, are identified with gardens. Aaron's talent for gardening gives him great value in the eyes of the gentry, who cannot grow their own gardens. Flowers also signify domestic happiness. Aaron is going to plant lavender for Eppie, which traditionally was planted by a man for his new bride. (Notice that there's a big bed of lavender at the Red House. What could this symbolize?) Silas, however, is only interested in the garden for Eppie's sake. Later, he suggests that they build a fence to protect their garden. What could this symbolize? Do you think it's a positive or a negative impulse? Eppie's attachment to nature is shown also in the animals around her. On the way home, she scratches a friendly donkey's nose. (Some readers think this donkey represents Silas. What do you think of that interpretation?) A lively little dog and a litter of cats also live in their cottage. The cottage has changed; it's now cozy and clean. But the hearth hasn't been altered, because Silas is attached to it as part of his past. Eppie cooks Silas' Sunday dinner and fusses over him, making him go smoke his pipe while she tidies up. Eliot reports the Raveloe opinion of this situation. Godfrey is admired for his charity to Silas (you know, however, what Godfrey's real motives are). Silas is admired for raising Eppie. Mr. Macey even says, superstitiously, that Silas' money will come back to him as a reward for this. As Silas smokes, however, you learn that he hasn't been totally transformed. He adopts village customs only for Eppie's sake. He's been able to get a perspective on his past, however, by talking with Dolly about his false accusation in Lantern-Yard. Eliot reports this conversation in a flashback, so you can watch Silas reconciling himself to his past. Note that contact with another human being, Dolly, helps him to gain perspective. Notice how Silas reverts to biblical language--"clave to me," "lifted up his heel again' me"--to describe his trial. His story confuses Dolly, because Lantern-Yard's rituals are so different from hers. But her faith in God's goodness sustains her, and she advises Silas that he should have trusted God. Dolly uses common sense and human feeling to find a reason for Silas' accusation. Inarticulate Dolly can't sort it out immediately--she needs to think about it while she's actively engaged with life. One night, while mourning a dead neighbor, she's inspired. She accepts her inability to understand every event. She's seen plenty of sorrow, and she can't see the reason for it, but she feels certain--"I feel it i' my own inside"--that it has a larger purpose. She tells Silas that he shouldn't have abandoned his community--that,


pillow: (v) rest, breathe, lie, not contumacy, spinosity (v) meteoric, in a blaze, ablaze, move; (adj) wadding; (n) throw perverted: (adj) perverse, immoral, blazing, rutilant, relucent pillow, Wanger, bed pillow, feather distorted, kinky, corrupt, twisted, physic: (n) medicine, aperient, bed, long pillow, padding abnormal, debauched, deviant, cathartic, medication, healing, pine: (v) languish, long, ache, droop, reprobate, unnatural. ANTONYMS: medicament, drug; (n, v) cure, flag, crave, fade; (n) fir; (n, v) yearn, (adj) normal, moral, unchanged doctor, remedy; (v) heal sink; (adj) peak pestered: (adj) harassed, harried, physician: (n) doctor, medico, doc, pious: (adj, n, v) devout; (adj, n) vexed, peeved, nettled, irritated, medic, quack, surgeon, leech, godly; (adj) religious, holy, saintly, much disputed, miffed houseman, MD, allergist, intern devotional, pure, hypocritical, pestilence: (n) pest, epidemic, blight, physiognomy: (n) face, kisser, phiz, devoted, sanctimonious; (adj, v) disease, curse, infectious disease, visage, mug, look, brow, contour, earnest. ANTONYMS: (adj) contagion, infection, virus; (adj) aspect, physnomy , metoposcopy impious, sinful, profane, murrain, pox pickle: (n) mess, jam, hole, brine, lot, blasphemous, irreligious, petrified: (adj) mineralized, quandary; (v) cure, preserve, souse; uncommitted, secular, irreverent motionless, frightened, scared, (adj, v) salt; (n, v) pot pirate: (n) buccaneer, corsair, bandit, numb, stiff, harder, firm, mineral, pictured: (adj) envisioned, portrayed, pillager, freebooter, sea robber, like a statue, lacking sensation. graphic, delineate, delineated, robber, sea rover; (n, v) plagiarist; ANTONYMS: (adj) mobile, fearless impictured, unreal, visualised, (v) hijack, infringe petted: (adj) cherished, domesticated, visualized, impressed pitching: (n) cast, lurch, nosing indulged, admired, cade picturesque: (adj, v) pictorial; (adj) motion, playing, slant, delivery, petticoat: (adj, n) female; (n) beautiful, striking, colorful, idyllic, lunge, stone facing, pitch shot; (adj) underskirt, skirt, she, woman, her, scenic, vivid, quaint, lovely, inclined; (adv) headlong crinoline, wife, undergarment, romantic, colourful. ANTONYMS: pith: (n) essence, substance, kernel, apron; (adj) petty (adj) drab, dull, ugly, unattractive, meaning, heart, core, nucleus, petty: (adj) insignificant, trivial, little, modern matter, crux; (adj, n) gist, frivolous, paltry, puny, negligible, pierce: (n, v) cut, prick, stick; (v) quintessence light, mean, minute, exiguous. perforate, bore, enter, thrust, pithy: (adj, v) brief, compact; (adj) ANTONYMS: (adj) important, puncture, penetrate; (adj, v) stab, laconic, curt, succinct, short, serious, generous, profound, wound. ANTONYM: (v) seal forceful, sententious, meaty; (v) significant, expansive, crucial, pierced: (adj) punctured, perforate, dense, close. ANTONYMS: (adj) considerable, broadminded, penetrated, cut, cleft bland, lengthy, mild, verbose, enormous piercing: (adj, n) sharp, cutting; (adj, convoluted petulant: (adj) irritable, peevish, v) keen, penetrating, biting, bitter, pitiably: (adv) pathetically, pitifully, cross, testy, irascible, cranky, harsh, shrill; (adj) high, raw, loud. miserably, piteously, lamentably, fractious, fretful, pettish, touchy, ANTONYMS: (adj) quiet, dull, soft, wretchedly, patheticly, tragically, choleric. ANTONYMS: (adj) hot tragicly, sadly, deplorably easygoing, amiable, calm, affable, piety: (n) godliness, devoutness, pitiless: (adj) merciless, brutal, harsh, cheerful faith, righteousness, holiness, cruel, ruthless, implacable, pewter: (n) chowchow, solder, alloy reverence, religion, religiousness, remorseless, inexorable, inhuman, phantasmagoric: (adj) dreamlike, piousness, sanctity, goodness. heartless, hard. ANTONYMS: (adj) dreamy, phantasmagorial, ANTONYMS: (n) sin, profanity, merciful, charitable, soft, phantasmagorical, surreal, wickedness compassionate, warmhearted, surrealistic pigeon: (n) dove, gull, gudgeon, sympathetic, flexible, caring, phantasy: (n, v) fancy; (n) daydream, cully, ringdove, victim, cushat, tolerant


song twice. If it’s less of a “hey, let’s marvel at what good music taste I have” party, and more of a “passive-aggressive storytelling competition” party, I’d be great at that, too. I have so many good stories. I won’t say weird, off-putting, or challenging shit to casual acquaintances of yours, threatening to make your future relationships with them awkward as hell. I have a deep reservoir of jokes and funny anecdotes that’ll thaw even the chilliest of the coworkers you invited just to be nice. And I know how to land a fucking punch line! You also won’t have to worry about me posting all your business online. That’s right, you’re never gonna log on to be confronted by the ten worst pictures of you and/or your apartment you’ve ever seen in your whole fucking life, posted by me, not even with the decency to put a flattering filter on your mismatched furniture and trash. If my phone is out, it’s because I’m trying to find a meme to show someone, so I won’t be that person trying to explain a visual medium to a person who is already bored, not because I am taking shadowy pictures of all your stuff that I plan to post at three in the morning when I know you’re not going to see it for at least twelve hours, by which point everyone you know will have seen that you (1) had a party and didn’t invite them, and (2) should probably run a dustrag over your coffee table. That’s rude. I can also keep your cat company if you need me to. I mean, if Pickles is getting stressed out in the darkened bedroom you stashed her in with only an empty tuna can for company, I would not at all mind creeping in there and petting her for many hours, until the party is over and you forget I’m even in there, which sounds awkward in theory but will come in very handy when you find out that I don’t mind helping clean up. I love party aftermath; I love seeing who congregated where and how many drinks they had and speculating about who kissed what and who went home with whom, even if it means collecting stacks of little plates covered in globs of unidentifiable cream-based goo and half-eaten celeries with their little unruly celery hairs sticking up. So, you’ll invite me, right? You’re gonna text me the address and your favorite brand of tequila, right? I need to be invited more than anything I’ve ever needed in my life. Because trust me, I really am great at a party. Seriously, though, invite me. I’m the greatest party guest there is, especially since I won’t come. Acknowledgments HELL YEAH, BROTHER, thank you times a million to everyone I deeply love who loves me deeply in return. I can’t do shit without my pals and my lads and family, and this book is a testament to how cool and funny and supportive they all are. I’ve been extremely lucky to work with some


the Death Crossing, a bridge shrouded in so much mist and shadow that none who began the crossing ever finished.” “My mother—” I stopped. Fairel waited, features open and innocently curious. I hadn’t spoken about my mother with anyone but Soraya. Whereas my grandparents had flinched at the mention of Niphran, my attendant had taken me to see my mother in Bakir Tower once a week. I believed she feared I would one day start to think of my mother the way the rest of our kingdom did. The Mad Heir of Jasad. The Wailing Widow. A tragedy to be tossed in a tower and forgotten. “My mother told me hundreds of people came to cross the bridge shortly after the entombment, thinking they could whisper their wants and secrets to the sleeping Awaleen. The bridge is so long, it took weeks before anyone realized none of them finished the crossing.” Their bodies simply vanished, devoured by the mist shrouding Sirauk. Fairel shuddered. “How terrible. Then why do we celebrate the Awaleen with the Alcalah?” Because it is the nature of humanity to celebrate the things that want to kill them. We resumed our walk. I guided us off the main road, onto the street hosting Daron’s tavern and the visitors’ tents. I would never bring Fairel down this road under normal circumstances, but the Nizahl patrol would be eager to prove themselves to their Commander, and there was no glory in harassing drunkards leaving the tavern. “The tournament is a remembrance. We thank the Awaleen for their sacrifice and honor them by sending our most worthy Champions to compete in the Alcalah.” Fairel slapped a mosquito from her ear. She peered up at me. “Do you think I might become Champion someday?” I skidded to a halt, gaping at her. “Most of the Champions die, Fairel.” “They die brave. It is a worthy sacrifice,” she said. “Just like the Awaleen.” I thought of the watch guard frog in my bucket and knelt to Fairel’s eye level. “There is no such thing as a worthy sacrifice. There are only those who die, and those willing to let them.” The next morning, I went straight to Nadia’s duqan for extra chairs. I had forgotten to reserve two chairs for tomorrow, meaning Rory might find himself standing behind his booth for the entirety of the waleema. Three women strode past me, massive clay pots balanced on their heads as they walked from door to door, freeing their hands to carry bundles of sweet-smelling mint. Shop owners swept the dust off their front steps and knocked spiders from their waterlogged awnings. The butcher’s sons knelt on the ground with a soapy bucket, scrubbing the bloodstains and shooing away the dogs. A group of children half the size of the knives they were wielding sliced the peels off chopped-up sugar cane stalks. No one’s gaze lingered on the bakery’s stone oven, cold from days of disuse. Adel’s half-Jasadi children, who had never even visited Jasad, had evaded capture. In a day or two, the stone oven


shall endeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down. By the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her bronze and rose, a lady's grace, gave and withheld: as in cool glaucous EAU DE NIL Mina to tankards two her pinnacles of gold. The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord, longdrawn, expectant, drew a voice away. --WHEN FIRST I SAW THAT FORM ENDEARING ... Richie turned. --Si Dedalus' voice, he said. Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. Bloom signed to Pat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajar the door of the bar. The door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited, waiting to hear, for he was hard of hear by the door. --SORROW FROM ME SEEMED TO DEPART. Through the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves in murmur, like no voice of strings or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem dulcimers touching their still ears with words, still hearts of their each his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to from both depart when first they heard. When first they saw, lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word. Love that is singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the elastic band of his packet. Love's old sweet SONNEZ LA gold. Bloom wound a skein round four forkfingers, stretched it, relaxed, and wound it round his troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast. --FULL OF HOPE AND ALL DELIGHTED ... Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at his feet. When will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle all delighted. He can't sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him. What perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jing. Stop. Knock. Last look at mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? How do you? I do well. There? What? Or? Phial of cachous, kissing comfits, in her satchel. Yes? Hands felt for the opulent. Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud. --BUT ALAS, 'TWAS IDLE DREAMING ... Glorious tone he has still. Cork air softer also their brogue. Silly man! Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out his wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. If he doesn't break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feet sing too. Drink. Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. Jenny Lind soup: stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy. Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full it throbbed. That's the chat. Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect. Words? Music? No: it's what's behind. Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded. Bloom. Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music out, in desire, dark to lick flow invading. Tipping her tepping her


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


because it’s missing Mehti.” The Omal Champion delighted a few courtesans by demonstrating how quickly he could crawl backward on his elbows. “Crawling on one’s elbows is a critical skill for a Champion,” I said. “As well as a crab.” Diya seemingly reached her capacity for companionship. She darted to the swan pond without a goodbye. Timur leaned on the wall next to me, dipping the mint leaf in and out of his tea. “Did she tell you how she was chosen? You have the same expression I did when I found out.” “Should I be alarmed that I’m more intrigued than anything else?” I popped the rest of the makroudh into my mouth. Conversation with Timur came too easily. Marek and Sefa would probably like the Lukub Champion. “Absolutely.” “Damn.” I clapped the traces of the dessert from my gown, slackening my muscles in fake disinterest. “How about yourself, Timur? Why did Sultana Vaida choose a lower villager as her Champion?” “Ah, I fear my tale is not so compelling. I frequented festivals across Lukub for years and won all the sparring matches our towns hosted. Sultana Vaida’s army general invited me to the Ivory Palace to meet with the Sultana. She asked me to be her Champion, and I said no.” I glanced at him askance, waiting for the guffaw and the knee-slapping. “Pardon?” Timur drained the rest of his mint tea. “I said no the first time. My mother and two sisters are entirely dependent on my wages, and I did not have the luxury of working alongside the necessary training. The Sultana said she would pay them my wages herself. She offered more, but I did not want rumors to spread about the Lukub crown needing to buy its own Champion, not after Sultana Vaida’s kindness. Once I am Victor, my family will have much more than what I made as a stonemason.” “Bit of an ego problem in Lukub, I see.” Timur slapped the wall behind his head as he pushed off. He bounced on his heels. “Are you saying you worry about losing the Alcalah?” I matched his smile. His death would be gentle. An apology as much as a mercy. “Of course not.” The full weight of Mehti barreled into Timur, taking him to the ground. The Omal Champion straddled the Lukub Champion and lifted his arms to a swell of applause. “The key to a surprise attack—” Mehti began. Timur planted a foot on Mehti’s chest and shot the other Champion halfway across the courtyard. Mehti rolled down the slope, coming to a stop at Diya’s feet. She stepped on his chest and kept walking. “What is he like?” Timur asked, sitting cross-legged on the grass. I did not need to follow his gaze to know who he meant. There were not many men a Champion might revere. “Efficient.” I glanced over to see Vaida shifting closer to Arin, sealing their bodies together from shoulder to hip. She spoke to Sorn as her hand drifted toward Arin’s knee. Arin reached for a chalice from


programming. They’re guided by it, and can’t leave the Scrap Yards.” “They’re still dangerous, Victor. And the sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.” Vic ground his teeth together, calming himself by breathing in through his nose and out his mouth. “I know that. But if I hadn’t gone to the Scrap Yards, I never would have found Nurse Ratched or Rambo. We wouldn’t have half the stuff we have now. You would have run out of crap to tinker with a hell of a long time ago.” He nodded toward the spinning record. “And we wouldn’t be hearing this.” Dad didn’t reply. Vic slumped, struggling to find the words to get his point across without sounding petulant. “You know I’m right. I stay in the forest. I don’t go beyond the boundaries, and I’ve never pushed. I know you have your reasons, and that it’s not safe to cross the borders. I listen to you. I do. Which is why you should listen to me when I say I don’t need—want more than what I have.” He waited to see if Nurse Ratched would call him out for it. He wasn’t lying, not exactly, more in a gray area, skirting the edges of truth though he didn’t necessarily mean to. She didn’t say a word. His father did. “At least not yet.” He turned around, his father looking as old as Vic had ever seen him. He felt like he was missing something. “What?” Dad smiled tightly. “I don’t expect you to want to stay here forever. It’d be selfish of me to think otherwise. You say you’re happy. I believe you. But happiness isn’t something that can be sustained continuously, not without something to keep the fire burning.” In moments when Dad spoke like this, about what else was out there, Vic wondered about the people who had left him behind as an infant. What they had been like. Looked like. Did they laugh? Did they like music and tinkering for hours? Were they smart? Kind? What had made them trust Giovanni, a stranger in the middle of the woods, and who had been after them? Logic—the cold, brutal logic of a machine— dictated they were dead. They’d have returned by now if able to do so. They hadn’t. He knew the woods. He knew his friends, their home. Giovanni, his father, the man to whom he wanted to prove that needing and wanting were two different things. Though he sometimes pushed against the perceived boundaries Dad had placed around him, their existence brought him a level of comfort. The stories Dad had told him—stories of cities made of metal and glass, and the humans therein. He’d read every book Dad had brought to this place—more than once—old stories of kings and queens in castles, of adventures on the high seas in great ships with flags billowing in the salty air, of people going to the stars and getting lost in the vast expanse of the universe. They were ghosts, but he did not feel haunted by them.


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

here!" Hagrid shouted. "Stay on the path, I'll come back for yeh!" They heard him crashing away through the undergrowth and stood looking at each other, very scared, until they couldn't hear anything but the rustling of leaves around them. "You don't think they've been hurt, do you?" whispered Hermione. "I don't care if Malfoy has, but if something's got Neville...it's our fault he's here in the first place." The minutes dragged by. Their ears seemed sharper than usual. Harry's seemed to be picking up every sigh of the wind, every cracking twig. What was going on? Where were the others? At last, a great crunching noise announced Hagrid's return. Malfoy, Neville, and Fang were with him. Hagrid was fuming. Malfoy, it seemed, had sneaked up behind Neville and grabbed him as a joke. Neville had panicked and sent up the sparks. "We'll be lucky ter catch anythin' now, with the racket you two were makin'. Right, we're changin' groups -- Neville, you stay with me an' Hermione, Harry, you go with Fang an' this idiot. I'm sorry," Hagrid added in a whisper to Harry, "but he'll have a harder time frightenin' you, an' we've gotta get this done." So Harry set off into the heart of the forest with Malfoy and Fang. They walked for nearly half an hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the path became almost impossible to follow because the trees were so thick. Harry thought the blood seemed to be getting thicker. There were splashes on the roots of a tree, as though the poor creature had been thrashing around in pain close by. Harry could see a clearing ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient oak. "Look -- " he murmured, holding out his arm to stop Malfoy. Something bright white was gleaming on the ground. They inched closer. It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead. Harry had never seen anything so beautiful and sad. Its long, slender legs were stuck out at odd angles where it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on the dark leaves. Harry had taken one step toward it when a slithering sound made him freeze where he stood. A bush on the edge of the clearing quivered...Then, out of the shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across the ground like some stalking beast. Harry, Malfoy, and Fang stood transfixed. The cloaked figure reached the unicorn, lowered its head over the wound in the animal's side, and began to drink its blood. "AAAAAAAAAARGH!" Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted -- so did Fang. The hooded figure raised its head and looked right at Harry -- unicorn blood was dribbling down its front. It got to its feet and came swiftly toward Harry -- he couldn't move for fear. Then a pain like he'd never felt before pierced his head; it was as though his scar were on fire. Half blinded, he staggered backward. He heard hooves behind him, galloping, and something jumped clean over Harry, charging at the figure. The pain


reading aloud from a storybook and passing his arm round his sister to keep her quite in touch. Mrs. Grose watched them with positive placidity; then I caught the suppressed intellectual creak with which she conscientiously turned to take from me a view of the back of the tapestry. I had made her a receptacle of lurid things, but there was an odd recognition of my superiority--my accomplishments and my function-- in her patience under my pain. She offered her mind to my disclosures as, had I wished to mix a witch's broth and proposed it with assurance, she would have held out a large clean saucepan. This had become thoroughly her attitude by the time that, in my recital of the events of the night, I reached the point of what Miles had said to me when, after seeing him, at such a monstrous hour, almost on the very spot where he happened now to be, I had gone down to bring him in; choosing then, at the window, with a concentrated need of not alarming the house, rather that method than a signal more resonant. I had left her meanwhile in little doubt of my small hope of representing with success even to her actual sympathy my sense of the real splendor of the little inspiration with which, after I had got him into the house, the boy met my final articulate challenge. As soon as I appeared in the moonlight on the terrace, he had come to me as straight as possible; on which I had taken his hand without a word and led him, through the dark spaces, up the staircase where Quint had so hungrily hovered for him, along the lobby where I had listened and trembled, and so to his forsaken room. Not a sound, on the way, had passed between us, and I had wondered-- oh, HOW I had wondered!--if he were groping about in his little mind for something plausible and not too grotesque. It would tax his invention, certainly, and I felt, this time, over his real embarrassment, a curious thrill of triumph. It was a sharp trap for the inscrutable! He couldn't play any longer at innocence; so how the deuce would he get out of it? There beat in me indeed, with the passionate throb of this question an equal dumb appeal as to how the deuce _I_ should. I was confronted at last, as never yet, with all the risk attached even now to sounding my own horrid note. I remember in fact that as we pushed into his little chamber, where the bed had not been slept in at all and the window, uncovered to the moonlight, made the place so clear that there was no need of striking a match--I remember how I suddenly dropped, sank upon the edge of the bed from the force of the idea that he must know how he really, as they say, "had" me. He could do what he liked, with all his cleverness to help him, so long as I should


shell- fish and ate them as he gathered, it was with eyes that roved everywhere for hidden danger and with legs prepared to run like the wind at its first appearance. Through the forest they crept noiselessly, Buck at the hairy man's heels; and they were alert and vigilant, the pair of them, ears twitching and moving and nostrils quivering, for the man heard and smelled as keenly as Buck. The hairy man could spring up into the trees and travel ahead as fast as on the ground, swinging by the arms from limb to limb, sometimes a dozen feet apart, letting go and catching, never falling, never missing his grip. In fact, he seemed as much at home among the trees as on the ground; and Buck had memories of nights of vigil spent beneath trees wherein the hairy man roosted, holding on tightly as he slept. And closely akin to the visions of the hairy man was the call still sounding in the depths of the forest. It filled him with a great unrest and strange desires. It caused him to feel a vague, sweet gladness, and he was aware of wild yearnings and stirrings for he knew not what. Sometimes he pursued the call into the forest, looking for it as though it were a tangible thing, barking softly or defiantly, as the mood might dictate. He would thrust his nose into the cool wood moss, or into the black soil where long grasses grew, and snort with joy at the fat earth smells; or he would crouch for hours, as if in concealment, behind fungus- covered trunks of fallen trees, wide-eyed and wide-eared to all that moved and sounded about him. It might be, lying thus, that he hoped to surprise this call he could not understand. But he did not know why he did these various things. He was impelled to do them, and did not reason about them at all. Irresistible impulses seized him. He would be lying in camp, dozing lazily in the heat of the day, when suddenly his head would lift and his ears cock up, intent and listening, and he would spring to his feet and dash away, and on and on, for hours, through the forest aisles and across the open spaces where the niggerheads bunched. He loved to run down dry watercourses, and to creep and spy upon the bird life in the woods. For a day at a time he would lie in the underbrush where he could watch the partridges drumming and strutting up and down. But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called--called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come. One night he sprang from sleep with a start, eager-eyed, nostrils quivering and scenting, his mane bristling in recurrent waves. From the forest came the call (or one note of


have affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance that makes me tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark passions. Remember the friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power of rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we are true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may reap every tranquil blessing--what can disturb our peace?" And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every other gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her. Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of heaven, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents of love were ineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial influence could penetrate. The wounded deer dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me. Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable sensations. It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left my home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought in the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently during my boyhood. Six years had passed since then: _I_ was a wreck, but nought had changed in those savage and enduring scenes. I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive injury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine; it was about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe. The weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices that overhung me on every side, the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and the dashing of the waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as Omnipotence--and I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here displayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees formed


down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world."' The chairs creaked under the three women. Montag finished it out: "'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.'" Mrs. Phelps was crying. The others in the middle of the desert watched her crying grow very loud as her face squeezed itself out of shape. They sat, not touching her, bewildered by her display. She sobbed uncontrollably. Montag himself was stunned and shaken. "Sh, sh," said Mildred. "You're all right, Clara, now, Clara, snap out of it! Clara, what's wrong?" "I-I,", sobbed Mrs. Phelps, "don't know, don't know, I just don't know, oh oh..." Mrs. Bowles stood up and glared at Montag. "You see? I knew it, that's what I wanted to prove! I knew it would happen! I've always said, poetry and tears, poetry and suicide and crying and awful feelings, poetry and sickness; all that mush! Now I've had it proved to me. You're nasty, Mr. Montag, you're nasty! " Faber said, "Now..." Montag felt himself turn and walk to the wall-slot and drop the book in through the brass notch to the waiting flames. "Silly words, silly words, silly awful hurting words," said Mrs. Bowles. "Why do people want to hurt people? Not enough hurt in the world, you've got to tease people with stuff like that ! " "Clara, now, Clara," begged Mildred, pulling her arm. "Come on, let's be cheery, you turn the `family' on, now. Go ahead. Let's laugh and be happy, now, stop crying, we'll have a party!" "No," said Mrs. Bowles. "I'm trotting right straight home. You want to visit my house and `family,' well and good. But I won't come in this fireman's crazy house again in my lifetime! " "Go home." Montag fixed his eyes upon her, quietly. "Go home and think of your first husband divorced and your second husband killed in a jet and your third husband blowing his brains out, go home and think of the dozen abortions you've had, go home and think of that and your damn Caesarian sections, too, and your children who hate your guts! Go home and think how it all happened and what did you ever do to stop it? Go home, go home!" he yelled. "Before I knock you down and kick you out of the door!" Doors slammed and the house was empty. Montag stood alone in the winter weather, with the parlour walls the colour of dirty snow. In the bathroom, water ran. He heard Mildred shake the sleeping tablets into her hand. "Fool, Montag, fool, fool, oh God you silly fool..." "Shut up!" He pulled the green bullet from his ear and jammed it into his pocket. It


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

was precipitately leaving him, when a final thought occurred to me—one which had not been wholly unindulged before. “Bartleby,” said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such exciting circumstances, “will you go home with me now—not to my office, but my dwelling—and remain there till we can conclude upon some convenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now, right away.” “No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all.” I answered nothing; but effectually dodging every one by the suddenness and rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall-street towards Broadway, and jumping into the first omnibus was soon removed from pursuit. As soon as tranquility returned I distinctly perceived that I had now done all that I possibly could, both in respect to the demands of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my own desire and sense of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield him from rude persecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and my conscience justified me in the attempt; though indeed it was not so successful as I could have wished. So fearful was I of being again hunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that, surrendering my business to Nippers, for a few days I drove about the upper part of the town and through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed over to Jersey City and Hoboken, and paid fugitive visits to Manhattanville and Astoria. In fact I almost lived in my rockaway for the time. When again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon the desk. I opened it with trembling hands. It informed me that the writer had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed to the Tombs as a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he wished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the facts. These tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. At first I was indignant; but at last almost approved. The landlord’s energetic, summary disposition had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not think I would have decided upon myself; and yet as a last resort, under such peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan. As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be conducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his pale unmoving way, silently acquiesced. Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent procession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of the roaring thoroughfares at noon. The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby


it.” He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. It was a brotherly kiss, comforting. “I shouldn’t have been so short with you. When I think about what you’re going through, between your sister and your dad, that letter. What can I do to help?” She pulled back slightly and studied him. What can I do to help? Such a simple phrase, yet somehow Peter knew exactly the right thing to say to her at this moment. He didn’t offer judgment or advice, just his presence and his solidity and his kindness of spirit. The hope that he could help her out of her pain and the reassurance that not all was lost. Marion’s skin began to prickle. She felt the same way she did when a thunderstorm was looming, the electric anticipation that a powerful, unseen force would soon be making itself known. They stayed like that, frozen, for a moment, and then at the exact same time, they leaned in and kissed and a splendid heat traveled through Marion’s body. Peter’s hands gently cupped either side of her face, and they kissed deeper, his breath and the taste of him sweet and tangy. Kissing Nathaniel hadn’t been anything like this. Not even close. Nathaniel’s approach was still that of a teenaged boy—even if he was twenty-one—eager and slightly clumsy, with a focus on his own pleasure. Peter’s energy radiated out, toward Marion. Slowly, they both drew back and Peter dropped his hands to his lap. “I’m sorry. I sh-shouldn’t have done that.” That stutter again. He’d done it at the restaurant when analyzing Marion, taking back what he’d said about her mother. It meant he wasn’t telling the truth, and Marion felt a frisson of satisfaction that she knew him so well. And that he actually didn’t regret kissing her, even if he denied it now. “It was nice,” said Marion. “Really nice.” He raised his eyebrows, as if he was surprised to hear her say that, before scrambling to his feet. He picked the bowls up off the table, placed them in the sink, and wiped his hands on a dish towel, looking around the room, anywhere but at Marion. “I should get back to the Bowery.” Had she said or done something wrong? Maybe he didn’t like the way she kissed. Maybe he regretted inviting her to lunch. “We’ve both got so much going on,” Peter said. “I don’t want to distract you.” Marion wasn’t sure what he meant by not distracting her. She didn’t have much experience with men, only Nathaniel, who’d made it clear that they would be a couple from their very first date. Peter, however, seemed drawn to her one moment and then pushed her away the next. They barely knew each other, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about him, but at the same time she couldn’t get a clear read on the guy. For the rest of the day, her lips burned with the memory of their kiss. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO On the final day of her week


loud footsteps made the three of them look up. They hadn't realized what a racket they had been making, but of course, someone downstairs must have heard the crashes and the troll's roars. A moment later, Professor McGonagall had come bursting into the room, closely followed by Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart. Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was looking at Ron and Harry. Harry had never seen her look so angry. Her lips were white. Hopes of winning fifty points for Gryffindor faded quickly from Harry's mind. "What on earth were you thinking of?" said Professor McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. Harry looked at Ron, who was still standing with his wand in the air. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?" Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry looked at the floor. He wished Ron would put his wand down. Then a small voice came out of the shadows. "Please, Professor McGonagall -- they were looking for me." "Miss Granger!" Hermione had managed to get to her feet at last. "I went looking for the troll because I -- I thought I could deal with it on my own -- you know, because I've read all about them." Ron dropped his wand. Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie to a teacher? "If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. Harry stuck his wand up its nose and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn't have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived." Harry and Ron tried to look as though this story wasn't new to them. "Well -- in that case..." said Professor McGonagall, staring at the three of them, "Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own?" Hermione hung her head. Harry was speechless. Hermione was the last person to do anything against the rules, and here she was, pretending she had, to get them out of trouble. It was as if Snape had started handing out sweets. "Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this," said Professor McGonagall. "I'm very disappointed in you. If you're not hurt at all, you'd better get off to Gryffindor tower. Students are finishing the feast in their houses." Hermione left. Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and Ron. "Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first years could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll. You each win Gryffindor five points. Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go." They hurried out of the chamber and didn't speak at all until they had climbed two floors up. It was a relief to be away from the smell of the troll, quite apart from anything else. "We should have gotten more than ten points," Ron grumbled. "Five, you mean, once she's taken


my name like that. A little stern, amused, annoyed. Like I should be past my bullshit, even though I’m neck deep, drowning in it. “Okay. Thank you.” “Do you need insulin? There’s a pharmacy down the block.” Apparently I now discuss my meds supply with Jonathan Smith-Turner. Wild. “I just changed my pod. I’m good.” He nods, and then . . . I guess it’s happening. I’m staring at his back and following him up the L-shaped staircase, like the neutron star of helplessness I’ve been reduced to. I try to picture waking up tomorrow. Squirting his toothpaste on my finger. Making my way downstairs, nonchalantly complimenting his orthopedic pillow, then throwing out a Laters! before venturing out into the blinding white. I’m in the awkwardest timeline, but a proper freak-out will have to wait until I have enough energy. “Bathroom’s in here,” he says once we reach the upstairs landing. He rummages in a linen closet, then plugs a night-light into the wall. For me. My heart squeezes. “That’s my office.” He opens a door. “And here’s the bedroom.” Jack has a headboard, unlike other, more basic people (me). And a blue comforter, dark sheets that match the rug, and a bed that’s probably a few notches above king. Emperor? Galactic dominator? No clue, but I bet he had it custom-made. I bet the woodworker took a good look at Jack and said, “We’ll need the wood of a thousand-year Huon pine for a monstrosity like you. I shall head to Tasmania on my skiff at first light.” The rest of the room is tidy and uncluttered—no dirty boxers draped over the leather chair by the window, no Clif Bar wrappers on the floor. The window takes up the entire east wall, and there’s one single piece of art: a framed picture of the Large Hadron Collider. The endcap of the Compact Muon Solenoid—a futuristic, mechanical flower. It’s beautiful. I know that Jack did some work at CERN, and maybe he took it himself— “I’ll change the sheets,” he says, brushing past me toward the dresser, and I realize that I’ve been staring. “Oh, don’t. I’m not exactly picky, and . . .” I clear my throat. Whatever, it’s fine. “We can both sleep in here. I mean, the bed is huge.” He’s giving me his back, but I see the moment the words land. The drawer is half-open, and his movements stutter to a stop. Muscles tense under his shirt, then slowly relax. When he turns around, it’s with his usual uneven smile. “Seems like a lot for you,” he says. A bit strained, maybe. There’s no dimple in sight. “A lot?” “Going from running away from me to sleeping in the same bed, in under one hour.” I flush and look at my toes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run—I just . . . And I’m not, like, coming on to you.” I’d love to sound sharp and indignant, but it’s just not where I’m at. “We’ve established that you don’t need to come on to me, Elsie.


sharing yet another set of walls with Wyn Connor. He’s become my best friend the way the others did: bit by bit, sand passing through an hourglass so slowly, it’s impossible to pin down the moment it happens. When suddenly more of my heart belongs to him than doesn’t, and I know I’ll never get a single grain back. He’s a golden boy. I’m a girl whose life has been drawn in shades of gray. I try not to love him. I really try. 11 REAL LIFE Tuesday USUALLY ON TUESDAY we take a day trip to Acadia National Park, the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen and, perhaps more importantly, the location of our favorite popover restaurant. I’ve been dreaming about fluffy, strawberry-slathered rolls for weeks, but now all I want is to climb into a cool, dark hole with a barrel full of Tums and a two-liter bottle of ginger ale. After a quick stop home to change, hydrate, and pee, we repack the cars with picnic supplies. The process of getting everyone and everything out the door is like herding cats on acid. Like the cats are on acid, and the cat shepherd is also on acid. Right as Parth returns from using the restroom, Kimmy realizes she forgot her sunglasses and darts back inside. Sabrina says, “Do you think the first two hours of their days on the farm are Cleo sending Kimmy back into the house for every individual item of clothing she’s forgotten to put on?” “And once more when she accidentally puts her pants on her head,” Cleo calls from down by the cars. “That’s not an accident, babe,” Kimmy says, barreling back outside. “I’m just waiting for the day you finally embrace my forward-thinking approach to fashion.” “Wear whatever you want,” Cleo says. “I’m more concerned with what’s underneath.” “Awh!” Kimmy kisses the side of Cleo’s neck. “I don’t know if you’re being lascivious or sentimental, but either way I’ll take it.” Sabrina slaps her forehead. “The wine. Can you run down to the cellar and grab it?” “Pick anything pink or white?” I guess. She shakes her head. “It’s the Didier Dagueneau Silex from 2018. You mind?” “It’s not that I mind,” I say. “It’s just that I recognized very few of those words.” “Silex,” she repeats, jogging her multiple tote bags up her shoulders. “It says that on the label, followed by Didier Dagueneau, and you’re looking for the 2018. It’s a white.” I drop my own bag inside the door as I double back. The door to the wine cellar sits ajar, the lights already on. Allegedly, there are bottles worth twenty thousand dollars down there. Hopefully none of those also starts with Silex and ends with eau. As I descend, a faint rustling rises to meet me. At the bottom of the steps, I round the corner and stop short at the sight of Wyn, limned in the soft golden overhead lighting like some tortured fallen angel as played by James Dean. “Silex something-something?” he says. “Sabrina must’ve forgotten she’d


street so they wouldn’t be seen. “You are not engaged, Miss Hayes.” “I—” “You can’t be. You wouldn’t be. Not when you and I have an understanding.” Was he absolutely mad? As he pressed her up against the wall, Lucy bit back tears. He was mad, and Rebecca had been right to be wary of the man. But what was she to do? She could scream for help, but she feared what he would do to her then. His grip was already tight enough on her wrist that she would likely bruise. “I saw you, you know,” he said. He spoke so calmly, as if he had no idea how frightened she was. “In the dress shop. I almost didn’t recognize you because you looked so . . . happy, even with those tears of yours. I’ve never seen you that way.” Then his eyes dropped to her arm he held between them. He released her slowly, taking a step back. “Forgive me, Miss Hayes. I merely . . . Do you have any idea what this nonsense will do to you?” Lucy had no idea how to react to the sudden shift in the man, and she stood frozen, staring at him, because it was like he was another person. He sounded like he actually cared about what happened to her. He took a careful breath. “I can’t imagine how you convinced the man to go along with this, but . . . with you and I having a previous understanding, when the truth gets out about the engagement you have concocted with Calloway, and you know it will, you will be ruined. Did you not stop to think about that?” Lucy had hardly thought about anything else, but she couldn’t tell him that he was the reason she had carried on the ruse this long. “We have no understanding, Mr. Granger.” He scoffed. “Of course we do. Half of London knows about it.” What on earth had he been telling people? “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice shaking. He frowned. “What am I going to do? Miss Hayes, I have never been shy about my intentions. The question is what are you going to do?” Then he leaned forward and kissed her. Lucy had never been kissed. She had never really thought about being kissed. The life of a governess didn’t exactly lead to dreams of romance, and she liked to think she was a practical sort. But she hadn’t expected to feel so . . . unmoved. Servants at the Granger house had sometimes talked about being kissed when she was around, though they had never included her in their conversations. But the girls had spoken of fire and stars and being warm all over. Mr. Granger’s kiss felt . . . wet. And it was over before she could push him away, leaving her stunned and frozen in place. “I will give you three days to see to your affairs with that family,” he said, running a hand through his hair as if the


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

to make what our holy founder calls in his book of spiritual exercises, the composition of place. We endeavoured, that is, to imagine with the senses of the mind, in our imagination, the material character of that awful place and of the physical torments which all who are in hell endure. This evening we shall consider for a few moments the nature of the spiritual torments of hell. --Sin, remember, is a twofold enormity. It is a base consent to the promptings of our corrupt nature to the lower instincts, to that which is gross and beast-like; and it is also a turning away from the counsel of our higher nature, from all that is pure and holy, from the Holy God Himself. For this reason mortal sin is punished in hell by two different forms of punishment, physical and spiritual. Now of all these spiritual pains by far the greatest is the pain of loss, so great, in fact, that in itself it is a torment greater than all the others. Saint Thomas, the greatest doctor of the church, the angelic doctor, as he is called, says that the worst damnation consists in this, that the understanding of man is totally deprived of divine light and his affection obstinately turned away from the goodness of God. God, remember, is a being infinitely good, and therefore the loss of such a being must be a loss infinitely painful. In this life we have not a very clear idea of what such a loss must be, but the damned in hell, for their greater torment, have a full understanding of that which they have lost, and understand that they have lost it through their own sins and have lost it for ever. At the very instant of death the bonds of the flesh are broken asunder and the soul at once flies towards God as towards the centre of her existence. Remember, my dear little boys, our souls long to be with God. We come from God, we live by God, we belong to God: we are His, inalienably His. God loves with a divine love every human soul, and every human soul lives in that love. How could it be otherwise? Every breath that we draw, every thought of our brain, every instant of life proceeds from God's inexhaustible goodness. And if it be pain for a mother to be parted from her child, for a man to be exiled from hearth and home, for friend to be sundered from friend, O think what pain, what anguish it must be for the poor soul to be spurned from the presence of the supremely good and loving Creator Who has called that soul into existence from nothingness and sustained it in life and loved it with an immeasurable love. This, then, to be separated for ever from its greatest good, from God, and to feel the anguish of that separation, knowing full well that it is unchangeable: this is the greatest torment which the created soul is capable of bearing, POENA DAMNI, the


enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be first, last, only and alone whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity. What preceding series? Assuming Mulvey to be the first term of his series, Penrose, Bartell d'Arcy, professor Goodwin, Julius Mastiansky, John Henry Menton, Father Bernard Corrigan, a farmer at the Royal Dublin Society's Horse Show, Maggot O'Reilly, Matthew Dillon, Valentine Blake Dillon (Lord Mayor of Dublin), Christopher Callinan, Lenehan, an Italian organgrinder, an unknown gentleman in the Gaiety Theatre, Benjamin Dollard, Simon Dedalus, Andrew (Pisser) Burke, Joseph Cuffe, Wisdom Hely, Alderman John Hooper, Dr Francis Brady, Father Sebastian of Mount Argus, a bootblack at the General Post Office, Hugh E. (Blazes) Boylan and so each and so on to no last term. What were his reflections concerning the last member of this series and late occupant of the bed? Reflections on his vigour (a bounder), corporal proportion (a billsticker), commercial ability (a bester), impressionability (a boaster). Why for the observer impressionability in addition to vigour, corporal proportion and commercial ability? Because he had observed with augmenting frequency in the preceding members of the same series the same concupiscence, inflammably transmitted, first with alarm, then with understanding, then with desire, finally with fatigue, with alternating symptoms of epicene comprehension and apprehension. With what antagonistic sentiments were his subsequent reflections affected? Envy, jealousy, abnegation, equanimity. Envy? Of a bodily and mental male organism specially adapted for the superincumbent posture of energetic human copulation and energetic piston and cylinder movement necessary for the complete satisfaction of a constant but not acute concupiscence resident in a bodily and mental female organism, passive but not obtuse. Jealousy? Because a nature full and volatile in its free state, was alternately the agent and reagent of attraction. Because attraction between agent(s) and reagent(s) at all instants varied, with inverse proportion of increase and decrease, with incessant circular extension and radial reentrance. Because the controlled contemplation of the fluctuation of attraction produced, if desired, a fluctuation of pleasure. Abnegation? In virtue of a) acquaintance initiated in September 1903 in the establishment of George Mesias, merchant tailor and outfitter, 5 Eden Quay, b) hospitality extended and received in kind, reciprocated and reappropriated in person, c) comparative youth subject to impulses of ambition and magnanimity, colleagual altruism and amorous egoism, d) extraracial attraction, intraracial inhibition, supraracial prerogative, e) an imminent provincial musical tour, common current expenses, net proceeds divided. Equanimity? As as natural as any and every natural act of a nature expressed or understood executed in natured nature by natural creatures in accordance with his, her and their natured natures, of dissimilar similarity. As not so calamitous as a cataclysmic annihilation of the planet in consequence of a collision with a dark sun. As less reprehensible than theft, highway robbery, cruelty to children and animals, obtaining money under false pretences, forgery, embezzlement, misappropriation of public money, betrayal of public trust,