my happy place, and he. Is. Here. The very last person I expected to see. The very last person I want to see. Wyn Connor. My fiancé. 3 REAL LIFE Monday OKAY, SO HE’S not my fiancé anymore, but (1) our friends don’t know that yet and (2) when you’re engaged to a person as long as I was to Wyn Connor, you don’t stop accidentally thinking of him as your fiancé overnight. Or, apparently, even over the course of months. Which is how long we’ve kept up this ruse. A ruse that was supposed to end this week, while I was here. Without him. We’d hammered out the details over a competitively cordial email exchange, how we’d take turns on trips like our friends were the children caught in our would-be divorce. He insisted I get the first trip. So why is he here, standing between Parth and Cleo in the kitchen like the grand prize on some ill-conceived game show? “Sur-priiiiise!” Sabrina sings. I gape. Gawk. Freeze, while the seesaw in my chest swings back and forth with the force of a well-manned catapult. His hair has grown long enough to be tucked behind his ears, a sure sign that the family furniture repair business has been swamped, and he’s grown a beard too, but it doesn’t soften the hard line of his jaw or firm up his pouty lips. I’m still painfully aware of the way the right half of his Cupid’s bow sits higher than the left. At least his dimples are somewhat hidden. “Hello, honey.” His smoky velvet voice makes it sound like he’s feeding me lines in a salacious stage play. This man has never once called me honey. He never even calls me Harry, like our friends do. Once, when I had a terrible flu, he called me baby in such a tender voice, my feverish brain decided it would be a good time to burst into tears. Aside from that, it’s always been strictly Harriet. Whether he was laughing or frustrated, peeling off my clothes or ending our relationship in a four-minute phone call. As in Harriet, I think we both know where this is going. “Awh!” Kimmy squeals. “Look at her! She’s speechless!” More like my frontoparietal network is short-circuiting. “I . . .” Before I can land on word number two, Wyn crosses the kitchen, ropes an arm around my waist, and hauls me up against him. Stomach to stomach, ribs to ribs, nose to nose. Mouth to mouth. Now my whole brain seems to be on fire, random pieces of data flying at me like Hitchcockian crows: The taste of cinnamon toothpaste. The quick thrum of a heartbeat. The rasp of an unshaven cheek. The soft brush of lips, once with purpose. HE’S KISSING ME, I realize, full seconds after the kiss has ended. My legs are watery, all my joints mysteriously vanished. Wyn’s arm tightens around me as he draws back, his grip very likely the only thing keeping me from face-planting onto the Armases’ knotty pine floors. “Surprise.” His


I then bound myself once more to the prescribed conditions. 'Sister Clarissa,' said Miss Lavinia, 'the rest is with you.' Miss Clarissa, unfolding her arms for the first time, took the notes and glanced at them. 'We shall be happy,' said Miss Clarissa, 'to see Mr. Copperfield to dinner, every Sunday, if it should suit his convenience. Our hour is three.' I bowed. 'In the course of the week,' said Miss Clarissa, 'we shall be happy to see Mr. Copperfield to tea. Our hour is half-past six.' I bowed again. 'Twice in the week,' said Miss Clarissa, 'but, as a rule, not oftener.' I bowed again. 'Miss Trotwood,' said Miss Clarissa, 'mentioned in Mr. Copperfield's letter, will perhaps call upon us. When visiting is better for the happiness of all parties, we are glad to receive visits, and return them. When it is better for the happiness of all parties that no visiting should take place, (as in the case of our brother Francis, and his establishment) that is quite different.' I intimated that my aunt would be proud and delighted to make their acquaintance; though I must say I was not quite sure of their getting on very satisfactorily together. The conditions being now closed, I expressed my acknowledgements in the warmest manner; and, taking the hand, first of Miss Clarissa, and then of Miss Lavinia, pressed it, in each case, to my lips. Miss Lavinia then arose, and begging Mr. Traddles to excuse us for a minute, requested me to follow her. I obeyed, all in a tremble, and was conducted into another room. There I found my blessed darling stopping her ears behind the door, with her dear little face against the wall; and Jip in the plate-warmer with his head tied up in a towel. Oh! How beautiful she was in her black frock, and how she sobbed and cried at first, and wouldn't come out from behind the door! How fond we were of one another, when she did come out at last; and what a state of bliss I was in, when we took Jip out of the plate-warmer, and restored him to the light, sneezing very much, and were all three reunited! 'My dearest Dora! Now, indeed, my own for ever!' 'Oh, DON'T!' pleaded Dora. 'Please!' 'Are you not my own for ever, Dora?' 'Oh yes, of course I am!' cried Dora, 'but I am so frightened!' 'Frightened, my own?' 'Oh yes! I don't like him,' said Dora. 'Why don't he go?' 'Who, my life?' 'Your friend,' said Dora. 'It isn't any business of his. What a stupid he must be!' 'My love!' (There never was anything so coaxing as her childish ways.) 'He is the best creature!' 'Oh, but we don't want any best creatures!' pouted Dora. 'My dear,' I argued, 'you will soon know him well, and like him of all things. And here is my aunt coming soon; and you'll like her of all things too, when you know her.' 'No, please don't bring her!' said Dora, giving me a horrified little


Beef, Sop-de-Bottom, Bootyny, Motor Boat and all the famil- iar crowd was there. Coodemay straightened up as if in sur- prise and asked, “Say, whut y’all doin’ in heah?” “Eatin’,” Stew Beef told him. “Dey got beef stew, so you know Ah’d be heah.” “We all laks tuh take uh rest from our women folks’ cookin’ once in uh while, so us all eatin’ way from home tuhnight. Anyhow Mis’ Turner got de best ole grub in town.” Mrs. Turner back and forth in the dining room heard Sop when he said this and beamed. “Ah speck you two last ones tuh come in is gointuh have tuh wait for uh seat. Ah’m all full up now.” “Dat’s all right,” Sterrett objected. “You fry me some fish. Ah kin eat dat standin’ up. Cuppa coffee on de side.” “Sling me up uh plate uh dat stew beef wid some coffee too, please ma’am. Sterrett is jus’ ez drunk ez Ah is; and if he kin eat standin’ up, Ah kin do de same.” Coodemay leaned drunkenly against the wall and everybody laughed. Pretty soon the girl that was waiting table for Mrs. Turner brought in the order and Sterrett took his fish and 176 Zora Neale Hurston coffee in his hands and stood there. Coodemay wouldn’t take his off the tray like he should have. “Naw, you hold it fuh me, baby, and lemme eat,” he told the waitress. He took the fork and started to eat off the tray. “Nobody ain’t got no time tuh hold yo’ grub up in front uh yo’ face,” she told Coodemay. “Heah, take it yo’self.” “You’se right,” Coodemay told her. “Gimme it heah. Sop kin gimme his chear.” “You’se uh lie,” Sop retorted. “Ah ain’t through and Ah ain’t ready tuh git up.” Coodemay tried to shove Sop out of the chair and Sop resisted. That brought on a whole lot of shoving and scram- bling and coffee got spilt on Sop. So he aimed at Coodemay with a saucer and hit Bootyny. Bootyny threw his thick cof- fee cup at Coodemay and just missed Stew Beef. So it got to be a big fight. Mrs. Turner came running in out of the kitchen. Then Tea Cake got up and caught hold of Coode- may by the collar. “Looka heah, y’all, don’t come in heah and raise no distur- bance in de place. Mis’ Turner is too nice uh woman fuh dat. In fact, she’s more nicer than anybody else on de muck.” Mrs. Turner beamed on Tea Cake. “Ah knows dat. All of us knows it. But Ah don’t give uh damn how nice she is, Ah got tuh have some place tuh set down and eat. Sop ain’t gointuh bluff me, neither. Let ’im fight lak a man. Take yo’ hands off me, Tea Cake.” “Naw, Ah won’t neither. You comin’ on outa de place.” “Who gointuh make me come out?” “Me, dat’s who. Ah’m in heah, ain’t Ah? If you don’t Their Eyes Were Watching God 177 want tuh respect nice people


zenith. There were human beings enough, and enough of highly wrought and symphonious feeling to produce that more impressive sound than the organ tones of the blast, or the thunder, or the roar of the sea; even that mighty swell of many voices, blended into one great voice by the universal impulse which makes likewise one vast heart out of the many. Never, from the soil of New England had gone up such a shout! Never, on New England soil had stood the man so honoured by his mortal brethren as the preacher! How fared it with him, then? Were there not the brilliant particles of a halo in the air about his head? So etherealised by spirit as he was, and so apotheosised by worshipping admirers, did his footsteps, in the procession, really tread upon the dust of earth? As the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all eyes were turned towards the point where the minister was seen to approach among them. The shout died into a murmur, as one portion of the crowd after another obtained a glimpse of him. How feeble and pale he looked, amid all his triumph! The energy--or say, rather, the inspiration which had held him up, until he Thesaurus blended: (adj) mixed, miscellaneous, ANTONYM: (adj) orderly. worshipfully, solemnly, godly, composite, assorted, alloyed, marketplace: (n) bazaar, market-place, courteously, politely, obsequiously. amalgamated, beaten, adulterate, grocery, bazar, forum, agora, mart, ANTONYM: (adv) irreverently. conglomerate; (n) medley; (v) mingle. grocery store, marketplaces, market symphonious: (adj) symphonic, halo: (n) halation, aura, glory, ring, place, marts. accordant, melodious, symmetrical, circle, corona, nimbus, hoop, aureola, ranks: (n) rank and file. agreeably consonant, consonous, band, anchor ring. reverberating: (adj) resounding, musical. irrepressible: (adj) uncontrollable, reverberant, ringing, resonating, zenith: (n) apex, peak, top, height, uncontainable, unmanageable, deep, rumbling, muted, acme, pinnacle, summit, climax, wanton, inextinguishable, rampant, reverberative, booming, rolling, dull. vertex, culmination, prime. effervescent; (v) ungovernable, reverently: (adv) reverentially, piously, ANTONYMS: (n) base, bottom, volcanic, stanchless, simmering. religiously, devoutly, deferentially, trough. 242 The Scarlet Letter should have delivered the sacred message that had brought its own strength along with it from heaven--was withdrawn, now that it had so faithfully performed its office. The glow, which they had just before beheld burning on his cheek, was extinguished, like a flame that sinks down hopelessly among the late decaying embers. It seemed hardly the face of a man alive, with such a death-like hue: it was hardly a man with life in him, that tottered on his path so nervously, yet tottered, and did not fall! One of his clerical brethren--it was the venerable John Wilson--observing the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was left by the retiring wave of intellect and sensibility, stepped forward hastily to offer his support. The minister tremulously, but decidedly, repelled the old man's arm. He still walked onward, if that movement could be so described, which rather resembled the wavering effort of an infant, with its mother's arms in view, outstretched to tempt him forward. And now, almost imperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress,


in middle life. Why does he send to one who is a BUONAROBA, a bay where all men ride, a maid of honour with a scandalous girlhood, a lordling to woo for him? He was himself a lord of language and had made himself a coistrel gentleman and he had written ROMEO AND JULIET. Why? Belief in himself has been untimely killed. He was overborne in a cornfield first (ryefield, I should say) and he will never be a victor in his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game of laugh and lie down. Assumed dongiovannism will not save him. No later undoing will undo the first undoing. The tusk of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding. If the shrew is worsted yet there remains to her woman's invisible weapon. There is, I feel in the words, some goad of the flesh driving him into a new passion, a darker shadow of the first, darkening even his own understanding of himself. A like fate awaits him and the two rages commingle in a whirlpool. They list. And in the porches of their ears I pour. --The soul has been before stricken mortally, a poison poured in the porch of a sleeping ear. But those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the manner of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that knowledge in the life to come. The poisoning and the beast with two backs that urged it King Hamlet's ghost could not know of were he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. That is why the speech (his lean unlovely English) is always turned elsewhere, backward. Ravisher and ravished, what he would but would not, go with him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, with its mole cinquespotted. He goes back, weary of the creation he has piled up to hide him from himself, an old dog licking an old sore. But, because loss is his gain, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the wisdom he has written or by the laws he has revealed. His beaver is up. He is a ghost, a shadow now, the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you will, the sea's voice, a voice heard only in the heart of him who is the substance of his shadow, the son consubstantial with the father. --Amen! was responded from the doorway. Hast thou found me, O mine enemy? ENTR'ACTE. A ribald face, sullen as a dean's, Buck Mulligan came forward, then blithe in motley, towards the greeting of their smiles. My telegram. --You were speaking of the gaseous vertebrate, if I mistake not? he asked of Stephen. Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as with a bauble. They make him welcome. WAS DU VERLACHST WIRST DU NOCH DIENEN. Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most. He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was nailed like bat to


thought he said he was staying with you.” Nick distinctly remembers Andy gesturing at the wall they share with Linda when Nick asked where he was going. “He told me he was staying with his father.” Nick pinches the bridge of his nose. The wall he shares with Linda is in the vague direction of uptown—at least if you’re Andy and don’t know where anything is. He feels suddenly bereft: the idea of Andy next door is so much easier to take than the idea of him sixty-odd blocks uptown. It’s past ten, too late to call Andy’s father’s apartment. He’ll need to wait until tomorrow. But when he goes back to his own apartment, Andy’s absence hangs in the air. It feels so implausible that Andy was ever there, that Nick got to have the past few weeks. He never thought he would, so Andy’s absence makes sense in a grim sort of way. Now Nick feels foolish, like he tricked himself, believing a fairy tale that was never his to begin with. Andy’s reaction to the Journal-American offer was, Nick knows, a bit on the irrational side. The fact that Andy took Nick possibly leaving the Chronicle so personally is another reason Nick doesn’t love working for his boyfriend. But when Andy said that he didn’t want to be left, he felt every inch of that. And after the kind of life Andy has led, being passed like a hot potato between parents and schools and God knows who else, it’s no wonder. But Nick hadn’t been prepared for it this morning. If he had a little time, he might have been able to come up with something reassuring to say, but Andy left before that. And then Andy went home to find himself effectively kicked out. Yeah, there’s no way he’s particularly happy with Nick right now. But it would be a lot better if he could be mad at Nick in person rather than sixty fucking blocks away. Nick hates the idea of Andy that far away. Nick goes to bed, but he can’t sleep. At two in the morning, Nick takes Andy’s folded-up pajamas from the foot of the bed and moves them up so they’re on the empty pillow next to his own. At two fifteen, he decides he’s being a sap and gets up to put the pajamas in the closet, where he won’t be tempted to make a scene with them. When he opens the closet door, the faint streetlight shows far too much hanging from the rail. Reaching out, he touches the linen of one of Andy’s stupid summer suits. Andy’s clothes are all still there. Nick’s heart does something awful and he holds the pajamas to his chest like a child clutching his teddy bear. It means Andy’s coming back. Or it just means Andy has approximately three dozen shirts and can’t fit them all into a suitcase. He wishes Andy were here. Then they could talk it out, figure out what they’re going to do, come to some kind of understanding.


how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible. The room is damp. The mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window, and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don't believe it is my picture." "Can't you see your romance in it?" said Dorian, bitterly. "My romance, as you call it . . ." "As you called it." "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. This is the face of a satyr." "It is the face of my soul." "God! what a thing I must have worshipped! This has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has Heaven and Hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian, with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait, and gazed at it. "My God! if it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas, and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed, and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor, and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! what an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one's boyhood? 'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.' Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around, and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he murmured. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we can remember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow'?" [84] "Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! don't say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an


all. “He still broke into your room,” Ethan pointed out. “If he wasn’t after you, what was he after?” “All he got was my phone, as far as I know. And there’s nothing incriminating on that,” I said. You couldn’t be friends with Liv and not have a little of her paranoia rub off on you. Sensitive stuff did not belong on the cloud. “Is there anything else they could have taken?” he asked. “I checked all my gear. It’s still here,” I said. Unless. I walked painfully over to my roller bag and unzipped it. My cameras were there—but I popped one open and sure enough, the data card was gone. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.” “Was there something important on the drives?” Ethan asked. “Yeah, an entire wedding,” I said. “Shit. I hadn’t uploaded everything yet! Goddammit. I always upload everything right away, but I was starving and then he was in the room.” “You’re missing wedding photos,” Ethan repeated, carefully neutral. “They’re important,” I insisted. “Of course. But they aren’t going to get you killed or arrested, so I’m going to call this a win,” Ethan said. “Jessup Consulting will have them. We can get them back. Especially if they don’t want to get reported to the police for having an employee assault you.” “Okay.” I took a breath, released it. Calm. I could do calm. “Sit. Eat. Relax. I’ll see if I can turn up anything more,” he said. He eyed the tabs in the browser skeptically. “Do you ever close tabs?” “I might need them later.” “One of them is playing ‘Old Town Road.’” “I usually just mute the computer when that happens,” I said. “Easier than finding it.” He sighed and sat down to work. After I’d eaten, with Ethan still rooting unsuccessfully around the internet for signs of my assailant, I went on a pilgrimage to the ice machine. When I stepped back out of the alcove, bucket of ice in hand, I found Chief Bishop waiting for me. “Jesus Christ,” she said as soon as she saw me. “Who the hell did that to you?” “There was a scuffle over the bouquet, and I caught an elbow,” I said. She blinked at me. “I’m a wedding photographer. Sorry, bad joke. I got mugged.” Close enough. “Here?” she asked in disbelief. “I was back in Seattle shooting a wedding.” “You didn’t mention you were leaving town,” she said, hand on her hip. She’d parked her car slantwise across two spots, right next to mine. “I didn’t realize I had to check in with you about it,” I replied. She frowned at me. “Olivia’s death has been ruled a suicide. We’ve released the body. The funeral is on Tuesday,” she said. My balance faltered. I managed not to stumble, but only just. It was official, then. “I think it’s a mistake,” she added flatly. “You think Liv was murdered?” I asked. She nodded. “Then why—” “I’ve been in this town six months. I’m new, I’m not from here, and my job exists up until the exact moment that


two white mice that she had insisted Zaphod let her bring. She had expected not to see the planet again, but she was disturbed by her negative reaction to the planet's destruction. It seemed remote and unreal and she could find no thoughts to think about it. She watched the mice scurrying round the cage and running furiously in their little plastic treadwheels till they occupied her whole attention. Suddenly she shook herself and went back to the bridge to watch over the tiny flashing lights and figures that charted the ship's progress through the void. She wished she knew what it was she was trying not to think about. Zaphod couldn't sleep. He also wished he knew what it was that he wouldn't let himself think about. For as long as he could remember he'd suffered from a vague nagging feeling of being not all there. Most of the time he was able to put this thought aside and not worry about it, but it had been re-awakened by the sudden inexplicable arrival of Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent. Somehow it seemed to conform to a pattern that he couldn't see. Ford couldn't sleep. He was too excited about being back on the road again. Fifteen years of virtual imprisonment were over, just as he was finally beginning to give up hope. Knocking about with Zaphod for a bit promised to be a lot of fun, though there seemed to be something faintly odd about his semi-cousin that he couldn't put his finger on. The fact that he had become President of the Galaxy was frankly astonishing, as was the manner of his leaving the post. Was there a reason behind it? There would be no point in asking Zaphod, he never appeared to have a reason for anything he did at all: he had turned unfathomably into an art form. He attacked everything in life with a mixture of extraordinary genius and naive incompetence and it was often difficult to tell which was which. Arthur slept: he was terribly tired. There was a tap at Zaphod's door. It slid open. "Zaphod ...?" "Yeah?" "I think we just found what you came to look for." "Hey, yeah?" Ford gave up the attempt to sleep. In the corner of his cabin was a small computer screen and keyboard. He sat at it for a while and tried to compose a new entry for the Guide on the subject of Vogons but couldn't think of anything vitriolic enough so he gave that up too, wrapped a robe round himself and went for a walk to the bridge. As he entered he was surprised to see two figures hunched excitedly over the instruments. "See? The ship's about to move into orbit," Trillian was saying. "There's a planet out there. It's at the exact coordinates you predicted." Zaphod heard a noise and looked up. "Ford!" he hissed. "Hey, come and take a look at this." Ford went and had a look at it. It was a series of figures flashing over a screen. "You recognize


cheek and pick up my purse. Then stop at the door when Cece says, “Hey, Elsie?” I turn around. “You look pretty tonight.” Her big eyes are warm. “Even more than usual.” I smile. I think I look medium as usual, but my heart feels open all of a sudden, open for Cece, this beautiful, odd person who cannot read analog clocks or tell the difference between left and right, who’s been sticking with me through thin and thin and thin for the past seven years. For a moment, all I want is to open my mouth and say, I hate art house movies. Could we watch a rom-com sometimes? Riverdale? Literally any Kardashian show? What comes out is “You look like a weirdo, pouring milk before the cereal, but I love you anyway.” I step out to her middle finger. Then my phone rings, and that’s when my night collapses like an accordion. In my defense, I pick up assuming it’s Jack, calling to say that he’s late, or that I’m late, or that someone hammered him in the frontal lobe and the resulting brain injury helped him realize that he doesn’t want to see me ever again. A tragic miscalculation on my part, because: “Elsie, finally. You need to come home right now.” “Mom?” “Lance is now with Dana. And Lucas punched him after the soccer game. Everyone saw.” God. “But I talked to them last week. Lance said he wasn’t interested—” “He lied, Elsie. I’m disappointed in you for not picking up on it.” “I—” I exhale, stepping out of the building. “He seemed sincere.” “That’s why you need to come home and help me sort this out. I have been so tense and jittery. My poor nerves.” “Mom, I can’t. I don’t have a car, for one. And I have classes.” “Just find a substitute teacher.” “That’s not—I’m not—Mom.” I spot Jack’s car. It’s freezing cold. Every instinct yells at me to first finish my conversation, but I cannot resist getting in. The seat is already heated, Jack’s hair still shower damp, curling in soft wisps on his neck. He looks freshly shaved and smells divine—like soap they sell in fancy boutiques and the hollow of his throat when I slept nestled in his arms. One minute, I mouth. He nods. Mom’s going on about how Lance is misunderstood, Lucas is sensitive, Dad is busy with work, and the mean ladies at church are sure to be rejoicing in the downfall of the once-esteemed Hannaway household. Meanwhile, Jack studies me through my open coat. My dress hits only about midthigh when I’m sitting. His eyes follow the line of the hem, stop on my knees. Linger for a longer-than-polite moment. Then his Adam’s apple bobs, and he turns away. His shoulders rise, then fall, and then he’s driving out of the parking lot, looking anywhere but at me. Oh. “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call them both tomorrow and talk them out of . . . illegal stuff, at the very least—” “You can’t solve this at


the first witness,' said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, `First witness!' The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. `I beg pardon, your Majesty,' he began, `for bringing these in: but I hadn't quite finished my tea when I was sent for.' `You ought to have finished,' said the King. `When did you begin?' The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. `Fourteenth of March, I think it was,' he said. `Fifteenth,' said the March Hare. `Sixteenth,' added the Dormouse. `Write that down,' the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and reduced the answer to shillings and pence. `Take off your hat,' the King said to the Hatter. `It isn't mine,' said the Hatter. `Stolen!' the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a memorandum of the fact. `I keep them to sell,' the Hatter added as an explanation; `I've none of my own. I'm a hatter.' Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted. `Give your evidence,' said the King; `and don't be nervous, or I'll have you executed on the spot.' This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread-and-butter. Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for her. `I wish you wouldn't squeeze so.' said the Dormouse, who was sitting next to her. `I can hardly breathe.' `I can't help it,' said Alice very meekly: `I'm growing.' `You've no right to grow here,' said the Dormouse. `Don't talk nonsense,' said Alice more boldly: `you know you're growing too.' `Yes, but I grow at a reasonable pace,' said the Dormouse: `not in that ridiculous fashion.' And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court. All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers of the court, `Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!' on which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off. `Give your evidence,' the King repeated angrily, `or I'll have you executed, whether you're nervous or not.' `I'm a poor man, your Majesty,' the Hatter began, in a trembling voice, `--and I hadn't begun my


Her hand feels small and strong in his own, at once strange and intensely familiar. As she lowers herself to sit, he crouches down and feels around in the potted basil plant and finds a pack of cigarettes with a lighter tucked inside. He holds it out to Emily, then leans in and lights it before lighting his own. Nick has lit almost all his cigarettes for nearly two months. It’s a meaningless statistic—Andy hardly smokes in the first place—but it pleases him anyway. “You look good,” she says. “So do you. You look happy.” He realizes as he says the words that he hasn’t seen her happy since before she went to London. He’s glad she looks happier now, and his gladness is the relief of a friend; if her former unhappiness had anything to do with him, that’s over and done with. The engagement feels ancient, almost irrelevant, a funny thing that happened to them on the way to friendship. “I think I am,” she says. “I’m glad.” He leans back, the stone of the wall cold and rough through the fabric of his shirt. “Do you want to tell me why we’re out here?” She breathes out a puff of smoke. “Maybe later. First we have the customary death threats.” Andy coughs out a lungful of smoke. “What have I done to deserve the honor?” “You know how when someone begins dating your sister, you have to say something about how if you hurt her, you’ll break their knees?” “You’ve been spending too much time at the movies.” “Well, I doubt Nick has anyone to threaten you. Or, rather, I doubt anyone knows that they ought to. Which is where I come in,” she says cheerfully. “If you hurt Nick, I’ll break your knees.” Andy has no idea what to say. He knows that Nick told Emily about that night outside the bar, but how does she know that anything actually happened between them after that? Did Nick tell her? Or is this another instance of Emily’s irritating ability to see these things? Is the woman some kind of dowsing rod for homosexuals? Secondly, acknowledging out loud that he and Nick are . . . whatever they are, is terrifying. He remembers when Nick had joked about worrying that vice police might appear out of thin air. Now he realizes that it hadn’t entirely been a joke. He swallows. “How did you know?” “Oh, Andy.” “That obvious, huh?” “Maybe not to people who don’t know both of you.” Andy puts his head in his hands and moans. “The point, darling,” Emily goes on, “is that you had better not hurt Nick, because I know how he feels about you.” Andy goes still. “He said something?” “No, no. Andy, keep up. I’ve seen how he looks at you.” “Tonight?” Andy supposes they’ve been making eyes at one another all evening. “From the beginning.” “Of the evening?” She laughs in his face. “From when you met him. He’s adored you from the jump.” She pauses. “No, adore isn’t the word. I


a society where raw truth is available for everyone to see and where lies are quickly revealed by the liars’ own indiscretions and a narcissistic certainty of their cleverness. Superhacker is expanding operations to other nations, where changes have already been occurring in dreaded anticipation of his or her intention to broaden the mission. What will be will be, but what was before had become intolerable. There are those who say that the human heart is deceitful above all things (which is true) and that lying is essential to grease the often grinding wheels of human relationships (which might be true as concerns relatively harmless falsehoods like insincere compliments, even flattery). But when Superhacker began to press the case that truth and the derivative of truth called “common sense” were in such short supply as to threaten the world, civilization had been fast sliding toward an abyss from which there might have been no return, a future of lawlessness, ginned-up hatred, irrational ideologies, and war. Perhaps this experiment in veracity will ultimately fail, but all polls show that a large majority of the populace finds that life is better these days, and polls can’t be fudged in this new world. Winter has arrived in Idaho. Yesterday, the sky was clear, and birds glided across like figure skaters on wind-polished ice. This morning, the clouds are thick and gray and lowering with a warning that autumn will soon seem to have been a dream. The big thermometer fastened to the wall of the back porch indicates the temperature is thirty-eight degrees and falling. After a breakfast of bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, thick cuts of toasted and lavishly buttered raisin bread, washed down with orange juice or coffee, Peter and Susan and Edward mount their horses. They ride the meadows high and higher, their breath smoking from them in lesser plumes than it smokes from Bree and Hwin and Puzzle. They rarely speak, for the evergreen forests and the golden meadows and the great mountains rising to bare-rock summits are nature’s version of a cathedral. No matter how familiar the scene, their hearts are taken by awe. The vistas are supremely grand, so that the world seems newly created, full of promise and free from iniquity across its hemispheres, which is but a lovely illusion. Peter knows that the Earth will never be as innocent as it appears here and now. A reckoning can’t be avoided, only delayed—but it has always been thus. Lucy, a golden retriever, accompanies them, often straying toward one scent or another that intrigues her, never venturing too far. She races ahead to roll and wriggle in the grass. Come spring, such frolicking will bejewel her coat with the bright petals of torn wildflowers, and soon there will be snow to drape her in ermine. A rifle is sleeved on Peter’s saddle. After a long absence, gray wolves make their home in this territory once more, but he’s watching primarily for a mountain lion, which is the greater threat to Lucy. He hasn’t used the rifle for any purpose other


I waited in line at school pickup with the other moms, who chatted about, I don’t know, the best brand of harness, excited to hear about Abe’s first day of kindergarten. His little classmates paraded past me, beautiful, well-trained springer spaniels and golden retrievers with luscious blond coats. They sat patiently waiting to be leashed and led to gleaming Volvos and Mercedes-Benzes into which they jumped without struggle or complaint. One graceful papillon even leapt into the crate in the trunk of his dad’s car! I shook my head and glanced back at my crusty, dirty Honda, whose seats were caked with Abe’s sharp, spiky hairs from when I’d tried, and failed, to wrestle him off my clean lap at a red light earlier that morning. Abe was vigorously tongue-bathing his empty nuts as the teacher carried him out to me, and I tried to cringe not too loudly. “So, he had a great day?” I asked, leading the witness. “Well…” She hesitated, and I glared at the dog in her arms, still consumed with his penis. “He’s a very spirited guy! [That meant he was bad.] And wow, so vocal! [He was loud and bad.] And he loves to be a leader! [He was bossy and loud and bad.]” I waited for her to tell me to try that place that wouldn’t answer when I called the first time because he was no longer welcome, and when she didn’t, I asked, “Um, is he allowed to come back?” I braced myself for a rebuke. “Oh, of course! We love him!” In the car he looked at me like “Bitch, you doubted me?” and whipped around to bark at some other, better-behaved dogs as they subserviently trotted in lockstep with their owners. Daycare emails me a report card at the end of every session, and every day I recoil from the pictures of placid, happy dogs terrorized by my scrawny, watery-eyed offspring. I swipe through photo after photo of good-boy-sitting dogs being choked, manhandled, swatted, barked at, chewed on, and mounted by my wild-ass son who has zero discipline and also? THE BOY CAN’T READ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! * * * — “Level with me, baby: Don’t you wish we’d gotten serious back in the day and had a kid?” “No way, man! I have a fucking dog!” body horror! In my mid-to-late twenties, I had one of those mid-to-late-twenties epiphanies you have when you get your first twinge of sciatica or when some other age-related corporeal breakdown makes itself known to you. It triggered the crushing realization that I was not going to be young and lubricated for much longer and caused my brain to fry like a Partnership for a Drug-Free America egg: “Wait a minute, my lower back aches? I should probably start paying my bills on time.” When I was a teenager, I thought twenty-seven was the definitive, full-stop age I needed to have my shit together by based, I’m pretty sure, solely on this article I’d read in a magazine that said you have until age twenty-seven to shrink the


it." My eyes were now, as I held him off a little again, on Miles's own face, in which the collapse of mockery showed me how complete was the ravage of uneasiness. What was prodigious was that at last, by my success, his sense was sealed and his communication stopped: he knew that he was in presence, but knew not of what, and knew still less that I also was and that I did know. And what did this strain of trouble matter when my eyes went back to the window only to see that the air was clear again and--by my personal triumph--the influence quenched? There was nothing there. I felt that the cause was mine and that I should surely get ALL. "And you found nothing!"-- I let my elation out. He gave the most mournful, thoughtful little headshake. "Nothing." "Nothing, nothing!" I almost shouted in my joy. "Nothing, nothing," he sadly repeated. I kissed his forehead; it was drenched. "So what have you done with it?" "I've burned it." "Burned it?" It was now or never. "Is that what you did at school?" Oh, what this brought up! "At school?" "Did you take letters?--or other things?" "Other things?" He appeared now to be thinking of something far off and that reached him only through the pressure of his anxiety. Yet it did reach him. "Did I STEAL?" I felt myself redden to the roots of my hair as well as wonder if it were more strange to put to a gentleman such a question or to see him take it with allowances that gave the very distance of his fall in the world. "Was it for that you mightn't go back?" The only thing he felt was rather a dreary little surprise. "Did you know I mightn't go back?" "I know everything." He gave me at this the longest and strangest look. "Everything?" "Everything. Therefore DID you--?" But I couldn't say it again. Miles could, very simply. "No. I didn't steal." My face must have shown him I believed him utterly; yet my hands-- but it was for pure tenderness--shook him as if to ask him why, if it was all for nothing, he had condemned me to months of torment. "What then did you do?" He looked in vague pain all round the top of the room and drew his breath, two or three times over, as if with difficulty. He might have been standing at the bottom of the sea and raising his eyes to some faint green twilight. "Well--I said things." "Only that?" "They thought it was enough!" "To turn you out for?" Never, truly, had a person "turned out" shown so little to explain it as this little person! He appeared to weigh my question, but in a manner quite detached and almost helpless. "Well, I suppose I oughtn't." "But to whom did you say them?" He evidently tried to remember, but it dropped--he had lost it. "I don't know!" He almost smiled at me in the desolation of his surrender, which was indeed practically,


But in reality travelling interested her even less than he had expected. She regarded it (once her clothes were ordered) as merely an enlarged opportunity for walking, riding, swimming, and trying her hand at the fascinating new game of lawn tennis; and when they finally got back to London (where they were to spend a fortnight while he ordered HIS clothes) she no longer concealed the eagerness with which she looked forward to sailing. In London nothing interested her but the theatres and the shops; and she found the theatres less exciting than the Paris cafes chantants where, under the blossoming horse-chestnuts of the Champs Elysees, she had had the novel experience of looking down from the restaurant terrace on an audience of "cocottes," and having her husband interpret to her as much of the songs as he thought suitable for bridal ears. Archer had reverted to all his old inherited ideas about marriage. It was less trouble to conform with the tradition and treat May exactly as all his friends treated their wives than to try to put into practice the theories with which his untrammelled bachelorhood had dallied. There was no use in trying to emancipate a wife who had not the dimmest notion that she was not free; and he had long since discovered that May's only use of the liberty she supposed herself to possess would be to lay it on the altar of her wifely adoration. Her innate dignity would always keep her from making the gift abjectly; and a day might even come (as it once had) when she would find strength to take it altogether back if she thought she were doing it for his own good. But with a conception of marriage so uncomplicated and incurious as hers such a crisis could be brought about only by something visibly outrageous in his own conduct; and the fineness of her feeling for him made that unthinkable. Whatever happened, he knew, she would always be loyal, gallant and unresentful; and that pledged him to the practice of the same virtues. All this tended to draw him back into his old habits of mind. If her simplicity had been the simplicity of pettiness he would have chafed and rebelled; but since the lines of her character, though so few, were on the same fine mould as her face, she became the tutelary divinity of all his old traditions and reverences. Such qualities were scarcely of the kind to enliven foreign travel, though they made her so easy and pleasant a companion; but he saw at once how they would fall into place in their proper setting. He had no fear of being oppressed by them, for his artistic and intellectual life would go on, as it always had, outside the domestic circle; and within it there would be nothing small and stifling--coming back to his wife would never be like entering a stuffy room after a tramp in the open. And when they had children the vacant corners in both their lives would be filled. All these


whole thing into a video segment, are you? I can’t sit on camera and say what I saw. I’d look crazy.” “No, I won’t make you do that.” She shook her head, closed the book, and he was certain she’d depart any minute now. “Let me get you a soda,” he said. “Or a coffee.” He made a much better coffee than the abomination Montserrat had served him at her place. He had real beans, for one, and his mother had made sure, like any good Lebanese boy, he could make a decent cup. Anytime someone came to visit you had to serve proper coffee. Tristán still kept the rakweh his mother had gifted him before his father changed jobs and his family moved back up north. They’d wanted him to go with them, too, worried that his acting career was turning from a side gig into a full-blown profession—his father didn’t quite approve of showbiz as a vocation—but by then it was too late. Tristán was determined to be a performer, and all talk of going to university and studying for a career fell on deaf ears. Even nowadays, when Tristán phoned his mother, she sometimes mentioned that one of his uncles might employ him at his furniture shop. “I don’t want coffee.” He was already halfway to the kitchen but paused to turn and look at her. He didn’t know what Montserrat saw in his eyes, but her expression softened. She nodded. “One cup.” Tristán, who had been kneading his hands together, now smiled brightly. He tried not to glance at the clock on the wall, for it would show the hour and the inevitable fact that sooner or later she’d go home, and it would be night outside, and he’d be utterly alone and helpless, with only a candle to keep him safe. 11 “What I’m interested in is occult doctrines and occult sciences in 1930s and 1940s Germany,” Montserrat said, quickly glancing at the notes she’d jotted down and adjusting the telephone against her ear. “It’s for a possible gig with a TV show.” “I’m surprised to hear that. I thought you were married to audio,” Regina said. “It’s not paying that well these days. Besides, it’s merely a possible gig. Nothing final. Anyway, would you know any books that would be useful? I don’t mean half-researched junk but some stuff with teeth.” “It’s not exactly a common subject. Can I call you back in a bit?” “A bit like an hour or a bit like a few weeks? Because I’d rather have it be an hour.” “Are you in a rush?” “Tick tock,” Montserrat said. “Okay, fine. An hour. Call me back.” Montserrat called at an hour and ten minutes, and Regina answered at the third ring. “I got two books to recommend to you. Do you have pen and paper?” “Sure.” “The first one…oh, honey, no, I’m on the phone.” Montserrat heard an exchange of muffled words, as if Regina had pressed a hand against the receiver. In the background was the sound of a record


had once been a road but was now only ruts with stones and exposed roots, a protrusion of drier land jutting into the swamp. His heart pounded an uneven cadence. This was it. This was the place where Father John lay in wait. He knew it. Could feel the bastard. With his free hand, he tried using his cell phone, got no reception, and swore under his breath. “Son of a bitch.” He turned back to his Jeep. “Changed my mind,” he said, focusing on Clive. “Get out. Walk—no run—until you get a signal and dial nine-one-one. Tell them Bentz needs backup and give them the address.” “This place ain’t got no address,” Clive complained as he and Bobby-Dean climbed out of the rig, the interior light cutting through the darkness. “Then explain where it is. But go. Go fast!” Bobby-Dean was already jogging up the double ruts. Bentz didn’t have time to wait. Samantha Wheeler was either being tortured or dead already. He took off, using the flashlight’s beam as a guide as he swept it back and forth over the thick ferns and vines that clogged the road. Half jogging, he kept to the trail, what had once been an access road and now was little more than a break in the thick weeds. If only he wasn’t too late! Pulse thundering in his ears, he hoped to high heaven that Bobby-Dean and Clive, not the most responsible people he’d ever met, had the good sense to call 9-1-1 for backup. ASAP. God help me. God help Sam! Around a final bend, he saw it. A dilapidated structure loomed in the darkness, a broken-down behemoth now covered in vines and brambles and ferns growing wild, water tupelo and cypress trees ringing the area, rising tall, like ghostly sentries surrounding a castle. From somewhere nearby an owl hooted and he heard the whir of a bat’s wings overhead as the ever-present Spanish moss danced eerily from the thick branches. He didn’t think of water snakes or alligators, or bears or pumas, just forged on, taking a thin land bridge, the swamp encroaching, surrounding the massive pile of rubble, water tupelo trees vying with the cypress in the bayou. He swept his flashlight carefully over the muck and followed the drag marks to the pile of debris and saw an opening where once there had been a door, and now was just a dark hole. His insides turned to ice as he thought of Samantha inside with the madman who intended to exact his painful vengeance upon her. Was he too late? He’d soon find out. Bending slightly, he slipped through the gaping maw of what had once been the monastery. Total darkness enveloped him and he heard the steady drip, drip, drip of water on what had once been a stone floor and the scratch of claws, unseen rats, he figured, as they scurried out of his path. The roof had collapsed partially, and he couldn’t stand upright. He used the flashlight sparingly, hoping not to announce his presence with the


of the Nameless One. Tunuva wished Narha could comfort her, too – that her forebear could lean down from that column and brush away her nightmares. In the last one, Esbar had stabbed her in the heart, and she had woken in a sweat, convinced it was blood. She had not told Esbar. Across the hall, Esbar was taking her time at the rack. When she nodded to an Ersyri sword, the armourer removed its silver-mounted scabbard, wiped its blade with an oiled cloth, and handed it to her. As she held the sword aloft to inspect it, Tunuva recalled the cold twist of the knife in her dream. She shook herself. ‘Are you ready,’ she called, ‘or examining yourself in the ceiling?’ ‘Why?’ Esbar sauntered to the middle of the hall. ‘Do you suppose I’d like what I see?’ ‘Unquestionably.’ Many of their sisters had gathered to watch. Yeleni stood in a far corner, away from the others. She had seen out the long confinement imposed on her for abetting Siyu. ‘You flatter me, lover,’ Esbar said, drawing her back to the matter at hand. She tilted the sword, resting the flat of its blade on her scarred forearm. ‘But tread softly.’ They circled one another. ‘Fill me with too much confidence, and I fear you may come to regret it.’ ‘Confidence is a danger, true.’ Tunuva spun her spear. ‘Arrogance, however, I can tip to my advantage.’ Lips leaning into a smile, Esbar lunged. Since they were children, they had mastered every Southern weapon, as well as some Yscali blades. What they trained to fight was not human, but the Mother had vanquished the Nameless One with an Inyscan sword, Ascalun. Even monsters were not impervious to steel. Esbar slashed and stabbed, thews bunching in her upper arms. She was always most vigorous at the start of a duel, wearing her opponent down as quickly as she could. Tunuva knew better than to rise to it. She blocked with ease. ‘Letting me lead, I see.’ Esbar flicked back a grey strand of hair. ‘Am I to take this as an early submission?’ ‘Ah, you know I like to warm the blood before a dance.’ Not long after their first kiss, they had faced each other in this chamber. Esbar always fought to win, and win she had. She had sent the healer away and tended Tunuva herself. Nothing comes above the Mother, she had said, soft and resolute. If we do this, we cannot let it call us from our duty. We are warriors, Tunuva. From that day forth, Tunuva had fought as hard against Esbar as she did against any other sister. In thirty years, she had never flinched. Esbar kept hammering her across the chamber. She was an army in one woman, her sword catching the sunlight and splintering it between the mirrors. Its edge came within a fingertip of Tunuva; she flung up her spear just in time to deflect it. They spun away from each other. Esbar pounced again. Tunuva swivelled the spear around her waist,


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

and a smile came over his face. “When is old Sutherland retiring?” “This fall.” I was leaning forward, twisting my fingers together. “I plan to put my name forward when I return. It would give me money. Resources. I wouldn’t have to scrape together the funding for a one-month expedition; I could run multiple field studies at once if I chose. Think of the discoveries I could make, the mysteries I could solve. And—” And I would never have to leave Cambridge, I almost said. “Yes.” He flicked another page. “And you shall shut yourself away forever in those old stones with your books and your mysteries like a dragon with her hoard, having as little association with the living as possible and emerging only to breathe fire at your students.” He has an irritating way of understanding me, at least in part, which is more than anyone else does—no doubt some faerie gift of his. “You intend to stay here, do you?” I said, to change the subject. “Where else? This is not the sort of place for a hotel, is it? I received your host’s assent to my enquiry the day after I wrote to you, and departed Cambridge immediately thereafter. I assumed he would have told you.” I winced. “Egilson and I have not been on the best of terms.” “What?” He gave an exaggerated affectation of surprise. “Dear Emily. Don’t tell me you’ve had trouble making friends.” My scowl was interrupted by the creak of the door. As before, Krystjan strode into the cottage without knocking. I could tell by his expression that Bambleby’s message had been as well received as I had guessed. Lizzie trailed behind him, looking uselessly apologetic. “Mr. Egilson!” Bambleby was on his feet immediately, his smile broadening. “I see that you don’t stand for formalities, my good man. How refreshing. I must convey how much I appreciate your hospitality at such short notice. I had heard tales of the warmth and generosity of your compatriots, but you have gone above and beyond.” He said all of this in accented but fluent Ljoslander. It stopped Egilson in his tracks, but only for a moment. “Professor,” Egilson said warily, accepting the proffered hand. I could see his frostiness melt a little upon exposure to the onslaught of Bambleby’s charm, but he was a hardy man, and his smile was tight. “There’s been a misunderstanding. You’re welcome here, but unfortunately, we aren’t in a position to provide meals—beyond the essentials at breakfast, of course. I run a large farm—you understand.” He had responded in English, which Bambleby acknowledged with a grateful smile that somehow managed to convey an admiration for Egilson’s fluency. I detected a distinct hint of amusement in his gaze that, fortunately, seemed to evade Krystjan’s notice. “I understand entirely. I hope you don’t think I expected you to prepare our repast. I was, of course, offering to cook for your family.” Egilson blinked, his reserve dissolving into amazement. “You were.” “Oh, God,” I muttered. “Please say yes.” Bambleby clapped Egilson on the shoulder.


“Maybe seduce a nice broad into showing you her ankles?” “I do love me some gams,” I said, and he broke into laughter again. There was nothing in the world like pleasing him. TWO MY MOM WAS PERHAPS MORE ashamed of her parents’ Evangelical faith than she was of their alcoholism. Because of this, she kept all details of her religious past from me until I was ten and she mentioned on the drive home from school that she had heard about a long-running tent revival by the side of the highway. She wondered if I’d consider stopping by with her that week, maybe on our way to get groceries? I had no idea what a tent revival was, but I said yes because she was looking at me in a way that made me worried. She wore the same vulnerable expression she did whenever my dad teased her for having “silly” hobbies like crocheting or watching old movies. She didn’t take jokes or rejection easily. The tent revival was a literal striped tent visible from the off-ramp. We parked among cars with bumper stickers that said LIFE IS LIFE and GET RIGHT OR GET LOST. The hairs at the back of my neck bristled, and when my mom offered to take my hand—the kind of thing that would have led to embarrassment and hostility in any other situation—I held it close. “I remember these things from when I was little,” she said. “I always thought they were dumb.” “Then why are we here?” I asked. “Oh, you know—curiosity.” She looked down at me, and I remember seeing a rather large scab she’d picked at on the underside of her chin. “I thought it would be fun to show you how the other half lives.” When she said that, I realized that my dad didn’t know about our outing and she probably didn’t want him to know. I looked ahead into the tent, where the men wore khaki shorts and collared T-shirts and the women wore floral-patterned, ankle-length dresses. Everyone was white. “How long are we going to stay?” I asked. “Not long,” she said distractedly. “I’ll make sure we don’t stay long.” We stood under the tent and I immediately began to sweat. It was summer and humid in a way that sucked the vitality out of me. I scratched at my knees, which were suddenly bright red from mosquito bites. Under normal circumstances, my mom would have been tending closely to me, asking what was wrong, offering me tissues or Band-Aids or a pill from the bottle of antihistamines she kept in her purse. But she was looking ahead, in the direction of a man’s voice booming over a loudspeaker. “Who loves God?” the man’s voice said. The people under the tent cheered. “I said who loves God?” The people cheered louder. “Shall we go a little closer?” my mom asked, and before I could consent, she pushed me ahead. People looked at me and smiled pityingly and stepped aside for the two of us. I always got looks like


The security officers guarding these chambers were an exception. Equipped with powerful AK-12 assault rifles, an evolution of the famous Kalashnikov, their task was to stop anything from breaking out. Composed almost entirely of former Russian Federation soldiers, specialists in snow operations, these men still proudly served in their old army uniforms with a distinctive camouflage pattern originally designed for the Arctic, a pixelated arrangement of grey and black dots intended to blend with Arctic moss. With three layers of thermo-wear and helmet masks that covered their faces, they were a formidable unit, a closed community that lived together, socialized together. Largely ignoring the directive on universal language, they spoke little English and even less Mandarin, considering their national identity as important as it had been twenty years ago, despite the fact there was no such thing as nations anymore. As Yotam stashed his skis and passed through the security perimeter the guards said nothing, giving him only a small nod of their head. Devout Orthodox, they believed these genetically adapted species to be an abomination, an act of hubris and, far from being mankind’s saviour, they were a threat to what little remained of human civilization. Whatever the rights or wrongs of their beliefs, they took their job seriously and to date nothing had ever escaped on their watch. MCMURDO CITY FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS FIFTY METRES BELOW THE ROSS ICE SHELF SAME DAY YOTAM DESCENDED THE STAIRCASE CARVED out of the ice, a fairy-tale staircase with glimmering blue steps studded with metal scraps to stop people from slipping. There was no elevator – there weren’t the parts to build one; only a crude rope pulley to lower supplies. Gone were the top-secret facilities of the old world; there were no high-tech security doors with retina-scan entry, no biometric entry passes – these chambers were primitive, like the dungeons of a medieval castle, manned by men and women with sturdy steel keys that opened sturdy steel doors. An assortment of battery-powered mining lamps hung at irregular intervals on the walls, pegged to ice screws once used for mountain climbing. When the lights began to flicker and dim, they were taken up to the surface to be charged by the sun or from electricity generated by the wind farms along the southern base of the Transantarctic mountain range. A crew of lamp changers did nothing but manage these lights, repairing them, replacing them, laboriously pushing a cart along these tunnels, reminiscent of the gas lamplighters in Victorian London. The glow from the lamps illuminated blue walls layered with lines of sapphire, turquoise and lapis lazuli; it was like working inside a worm-ridden gemstone. Needless to say, there was no heating of any kind. Year round, the temperature under the ice remained stable at a few degrees below freezing, suitable for species bred for cold, many of whom couldn’t tolerate warmer temperatures, so radical was their genetic adaptation. The conditions made it a challenge for ordinary-born people working twelve-hour shifts. They never sat still, constantly pacing to keep warm, stamping their feet, retreating to


that when we met once more in the wonder of it we were of a common mind about the duty of resistance to extravagant fancies. We were to keep our heads if we should keep nothing else--difficult indeed as that might be in the face of what, in our prodigious experience, was least to be questioned. Late that night, while the house slept, we had another talk in my room, when she went all the way with me as to its being beyond doubt that I had seen exactly what I had seen. To hold her perfectly in the pinch of that, I found I had only to ask her how, if I had "made it up," I came to be able to give, of each of the persons appearing to me, a picture disclosing, to the last detail, their special marks--a portrait on the exhibition of which she had instantly recognized and named them. She wished of course--small blame to her!--to sink the whole subject; and I was quick to assure her that my own interest in it had now violently taken the form of a search for the way to escape from it. I encountered her on the ground of a probability that with recurrence-- for recurrence we took for granted--I should get used to my danger, distinctly professing that my personal exposure had suddenly become the least of my discomforts. It was my new suspicion that was intolerable; and yet even to this complication the later hours of the day had brought a little ease. On leaving her, after my first outbreak, I had of course returned to my pupils, associating the right remedy for my dismay with that sense of their charm which I had already found to be a thing I could positively cultivate and which had never failed me yet. I had simply, in other words, plunged afresh into Flora's special society and there become aware--it was almost a luxury!-- that she could put her little conscious hand straight upon the spot that ached. She had looked at me in sweet speculation and then had accused me to my face of having "cried." I had supposed I had brushed away the ugly signs: but I could literally--for the time, at all events--rejoice, under this fathomless charity, that they had not entirely disappeared. To gaze into the depths of blue of the child's eyes and pronounce their loveliness a trick of premature cunning was to be guilty of a cynicism in preference to which I naturally preferred to abjure my judgment and, so far as might be, my agitation. I couldn't abjure for merely wanting to, but I could repeat to Mrs. Grose--as I did there, over and over, in the small hours-- that with their voices in the air, their pressure on one's heart, and their fragrant faces against one's cheek, everything fell to the ground but their incapacity and their beauty. It was a pity that, somehow, to settle this once for all, I had equally to re-enumerate the signs of subtlety that, in the


away still further. "See what I mean?" said Zaphod and howled with pain because of something that Trillian did at that moment. "I'd notice the difference," said Arthur. "No you wouldn't," said Frankie mouse, "you'd be programmed not to." Ford made for the door. "Look, I'm sorry, mice old lads," he said. "I don't think we've got a deal." "I rather think we have to have a deal," said the mice in chorus, all the charm vanishing fro their piping little voices in an instant. With a tiny whining shriek their two glass transports lifted themselves off the table, and swung through the air towards Arthur, who stumbled further backwards into a blind corner, utterly unable to cope or think of anything. Trillian grabbed him desperately by the arm and tried to drag him towards the door, which Ford and Zaphod were struggling to open, but Arthur was dead weight - he seemed hypnotized by the airborne rodents swooping towards him. She screamed at him, but he just gaped. With one more yank, Ford and Zaphod got the door open. On the other side of it was a small pack of rather ugly men who they could only assume were the heavy mob of Magrathea. Not only were they ugly themselves, but the medical equipment they carried with them was also far from pretty. They charged. So - Arthur was about to have his head cut open, Trillian was unable to help him, and Ford and Zaphod were about to be set upon by several thugs a great deal heavier and more sharply armed than they were. All in all it was extremely fortunate that at that moment every alarm on the planet burst into an earsplitting din. ================================================================= Chapter 32 "Emergency! Emergency!" blared the klaxons throughout Magrathea. "Hostile ship has landed on planet. Armed intruders in section 8A. Defence stations, defence stations!" The two mice sniffed irritably round the fragments of their glass transports where they lay shattered on the floor. "Damnation," muttered Frankie mouse, "all that fuss over two pounds of Earthling brain." He scuttled round and about, his pink eyes flashing, his fine white coat bristling with static. "The only thing we can do now," said Benji, crouching and stroking his whiskers in thought, "is to try and fake a question, invent one that will sound plausible." "Difficult," said Frankie. He thought. "How about What's yellow and dangerous?" Benji considered this for a moment. "No, no good," he said. "Doesn't fit the answer." They sank into silence for a few seconds. "Alright," said Benji. "What do you get if you multiply six by seven?" "No, no, too literal, too factual," said Frankie, "wouldn't sustain the punters' interest." Again they thought. Then Frankie said: "Here's a thought. How many roads must a man walk down?" "Ah," said Benji. "Aha, now that does sound promising!" He rolled the phrase around a little. "Yes," he said, "that's excellent! Sounds very significant without actually tying you down to meaning anything at all. How many roads must a man walk down? Forty-two. Excellent, excellent,


"You can't help being an only child. They're always a bit queer, you know, unless they're mighty careful. You're a most interesting person, I think." George flushed red again, and felt pleased. "Let's go and take Timothy for a walk," she said. "He'll be wondering what's happened to us today." They all went off together, and Timothy greeted them at the top of his voice. They told him all about their plans for the next day, and he wagged his tail and looked up at them out of his soft brown eyes as if he understood every single word they said! "He must feel pleased to think he's going to be with us for two or three days," said Anne. It was very exciting the next morning, setting off in the boat with all their things packed neatly at one end. Julian checked them all by reading out aloud from his list. It didn't seem as if they had forgotten anything. "Got the map?" said Dick, suddenly. Julian nodded. "I put on clean jeans this morning," he said, "but you may be sure I remembered to pop the map into my pocket. Here it is! He took it out- and the wind at once blew it right out of his hands! It fell into the sea and bobbed there in the wind. All four children gave a cry of utter dismay. Their precious map! "Quick! Row after it!" cried George, and swung the boat round. But someone was quicker than she was! Tim had seen the paper fly from Julian's hand, and had heard and understood the cries of dismay. With an enormous splash he leapt into the water and swam valiantly after the map. He could swim well for a dog, for he was strong and powerful. He soon had the map in his mouth and was swimming back to the boat. The children thought he was simply marvellous! George hauled him into the boat and took the map from his mouth. There was hardly the mark of his teeth on it! He had carried it so carefully. It was wet, and the children looked anxiously at it to see if the tracing had been spoilt. But Julian had traced it very strongly, and it was quite all right. He placed it on a seat to dry, and told Dick to hold it there in the sun. "That was a narrow squeak!" he said, and the others agreed. George took the oars again, and they set off once more to the island, getting a perfect shower-bath from Timothy when he stood up and shook his wet coat. He was given a big biscuit as a reward, and crunched it up with great enjoyment. George made her way through the reefs of rocks with a sure hand. It was marvellous to the others how she could slide the boat in between the dangerous rocks and never get a scratch. They thought she was really wonderful. She brought them safely to the little inlet, and they jumped out on to the sand. They


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

to go through their exam papers afterward, but Ron said this made him feel ill, so they wandered down to the lake and flopped under a tree. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were tickling the tentacles of a giant squid, which was basking in the warm shallows. "No more studying," Ron sighed happily, stretching out on the grass. "You could look more cheerful, Harry, we've got a week before we find out how badly we've done, there's no need to worry yet." Harry was rubbing his forehead. "I wish I knew what this means!" he burst out angrily. "My scar keeps hurting -- it's happened before, but never as often as this." "Go to Madam Pomfrey," Hermione suggested. "I'm not ill," said Harry. "I think it's a warning...it means danger's coming..." Ron couldn't get worked up, it was too hot. "Harry, relax, Hermione's right, the Stone's safe as long as Dumbledore's around. Anyway, we've never had any proof Snape found out how to get past Fluffy. He nearly had his leg ripped off once, he's not going to try it again in a hurry. And Neville will play Quidditch for England before Hagrid lets Dumbledore down." Harry nodded, but he couldn't shake off a lurking feeling that there was something he'd forgotten to do, something important. When he tried to explain this, Hermione said, "That's just the exams. I woke up last night and was halfway through my Transfiguration notes before I remembered we'd done that one." Harry was quite sure the unsettled feeling didn't have anything to do with work, though. He watched an owl flutter toward the school across the bright blue sky, a note clamped in its mouth. Hagrid was the only one who ever sent him letters. Hagrid would never betray Dumbledore. Hagrid would never tell anyone how to get past Fluffy...never...but -- Harry suddenly jumped to his feet. "Where're you going?" said Ron sleepily. "I've just thought of something," said Harry. He had turned white. "We've got to go and see Hagrid, now." "Why?" panted Hermione, hurrying to keep up. "Don't you think it's a bit odd," said Harry, scrambling up the grassy slope, "that what Hagrid wants more than anything else is a dragon, and a stranger turns up who just happens to have an egg in his pocket? How many people wander around with dragon eggs if it's against wizard law? Lucky they found Hagrid, don't you think? Why didn't I see it before?" "What are you talking about?" said Ron, but Harry, sprinting across the grounds toward the forest, didn't answer. Hagrid was sitting in an armchair outside his house; his trousers and sleeves were rolled up, and he was shelling peas into a large bowl. "Hullo," he said, smiling. "Finished yer exams? Got time fer a drink?" "Yes, please," said Ron, but Harry cut him off. "No, we're in a hurry. Hagrid, I've got to ask you something. You know that night you won Norbert? What did the stranger you were playing cards with look like?" "Dunno," said Hagrid casually, "he wouldn'


now from the bedroom to the kitchen. You know what these eggs are?” “Free-range organic?” “They’re my second breakfast.” “Congratulations.” I could hear a sort of shifting and rustling in the background, then Viv said, “Theo thinks you put the eggs in before you bring the water to a boil, but they’re so much better when you boil the water then put in the eggs.” “I only make scrambled eggs, so I’m Switzerland here.” “Have you heard Bianca is getting fired? I got a text from Tony last night.” “Oh, that sucks,” I said. “Patrick told me Elliot told him the retreat definitely isn’t happening this year.” This was an annual TNO getaway at a resort in the Catskills prior to the first show week, and it was meant to foster professional unity while invariably resulting in even more cliquish behavior than happened in the studio. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” Viv said. “So is the thing you’re worried about pooping at Noah’s house?” “Did I already tell you that?” “Sally, I’ve known you for a long time.” The rule I’d imposed on myself after Noah and I had started emailing, but even before he’d announced how much he trusted me, was No forwarding and no screenshots. I could summarize to Viv and Henrietta what was happening, and certainly I could editorialize about my many, many feelings, but I couldn’t show them anything, nor could I share any truly personal details that Noah revealed to me about himself. I said, “What if because I’ve written sketches about diarrhea and BO, he assumes I’m comfortable with diarrhea and BO?” “I don’t think he’s that much of a psychological simpleton.” “But we’ve never discussed that stuff.” “Really? While writing long, romantic emails about your yearnings and your inner souls, that didn’t come up? I’m shocked. Okay, here’s what you do. When you’re on the toilet, as soon as the doodie comes out, like the second it hits the water, you flush. You might have to flush a few times, but that way, it doesn’t stick to the bowl as much and you stink up the bathroom less.” “Is that true?” “It’s probably moot because he must live in a mansion with a million bathrooms. I’m giving you tips from when I’d go home with guys who lived in studios, but you’ll be pooping half a mile away from Noah.” “Pooping under the same roof as a guy you like is a state of mind.” Then I said, “What if I get there and he’s like, ‘I so value our robust platonic friendship’?” “Then you platonically shake his hand, tell him good luck, rent a sweet little place on the beach, and get on Tinder.” A timer beeped, and she added, “But since he unambiguously told you he’s attracted to you, I’d be surprised.” “Are those your eggs?” “Those are my eggs. Take deep breaths and keep me posted.” It was outside of Flagstaff, Arizona, five hours into the drive, that I realized how I should have replied when Noah had said “Not to assume


the minibar, packing a leather hold-all with premium spring water from a glacier in Norway and the ten-euro sachets of salted cashews. These items still had value, not the inflated minibar value, but they were food, which might become scarce in a way they’d never experienced before, and if they wanted to survive, they needed to forget everything they knew about the old world. This was a new world with new rules. Liza, who often griped about how much time her mom spent at work, was full of admiration for her in this moment, seeing how calm she remained under pressure. ‘We’re going to get through this,’ she declared, as if they had suffered a redundancy or a marital affair. They were a family, that was real – that hadn’t changed, that would never change – and they clung onto that bond, the only thing they were certain of anymore. In the hotel garage arguments were breaking out over car ownership – not yet ferocious, people still recollecting the principles of law and order, the idea of a police force, notions of private property, the repercussions to their standing in society if they should break these rules. They were shouting rather than punching or kicking, but violence was coming soon, once everyone accepted that those governing principles were gone and all that remained was a natural law – the law of the strongest, brutality without consequence. Of course, it was absurd that they’d even rented a car in one of the most walkable cities in the world, but her father loved to drive, and he’d planned to visit the vineyards outside Lisbon, not to drink – he’d been forced to give up alcohol during his recovery – but simply to taste. Quietly they opened the car doors, the four of them climbing in, driving slowly around the mob of once civilized hotel guests who only a few hours earlier had been booking spa appointments. Their car attracted attention, several people banging on the windows wondering where they were going; more than anything people were looking for someone to tell them what to do. A man hammered so hard the glass almost smashed, gesturing at his family beside him, pleading to be let in. Liza asked: ‘Why don’t we help them? We have space.’ Her dad shook his head – they were taking no passengers, making no stops, driving all the way to the airport. ‘He has a family.’ ‘If we’re going to survive this, we can’t stop for anyone.’ The man moved in front of the car forcing her father to accelerate around him, crunching against the crash barrier, tearing off the side mirror and denting the doors. Looking back, Liza wanted to tell this man that they didn’t have any answers. They were motivated by a reflex reaction, foreigners in a foreign country heading to the airport because if they could just get home there’d be answers, an orderly process and they’d have a place in whatever process had been devised. Along with the family bond, their country was the only


down a little while. She said no more, except, 'My dear child, never ask me what it was, and don't refer to it,' until she had perfectly regained her composure, when she told me she was quite herself now, and we might get out. On her giving me her purse to pay the driver, I found that all the guineas were gone, and only the loose silver remained. Doctors' Commons was approached by a little low archway. Before we had taken many paces down the street beyond it, the noise of the city seemed to melt, as if by magic, into a softened distance. A few dull courts and narrow ways brought us to the sky-lighted offices of Spenlow and Jorkins; in the vestibule of which temple, accessible to pilgrims without the ceremony of knocking, three or four clerks were at work as copyists. One of these, a little dry man, sitting by himself, who wore a stiff brown wig that looked as if it were made of gingerbread, rose to receive my aunt, and show us into Mr. Spenlow's room. 'Mr. Spenlow's in Court, ma'am,' said the dry man; 'it's an Arches day; but it's close by, and I'll send for him directly.' As we were left to look about us while Mr. Spenlow was fetched, I availed myself of the opportunity. The furniture of the room was old-fashioned and dusty; and the green baize on the top of the writing-table had lost all its colour, and was as withered and pale as an old pauper. There were a great many bundles of papers on it, some endorsed as Allegations, and some (to my surprise) as Libels, and some as being in the Consistory Court, and some in the Arches Court, and some in the Prerogative Court, and some in the Admiralty Court, and some in the Delegates' Court; giving me occasion to wonder much, how many Courts there might be in the gross, and how long it would take to understand them all. Besides these, there were sundry immense manuscript Books of Evidence taken on affidavit, strongly bound, and tied together in massive sets, a set to each cause, as if every cause were a history in ten or twenty volumes. All this looked tolerably expensive, I thought, and gave me an agreeable notion of a proctor's business. I was casting my eyes with increasing complacency over these and many similar objects, when hasty footsteps were heard in the room outside, and Mr. Spenlow, in a black gown trimmed with white fur, came hurrying in, taking off his hat as he came. He was a little light-haired gentleman, with undeniable boots, and the stiffest of white cravats and shirt-collars. He was buttoned up, mighty trim and tight, and must have taken a great deal of pains with his whiskers, which were accurately curled. His gold watch-chain was so massive, that a fancy came across me, that he ought to have a sinewy golden arm, to draw it out with, like those which are put up over the goldbeaters' shops. He


bunk. Men more downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but would not say more than there was SOMETHING aboard. Mate getting very impatient with them. Feared some trouble ahead. On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deckhouse, as there was a rain storm, when he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companionway, and go along the deck forward and disappear. He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread. To allay it, I shall today search the entire ship carefully from stem to stern. Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate angry, said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men, said he would engage to keep them out of trouble with the handspike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began a thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns. We left no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but said nothing. 22 July.--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails, no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well. 24 July.--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost, disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear, sent a round robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do some violence. 28 July.--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of malestrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours sleep. Wind abating, seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is steadier. 29 July.--Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight, as crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck.


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

ships. It made you feel so happy. How pale the light was at the window! But that was nice. The fire rose and fell on the wall. It was like waves. Someone had put coal on and he heard voices. They were talking. It was the noise of the waves. Or the waves were talking among themselves as they rose and fell. He saw the sea of waves, long dark waves rising and falling, dark under the moonless night. A tiny light twinkled at the pierhead where the ship was entering: and he saw a multitude of people gathered by the waters' edge to see the ship that was entering their harbour. A tall man stood on the deck, looking out towards the flat dark land: and by the light at the pierhead he saw his face, the sorrowful face of Brother Michael. He saw him lift his hand towards the people and heard him say in a loud voice of sorrow over the waters: --He is dead. We saw him lying upon the catafalque. A wail of sorrow went up from the people. --Parnell! Parnell! He is dead! They fell upon their knees, moaning in sorrow. And he saw Dante in a maroon velvet dress and with a green velvet mantle hanging from her shoulders walking proudly and silently past the people who knelt by the water's edge. * * * * * A great fire, banked high and red, flamed in the grate and under the ivy-twined branches of the chandelier the Christmas table was spread. They had come home a little late and still dinner was not ready: but it would be ready in a jiffy his mother had said. They were waiting for the door to open and for the servants to come in, holding the big dishes covered with their heavy metal covers. All were waiting: uncle Charles, who sat far away in the shadow of the window, Dante and Mr Casey, who sat in the easy-chairs at either side of the hearth, Stephen, seated on a chair between them, his feet resting on the toasted boss. Mr Dedalus looked at himself in the pierglass above the mantelpiece, waxed out his moustache ends and then, parting his coat-tails, stood with his back to the glowing fire: and still from time to time he withdrew a hand from his coat-tail to wax out one of his moustache ends. Mr Casey leaned his head to one side and, smiling, tapped the gland of his neck with his fingers. And Stephen smiled too for he knew now that it was not true that Mr Casey had a purse of silver in his throat. He smiled to think how the silvery noise which Mr Casey used to make had deceived him. And when he had tried to open Mr Casey's hand to see if the purse of silver was hidden there he had seen that the fingers could not be straightened out: and Mr Casey had told him that he had got those three cramped fingers making a birthday present for


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

somewhere in all that? Did it hurt? She shook her head. She didn’t want to know. Lore didn’t look at Gabe. She knew his expression now would be so much worse than it had been the day of the Mortem leak, and she couldn’t take it, couldn’t face it, not when there was so much else to do. “How’s your gut?” she asked Bastian, her voice thin and shaking. He glanced down like he’d forgotten, frowned at his bloody shirt. “Fine,” he said. “Must’ve just been a scratch.” It’d been more than that. At least, Lore thought it had been. But when he raised his shirt, the skin was unblemished, marred only by a scrim of dried blood. A hand on her shoulder—Bastian, gently moving her away from the outstretched knife in Milo’s stone hand. His fingers slid to the back of her neck, into her hair; his thumb brushed her cheek, then dropped, and he stepped away. “Right,” he said, with a decisive nod. “Well. We can’t leave him here, and I assume you aren’t up to changing him back just yet?” “If we can.” Gabe’s voice was quiet, hoarse. “If we can change him back.” “Either way, we’ll have to move him.” A rickety cart slouched against the wall on the other end of the alley; Bastian went and tugged on one of the handles. The cart moved, though the squeaking was awful. “But to where, I have no idea.” “I do,” Lore said. Her lips felt numb. “I know where we can take him.” There was a moment of slight panic as Bastian and Gabe conferred on how to tip the stone man over into the cart—and whether the cart could even hold the weight, decrepit as it was; Milo wasn’t a small man even when he was flesh—but in the end, the Mortem-made statue was easier to move than it looked. Gabe and Bastian heaved together on a count of three, and the man fell into the cart, the bottom of it cushioned with trash that Lore gathered from the alleyway. Bastian stood back, eyes wide. “That was much easier than I anticipated.” “It’s not solid stone,” Gabe said. Then, with a shake of his head, “He isn’t, I mean.” Not solid stone, just a living person knit into a shroud of death. Lore felt sick. Gabe didn’t look at her. Gabe covered the stone figure with more trash, then he and Bastian manned the cart while Lore crept to the mouth of the alley, looking both ways. “Clear,” she murmured, “but we have to move fast.” “Yes, I imagine this would be difficult to explain away.” Bastian hauled the front of the cart up behind her. Gabe stayed at the back, keeping it steady. She wondered if he’d chosen that position because it was farthest away from her. Slowly, Lore moved out of the alley, Bastian and Gabe and their uncanny cargo following. She remembered the route, rounding the turns and taking the shortcuts without any conscious thought needed. For ten years, Val’s crew had worked out


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


attentions as I have been in the daily habit of observing--to be addressing me in this manner--this is an unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such professions." "Good Heaven!" cried Mr. Elton, "what can be the meaning of this?-- Miss Smith!--I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence--never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry--extremely sorry--But, Miss Smith, indeed!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one else. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!--(in an accent meant to be insinuating)--I am sure you have seen and understood me." It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this-- which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind, he tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed-- "Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting silence. It confesses that you have long understood me." "No, sir," cried Emma, "it confesses no such thing. So far from having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you should have been giving way to any feelings-- Nothing could be farther from my wishes--your attachment to my friend Harriet--your pursuit of her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith?--that you have never thought seriously of her?" "Never, madam," cried he, affronted in his turn: "never, I assure you. I think seriously of Miss Smith!--Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to--Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!-- No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I received--" "Encouragement!--I give you encouragement!--Sir, you


is he, and why does Jesse have his ID? I plunge my hand farther into the canister, searching for anything else that Jesse might be hiding, but I come up empty. I dump all the containers into the sink, creating a small mountain of sweet-scented silt, but there is nothing of interest. I need to google Carter Sumner. Hurrying to the small desk, I sit down at Jesse’s laptop. It’s password protected, of course. As I speculate as to the combination of numbers and letters that will grant me access, I realize how little I know about the man I’d considered my boyfriend. When is his birthday? What’s his middle name? Did he have a childhood pet? A favorite grandparent? A beloved sports team? At least I know Jesse was from Spokane. It’s too simple, too obvious, but I type it in in desperation. Rejected. Panic flutters in my belly. I will have a limited number of tries before I’m locked out permanently. His nieces! Surely, he hadn’t invented their existence. He’d told such specific anecdotes about them. He’d have to be a compulsive liar, a complete sociopath, to make them up. One of them is called Ella, the other, Olivia. No… Olive. That’s right. How old are they? Six and nine? Or five and eight? And which one was older? I calculate their birth dates in my head, and try their names, followed by their year of birth. The computer warns me that I have one more attempt. With trembling hands, I sift through Jesse’s desk for some sort of clue. At the back of the second drawer, I find a moleskin notebook, a black pen clipped to the cover. Maybe Jesse wrote down his passwords? There has to be something useful inside. I’m about to open the journal when a heavy knock at the door shatters the silence. My pulse pounding in my ears is louder than the knuckles on the wood. I freeze, waiting for the word “Police!” But there is silence. And then another knock. Insistent. Menacing. This is not just a friend, a landlord, a delivery person. It is someone looking for Jesse. Or looking for me. With the notebook in hand, I scurry back to the kitchen. As quietly as I can, I climb onto the countertop, bruising my shins on the sharp Formica edge, and scramble out through the window. 40 THE INTERNET CAFÉ IS DIM, grimy, and familiar. It may not have been smart to return to a venue I’d previously visited, but it felt safer than driving around, searching. I’m almost sure I haven’t been followed; no one seems to be on my tail. Not yet anyway. And I know this place. I know they accept cash. I know the customers keep to themselves, mind their own business. People use a public computer for a myriad of reasons, not all of them legitimate. I sit at the same desk as I did the last time I was here. My fingers touch the smooth outline of the social security card in my pocket as