freshly tilled garden and down the next street over, into the golden field that Iris could see from her bedroom window. The grass was long, touching their knees as they walked side by side. They were far enough away from the town that they could speak freely, but close enough that they could easily make it to shelter if a siren went off. To Iris’s surprise, Attie didn’t ask for details on what she was writing about, or why it was coming so slowly and arduously. She asked, “Where do you think Marisol’s wife is?” “Keegan? Marisol said she was traveling, didn’t she?” Iris replied, fingers tracing wispy seed heads. “I assume she’s in Oath, or perhaps another city up north.” Attie was quiet for a moment, squinting against the late afternoon sun. “Maybe. I just have this strange feeling Marisol is lying to us.” That gave Iris pause. “Why would she need to lie to us about that?” “Maybe lie is the wrong word. Mislead is better suited, because she’s trying to protect herself and her wife.” “Protect them from what?” “I don’t know,” Attie said. “But something feels odd.” “I feel like Marisol would tell us if it was important,” Iris replied. “Yes. I think she would too. Perhaps I’m only imagining it.” They strode farther down the field, and just the movement of walking after sitting crunched at her desk most of the day lifted Iris’s demeanor. There was nothing but the sound of grass whispering against their legs, and a few starlings trilling overhead. No matter how long she lived here, she didn’t think she would ever get used to how quiet it was. “Do you think it’s possible to fall in love with a stranger?” Iris asked. “Like love at first sight?” “Not exactly. More like loving someone you’ve never met. Someone whose name you don’t even know but who you have a connection with.” Attie was quiet for a beat. “I’m not sure. Maybe? But only because I’m a romantic at heart.” And she cast a wry smile Iris’s way. “Why do you ask? Has a stranger caught your eye at the infirmary?” “No. It’s just something I’m currently thinking about.” Attie glanced up to the sky, as if the answers hid above them, high up in the clouds. The words she said next lingered with Iris for hours afterward. “These days, I think anything is possible, Iris.” Things I know about you: 1. You slouch sometimes. 2. You have your father’s chin. 3. Your hair is perfect, somewhere between rogue and knight errant. 4. You have a nan, who is full of myths. 5. You’re Del’s older brother. 6. You live in Oath. 7. You’re 19 (I think? I added up your age from a previous letter). 8. Your writing is impeccable and often makes me laugh. Things I don’t know about you: 1. Your name. Iris folded the paper and sent it over the portal that night. She waited, expecting him to reply swiftly, as he was prone to do. But when the minutes


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 gray eyes communicate something more akin to Welcome to hell; I’ll be your host, the devil. Everyone’s watching, waiting for me to say something a bit more effusive than I . . . I manage to squeak out, “I thought you couldn’t get away.” “Things changed.” His eyes flash, his mouth twisting unhappily. “He means Sabrina bullied him,” Parth cuts in, lifting me off the ground in a bear hug so


language was on the defensive. ‘Here,’ she said, putting her hand out for my phone, quickly typing her number in. ‘Now, I have to go.’ With that, she shut the window and pulled the blind back down. It was like something out of a romcom my mother would watch. My thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button until I recalled a hack my sister often employed. Count down from five to one and then just do it. I lightly touched the screen, my phone made a whooshing sound and my message was now time-stamped. Meet me at Pen Corner I thought it sounded enigmatic … until I got Martha’s reply: Who is this? It’s Henry. The guy who isn’t a weirdo. Oh, that Henry. Where is Pen Corner? Just get to the junction of College Green & Trinity Street. You’ll see The only establishment that could rival a bookshop or a library, in my opinion, was a good stationery shop. The Pen Corner, however, was something of a hallowed ground when it came to the humble writing instrument. In full prominence on the corner of the street, the Edwardian building had a tower with a clock at the top which told me I was unfashionably early. The black and gold lettering of the shop sign, along with the mosaic-style glass panels above the windows, held all the promise of a hushed library. I had intended to wait for Martha outside, but my willpower lasted all of two minutes. I spotted a Mont Blanc pen in the window that begged closer inspection. Once inside, I felt my shoulders relax and my nose picked up that distinctive scent of paper, leather and ink. Glass cases discreetly displayed rows of Parker and Cross pens along with calligraphy nibs, like expensive jewels. Behind the counter were leather satchels that brought to mind Hemingway’s lost novel. Would it have been kept inside a leather satchel just like this? That’s what every MA Lit student assumed as they strolled around campus with an exact replica slung over their shoulder. Two or three other customers milled around and as I turned to see if I could find my pen, I saw her, standing in the doorway, unsure of herself. ‘Martha, you made it.’ Well, no one could say I ever missed an opportunity to point out the obvious. She just smiled in response and slowly let the door close behind her. ‘What are we doing here?’ ‘An existentialist. I knew it.’ She looked at me askance. ‘Just a little humour, no need to be alarmed.’ God, why did I sound like such a fucking weirdo? It seemed I had lost all ability to speak like a normal human. ‘Can I help, sir?’ came a voice from behind the counter. ‘Yes! I mean, yes please. I was looking at the Mont Blanc in the window.’ ‘Ah, Le Petit Prince,’ he said, anticipating my taste. The sign of an excellent salesman. ‘Why did you bring me here?’ Martha asked, when he was out of earshot. ‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it? Although this isn’t


often than not, drawn her into his arms to kiss her passionately before taking off and racing home again, letting her win and pissing her off even more. Then, once inside, another long kiss and with passion rising, they’d stripped, leaving a trail of clothes to the bedroom where they’d made love until they were spent. Her heart pounded at the memories and she jogged lost in a cloud of melancholy. Never again, she thought, her throat swelling. “It’s okay, Kris. You’ll be fine,” he said, his voice ringing in her head. “Remember me. But let me go.” “I can’t,” she whispered. “Jay, we’re going to have a baby.” “I know. And you’ll be a great mom.” Would she? She wanted to argue with him, but came back to earth. He wasn’t there. He would never be there. That voice in her head? It was her own, projecting what he would say, and she could listen to it, yet. Pretend for a second or two. But the voice in her head finally made sense. She had to let him go. Casting aside her sadness, she ran past the wrought iron gates guarding Lafayette Cemetery, where trees rose above graying tombs, and she felt an unworldly chill, a breath of wind against the back of her neck. Ridiculous, she knew, as she glimpsed the tall trees rising high, branches webbing over the graying tombs that lined walking paths. Shuddering, she crossed Prytania Street and with Dave galloping gamely beside her, cut a new path, one she hadn’t used before, a route that led her to the address she’d memorized and the tall house belonging to Hamilton Cooke. It, too, was secluded, hidden behind a tall brick wall, but she caught a glimpse of the mansion within, interior lights filtering through sheer curtains on the windows and piercing the filigreed posts of the porch to cast weird, woven shadows on the lawn. She paused, running in place, breathing hard, staring through the bars of the gate and upward to a second balcony and the French doors of an upper room. The curtains shifted slightly and she realized someone was on the balcony, the tip of a cigarette visible, red and glowing, the smell of smoke seeping through the thick night air. A tall woman or a man? She couldn’t tell, but had the feeling that she had been noticed and was being watched. Dave whined and tugged on the leash and Kristi began running again, realizing that though Hamilton Cooke lived eight or ten blocks from her, the distance, as the crow flew, was much shorter. So what? No big deal. Ten blocks or twenty, what did it matter? She ran home at a quicker pace, only slowing when she reached the corner of her street. At the corner, beneath the streetlamp, she leaned over, hands on knees, and breathed deep, slowing her heartbeat as Dave strained on the leash, sniffing at the shrubbery that lined one yard. “Okay, okay,” she said, and walked toward her house. As the cottage came into view, her


wears only turtlenecks, and never stops being handsome, not even in the tail end of his sixties, when his hair goes ash gray and his skin wrinkles into sandpaper. His office smells like chamomile tea and old books, and whenever I’m here (daily for the five years of my Ph.D., weekly since I graduated), he does the same thing: unfolds his tall, razor-thin frame from behind his desk and instructs, like it’s my first time on the Northeastern campus, “Sit down, please. In that green chair.” His English is never anything but perfect, even if his accent is still Disney strong. “How are you, Elise?” It’s something I learned not to wince at, the way he always uses the wrong name. In Dr. L.’s defense, he called me Elise on our first meeting, and I never bothered to correct him. I did consider asking him to switch to Elsie when he took me out for dinner after I defended my dissertation, but I chickened out. Aside from Cece, Dr. L. was the only human being who acknowledged me getting my Ph.D.—a matter of circumstances, I tell myself. After the Smith-Turner hoax almost killed his career, I was his first mentee in many years, which meant no close labmates. The theoretical physics research group at Northeastern was not quite fond enough of women in STEM to celebrate one. And my family . . . They couldn’t make the two-hour drive because of Lance’s adult league game—and, likely, because I never fully managed to convey to them what grad school is, though Mom once asked if I was done with that paper I had to turn in (i.e., my dissertation), which I took as a win. So Dr. L. took me out to a fancy restaurant, just the two of us, where the hostess gave me an inquisitive Daughter, granddaughter, or sugar baby? look. And when he looked at me over a dinner that cost half my rent and said, “You carried yourself well, Elise. I am proud of you,” the rare spark of initiative died out. If I had Dr. L.’s approval, he could call me whatever he liked. And that’s the story of my doctoral work: bookended by someone else’s name. Elise, I’ve come to believe, is the Elsie that Dr. L. wants—a brilliant theoretical physicist with an illustrious job that will garner her the admiration of the scientific community—and while she might not be who I am, she’s who I want to be. Too bad that her existence is antithetical to this other guy’s. “Jonathan Smith-Turner.” Dr. L.’s mouth is a thin line. His eyes, hurt. “A disgrace.” I nod. “The likes of him taint physics and academia.” I nod again. “It is apparent what needs to be done.” More nodding, in full agreement. “Clearly, you must withdraw your application.” Hang on. Maybe not full agreement. “Withdraw . . . my application?” “I cannot allow you to work in the same department as that animal.” “But I . . .” I squirm and lean forward in the chair. So much for


the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance. But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their family. How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture. ____ Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family, and concluded with intreaties that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the Militia. ``It was greatly my wish that he should do so,'' he added, ``as soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me in considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into the regulars; and, among his former friends, there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and, I hope, among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list, according to his information. He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs. Gardiner that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all, before she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and her mother. -- Your's, &c. E. GARDINER.'' Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal from the ----shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company -- for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in Hertfordshire -- was a severe disappointment; and besides, it was such a pity that Lydia


He found the taste disgusting, but the moral effect magnificent; he felt every inch an art-student; and since he drank on an empty stomach his spirits presently grew very high. He watched the crowds, and felt all men were his brothers. He was happy. When he reached Gravier's the table at which Clutton sat was full, but as soon as he saw Philip limping along he called out to him. They made room. The dinner was frugal, a plate of soup, a dish of meat, fruit, cheese, and half a bottle of wine; but Philip paid no attention to what he ate. He took note of the men at the table. Flanagan was there again: he was an American, a short, snub-nosed youth with a jolly face and a laughing mouth. He wore a Norfolk jacket of bold pattern, a blue stock round his neck, and a tweed cap of fantastic shape. At that time impressionism reigned in the Latin Quarter, but its victory over the older schools was still recent; and Carolus-Duran, Bouguereau, and their like were set up against Manet, Monet, and Degas. To appreciate these was still a sign of grace. Whistler was an influence strong with the English and his compatriots, and the discerning collected Japanese prints. The old masters were tested by new standards. The esteem in which Raphael had been for centuries held was a matter of derision to wise young men. They offered to give all his works for Velasquez' head of Philip IV in the National Gallery. Philip found that a discussion on art was raging. Lawson, whom he had met at luncheon, sat opposite to him. He was a thin youth with a freckled face and red hair. He had very bright green eyes. As Philip sat down he fixed them on him and remarked suddenly: "Raphael was only tolerable when he painted other people's pictures. When he painted Peruginos or Pinturichios he was charming; when he painted Raphaels he was," with a scornful shrug, "Raphael." Lawson spoke so aggressively that Philip was taken aback, but he was not obliged to answer because Flanagan broke in impatiently. "Oh, to hell with art!" he cried. "Let's get ginny." "You were ginny last night, Flanagan," said Lawson. "Nothing to what I mean to be tonight," he answered. "Fancy being in Pa-ris and thinking of nothing but art all the time." He spoke with a broad Western accent. "My, it is good to be alive." He gathered himself together and then banged his fist on the table. "To hell with art, I say." "You not only say it, but you say it with tiresome iteration," said Clutton severely. There was another American at the table. He was dressed like those fine fellows whom Philip had seen that afternoon in the Luxembourg. He had a handsome face, thin, ascetic, with dark eyes; he wore his fantastic garb with the dashing air of a buccaneer. He had a vast quantity of dark hair which fell constantly over his eyes, and his most frequent gesture was to throw back


chances that this craft actually belonged to Father John? “Slim and none” leapt into Montoya’s mind, but not so Bentz, who was searching the hull. And then Montoya found it. The proverbial nail in the coffin in the form of a single bill, folded neatly and tucked into a crack in the wooden stern seat. He plucked the bill from its hiding place, unfolded it, and found himself looking into the blackened eyes of Benjamin Franklin. CHAPTER 29 This is a mistake. Kristi pulled into the small parking lot for the television station at seven forty-five and wished she’d never agreed to the interview. She wasn’t ready. Wasn’t up for it. Not even after getting up at five in the morning, taking Dave out for a run, showering, and downing a yogurt, berry, and banana smoothie. Even the coffee she’d picked up on the drive over hadn’t helped. Then again it was decaf. “You did this,” she said to her abdomen, as Dr. Vale had suggested she cut out caffeine. Glancing in the rearview, she saw the indecision in her eyes and hated it. She’d always been a person who knew what she wanted and, if anything, had been impetuous, even daring, but not indecisive. “Get it together,” she said, grabbed her purse and stepped into the clear morning. As it turned out she was the second guest to arrive. She buzzed in at the door, was allowed to enter, and registered before being given a name tag allowing her to be in the station. A harried production assistant with short, tousled hair dyed a faint pink, the barest of lip gloss, and a no-nonsense demeanor named Jen walked her through a rabbit warren of hallways. “The studio is just there,” Jen said, pointing to a closed door with a light that glowed with the words “On Air.” Then a few more steps down the hallway. “You’ll just wait in the green room with the other guests and I’ll come and get you before your segment. Right now, you’re on second—segment two—but that all depends on if our first guests get through the traffic that’s supposedly slowing them down.” Her lips were pursed, her expression exasperated, as if she’d heard the same excuse a thousand times and really didn’t believe it. “Also, it all depends on if our musical guest shows. Right now that’s a pretty big ‘if.’” Her lips pulled down at the corners at the prospect as she opened a door at the end of the hall. Inside the windowless green room, a large TV was mounted on one wall, the current news program being broadcast. Several chairs, a few tables, and a long, faux leather couch were scattered around the room, and a long counter with a coffeemaker, water bottles, and a few snacks dominated one wall. “Help yourself,” Jen said, and gestured with one hand to the coffeepot and accoutrements while texting with amazing dexterity. “I’ll be back.” And, then lifting the phone to her ear, she stepped through the open doorway. “They are? Good. I’ll be right


gave us little time to receive him." "You have saved my life." "Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?" "Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to do?" "To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures to-night. If you will wait, one or other of us will go back with you to the Hall." He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale and trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he sat shivering with his face buried in his hands. "We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of our work must be done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and now we only want our man. "It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," he continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. "Those shots must have told him that the game was up." "We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them." "He followed the hound to call him off -- of that you may be certain. No, no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search the house and make sure." The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in the passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked. "There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear a movement. Open this door!" A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the door just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room. But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villain whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in amazement. The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation of this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there was an upright beam, which had been placed at some period as a support for the old worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the roof. To this post a figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been used to secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it was that of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat and was secured at the


knows?” “Lucinda told her.” “Then it’s not a secret anymore. She’ll tell everyone.” “Not yet. I think she’s enjoying lording it over me.” “But she will.” “Maybe it’ll fix itself before then.” Sue sighed. “Okay,” she said then. “Here’s the plan. First, you’re going to change out of those wet clothes.” “No argument there.” “And then just stick close to me. Whenever anyone talks to us, I’ll say their name right away, so you’ve got it.” That wasn’t a bad idea. “That could work,” I said. “It’ll totally work.” “Just promise me,” I said then, holding out my hand so we could shake on it, “that you won’t leave my side.” “I promise,” Sue said, pumping my hand up and down, “that I will never ever leave your side.” * * * GUESS WHAT? She left my side. Not on purpose. She just got dragged away. I went into the bathroom to change, and I never saw her again. I was left alone, as Picasso-faced person after Picasso-faced person came up to me and forced me to Sherlock Holmes one theory after another about who I was talking to. Looking back, I could have just left. I could have found Joe’s floppy hair and hipster glasses and steered him off to feed me that meal he’d promised. But he was lost in the faceless crowd, too—and all attempts to search for him got intercepted by faceless people hugging me, until I wound up making way-too-friendly chitchat with my ex-boyfriend for five solid minutes before realizing who he was. All to say, the situation snowballed. Before I even really saw it coming, I was having a panic attack out behind the utility room. At least I think it was a panic attack. Is it a panic attack when your entire body is utterly hijacked by … panic? And you get dizzy? And you sweat and have the chills at the same time? And your heart pounds and your chest hurts and your hands go cold? And you can’t catch your breath? And you feel like you’re dying? And you collapse to your knees in a dark corner and press your forehead to the concrete to try to make the world stop spinning? Is that a panic attack? ’Cause that was me. And I sure as hell wasn’t celebrating. I have no idea how long I’d been there, trying not to pass out, when I heard a voice say, “Are you having a panic attack?” So of course I said, “No.” “You look like you’re … not okay.” Not okay? That was just insulting. Okay was my whole thing. “I am always okay,” I said, to set the record straight. And then, when the person didn’t accept that and leave, I said, “I’m fine.” Then, my voice muffled against the concrete, I added, “I’m good.” “You don’t look good.” This wasn’t Parker, was it? She never missed a chance for an insult. But no—of course not. It was a man’s voice. One, as usual, I couldn’t recognize. “Identify yourself, please,” I said into the


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

full. It was decked out in the Slytherin colors of green and silver to celebrate Slytherin's winning the house cup for the seventh year in a row. A huge banner showing the Slytherin serpent covered the wall behind the High Table. When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and then everybody started talking loudly at once. He slipped into a seat between Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the fact that people were standing up to look at him. Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The babble died away. "Another year gone!" Dumbledore said cheerfully. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were...you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts... "Now, as I understand it, the house cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two." A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the Slytherin table. Harry could see Draco Malfoy banging his goblet on the table. It was a sickening sight. "Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin," said Dumbledore. "However, recent events must be taken into account." The room went very still. The Slytherins' smiles faded a little. "Ahem," said Dumbledore. "I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes... "First -- to Mr. Ronald Weasley..." Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish with a bad sunburn. "...for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house fifty points." Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling; the stars overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be heard telling the other prefects, "My brother, you know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall's giant chess set!" At last there was silence again. "Second -- to Miss Hermione Granger...for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty points." Hermione buried her face in her arms; Harry strongly suspected she had burst into tears. Gryffindors up and down the table were beside themselves -- they were a hundred points up. "Third -- to Mr. Harry Potter..." said Dumbledore. The room went deadly quiet. "...for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house sixty points." The din was deafening. Those who could add up while yelling themselves hoarse knew that Gryffindor now had four hundred and seventy-two points -- exactly the same as Slytherin. They had tied for the house cup -- if only Dumbledore had given Harry just one more point. Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell silent. "There are all kinds of courage," said Dumbledore, smiling. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to


pass on, leaving the other one alone, like Harry and Josie. Lin felt tears prick her eyes: those darned tablets again. She looked up as the door opened and, momentarily, she could hear Jack Lovejoy outside playing a sad song. Then she saw Josie walk in, supporting an older lady. She smiled and Cecily waved in recognition. Lin called out, ‘Join us.’ They approached the table and Josie said, ‘We’ve come in for a drink – we don’t want to disturb your dinner.’ ‘Not at all – we’ve finished.’ Lin beamed. ‘Neil will be delighted to see you again, Cecily, and you know how he loves you, Josie. Sit down, please…’ ‘In that case,’ Cecily eased herself onto a chair. ‘It will be wonderful to see young Neil. And I can’t wait to see Dickie Edwards and tease him.’ Josie sat down. ‘You might see a few old faces that you remember in here.’ ‘What about the farmer’s son, George?’ Cecily asked. ‘He comes in quite often, all the Ledburys do,’ Lin explained. ‘He’s a grandfather now – they live in the big farmhouse and the cottages behind Barn Park. And Kenny Hooper comes in here most days for a pint of Hooky.’ She pointed to the bar. ‘That’s Jimmy Baker over there.’ ‘Of course – I saw him in Odile’s café.’ Cecily was delighted. ‘And what about the Irish boy who lived on the barge?’ ‘Fergal Toomey? He’s still on the barge, but he has two sons now.’ Josie made herself comfortable at the table. ‘They do lots of odd jobs in the village, gardening to DIY. They are very good.’ ‘I’ll bear that in mind when I need work done on my bungalow,’ Cecily said just as Neil sat down. She extended a hand. ‘I remember you, Neil Timms.’ Neil was amazed. ‘Miss Hamilton…’ ‘Don’t tell me I haven’t changed – it wouldn’t be true… but I’ll accept flattery from the handsomest boy in the class.’ He took in the coat, the lipstick. ‘You were like a film star. We boys were besotted.’ Cecily laughed and Lin smiled, warm with pride: Neil was so charming. ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ Neil began, but Lin stood up. ‘You stay here and catch up on the old times. I’ll get them. What do you want, Cecily?’ ‘Gin and tonic, a large one.’ ‘Josie?’ ‘Juice – elderflower or orange.’ ‘Right.’ Lin made her way to the bar where Dickie Junior was washing beer glasses. He looked up with a grin. ‘Hello, Lin. How was the roast?’ ‘Heavenly, and so was dessert,’ Lin replied. ‘I just want a gin and tonic and an elderflower pressé, please.’ She leaned forward confidentially. ‘You see the woman opposite Neil?’ Dickie Junior squinted. ‘The old dear?’ Lin met his eyes. ‘She was your dad’s primary school teacher, and mine and Neil’s, all those years ago. She’s threatening to tell you lots of juicy tales about him.’ ‘Then these drinks are on the house.’ Dickie Junior busied himself with the optics. ‘I’ll go and tell Dad she’s here –


embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness. Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there. Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour. There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world. ``Only think of its being three months,'' she cried, ``since I went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.'' Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, ``Oh! mamma, do the people here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like any thing.'' Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no


trust me.” “You haven’t given me much choice.” But it didn’t come out like an accusation. “I didn’t feel like I had much choice, either.” The doubt in Bastian’s tone grew a harder edge. “I keep trying to figure out why I wanted to know about your childhood, about who you were. Why I needed to know. To protect myself from August, sure, but it was more than that. It was like… like something pushed me. Like it had happened before, it would happen again, and I was part of it whether I wanted to be or not.” They weren’t the same words Gabe had used by the well, but they were an echo all the same. The sense of things falling into place around them, the sense of being moved into position by forces so much bigger than themselves, bigger even than kings and wars. She and Bastian and Gabe, comets that couldn’t help colliding. Lore turned around. Bastian’s eyes glittered, angry and lost. “I know you.” Bastian said it like a sentencing. “And you know me. Why is that, Lore? Why does it seem like I’ve always known you?” It could’ve sounded romantic, in any other context. But here, it just sounded like pain and confusion, one more unquantifiable thing. Lore stared at him and said nothing. “Tell me I’m not alone in that.” The Sun Prince wasn’t one to beg, she knew; Lore thought this was probably the closest he’d ever gotten. It splintered in her, a wound that had been healed and reopened time and time again. “Lore, tell me I’m not alone here.” And wasn’t that all she’d ever wanted? Not to be alone? She stared at him across the dark and the torchlight, the rocks and bones. “You aren’t.” It came out hoarse; she swallowed. “You aren’t alone, Bastian. I feel it, too.” Then she turned and started forward again. Behind her, Bastian pulled in a ragged sigh, and followed. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Nothing is new. —The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 135 Lore could tell the first chamber they came to wasn’t the one they were searching for. The map in her head told her to walk straight past it, to keep winding farther into the dark. But Bastian paused, raising his flickering torch to the splintered wooden door. “Should we check this one out?” “It isn’t the right one,” Lore said, pushing ahead. It was cold this deep beneath the earth, and numbness tingled in her fingertips. “And we need to keep moving if we want to be back by sunrise.” “How can you tell?” Bastian gave the door one more glance before ambling after her. “I don’t think we’ll be able to see when the sun rises down here. Bleeding God, I don’t think we’d be able to tell if the whole world ended.” Hyperbole, but Lore’s shoulders still inched toward her ears. “I can tell.” Her intuition was a spark in her chest, a torch that didn’t lead her wrong. Part of her was at home in the catacombs in a way she


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

spare." "I'll bring it back," said Adye, "you'll be safe here." Kemp handed him the weapon. "Now for the door," said Adye. As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor bedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to slip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler than usual. "You must step straight out," said Kemp. In another moment Adye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him. "Stop a bit," said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the revolver. "Well?" said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense. "Oblige me by going back to the house," said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye's. "Sorry," said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to take his luck with a shot? "What are you going for?" said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of Adye's pocket. Adye desisted and thought. "Where I go," he said slowly, "is my own business." The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his neck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He drew clumsily and fired absurdly, and in another moment he was struck in the mouth and the revolver wrested from his grip. He made a vain clutch at a slippery limb, tried to struggle up and fell back. "Damn!" said Adye. The Voice laughed. "I'd kill you now if it wasn't the waste of a bullet," it said. He saw the revolver in mid-air, six feet off, covering him. "Well?" said Adye, sitting up. "Get up," said the Voice. Adye stood up. "Attention" said the Voice, and then fiercely, "Don't try any games. Remember I can see your face if you can't see mine. You've got to go back to the house." "He won't let me in," said Adye. "That's a pity," said the Invisible Man. "I've got no quarrel with you." Adye moistened his lips again. He glanced away from the barrel of the revolver and saw the sea far off very blue and dark under the midday sun, the smooth green down, the white cliff of the Head, and the multitudinous town, and suddenly he knew that life was very sweet. His eyes came back to this little metal thing hanging between heaven and earth, six yards away. "What am I to do?" he said sullenly. "What am I to do?" asked the Invisible Man. "You will get help. The only thing is for you to go back." "I will try. If he lets me


against the screen the summer long had not gone wherever they go when autumn comes. A roly-poly had found his way inside the house; I reasoned that the tiny varmint had crawled up the steps and under the door. I was putting my book on the floor beside my cot when I saw him. The creatures are no more than an inch long, and when you touch them they roll themselves into a tight gray ball. I lay on my stomach, reached down and poked him. He rolled up. Then, feeling safe, I suppose, he slowly unrolled. He traveled a few inches on his hundred legs and I touched him again. He rolled up. Feeling sleepy, I decided to end things. My hand was going down on him when Jem spoke. Jem was scowling. It was probably a part of the stage he was going through, and I wished he would hurry up and get through it. He was certainly never cruel to animals, but I had never known his charity to embrace the insect world. "Why couldn't I mash him?" I asked. "Because they don't bother you," Jem answered in the darkness. He had turned out his reading light. "Reckon you're at the stage now where you don't kill flies and mosquitoes now, I reckon," I said. "Lemme know when you change your mind. Tell you one thing, though, I ain't gonna sit around and not scratch a redbug." "Aw dry up," he answered drowsily. Jem was the one who was getting more like a girl every day, not I. Comfortable, I lay on my back and waited for sleep, and while waiting I thought of Dill. He had left us the first of the month with firm assurances that he would return the minute school was out- he guessed his folks had got the general idea that he liked to spend his summers in Maycomb. Miss Rachel took us with them in the taxi to Maycomb Junction, and Dill waved to us from the train window until he was out of sight. He was not out of mind: I missed him. The last two days of his time with us, Jem had taught him to swim- Taught him to swim. I was wide awake, remembering what Dill had told me. Barker's Eddy is at the end of a dirt road off the Meridian highway about a mile from town. It is easy to catch a ride down the highway on a cotton wagon or from a passing motorist, and the short walk to the creek is easy, but the prospect of walking all the way back home at dusk, when the traffic is light, is tiresome, and swimmers are careful not to stay too late. According to Dill, he and Jem had just come to the highway when they saw Atticus driving toward them. He looked like he had not seen them, so they both waved. Atticus finally slowed down; when they caught up with him he said, "You'd better catch a ride back. I won't be going home for


more easily realised, he felt himself uncommonly well-to-do. They talked often of the future. Philip was anxious that Mildred should keep the child with her, but she refused: she had her living to earn, and it would be more easy to do this if she had not also to look after a baby. Her plan was to get back into one of the shops of the company for which she had worked before, and the child could be put with some decent woman in the country. "I can find someone who'll look after it well for seven and sixpence a week. It'll be better for the baby and better for me." It seemed callous to Philip, but when he tried to reason with her she pretended to think he was concerned with the expense. "You needn't worry about that," she said. "I shan't ask _you_ to pay for it." "You know I don't care how much I pay." At the bottom of her heart was the hope that the child would be still-born. She did no more than hint it, but Philip saw that the thought was there. He was shocked at first; and then, reasoning with himself, he was obliged to confess that for all concerned such an event was to be desired. "It's all very fine to say this and that," Mildred remarked querulously, "but it's jolly difficult for a girl to earn her living by herself; it doesn't make it any easier when she's got a baby." "Fortunately you've got me to fall back on," smiled Philip, taking her hand. "You've been good to me, Philip." "Oh, what rot!" "You can't say I didn't offer anything in return for what you've done." "Good heavens, I don't want a return. If I've done anything for you, I've done it because I love you. You owe me nothing. I don't want you to do anything unless you love me." He was a little horrified by her feeling that her body was a commodity which she could deliver indifferently as an acknowledgment for services rendered. "But I do want to, Philip. You've been so good to me." "Well, it won't hurt for waiting. When you're all right again we'll go for our little honeymoon." "You are naughty," she said, smiling. Mildred expected to be confined early in March, and as soon as she was well enough she was to go to the seaside for a fortnight: that would give Philip a chance to work without interruption for his examination; after that came the Easter holidays, and they had arranged to go to Paris together. Philip talked endlessly of the things they would do. Paris was delightful then. They would take a room in a little hotel he knew in the Latin Quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of charming little restaurants; they would go to the play, and he would take her to music halls. It would amuse her to meet his friends. He had talked to her about Cronshaw, she would see him; and there was Lawson, he had


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

with trembling hands. It informed me that the writer had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed to the Tombs as a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he wished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the facts. These tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. At first I was indignant; but at last almost approved. The landlord’s energetic, summary disposition had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not think I would have decided upon myself; and yet as a last resort, under such peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan. As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be conducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his pale unmoving way, silently acquiesced. Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent procession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of the roaring thoroughfares at noon. The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew, and closed by suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement as possible till something less harsh might be done—though indeed I hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview. Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. And so I found him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves. “Bartleby!” “I know you,” he said, without looking round,—”and I want nothing to say to you.” “It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby,” said I, keenly pained at his implied suspicion. “And to you, this should not be so vile a place. Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here. And see, it is not so sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is the grass.” “I know where I am,” he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I left him. As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron, accosted me, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder said—”Is that your friend?” “Yes.” “Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare, that’s all.” “Who


advice concerning the books I ought to procure. "I am happy," said M. Waldman, "to have gained a disciple; and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been and may be made; it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time, I have not neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very sorry chemist if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really a man of science and not merely a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural philosophy, including mathematics." He then took me into his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his various machines, instructing me as to what I ought to procure and promising me the use of his own when I should have advanced far enough in the science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had requested, and I took my leave. Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny. Chapter 4 From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the lectures and cultivated the acquaintance of the men of science of the university, and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism, and his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature that banished every idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways he smoothed for me the path of knowledge and made the most abstruse inquiries clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at first fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded and soon became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory. As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress was rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and my proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on, whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries which I hoped to make. None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you, and there


“Yes. It was the same man who was in Radio City right before the bomb went off.” Ogden pointed to the ghost light on the stage. “That doesn’t give off much light. How can you be sure? How do we know it wasn’t some crazed Rockette fan?” “Because I know. I saw him.” Peter stood tall. “What’s with all the resistance? Here you have someone who’s seen the bomber not once, but twice, and who was nearly—” He stopped, catching himself. “Who he went after, and you’re still pushing back?” Marion knew why. Peter had humiliated Ogden and Somers by being right about the fact that they had the wrong guy in custody. On top of that, she’d brought them the letter from the imitator, which had sent them off on the wild-goose chase, even though she and Peter had warned otherwise. Ogden didn’t like being upstaged. Ogden moved back into the hallway, but Marion and Peter stayed on his tail. He wasn’t going to get out of this so easily. “What about Hardenby?” asked Marion. “Is he still in jail?” Ogden shook his head. “No. We couldn’t hold him after the latest bomb went off. It’ll be in the news tomorrow, I’m sure. The press will go wild with this.” “So he gets to walk away?” “He’ll be charged with making a criminal threat, but not with setting the bombs. Apparently, he hates Met Power as much as the Big Apple Bomber does and decided to join in on the fun. He sent it to you because he’d seen the Rockettes when he was a kid, heard about your connection to the Radio City bombing in the papers and all, and figured you’d be an easy target. We don’t think he’s a further threat to you.” Marion looked over at Peter. “What do you think?” “I think he’s a bomber wannabe and was probably shocked at being tossed in jail. I don’t see him as a threat.” “Well, I’m glad you cleared that up, Doctor,” said Ogden, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. The dark energy that had been coursing through Marion’s body since the attack surged again. “If you’d been out hunting for the right guy maybe this wouldn’t have happened. You might have had him by now. Do you even care one bit that I was almost killed tonight? That my sister was killed, due to your incompetence? F.P. has been around for sixteen years now.” She pointed a finger right in Ogden’s face. “How many more people have to get killed or injured before you get your act together and do your job?” “What’s going on here?” Captain Somers strode toward them. Marion stepped back, breathing heavily. Peter answered for her. “We were expressing our concern about the way this case is being handled. The bomber went after Marion tonight, and meanwhile your man Ogden here doesn’t seem to understand the seriousness of the situation.” Somers glared at Ogden. “That’s enough. Go back to headquarters.” Once Ogden had slunk away, Somers placed a hand on


neck? Marks?” “These?” He leaned forward, and the change in him was instant, the glowing eyes, the curling horns, the broadening of the shoulders. Without meaning to, Alex found herself scooting back in her chair. He was man and then monster in the space of a breath. The golden bands glowed at his wrists and throat. “Yeah,” she said, trying not to show her fear. “Those.” “These marks mean I am bound in service. Forever.” “To hell? To Golgarot?” He laughed then, the sound deep and cold, the thing at the bottom of the lake. “I’m bound to you, Stern. To the woman who brought me out of hell. I will serve you ’til the end of days.” 40 Her face went very still. Darlington had learned that this was what Alex Stern did when faced with uncertainty. Fight or flight? A survivor’s move was sometimes no move at all. He could see her in the basement on that night so long ago, a girl wrought in stone. She raised a brow. “So … are you going to do my laundry?” Fight, flight, or sarcasm. “What a horrid girl you are.” “Ma’am. What a horrid girl you are, ma’am.” Now he laughed. But Alex’s brows had drawn together. Her jaw was set. She looked like she was squaring up for a fight. “There are too many mysteries. I don’t like the way they’re adding up.” “I’m not certain I do either,” he said, and he wasn’t lying this time. “You can see the dead, hear them, use them for your own ends—and unless I’m very much mistaken, were it not for certain scruples that Marguerite Belbalm lacked, you could use the living in much the same way.” All he got for that assessment was a short, sharp nod. “As for me…” He wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. As a man he had suffered in hell. But as a demon he had doled out suffering with ease and ingenuity. Sandow had come to them, murdered by Belbalm, his soul already consumed by her. He would never pass beyond the Veil, but hell was happy to claim him. Darlington’s demon self had enjoyed finding new ways to make Sandow miserable, to pay for the anguish he’d caused. Darlington had been frightening to the shades of the Veil and even to himself. It had been … If he was honest, it had been exhilarating. He had been a creature of the mind since he was a boy—languages, history, science. The rest of it, the training he’d put himself through—fighting, swordplay, even acrobatics—had all been in service to the future adventures he’d been sure he would have. But the great invitation had never come. There had been no noble quests or secret missions. There had been rituals, glimpses of the world beyond, schoolwork, reports to write, and that was all. So he had kept honing himself like a blade that would never be tried. Then Dean Sandow had sent him to hell. Darlington shouldn’t have survived, but he’d managed to hold on until at


"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter." "Now?" Langdon managed. "It's after midnight." "Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the Louvre this evening?" Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator Jacques Saunire had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's lecture tonight, but Saunire had never shown up. "Yes. How did you know that?" "We found your name in his daily planner." "I trust nothing is wrong?" The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the narrow opening in the door. When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid. "This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre." As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock gave way to a sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!" "We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question, considering your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him." Langdon stared at the picture, his horror now laced with fear. The image was gruesome and profoundly strange, bringing with it an unsettling sense of dj vu. A little over a year ago, Langdon had received a photograph of a corpse and a similar request for help. Twenty-four hours later, he had almost lost his life inside Vatican City. This photo was entirely different, and yet something about the scenario felt disquietingly familiar. The agent checked his watch. "My capitaine is waiting, sir." Langdon barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture. "This symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly..." "Positioned?" the agent offered. Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can't imagine who would do this to someone." The agent looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see in this photograph..." He paused. "Monsieur Saunire did that to himself." 9 CHAPTER 2 One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped through the front gate of the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue La Bruyre. The spiked cilice belt that he wore around his thigh cut into his flesh, and yet his soul sang with satisfaction of service to the Lord. Pain is good. His red eyes scanned the lobby as he entered the residence. Empty. He climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken any of his fellow numeraries. His bedroom door was open; locks were forbidden here. He entered, closing the door behind him. The room was spartan-hardwood floors, a pine dresser, a canvas mat in the corner that served as his bed. He was a visitor here this week, and yet for many years he had been blessed with a similar sanctuary in New York City. The Lord has provided me shelter and purpose in my life. Tonight, at last, Silas felt he had begun to repay his debt. Hurrying to the dresser, he found the cell phone hidden in his bottom drawer and placed a call. "Yes?" a male voice answered. "Teacher, I have returned." "Speak," the


but for what it’s worth, I’m proud of U. And Mom will def get over this, eventually. She got over my bellybutton ring. Really? I say. Well, she never acknowledged it outright, Eloise replies, but she DID stop looking at my stomach and sighing. This will go better than that. I’ve got UR back. I lean back against the counter as that washes over me. Thanks, I tell her. I’m sorry I didn’t have yours more. I wish I had. Don’t worry about it, she says. U were just a kid. Neither of us had much say over our lives but now we do. UR doing what’s right for U. That’s all U can do. I’ve never cried over a message with so many abbreviations in it, but I’m considering printing this text out and sticking it on the Connor family refrigerator for safekeeping. We may not have pictures of us in matching sisters’ Halloween costumes, but we love each other. There’s hope. If I want to be close to her, I can work at it. • • • DAD COMES AROUND first. He starts sending me articles about the mental benefits of making pottery, and texts about a new TV competition between ceramists. Mom is a harder sell. When she and Dad finally fly out to visit us in Montana, she’s virtually silent the whole first day. I take them antiquing, and on a beginner horseback ride. We hit up happy hour at a bar whose theme seems to be Hunting But Fancy, one of those new spots catering to the summer crowd by pretending to be folksy. “Hank hated this place!” Gloria says happily as the server leaves with our order. “Wouldn’t ever come with me, so I’d have to bring our neighbor Beth Anne.” Mom and Dad tag along to the beginner classes I’ve started helping with at Gallatin Clay Co. Dad does his best to seem interested, while Mom settles for simply “not crying.” Afterward, I show them my last few projects. Mom holds a bowl glazed in every shade of blue, scrutinizing it for a long time before saying, “This one’s nice.” “Thanks,” I say. “I made that for Sabrina and Parth.” “Your friends who just got married?” Dad says. “Right,” Mom tells him, “the lawyers.” Again, I wonder if my friends weren’t the only ones I pushed away. If every time I turned the focus back to the thing about me I knew my parents loved, I missed the chance for them to know the rest. We have fun at times. It’s incredibly awkward at others. Then it’s over, and a yellow cab is pulling up the Connors’ driveway, and Wyn excuses himself so Mom, Dad, and I can say our goodbyes in private. I go in for hugs before it even occurs to me that my family’s never done much hugging. It’s too awkward to take back, so Dad and I stiffly hold on to each other for a beat. Then Mom and I do the same. Dad gets in the car, and Mom starts


her? It was worth the risk, I decided. “It was a set of numbers and letters. Four numbers followed by four letters. She had them written down on a sticky note.” She nodded and walked out of the room. I stared after her, uncertain if I should follow, but a minute later she returned with a crumpled envelope. “She left this in the recycling,” she said. “She was always taking notes on whatever was nearby.” There were more numbers on this one, in an exacting column. Two dozen. It must have been before she narrowed it down. The state codes were from all over the place—as far as Oklahoma. If she’d eliminated everything but Washington and Idaho, I had eleven entries to work with. That was more manageable. “Thank you,” I said. “What do they mean?” she asked. When I didn’t answer right away, she crossed her arms. “Did someone kill my daughter because of those numbers?” “The police say it was suicide.” “Do you believe that?” she asked bluntly. “No,” I said, realizing as I said it just how certain I was. “I don’t know who would want to hurt her. But I know she found something before she died. A—a secret. She wanted to tell me, but she didn’t get the chance. I need to know what it is.” “You should tell the police,” Kimiko said. I looked down at the numbers in my hand. All the logic and sense in the world said I should call Bishop right now and tell her everything, even if that made me a suspect. But letting go of these secrets felt like letting Liv go. Letting go of the last thing I had of her that was ours alone. Hers and mine and Cass’s. One last bond. “I can’t,” I said helplessly. The familiar shame of the lie shivered with new hope. If one of these numbers belonged to Stahl’s missing victim, then I’d told the truth, even if I hadn’t known it. It would be proof that it was him, and that I hadn’t gotten the wrong man arrested. Kimiko sighed. “You were a good friend to her. But she’s gone. You take care of yourself first. The dead don’t need our help.” “I need to do this,” I said. Kimiko only nodded. When I walked out she stayed, running her fingertips over the empty space where Olivia’s things had been, as if beginning to map the shape of her absence. It was quick work to match the case numbers with names, but from there my progress ground to a halt. The women in the missing-persons listings ranged in age from eighteen to forty-six. There were blondes and brunettes, white, Black, and Latina. None were named Persephone, but I hadn’t expected they would be. Any of these women could have been Persephone—or none of them. Except that Liv had been sure. The dates for their disappearances covered a range of almost a decade. If I looked only at that “quiet summer,” two years before the attack, there were four possibilities, but I


protection at the White House complex until long-term corrective action was taken, starting with a request for Congress to give him more money for a bigger fence. The representatives were unified in their concern over how easily the guy had entered one of the most high-security facilities in the world. If he’d detonated a bomb, God forbid, he could have destabilized the entire federal government. Representative Bennie Thompson pressed Kelly: “How could this happen?” (Incidentally, Thompson would be asking the same question years later while investigating a far bigger breach of the U.S. Capitol.) Before long, attendees were off-topic and the meeting devolved into partisan bickering. Kelly was the first Trump lieutenant to brief the group, and Democrats in particular were still coming to terms with a whiplash White House. Trump’s preposterous travel ban; his denial of Russian election interference; an obsession with a hulking concrete “border wall”; already frosty relations with Congress; and his apparent disregard for his own cabinet. Republicans jumped in to defend the president, though most barely knew the man. Kelly calmly told the representatives that everything was copacetic. There was an adjustment period in every new administration, and President Trump was taking the advice of his team. The general understood the importance of this assurance. Skeptics of Trump were only comforted by the hope that the businessman would somehow assemble a credible cabinet, a group of grown-ups who would provide stability in the executive branch. Then another topic came up. Days earlier the administration had made a cryptic announcement that carry-on laptops would be banned on certain flights to the United States from several Middle Eastern countries. What was happening? Members of Congress demanded to know, reminding John Kelly that we were sitting in a secure environment and could discuss sensitive issues. For the first time, Kelly looked uncomfortable. He demurred, offering up only the fact that the decision was based on “evaluated intelligence” that he hoped to share at the appropriate time. A buzzer screeched from behind the members of Congress and lights flashed on a wall clock. It was time for votes on the House floor. The meeting was over. As the room cleared, I waited for Kelly. I told him that he had handled the back-and-forth well. “You still on board?” he asked with a grin. “Yes, sir. But you spooked me on the way in,” I joked. “About that…” The secretary’s smile faded. He lowered his voice. “I want you to know something. I swore an oath to protect this country against enemies foreign and domestic. Foreign and domestic, Miles. You’ll be doing the same by joining my team. Take it as seriously as a heart attack, okay?” “Yes, sir, of course,” I affirmed. Kelly waited a beat before his face lit up again. He reminded me that I had one day of freedom left. “Don’t fuck it up.” The secretary disappeared down the hall followed by staff, agents with earpieces, and a military aide carrying a black briefcase, leaving only silence in his wake. I closed up the briefing room by punching


old woodcutter in a fairy tale, then Eppie is like the woodcutter's daughter--a beautiful, golden-haired girl who's really a princess in disguise. George Eliot turns the fairy tale on its head, though, because this princess doesn't meet a handsome prince. When her real father shows up to offer her a life of riches, she rejects him in favor of the poor old woodcutter. The man she marries is simply a brawny young gardener, Aaron Winthrop, whom she loves more like a brother than a lover. But in this novel's scheme of things, that means she will live happily ever after. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: DUNSTAN CASS If Godfrey is not the villain of this novel, perhaps his younger brother Dunstan is. Godfrey's sins are all passive--he decides not to do something--whereas Dunstan actually commits bad deeds. He squanders the money Godfrey lends him, then he destroys Godfrey's horse while hunting. Finally, he steals Silas' money. What motivates Dunstan? Eliot shows you the twists and turns of his reasoning, just as she does Godfrey's. Both think selfishly, but while Godfrey is aware of moral considerations, Dunstan just calculates what he can get away with. Eliot shows him mostly in upperclass settings, so his vices seem a product of his class. Yet even his own family and friends don't seem to care when Dunstan disappears. His nickname, Dunsey, sounds like "dunce," and Dunstan doesn't seem very bright. He allows himself to be propelled by circumstances, which he thinks of as "luck." He doesn't plot to rob Silas, but when the opportunity comes his way, he takes it. Soon after, however, he falls into the stone-pit and is drowned. Is this bad luck--or a fitting punishment for his crime? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: SQUIRE CASS In Squire Cass, Eliot embodies what she sees as the worst characteristics of the English gentry--the upper class of country society. He bullies his sons and he patronizes the common people of Raveloe. He's dull-witted and narrow-minded. He isn't hard-working and his pleasures are crude--eating red meat, swilling ale, and making lewd jokes. (Note that his last name sounds like the word "crass.") Squire Cass is a great man in the community because of his hereditary position. The poor never question his wasteful life. But Eliot does, just as she questions the way he has raised his sons. Godfrey wishes his father had disciplined him more. You'll have to decide whether you blame Squire Cass for the tragic events brought about by his wayward sons. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: AARON WINTHROP When Aaron first comes with his mother Dolly to visit Silas, he's still a small child. Silas regards him as an alien creature, but this encounter foreshadows the impact Eppie will have upon Silas. When he's grown up, Aaron becomes Eppie's sweetheart (although she doesn't seem sexually attracted to him). Like Eppie, he is in touch with nature, a gifted gardener. Some readers think Aaron is a cardboard figure, a stereotype of the manly young laborer whom Eppie should choose over a life with Godfrey. Yet others think that his kind, brotherly


muscles pop. His wife was a sucker for these pecs, which was only fair, because he was a sucker for her. The week since returning from New York was not just the happiest of his life, it was the happiest of anyone’s life, and he’d fight whoever disagreed. As if he could even locate enough irritation inside himself to throw a punch. He was all sunshine and doves below the neck these days. His wife was really his wife. She was happy with him. She actually fucking loved him back, this human work of art. With every passing day, he discovered more about her, too. Her ticklish spots, her very precise routine in the shower that involved around nine different products, all of which smelled like goddamn heaven, the silly voice she used to speak to the cat when she thought he couldn’t hear. The hopeful way she talked about her family as they continued to reconnect, the intent way she listened, like she couldn’t wait to be his confidant, the way she sometimes just needed a rubber band for her hair. Seriously, he’d started keeping a collection of the little black bands on his wrist, because she could never seem to find one, despite the fact that they were everywhere in the house. Sometimes all he had to do to make her smile was hand her a rubber band so she could put her hair up in one of those crazy knots. The first time it happened, she’d looked at him like he’d just turned his chair around for her on The Voice. They fought over control of the television remote. They fought over a lot of things. She couldn’t cook for shit. And he loved her with the fire of a thousand suns. Which made those fights end pretty damn quickly, because his chest started to sting and all he wanted was to make her happy again. It helped that she didn’t like fighting with him anymore, either. She’d grumped at him this morning before her coffee and two minutes later, she’d been crawling onto his lap at the dining room table with apology kisses. Leading to apology sex. His nuts were back in a knot right now, just thinking about how she’d pouted the word sorry against his mouth, straddling him. Rocking just once on his lap and liquefying his brain. Was it possible to marry her again? Or did he have to wait a certain number of years to renew their vows? This phenomenal woman had snuck over barriers he didn’t even know existed inside him. She’d started helping him bring Sam’s dream to life . . . and slowly it was becoming their dream, too. Yeah, it was becoming theirs, and that was more than okay. It was his life now and he desperately wanted to go on living it forever. August dropped down from the doorframe after a few more pull-ups, his brow knitting over the arrival of a second car. Who was that? When he walked out of the barn, the person he needed to


there was a softness to his stare that suggested the former, that he was really genuinely feeling bad for us and would have liked to change our situation. He had a hint of a beard: Sledge would make him shave. I couldn’t help imagining him shaving, wrinkling his nose to get a spot on the underside of his chin. I couldn’t stop looking at him. “Green!” Sledge said, and I began my crunches quickly, trying not to linger on the sit-up. “This is Orson Ortman,” Kimborough said. “He’s going to be joining us for the rest of the summer.” “Don’t stop your fucking crunches,” Sledge hissed. Kimborough cleared his throat. “Orson will be in cabin six. Please don’t hassle him; give him a chance to settle in.” Sledge grunted at Kimborough’s use of the word “please,” and I tried not to watch as Kimborough and Orson walked away toward my cabin. We marched, sweat drenched, to the mess hall, where we collapsed on benches and tried to summon the strength to get our plates and get food at the head of the room. I folded my arms on the table and rested my head on my wrists, taking breaths so deep they almost caught in my throat. When I looked up, Orson Ortman was sitting across from me. “How’d you get here?” I asked. He shrugged. “I just sat down. You were breathing so heavy, maybe that’s why you didn’t hear me.” He extended his hand to shake. “Orson,” he said. “I know,” I said. “Why are you here?” “That’s a long story.” “No, like—why are you here at this table with me?” “Because I don’t like crowded places. Every other table in this cafeteria—” “Mess hall,” I corrected. “Right, every other table in this mess hall is full of people. I don’t want to sit wedged in with a bunch of people.” He extended his arms out to either side like a bird preparing for flight. “I like my space.” “There’s space here,” I said, resigning myself to generosity. It was a trait that didn’t get you very far at Last Chance, but I couldn’t help it: there’d been something captivating about him in those first moments I’d seen him, something worthy of investigation. “Do you want me to get you a plate?” I shrugged. “I’ll get you a plate,” he said. “Just give me a second.” He sprung grasshopper-like from his seat and came back with two plates of brownish mash and green beans. The food was nauseating, as always, and I was almost too weak to eat it, but I wanted to perform normalcy. I drew a fork from the canister in the middle of the table, watching him. “Is this meat loaf?” he asked, poking at his. “It’s always meat loaf,” I said. “We have to cook it and there’s, like, only one recipe.” He took a bite and grimaced. “We cook it?” “Eventually you’ll cook it. Maybe you’re the one person in the world who knows how to make it better.” My head echoed with the sound


own eyes and hear her with my own ears, come into the room just now and ask to speak to you?" "But has she not taken me down stairs, Belinda," returned Mr. Pocket, "and shown me the woman, and the bundle too?" "And do you defend her, Matthew," said Mrs. Pocket, "for making mischief?" Mr. Pocket uttered a dismal groan. "Am I, grandpapa's granddaughter, to be nothing in the house?" said Mrs. Pocket. "Besides, the cook has always been a very nice respectful woman, and said in the most natural manner when she came to look after the situation, that she felt I was born to be a Duchess." There was a sofa where Mr. Pocket stood, and he dropped upon it in the attitude of the Dying Gladiator. Still in that attitude he said, with a hollow voice, "Good night, Mr. Pip," when I deemed it advisable to go to bed and leave him. Chapter 24 After two or three days, when I had established myself in my room and had gone backwards and forwards to London several times, and had ordered all I wanted of my tradesmen, Mr. Pocket and I had a long talk together. He knew more of my intended career than I knew myself, for he referred to his having been told by Mr. Jaggers that I was not designed for any profession, and that I should be well enough educated for my destiny if I could "hold my own" with the average of young men in prosperous circumstances. I acquiesced, of course, knowing nothing to the contrary. He advised my attending certain places in London, for the acquisition of such mere rudiments as I wanted, and my investing him with the functions of explainer and director of all my studies. He hoped that with intelligent assistance I should meet with little to discourage me, and should soon be able to dispense with any aid but his. Through his way of saying this, and much more to similar purpose, he placed himself on confidential terms with me in an admirable manner; and I may state at once that he was always so zealous and honourable in fulfilling his compact with me, that he made me zealous and honourable in fulfilling mine with him. If he had shown indifference as a master, I have no doubt I should have returned the compliment as a pupil; he gave me no such excuse, and each of us did the other justice. Nor, did I ever regard him as having anything ludicrous about him - or anything but what was serious, honest, and good - in his tutor communication with me. When these points were settled, and so far carried out as that I had begun to work in earnest, it occurred to me that if I could retain my bedroom in Barnard's Inn, my life would be agreeably varied, while my manners would be none the worse for Herbert's society. Mr. Pocket did not object to this arrangement, but urged that before any step could possibly be taken in it,


grating of earth on earth, the ring of metal, the roar of a fire as it swallowed a house – a bellow of consuming rage that echoed across Mentendon. As Tunuva Melim watched, five dark shapes emerged from the mountain and disappeared into the night. Five dark shapes with ten dark wings, flocked by dark moths that all screamed the same scream, old as the world. **** In Drouthwick Castle, Glorian Berethnet woke from a strange dream. At her side, Lady Florell Glade cooled her forehead, which had been too cold a moment before. ‘Glorian?’ As Florell stroked her hair, Glorian opened her eyes. ‘It’s risen,’ she whispered. After, she would not remember saying it at all. 20 North The sunset had turned the snow to spun honey. Alone with his bow in the gathering dark, Wulf stood beneath the pines and took aim at an elk in the clearing. King Bardholt meant to have a feast to celebrate their return to Bithandun. Fresh venison would please him. The elk sniffed the air. Wulf slowly released his breath. And then he felt something he should never have felt. Not in that Northern forest on a frozen lake, the world all cast in grey and white. Heat, welling up from under the snow. Pleasure and pain, fear, and some deep recognition – all of it boiled together in his heart. His knees gave way. The arrow went thudding into a pine. As the elk fled, Wulf dropped his bow to grip his chest, as if he could stop it from burning. He fell like a sack of stones. 21 East Her court attire was twice as heavy as it looked, each of the six garments dyed a pale shade of the rainbow. All were interleaved with thin layers of white. The servants had brushed pearl dust across her cheeks and brow. Nothing else. The world needed to see her face. Since her hair remained too short to shape, they had trimmed and combed it smooth. The crown on top put a strain on her neck – a delicate concoction of seashells and pearls. Her cart was open to the world, cowries hanging from its roof. Lady Taporo had explained how important it was that the people knew she existed before she entered Antuma Palace. She would not be able to disappear if everyone knew she was there. Lady Taporo had nursed her through her arrival. For days, she had been so unwell that she had not even tried to rise, listening to her cousin from within the safe nest of her bedding. She still had a dry cough, and her skull felt too small for what was inside it. She must hide the earth sickness at court. Not for one moment could she appear weak. Several guards had accompanied her through the city gate. Now they continued along the Avenue of the Dawn, where fifty thousand people had gathered to see the lost Princess of Seiiki. Drums beat out her approach. Fascinated faces jostled for a look at hers. For the first time


but one thing more precious, to a friendship; and as Philip looked at it, he felt the tears come to his eyes. He thought of Hayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how disillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them together but habit and old memories. It was one of the queer things of life that you saw a person every day for months and were so intimate with him that you could not imagine existence without him; then separation came, and everything went on in the same way, and the companion who had seemed essential proved unnecessary. Your life proceeded and you did not even miss him. Philip thought of those early days in Heidelberg when Hayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the future, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned himself to failure. Now he was dead. His death had been as futile as his life. He died ingloriously, of a stupid disease, failing once more, even at the end, to accomplish anything. It was just the same now as if he had never lived. Philip asked himself desperately what was the use of living at all. It all seemed inane. It was the same with Cronshaw: it was quite unimportant that he had lived; he was dead and forgotten, his book of poems sold in remainder by second-hand booksellers; his life seemed to have served nothing except to give a pushing journalist occasion to write an article in a review. And Philip cried out in his soul: "What is the use of it?" The effort was so incommensurate with the result. The bright hopes of youth had to be paid for at such a bitter price of disillusionment. Pain and disease and unhappiness weighed down the scale so heavily. What did it all mean? He thought of his own life, the high hopes with which he had entered upon it, the limitations which his body forced upon him, his friendlessness, and the lack of affection which had surrounded his youth. He did not know that he had ever done anything but what seemed best to do, and what a cropper he had come! Other men, with no more advantages than he, succeeded, and others again, with many more, failed. It seemed pure chance. The rain fell alike upon the just and upon the unjust, and for nothing was there a why and a wherefore. Thinking of Cronshaw, Philip remembered the Persian rug which he had given him, telling him that it offered an answer to his question upon the meaning of life; and suddenly the answer occurred to him: he chuckled: now that he had it, it was like one of the puzzles which you worry over till you are shown the solution and then cannot imagine how it could ever have escaped you. The answer was obvious. Life had no meaning. On the earth, satellite of a star speeding through space, living things had arisen under the influence of conditions which were


back in his chair, and looking out of the window laughed a little. "It's not a very nice night to be out, is it?" CHAPTER CII ATHELNY told Philip that he could easily get him something to do in the large firm of linendrapers in which himself worked. Several of the assistants had gone to the war, and Lynn and Sedley with patriotic zeal had promised to keep their places open for them. They put the work of the heroes on those who remained, and since they did not increase the wages of these were able at once to exhibit public spirit and effect an economy; but the war continued and trade was less depressed; the holidays were coming, when numbers of the staff went away for a fortnight at a time: they were bound to engage more assistants. Philip's experience had made him doubtful whether even then they would engage him; but Athelny, representing himself as a person of consequence in the firm, insisted that the manager could refuse him nothing. Philip, with his training in Paris, would be very useful; it was only a matter of waiting a little and he was bound to get a well-paid job to design costumes and draw posters. Philip made a poster for the summer sale and Athelny took it away. Two days later he brought it back, saying that the manager admired it very much and regretted with all his heart that there was no vacancy just then in that department. Philip asked whether there was nothing else he could do. "I'm afraid not." "Are you quite sure?" "Well, the fact is they're advertising for a shop-walker tomorrow," said Athelny, looking at him doubtfully through his glasses. "D'you think I stand any chance of getting it?" Athelny was a little confused; he had led Philip to expect something much more splendid; on the other hand he was too poor to go on providing him indefinitely with board and lodging. "You might take it while you wait for something better. You always stand a better chance if you're engaged by the firm already." "I'm not proud, you, know" smiled Philip. "If you decide on that you must be there at a quarter to nine tomorrow morning." Notwithstanding the war there was evidently much difficulty in finding work, for when Philip went to the shop many men were waiting already. He recognised some whom he had seen in his own searching, and there was one whom he had noticed lying about the park in the afternoon. To Philip now that suggested that he was as homeless as himself and passed the night out of doors. The men were of all sorts, old and young, tall and short; but every one had tried to make himself smart for the interview with the manager: they had carefully brushed hair and scrupulously clean hands. They waited in a passage which Philip learnt afterwards led up to the dining-hall and the work rooms; it was broken every few yards by five or six steps. Though there was electric light


in the horrible way Thalia would always be seventeen; remembering Thalia at seventeen was remembering someone on the steepest precipice. Picturing Carlotta young was picturing someone soaring through the sky, someone with everything to look forward to. Someone living more in genesis than aftermath. I thought about how junior spring, Carlotta and Fran drove out to surprise me when we rowed at Kent on the Housatonic. As we passed, Fran cheered and chanted my name; Carlotta turned around and mooned me. I laughed and almost lost my rhythm, but I loved her for it. Something I remembered only then: Maybe that day, or maybe another—Omar, there for icing and taping our joints into submission, turned up jogging along the very last stretch of the river. The water was a choppy mess, and we had two seniors out with the flu so a terrified sophomore was in the stroke seat for the first time, and we’d never rowed so badly. We’d fallen hopelessly far behind the competition, but Omar decided he was the one we were racing. As soon as we passed him, he started sprinting behind us; and although we were so slow that he likely could have caught up, he never quite did—slowing down, pretending to be winded when we struggled hardest against the unkind water. Five yards from the finish, he doubled over as if he couldn’t go a step farther—the whole thing a silly, throwaway kindness. Why on earth, despite the leaden sadness of yesterday and today, I felt profoundly light right then—ready to float away—I’m not sure. I’d had three beers, as I said. These plants below were lucky, the early arrivals. The ones born later to a choked summer ravine would have to fight for sun and space. Plenty would make it. Everything green is something that’s survived. I could see Lower Campus from where I sat, could hear the shrieks that accompanied a cluster of kids tackling each other on their way down the quad. I’d forgotten the names of most of the plants, but back in Dana Ramos’s class I’d known them all. I only lived four years in New England, but I noticed more and learned more about what was around me there than I ever had in Indiana, and more than I ever would in LA, where there’s constantly something new and impossibly technicolor blooming on my street. I could still tell you a few of them, the stalwart trees and ephemeral flowers of New Hampshire: painted trillium, bunchberry, hemlock, sheep laurel, white cedar, bloodroot. Below me and above me and in the woods stretching thick and endless, their leaves made sugar out of nothing but light. Acknowledgments First, a biographical note: I have lived for twenty-one years on the campus of the same boarding school that I attended as a day student in the 1990s. (For the curious: I met my husband in grad school and dragged him back to Chicago, where he applied for teaching jobs; the one he landed was at my alma mater. It was only weird for the


you were still present in my art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it myself. One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It was to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece. But, as I worked at it, every flake and film of color seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right. Well, after a few days the portrait left my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had said anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is more abstract than we fancy. Form and color tell us of form and color,--that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture must not be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The color came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the young man who had just made this strange confession to him. He wondered if he would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Harry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the picture. Did you really see it?" "Of course I did." "Well, you don't mind my looking at it now?"


passed. “I’d rather not.” August inhaled slowly through his nose, then let it back out. “Babe.” Was that her breath catching? “Is that a code word now or something?” “Yeah. It is. Because we probably both think it’s a stupid endearment, am I right?” She hummed in the affirmative. “So if I’m willing to humble myself enough to say it, I’m serious. And vice versa.” A heavy beat passed. “Babe.” “Oh, for crying out loud,” she grumbled, opening the door and thrusting his phone out at him, which caused her to nearly drop the sheet keeping her modest. She gathered it back up with hasty movements, but he wasn’t really registering anything but the paleness of her face. Something had changed. She wasn’t as comfortable with him as she was before. Even if she was trying to pull together a casual air. “Look, I overreacted.” She pushed five slender fingers through her hair. “Morrison used to be secretive, and I guess it’s a sore spot. We were hired by the firm at the same time, so we were in competition a lot in the beginning. It never really went away. He liked to compare portfolios, but only when he was ahead. When his numbers were down, he hid it. Hid money. Insisted on keeping separate finances. Anyway . . . it’s not important.” The floor had turned into quicksand, and he was sinking. Some of this sounded sickeningly familiar. “It sounds important.” “Maybe it is. Yeah.” She thought for a few seconds. “My father has been holding money over my head, too. Maybe I do think it’s a red flag when people use money as a weapon. Or hide their financial status. What else are they hiding, you know? I just think being up front is a sign of good character.” She waved a hand. “Like I said, I totally overreacted. You were just having a phone call.” His stomach felt like a tomato that had been left out in the sun for a week. Holy shit. Natalie’s ex had played mind games with money. Her father continued to do the same. Now he was hiding a two-hundred-thousand-dollar chunk of green from her? Also known as the supposed reason he was marrying her in the first place. She’d gotten married based on how he’d represented himself—a winemaker who’d run out of capital. That hadn’t been true for nearly a week. Prior to their whole-ass wedding. What would she do if he told her the truth now? Nothing good. She was already threatening to fly three thousand miles away and he hadn’t even confessed yet. “What’s this bullshit about you going to New York?” “There’s an investor who is willing to meet with me.” August reared back slightly, taking note of the way she held that sheet like a shield and hating it. “Why do you need an investor when your trust fund is being released?” “My trust fund is a good start, but additional funds could make us more viable from the jump. A notable investor would make us competitive and attract