with him? I search my immediate surroundings for clues. King-sized bed. Window open above it, a damp wind wisping in. Bare legs, covered with goose bumps. And the shirt I’m wearing— No! Shit. Shit. Shit. Tissue-paper thin. Faded to near transparency, long enough to reach a third of the way down the fronts of my thighs but somehow not long enough to cover my whole ass. A cartoon horse barrel racing with a cartoon cowboy on its back, yellow serifed font superimposed over it: THIS AIN’T MY FIRST RODEO. No, no, no, no, no, absolutely not. This is not my shirt. Sure, it used to be my favorite shirt to sleep in, but once that UPS box of my stuff showed up (a whole two days after our breakup), I’d stuffed this shirt—along with every other trace of Wyn I could find—into the Crate & Barrel box from our first set of shared dishes and shipped it right back to him. Why am I fixating on the shirt? Surely, I should be panicking about the fact that my ex-fiancé is lying on the floor beside me, bare chested, face half buried in a pillow, his arm still a deadweight across my lap and his erection wedged against me. “Psst!” I shove him. He rocks right back into the same position. I’ve always been a terrible sleeper, whereas Wyn—who never stops moving while awake—sleeps so hard that I used to check his pulse in the night. “Get up!” I shove his shoulder harder. His eyes flutter open, slitting against the half-light of morning. “What?” he grumbles, one eye closing to better focus on me. “What’s wrong?” “What’s wrong?” I hiss back. “How did this happen? How could I let this happen? How could you let this happen?” “Hold up.” He pushes himself up, scrubs his hair back. “Tell me what happened.” “What happened?” My whisper pitches up to a teakettle whistle. “We slept together, Wyn!” His eyes widen. “Slept together?” He laughs hoarsely. “When would we have slept together, Harriet? In between you and Kimmy doing body shots and me—literally—carrying you up the stairs?” “But . . .” I look around for all that evidence I’d cataloged. “I’m wearing your shirt.” “Because you puked on yours,” he says. “And when I went to get you another one, you demanded, quite vehemently, the I’ve been to so many fucking rodeos shirt.” I gawk at him, trying to recall the night he’s describing. “That doesn’t sound like me.” “Are you kidding?” he says. “You once told me you wanted to be buried in that shirt. And then that you didn’t want to be buried, so I’d have to cremate you in it.” “I don’t demand things,” I say. “Yeah,” he says. “That part was a pleasant surprise.” “Wait.” The front of my head throbs. I push my hands against it, hard. “Why am I on the floor?” “Because you refused to take the bed,” he says. “And why are you on the floor?” “Because,” he says, “I refused to take the bed first. I think


discovered hidden in the false bottom of a trunk in a Florence hotel room. Langdon, now having made it clear to Sophie that he had no intention of leaving, moved with her across the Salle des Etats. The Mona Lisa was still twenty yards ahead when Sophie turned on the black light, and the bluish crescent of penlight fanned out on the floor in front of them. She swung the beam back and forth across the floor like a minesweeper, searching for any hint of luminescent ink. Walking beside her, Langdon was already feeling the tingle of anticipation that accompanied his face-to-face reunions with great works of art. He strained to see beyond the cocoon of purplish light emanating from the black light in Sophie's hand. To the left, the room's octagonal viewing divan emerged, looking like a dark island on the empty sea of parquet. Langdon could now begin to see the panel of dark glass on the wall. Behind it, he knew, in the confines of her own private cell, hung the most celebrated painting in the world. The Mona Lisa's status as the most famous piece of art in the world, Langdon knew, had nothing to do with her enigmatic smile. Nor was it due to the mysterious interpretations attributed her by many art historians and conspiracy buffs. Quite simply, the Mona Lisa was famous because Leonardo da Vinci claimed she was his finest accomplishment. He carried the painting with him whenever he traveled and, if asked why, would reply that he found it hard to part with his most sublime expression of female beauty. Even so, many art historians suspected Da Vinci's reverence for the Mona Lisa had nothing to do with its artistic mastery. In actuality, the painting was a surprisingly ordinary sfumato portrait. Da Vinci's veneration for this work, many claimed, stemmed from something far deeper: a hidden message in the layers of paint. The Mona Lisa was, in fact, one of the world's most documented inside jokes. The painting's well-documented collage of double entendres and playful allusions had been revealed in most art history tomes, and yet, incredibly, the public at large still considered her smile a great mystery. No mystery at all, Langdon thought, moving forward and watching as the faint outline of the painting began to take shape. No mystery at all. Most recently Langdon had shared the Mona Lisa's secret with a rather unlikely group-a dozen inmates at the Essex County Penitentiary. Langdon's jail seminar was part of a Harvard outreach program attempting to bring education into the prison system-Culture for Convicts, as Langdon's colleagues liked to call it. Standing at an overhead projector in a darkened penitentiary library, Langdon had shared the Mona Lisa's secret with the prisoners attending class, men whom he found surprisingly engaged-rough, but sharp. "You may notice," Langdon told them, walking 81 up to the projected image of the Mona Lisa on the library wall, "that the background behind her face is uneven." Langdon motioned to the glaring discrepancy. "Da Vinci painted the horizon line on the


Chapter 23 127 D'Arnot wondered what fate lay in store for him now. He could neither see nor hear any signs of life about him. The incessant hum of the jungle--the rustling of millions of leaves--the buzz of insects--the voices of the birds and monkeys seemed blended into a strangely soothing purr, as though he lay apart, far from the myriad life whose sounds came to him only as a blurred echo. At length he fell into a quiet slumber, nor did he awake again until afternoon. Once more he experienced the strange sense of utter bewilderment that had marked his earlier awakening, but soon he recalled the recent past, and looking through the opening at his feet he saw the figure of a man squatting on his haunches. The broad, muscular back was turned toward him, but, tanned though it was, D'Arnot saw that it was the back of a white man, and he thanked God. The Frenchman called faintly. The man turned, and rising, came toward the shelter. His face was very handsome--the handsomest, thought D'Arnot, that he had ever seen. Stooping, he crawled into the shelter beside the wounded officer, and placed a cool hand upon his forehead. D'Arnot spoke to him in French, but the man only shook his head--sadly, it seemed to the Frenchman. Then D'Arnot tried English, but still the man shook his head. Italian, Spanish and German brought similar discouragement. D'Arnot knew a few words of Norwegian, Russian, Greek, and also had a smattering of the language of one of the West Coast negro tribes--the man denied them all. After examining D'Arnot's wounds the man left the shelter and disappeared. In half an hour he was back with fruit and a hollow gourd-like vegetable filled with water. D'Arnot drank and ate a little. He was surprised that he had no fever. Again he tried to converse with his strange nurse, but the attempt was useless. Suddenly the man hastened from the shelter only to return a few minutes later with several pieces of bark and--wonder of wonders--a lead pencil. Squatting beside D'Arnot he wrote for a minute on the smooth inner surface of the bark; then he handed it to the Frenchman. D'Arnot was astonished to see, in plain print-like characters, a message in English: I am Tarzan of the Apes. Who are you? Can you read this language? D'Arnot seized the pencil--then he stopped. This strange man wrote English--evidently he was an Englishman. "Yes," said D'Arnot, "I read English. I speak it also. Now we may talk. First let me thank you for all that you have done for me." The man only shook his head and pointed to the pencil and the bark. Chapter 23 128 "MON DIEU!" cried D'Arnot. "If you are English why is it then that you cannot speak English?" And then in a flash it came to him--the man was a mute, possibly a deaf mute. So D'Arnot wrote a message on the bark, in English. I am Paul d'Arnot, Lieutenant in the navy of France. I thank you


fleeting smile. ‘Please, Your Highness, sit.’ Dumai did. ‘We are intrigued to meet you. Perhaps you would care for refreshment. Kelp tea is a speciality of Mozom Alph.’ ‘You are kind.’ A servant brought a dish of pressed sweets, shaped like shells, and served a pale tea, salting it for King Padar. ‘I know you may wish to see proof that I am who I claim,’ Dumai said. ‘My father would have written to you in advance, but there was no time.’ ‘I received the letter you gave to my Royal Guard. Emperor Jorodu was clearly reluctant to explain your purpose here – for fear of interception, I assume – but he empowers you to speak on his behalf,’ Queen Arkoro said. ‘He also said you would carry his Privy Seal.’ Dumai presented it to her. The queen looked at it for some time, turning it with slender fingers. ‘Thank you.’ She handed it back. ‘Perhaps you don’t know, but we are distantly related.’ ‘I had no idea, Your Majesty.’ ‘Your paternal grandfather was a member of Clan Mithara. That line was founded by a Sepuli prince, who voyaged long ago to Seiiki. You are welcome here.’ ‘Thank you. I know there have been no official visits for several generations.’ ‘I do admit surprise at your arrival. We have traded, of course, but the House of Noziken has seemed content to keep to itself, by and large. When letters have come, they have been from an official named Kuposa pa Fotaja, the River Lord.’ ‘This River Lord must be a trusted counsellor,’ King Padar remarked, with an arch of eyebrow that belied his words. ‘We understand one of the riders who accompanied you here is also a Kuposa.’ Dumai glanced through the fine curtains at Nikeya, who was attempting to talk to Kanifa. ‘Yes.’ Dumai cleared her throat. ‘I am certain that my father would have sent a delegation sooner, but without our dragons, it has been difficult to cross the Sundance Sea.’ Her palms grew slick. She had been briefly educated as a princess, not an ambassador. ‘That has been true on our side, too,’ Queen Arkoro said. ‘But now your gods have woken.’ ‘So far, only one. Furtia Stormcaller. May I ask if they are rousing here?’ ‘Three emerged from waterfalls in the autumn,’ King Padar said. ‘Others, disturbed by divers and fishers, have chosen not to return to their slumber. Something has changed.’ ‘I may be able to find out what. Furtia has given us a dire warning,’ Dumai said. ‘I have come here to share it with you, Your Majesty – and to act on it, with your permission.’ Queen Arkoro narrowed her eyes a little. ‘Then this warning affects Sepul?’ ‘I fear so.’ Dumai told them everything, from her first meeting with Furtia to the sinister black rocks. ‘Furtia says she has sensed them here, too, and wishes to know their number,’ she finished. The two royals had been silent throughout. ‘She believes they will bring chaos and destruction.’ ‘The gods are said to speak in riddles,


as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are." "And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very decided." "And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?-- A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her." "He did. I was there--one of the party." "Were you really?--Well!--But you observed nothing of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.--If I had been there, I think I should have made some discoveries." "I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught her.--It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durable--indeed I believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again-- yet that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries." The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said, "The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon." "And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the Campbells." "No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business." "Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world. But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship.


Cerealia. It had walked for hundreds of years, if not as benefit-club, as votive sisterhood of some sort; and it walked still. The banded ones were all dressed in white gowns--a gay survival from Old Style days, when cheerfulness and May-time were synonyms--days before the habit of taking long views had reduced emotions to a monotonous average. Their first exhibition of themselves was in a processional march of two and two round the parish. Ideal and real clashed slightly as the sun lit up their figures against the green hedges and creeper-laced house-fronts; for, though the whole troop wore white garments, no two whites were alike among them. Some approached pure blanching; some had a bluish pallor; some worn by the older characters (which had possibly lain by folded for many a year) inclined to a cadaverous tint, and to a Georgian style. In addition to the distinction of a white frock, every woman and girl carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand, and in her left a bunch of white flowers. The peeling of the former, and the selection of the latter, had been an operation of personal care. There were a few middle-aged and even elderly women in the train, their silver-wiry hair and wrinkled faces, scourged by time and trouble, having almost a grotesque, certainly a pathetic, appearance in such a jaunty situation. In a true view, perhaps, there was more to be gathered and told of each anxious and experienced one, to whom the years were drawing nigh when she should say, "I have no pleasure in them," than of her juvenile comrades. But let the elder be passed over here for those under whose bodices the life throbbed quick and warm. The young girls formed, indeed, the majority of the band,and their heads of luxuriant hair reflected in the sunshine every tone of gold, and black, and brown. Some had beautiful eyes, others a beautiful nose, others a beautiful mouth and figure: few, if any, had all. A difficulty of arranging their lips in this crude exposure to public scrutiny, an inability to balance their heads, and to dissociate self-consciousness from their features, was apparent in them, and showed that they were genuine country girls, unaccustomed to many eyes. And as each and all of them were warmed without by the sun, so each had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, at least some remote and distant hope which, though perhaps starving to nothing, still lived on, as hopes will. They they were all cheerful, and many of them merry. They came round by The Pure Drop Inn, and were turning out of the high road to pass through a wicket-gate into the meadows, when one of the women said-- "The Load-a-Lord! Why, Tess Durbeyfield, if there isn't thy father riding hwome in a carriage!" A young member of the band turned her head at the exclamation. She was a fine and handsome girl--not handsomer than some others, possibly--but her mobile peony mouth and large


now?' 'You touch a point that my thoughts have been dwelling on since yesterday,' said I, 'but on which I can give you no information yet, Mr. Omer. Mr. Peggotty has not alluded to it, and I have a delicacy in doing so. I am sure he has not forgotten it. He forgets nothing that is disinterested and good.' 'Because you know,' said Mr. Omer, taking himself up, where he had left off, 'whatever is done, I should wish to be a member of. Put me down for anything you may consider right, and let me know. I never could think the girl all bad, and I am glad to find she's not. So will my daughter Minnie be. Young women are contradictory creatures in some things - her mother was just the same as her - but their hearts are soft and kind. It's all show with Minnie, about Martha. Why she should consider it necessary to make any show, I don't undertake to tell you. But it's all show, bless you. She'd do her any kindness in private. So, put me down for whatever you may consider right, will you be so good? and drop me a line where to forward it. Dear me!' said Mr. Omer, 'when a man is drawing on to a time of life, where the two ends of life meet; when he finds himself, however hearty he is, being wheeled about for the second time, in a speeches of go-cart; he should be over-rejoiced to do a kindness if he can. He wants plenty. And I don't speak of myself, particular,' said Mr. Omer, 'because, sir, the way I look at it is, that we are all drawing on to the bottom of the hill, whatever age we are, on account of time never standing still for a single moment. So let us always do a kindness, and be over-rejoiced. To be sure!' He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and put it on a ledge in the back of his chair, expressly made for its reception. 'There's Em'ly's cousin, him that she was to have been married to,' said Mr. Omer, rubbing his hands feebly, 'as fine a fellow as there is in Yarmouth! He'll come and talk or read to me, in the evening, for an hour together sometimes. That's a kindness, I should call it! All his life's a kindness.' 'I am going to see him now,' said I. 'Are you?' said Mr. Omer. 'Tell him I was hearty, and sent my respects. Minnie and Joram's at a ball. They would be as proud to see you as I am, if they was at home. Minnie won't hardly go out at all, you see, "on account of father", as she says. So I swore tonight, that if she didn't go, I'd go to bed at six. In consequence of which,' Mr. Omer shook himself and his chair with laughter at the success of his device, 'she and Joram's at a ball.' I shook hands with him, and wished him good night.


the thread or in your bio. No, starred reviews don’t actually mean anything, but yes, I should still brag about them because artificial hype is still hype. Yes, the book has been sent to reviewers at all the major outlets, and we’re expecting at least a few to run something positive. No, we’re probably not going to get a profile in the New Yorker, though perhaps a few books down the road we can talk. I have actual money now, so I hire a photographer to take a new set of author photos. My old set was done by my sister’s friend from college, an amateur photographer named Melinda who happened to be in the area and charged me a fraction of the rates I’d found elsewhere online. I contorted my face in a number of different ways, trying to evoke the sultry, mysterious, and serious vibes of the photos of Serious Famous Woman Writers. Channel Jennifer Egan. Channel Donna Tartt. Athena always looked like a model in hers: hair floating loose around her face, skin porcelain pale and glowing, full lips loose and slightly curled up at the edges as if she knew a joke that you weren’t in on, one eyebrow arched as if to say, Try me. It’s easy to sell books if you’re gorgeous. I made peace a long time ago with the fact that I’m only passably hot, and only from the right angles and lighting, so I tried for the next best thing, which is “tortured in a very deep and brilliant way.” It’s hard to transpose those thoughts to the camera, though, and the results horrified me when Melinda sent them in. I looked like I was trying to hold in a sneeze, or like I had to take a shit but was too afraid to tell anyone. I wanted to take them all again, this time with maybe a mirror in the background so I could see what the fuck I was doing, but I felt bad for wasting Melinda’s time, so I picked the one where I looked the most like a human being and the least like myself and paid her fifty bucks for her trouble. This time I drop half a grand on a professional photographer in DC named Cate. We shoot in her studio, where she employs all sorts of lighting equipment I’ve never seen before, and which I can only hope will wash out my acne scars. Cate is brisk, friendly, professional. Her instructions are clear and direct. “Chin up. Relax your face a bit. Now I’m going to tell a joke, and just react however you want, just don’t pay attention to the lens. Lovely. Oh, that’s lovely.” She sends me a selection of watermarked photos a few days later. I’m amazed by how good I look, especially in the photos we took outside. During golden hour I come off as nicely tanned, which makes me look sort of racially ambiguous. My eyes are cast demurely to the side, my mind full of profound and cryptic thoughts. I


to pick a side. Or make one. I look out across Othrys. It’s oily black all winter long, then azure blue all summer. There’s a public beach by the Tappeny Bridge, and since last year, when they moved all the junkies on and combed the needles out, it’s a nice beach. Out beyond it, the sun comes up over the mountains, and on days like this it just sits there in the crack of the Typhon pass. If you go all the way out there there’s a tunnel for the railway, and the two huge statues they put up that mark the edge of the greater city boundary: Gaia and Cronus, metal skeletons coated in white composite that tries to be marble. She holds the earth in a sling, and he carries a sword with two blades, one coming off from the other two thirds of the way up like a leaf or a curved tongue. I think about Roddy Tebbit in Susan Green’s sketchbook. She drew him as Perseus, the mighty warrior holding aloft the head of a monster. In kids’ books, Cronus always has a sickle, or sometimes even a scythe, but he didn’t in the original myth and he doesn’t on the statue. Like Perseus, he has that weird two-tongued sword. The design is not some whimsical Ancient Greek lifestyle choice. It’s a chopping weapon for an ugly kind of war: a working man’s tool that pierces like an axe when you need to cut armour, or a butcher’s hook when you want to gut someone. It’s nasty and unromantic and functional. That kind of sword has a name, because nasty, unromantic functional things do. It’s called a harpē, and that’s what Susan Green tried to tell me in the second before the car threw her in the air. I’m an idiot from my toes to my hat for thinking she said “Harpo.” I’ve been wasting time. I go downstairs to my office and bring up the matrix password screen. It takes a few minutes to get it right, but I open the file. Or, actually, files, because there are hundreds of them. 6 Hundreds and hundreds of documents, sprawling across tens of thousands of days and dozens of lines of inquiry, like a nest of string and pictures, tied together with nothing but obsession. Roddy Tebbit was, indeed, looking for evidence that Stefan Tonfamecasca murdered someone. He had a million separate clues, pages of notes, endless theories; files with the faces of women who might be the victim, picture after picture of the smiling dead of decades, pretty and smart and unsolved. He had lists of their connections, however tenuous, with Stefan, how they met, or might have, where and when. He spent seven years trying to find the one, true corpse. He actually came across three others, unrelated to Stefan or to himself, and called them in anonymously to local police. He wandered parks, forests, backwoods and construction sites with a chemical sniffer, like a mad nighthawker looking for treasure in all the wrong places. He broke


over my shoulder. “It says summer camp. It’s gotta be what Javier’s grandma was talking about, right? I guess she was telling the truth after all.” “The camp existed, but it doesn’t say anything about campers being killed.” I set the papers down. “Why does Mr. Lamont have this stuff?” “When did he buy this place?” Bezi asks. “Maybe he just hasn’t gone through all this junk.” “Why would he tell me it’s expensive supplies and not to mess with it, then?” I ask. “He’s trying to hide what happened here? Why? It makes no sense.” I dig through more scraps and don’t find anything else about the camp, but I do find several articles about the purchase of the land itself under a nest of silverfish. I shake off the silvery bugs, some of which are still squirming, to find attached to the paper a photocopy of a deed. I gently smooth it out. Dead center is an approximation of Mirror Lake. South of the water is a highlighted area labeled proposed site of summer camp, but the lines and measurements indicating the perimeters of the camp extend far beyond the fenced area. “I wish Porter was here,” I say. “He could tell me what this all means. To me, it looks like at some point somebody bought up this site and all the land behind it. But this is from the sixties. Mr. Lamont isn’t that old, I don’t think.” “Weird,” Bezi says as she stares down at the deed. “Let’s take it back to the lodge and show Kyle and Javier, see what they think.” I gather up the clippings and the copy of the deed and stick them back in the tan envelope. Bezi and I are on our way out when something catches my attention on one of the monitors in the control center. I stop and lean closer to the screen. “What is it?” Bezi asks. “The camera that monitors the trapdoor under the boathouse is out,” I say as I stare at the blank screen. “Why?” Bezi asks. “Not sure,” I say. All the other monitors are on and showing their designated areas in black and white. “The cameras are pretty new, but I gotta check it before we shut everything down so Mr. Lamont knows to fix it before next season. If there even is a next season.” Bezi loops her arm under mine and pulls me toward the door. “It’ll be fine,” she says reassuringly. I lean against her shoulder, wanting so much to believe her when suddenly, for just a split second, the broken camera blinks on and I see a figure, cloaked in black, standing just under the hatch that leads up through the floor of the boathouse. CHAPTER 9 The camera blinks off again, and the screen goes dark. “Did you see that?” I ask. Bezi glances back at me. “What?” “I saw someone in the tunnel under the boathouse hatch.” “Who?” Bezi asks. “Kyle or Javier?” “I—I couldn’t tell.” The lighting down there is low on purpose. We don’t


minutes by myself, and then when I have eaten and drunk with you, go with me as far as the finger-post, dear Joe and Biddy, before we say good-bye!" I sold all I had, and put aside as much as I could, for a composition with my creditors - who gave me ample time to pay them in full - and I went out and joined Herbert. Within a month, I had quitted England, and within two months I was clerk to Clarriker and Co., and within four months I assumed my first undivided responsibility. For, the beam across the parlour ceiling at Mill Pond Bank, had then ceased to tremble under old Bill Barley's growls and was at peace, and Herbert had gone away to marry Clara, and I was left in sole charge of the Eastern Branch until he brought her back. Many a year went round, before I was a partner in the House; but, I lived happily with Herbert and his wife, and lived frugally, and paid my debts, and maintained a constant correspondence with Biddy and Joe. It was not until I became third in the Firm, that Clarriker betrayed me to Herbert; but, he then declared that the secret of Herbert's partnership had been long enough upon his conscience, and he must tell it. So, he told it, and Herbert was as much moved as amazed, and the dear fellow and I were not the worse friends for the long concealment. I must not leave it to be supposed that we were ever a great house, or that we made mints of money. We were not in a grand way of business, but we had a good name, and worked for our profits, and did very well. We owed so much to Herbert's ever cheerful industry and readiness, that I often wondered how I had conceived that old idea of his inaptitude, until I was one day enlightened by the reflection, that perhaps the inaptitude had never been in him at all, but had been in me. Chapter 59 For eleven years, I had not seen Joe nor Biddy with my bodily eyes-though they had both been often before my fancy in the East-when, upon an evening in December, an hour or two after dark, I laid my hand softly on the latch of the old kitchen door. I touched it so softly that I was not heard, and looked in unseen. There, smoking his pipe in the old place by the kitchen firelight, as hale and as strong as ever though a little grey, sat Joe; and there, fenced into the corner with Joe's leg, and sitting on my own little stool looking at the fire, was - I again! "We giv' him the name of Pip for your sake, dear old chap," said Joe, delighted when I took another stool by the child's side (but I did not rumple his hair), "and we hoped he might grow a little bit like you, and we think he do." I thought so too, and I took


corners of the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion. I shuddered as I bent over to touch him,and every sense in me revolted at the contact, but I had to search, or I was lost. The coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar war to those horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyze me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across the box,and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the nethermost hell. I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed on fire,and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips. The Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had spoken were coming. With a last look around and at the box which contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count's room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened. With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door. There must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of the locked doors. Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some passage which sent


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

back seat, said the gentleman who had spoken before. --No, by God! asserted Mr Dedalus. I'll sing a tenor song against him or I'll vault a five-barred gate against him or I'll run with him after the hounds across the country as I did thirty years ago along with the Kerry Boy and the best man for it. --But he'll beat you here, said the little old man, tapping his forehead and raising his glass to drain it. --Well, I hope he'll be as good a man as his father. That's all I can say, said Mr Dedalus. --If he is, he'll do, said the little old man. --And thanks be to God, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus, that we lived so long and did so little harm. --But did so much good, Simon, said the little old man gravely. Thanks be to God we lived so long and did so much good. Stephen watched the three glasses being raised from the counter as his father and his two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of companionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon. Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless... ? He repeated to himself the lines of Shelley's fragment. Its alternation of sad human ineffectiveness with vast inhuman cycles of activity chilled him and he forgot his own human and ineffectual grieving. * * * * * Stephen's mother and his brother and one of his cousins waited at the corner of quiet Foster Place while he and his father went up the steps and along the colonnade where the Highland sentry was parading. When they had passed into the great hall and stood at the counter Stephen drew forth his orders on the governor of the bank of Ireland for thirty and three pounds; and these sums, the moneys of his exhibition and essay prize, were paid over to him rapidly by the teller in notes and in coin respectively. He bestowed them in his pockets with feigned composure and suffered the friendly teller, to whom his father chatted, to take his hand across the broad counter and wish him a brilliant career in after life. He was impatient of their voices and could not keep his feet at rest. But the teller still deferred the serving of others to say he was living in changed times and that there was nothing like giving a boy the best education that money


and track that always made me feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast and reshelved Emma in the appropriate spot with the rest of the Austens in the Classics section. As I did, the front door tinkled. “Welcome to Bookmasters!” I turned to see my best customer: my mom. Mom was dressed in head-to-toe Lululemon, not a hair out of place. I’d never quite understood how she could spend an hour on a Pilates reformer and not break a sweat, but thirty-plus years of experience had proven that it was possible. She was holding something to her chest like a secret she couldn’t wait to share. “It’s here!” Mom chirped. “The proof for the wedding invitations is here!” I gasped, taking the cream rectangular piece of paper from her. We both studied it briefly, my eyes filling with tears as I ran my finger around my name and Bryce’s in perfect calligraphy. My best friend Daphne walked through the open door, holding her son Henry’s hand. “Guess who’s here?” she called in a singsong voice. “Why, my best buddy Henry, that’s who!” I scooped him up. “There’s something special in the Henry spot. You must go see!” Behind my desk, on the bottom shelf, I always kept a treat for Henry. A new book, a piece of candy, a cute freebie from a publisher. Daphne smiled at her son and then at me. “Daph, the invitation!” Mom exclaimed, and as she handed her the paper, I could have sworn Daphne’s face fell. But she recovered quickly, and I realized I must have been wrong. No one—not even my mother—was as excited about this wedding as Daphne. She said it was because she was never getting married, so this was basically her wedding too. Which is why I had perhaps spent longer picking out her maid of honor dress than I had my own gown. It was my day, but I wanted it to be perfect for her, too. “Wow! Is it invitation time already?” Daphne asked Mom. “Almost! Just think, I’d been worried Lanier would never meet a man in Cape Carolina. And then you introduced her to Bryce, and it’s like the stars aligned.” Mom wasn’t wrong. Bryce was so right for me. He was literally building things all day, every day. He was stable and steady—a direct contrast to me, who would always rather have her nose in a book, her head in the clouds. I mean, he wasn’t perfect. But who was? Daphne bit her lip. “Oh, well, I wouldn’t say that I had a huge hand…” “Don’t be modest,” I chimed in. “I owe my eternal happiness to you.” She laughed, but it seemed forced. I pushed my tortoiseshell frames up my nose. Henry tore around the corner, striking a Superman pose and holding a book high in the air. He put it nearer to his face. “P-r-e-s-s H-e-r-e,” he sounded out. “Whoa! Buddy, that reading is off the charts!” I put my hand up for a high five and he smacked it. “Lanier, would you read


my ambition. I dared not think that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a little food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy; but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it. "The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken place since I awoke into life. My attention at this time was solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many projects, but that on which I finally fixed was to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagacity enough to discover that the unnatural hideousness of my person was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if in the absence of his children I could gain the good will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I might by his means be tolerated by my younger protectors. "One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed, he took up his guitar and played several mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection. "My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which would decide my hopes or realize my fears. The servants were gone to a neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage; it was an excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me and I sank to the ground. Again I rose, and exerting all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me, and with renewed determination I approached the door of their cottage. "I knocked. `Who is there?' said the old man. `Come in.' "I entered. `Pardon this intrusion,' said I; `I am a traveller in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me if you would allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire.' "`Enter,' said De Lacey, `and I will try in what manner I can to relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home, and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to procure food for you.' "`Do not trouble yourself, my kind host; I have food; it is warmth and rest only that I need.' "I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute


The charm he’d made, following Montserrat’s instructions, lay heavy in his pocket. Montserrat had been correct. He was not the right person to conduct interrogations. But they’d both decided maybe this time his charisma might be more effective than Montserrat’s bluntness. Besides, Marisa had called him and made no mention of having Montserrat at their meeting. Tristán straightened his jacket and stepped into the joint. It was the kind of place that sold overpriced cabrito al horno and imported wines. Marisa had a table at the back. The lighting in the restaurant, or perhaps the makeup she wore that evening, did her no favors. He’d thought her fiftyish when they’d first met, but now he calculated she was edging close to sixty. The blouse she wore was a pale blue, the shoulder pads on her navy suit jacket were quite large, like something Joan Crawford would have worn in her heyday. Or else it was the power suit women used to favor a few years before when the look had come back in vogue. She had a martini already and was smoking a cigarette. “I’m not late, am I?” he asked. His voice was perfectly poised, despite his nerves. “Not at all. Just on time. I like a man who’s prompt.” Marisa raised her hand, summoning the waiter with a casual motion of the wrist. Tristán asked for mineral water. He was still trying to steer clear of alcohol. “You do smoke, don’t you?” she asked, opening her silver cigarette case and offering him a slim cigarette. “I’m trying to quit my vices.” “But I like a man with some vices.” “Prompt, but with vices, then? What a combo.” She smiled. Tristán mimicked the gesture. This part was easy. He could flirt with his eyes bandaged and both hands tied behind his back. It had been helpful, back when he’d started. He caught the eye of men and women alike. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but he had secured his first few gigs like that. Flirting and sleeping his way through the auditions. It felt a bit cheap, now, and Karina had never had to do that. She was quality goods, she came from the top. A father who was a producer, a mother who was a former movie star. He, on the other hand, was a nobody who got lucky. Until the luck ran out. “I’m glad you came alone,” Marisa said. “Your friend is a little rough around the edges.” “Montserrat is very dedicated to her work,” he replied, toying with the menu. The special of the month was bacalao, a necessary element for the December festivities. He felt hungry but at the same time did not want to order any food, not with someone he didn’t know. He’d suddenly become superstitious, afraid of people slipping poison into his food or cursing it. It was the reason why he wouldn’t take one of her cigarettes, either. Who knew what could be rolled inside it. “Documentaries must be awfully complicated projects. How long have you been working on this one?” “We only


to go over and tell the old gentleman so!" The idea amused Jo. who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of `going over' was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window. "There he is," thought Jo, "Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him." Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she called out . . . "How do you do? Are you sick?" Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven . . . "Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week." "I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?" "Nothing. It's dull as tombs up here." "Don't you read?" "Not much. They won't let me." "Can't somebody read to you?" "Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don't interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time." "Have someone come and see you then." "There isn't anyone I'd like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak." "Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet and like to play nurse." "Don't know any." "You know us," began Jo, then laughed and stopped. "So I do! Will you come, please?" cried Laurie. "I'm not quiet and nice, but I'll come, if Mother will let me. I'll go ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come." With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready, for as Mrs. March said, he was `a little gentleman'. and did honor to the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh color, and trying tidy up the room, which in spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, than a decided voice, asking for `Mr. Laurie', and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady. "All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo,"said Laurie, going to the door of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's


jargon, making pretty sounds in the air. But Montag said nothing and after a long while when he only made the small sounds, he felt her move in the room and come to his bed and stand over him and put her hand down to feel his cheek. He knew that when she pulled her hand away from his face it was wet. Late in the night he looked over at Mildred. She was awake. There was a tiny dance of melody in the air, her Seashell was tamped in her ear again and she was listening to far people in far places, her eyes wide and staring at the fathoms of blackness above her in the ceiling. Wasn't there an old joke about the wife who talked so much on the telephone that her desperate husband ran out to the nearest store and telephoned her to ask what was for dinner? Well, then, why didn't he buy himself an audio-Seashell broadcasting station and talk to his wife late at night, murmur, whisper, shout, scream, yell? But what would he whisper, what would he yell? What could he say? And suddenly she was so strange he couldn't believe he knew her at all. He was in someone else's house, like those other jokes people told of the gentleman, drunk, coming home late at night, unlocking the wrong door, entering a wrong room, and bedding with a stranger and getting up early and going to work and neither of them the wiser. "Millie.... ?" he whispered. "What?" "I didn't mean to startle you. What I want to know is ...." "Well?" "When did we meet. And where?" "When did we meet for what?" she asked. "I mean-originally." He knew she must be frowning in the dark. He clarified it. "The first time we ever met, where was it, and when?" "Why, it was at --" She stopped. "I don't know," she said. He was cold. "Can't you remember?" "It's been so long." "Only ten years, that's all, only ten!" "Don't get excited, I'm trying to think." She laughed an odd little laugh that went up and up. "Funny, how funny, not to remember where or when you met your husband or wife." He lay massaging his eyes, his brow, and the back of his neck, slowly. He held both hands over his eyes and applied a steady pressure there as if to crush memory into place. It was suddenly more important than any other thing in a life-time that he knew where he had met Mildred. "It doesn't matter," She was up in the bathroom now, and he heard the water running, and the swallowing sound she made. "No, I guess not," he said. He tried to count how many times she swallowed and he thought of the visit from the two zinc-oxide-faced men with the cigarettes in their straight-lined mouths and the electronic-eyed snake winding down into the layer upon layer of night and stone and stagnant spring water, and he wanted to call out to her, how many have you taken


Holly Springs, that’s all I’ve ever really wanted. * * * A few hours later, June, Jillian, and I are sitting in her office at Holly Springs, which feels ridiculous since it’s such a gorgeous day outside. I am staring at a stack of actual books that contain facts and figures from the last several summers. June practically threw them at me when I walked in the door, which prevented me from sharing my news right off the bat. Plus, it’s kind of fun sitting on this secret. I finally set the ledger down, cross-eyed from trying to make sense of all those little numbers. “June, have you ever heard of a spreadsheet?” I ask, exasperated. “I’m trying, Daphne,” Jillian says. “But this one isn’t big on change.” “Maybe you should come down here for the summers and run my numbers for me,” June says. “Bring your husband and son.” “Don’t tempt me.” I shake my head. “What would Huff do? Just say, ‘Please, no one have a ruptured spleen or hernia’ for three months?” This makes Jillian laugh. I like her. “June, Jillian has a business degree. Perhaps you should let her digitize your bookkeeping. Then your accountant and I can have access to records whenever we need them without you having to mail things to us. Just think of all the time that would free up for when you’re away from camp property during the off-season.” June’s forehead crinkles in despair as she drops one of the ledgers to the desk with a thud. “Oh, Daphne, we might not even have a camp next year.” “Funny you should bring that up,” I say. “Because I didn’t drive an hour to say hi and go through your books—as fun as that has been. I came to give you a piece of news.” She raises her eyebrows. I pull the letter out of my back pocket, coolly. “Guess who got a loan.” June stands and grabs the paper from my hand, and Jillian screams. Like, really screams. I have to resist the urge to cover my ears. I stand now, too, and they both throw their arms around me. “You didn’t think to lead with that?” June asks, through her tears. “We’re saved! We’re saved! I’ll let Jillian do the books from now on, and we’ll never, ever get in a mess like this again. I promise. Oh, I am so thrilled!” I’m smiling so big my face hurts. “How did you do it?” she asks. I pretend to wave a wand. “My lawyer magic. And some cleaned-up paperwork.” The door to June’s office opens, and we all look surprised to see Lanier. She stops in her tracks when she sees me. Then she rushes over to give me a hug. “You have such a knack for being at the right place at the right time, Daph.” “Do I?” This strikes me as funny because, well, my life has not exactly been one of being in the right place at the right time. But okay. Lanier’s face changes, and I see her


what big children!" There were kisses all round, and then the children went into the house. They liked it. It felt old and rather mysterious somehow, and the furniture was old and very beautiful. "Where's Georgina?" asked Anne, looking round for her unknown cousin. "Oh, the naughty girl! I told her to wait in the garden for you," said her aunt. "Now she's gone off somewhere. I must tell you, children, you may find George a bit difficult at first- she's always been one on her own, you know. And at first may not like you being here. But you mustn't take any notice of that- she'll be all right in a short time. I was very glad for George's sake that you were able to come. She badly needs other children to play with." "Do you call her 'George'?" asked Anne, in surprise. "I thought her name was Georgina." "So it is," said her aunt. "But George hates being a girl, and we have to call her George, as if she was a boy. The naughty girl won't answer if we call her Georgina." The children thought that Georgina sounded rather exciting. They wished she would come. But she didn't. Their Uncle Quentin suddenly appeared instead. He was a most extraordinary looking man, very tall, very dark, and with a rather fierce frown on his wide forehead. "Hallo, Quentin!" said Daddy. "It's a long time since I've seen you. I hope these three won't disturb you very much in your work." "Quentin is working on a very difficult book," said Aunt Fanny. "But I've given him a room all to himself on the other side of the house. So I don't expect he will be disturbed." Their uncle looked at the three children, and nodded to them. The frown didn't come off his face, and they all felt a little scared, and were glad that he was to work in another part of the house. "Where's George?" he said, in a deep voice. "Gone off somewhere again," said Aunt Fanny, vexed. "I told her she was to stay here and meet her cousins." "She wants spanking," said Uncle Quentin. The children couldn't quite make out whether he was joking or not. "Well, children, I hope you have a good time here, and maybe you will knock a little common-sense into George!" There was no room at Kirrin Cottage for Mother and Daddy to stay the night, so after a hurried supper they left to stay at a hotel in the nearest town. They would drive back to London immediately after breakfast the next day. So they said goodbye to the children that night. Georgina still hadn't appeared. "I'm sorry we haven't seen Georgina," said Mother. "Just give her our love and tell her we hope she'll enjoy playing with Dick, Julian and Anne." Then Mother and Daddy went. The children felt a little bit lonely as they saw the big car disappear round the corner of the road, but Aunt Fanny took them upstairs to show them their bedrooms, and they


to let in even more. Lucy frowned. Rebecca was supposed to be the brave one between them. She had, after all, been the only one to befriend the gentleman’s daughter-turned-governess when the rest of the staff had turned their noses up at Lucy. Her father had been a gentleman, technically, but after a series of disasters destroyed most of the income from their land, he had taken up tailoring in order to keep food on the table, so Lucy was not unused to laboring for survival. But then he had gotten sick, and Lucy had suddenly found herself alone and penniless at seventeen, with a mountain of debts to repay. The governess position with Mr. and Mrs. Granger had been a godsend, as had Rebecca, but Lucy had still spent the last five years feeling unsettled and lost. Taking the maid’s hand, she tried to ignore the sopping people behind them. Most likely, the two of them would end up stuck in the front room along with everyone else, and Lucy would not sleep for a moment. How could she with so many people around? The door opened once again, and she looked over on instinct. She had grown accustomed to checking the door in case it might be Mr. Granger coming to propose yet again, as he had made it a habit to seek her out whenever he visited his brother. She almost thought she recognized him beneath the hat of the man who stepped in from the rain. “Nonsense,” she told herself. She had no reason to expect him so far from London, and she was only tired, imagining his face in her exhaustion and nervousness. The new arrival pushed his way through the crowd to the harried innkeeper, who was deep in conversation with three people at once. “I’m in need of a room, good man!” he said loudly. And Lucy’s blood turned cold. She would recognize that voice anywhere, and she shrank back against the wall. It was Mr. Granger. But what was he doing here? He almost never left London. “Lucy?” Lucy clapped a hand over Rebecca’s mouth and frantically searched for somewhere to hide. Mr. Granger hadn’t noticed her yet, but it was only a matter of time before he turned around and found her. “I’m afraid all my rooms are taken,” the innkeeper said to Mr. Granger. “Everyone else will have to find a place down here.” Lucy felt dizzy. She had nowhere to go, but she couldn’t stay where she was. If Mr. Granger found her here, he would take it as a sign that they were meant to be together and offer his hand in marriage yet again. He likely wouldn’t give her a choice. Not knowing where to go, she released Rebecca and ducked behind the nearest person between her and Mr. Granger, a man of considerable height and enough bulk to keep her from view until she found a way to keep herself safe. Perhaps someone would be willing to shield her. But who would protect a stranger all night? “Er,


want this man, of all people, to let her down gently. Her pride was all but dismantled, but she could hold on to a scrap. Speed walking down the pathway back to the guest house, however, she wondered how much longer she could maintain her grip. Chapter Five August adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror of his truck, grimacing at the sound of a marching band butchering “America the Beautiful.” Across the street, the parking lot of the train station had been transformed by two high-ceilinged tents, royal blue carpet laid down over the asphalt. Waiters in tuxedos carried around trays holding glasses of red wine, others ferried hors d’oeuvres among guests dressed to the nines. Unbelievable. All of these people had gathered to celebrate a train that served wine. Technically, any train in the world could serve wine, but these snoots in suits looked for any excuse to rub elbows in their loafers and comment on the orange-peel aftertaste of their drink. He’d been looking forward to never hearing the word “bouquet” ever again in his fucking life, but here he was. About to join this stuffed-shirt soiree in his monkey suit. All because of a woman. Not just any woman, though. Natalie Vos. Jesus Christ. I must be out of my mind. He’d been worrying about the state of his sanity since last night. She’d walked away and he’d gotten in his truck without starting the engine. And then he’d sat there for an hour. Two. With a curse that was vile even by navy standards, he’d started the truck and gone back to the vineyard he’d never expected to lay eyes on again. He’d planned to conduct the sale with a real estate agent virtually while he spent some time back in Kansas near his parents and regrouped. He’d made his peace with the fact that he’d never make wine decent enough to honor the memory of Sam. He’d been good with the truth—that he’d given this town his best damn shot and grapes simply weren’t his area of expertise. All efforts to be successful were exhausted. He’d left nothing on the battlefield. Until last night, when Natalie slid a new opportunity across the table. Now? August could no longer walk away secure in the knowledge that he’d done everything in his power to bring Sam’s dream to life. There was one more try available—so he had to take it or guilt and loose ends would haunt him for the rest of his life. And the woman. She would haunt him, too. Natalie needed something—her trust fund. He could help give it to her. August liked to think he would help any woman who was up against some ancient bullshit contract designed to force her into marriage, but deep down he knew it was just this one. Natalie. Damn it to hell, what was it about her? Every time they were together, a needle sewed itself in and out of his gut. His palms sweat. His dick pleaded with him to be nicer so it might have a


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

red. "You don't have to -- " "I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at -- an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'." Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. He couldn't stop stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor Quirrell. "Don' mention it," said Hagrid gruffly. "Don' expect you've had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now -- only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand." A magic wand...this was what Harry had been really looking forward to. The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic. "Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair. An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop. "Hello," said Harry awkwardly. "Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. "Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it -- it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course." Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes. "And that's where..." Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very


back from that. But then she realized the jeweled yoke was gone. His markings began to glow, light shining through the cracks of his burned flesh. Again Alex tasted honey on her tongue. Anselm hissed, and she saw blue flame racing up his hands, his arms, engulfing him in fire. Her fire. Hellfire. How? It had only existed in the demon realm before. He shrieked and drew back, seeming to flicker before her, his shape shifting, and she knew she was glimpsing his true form, something clawed and strange, its bones set at odd angles. “Golgarot.” That growl from Darlington again, but this time she understood the demon name. The thing that towered over her on the stairs was both more and less like Darlington. His voice sounded right, the echo gone, but horns still curled back from his temples, and his body looked too big, not entirely human. His markings had changed too. The symbols were gone, but there were golden bands around his wrists and neck and ankles. “Murderer!” shouted Anselm, as his body twitched and pulsed beneath his suit. “Liar! Matricide! You—” He didn’t get another word out. Darlington seized Anselm in his massive hands and lifted him off his feet. With a single, furious snarl, he tore Anselm in two. The demon’s flesh gave way as if it were paper, dissolving into a mass of wriggling maggots. Alex sprang back. Darlington’s body seemed to shift again, retracting. The horns vanished, the golden bands. He looked mortal. He stood there for a moment, gazing at Anselm’s remains, then turned and started up the stairs. “Darlington?” Alex stammered. “I … Where are you going?” “To get some clothes, Stern,” he said, climbing the steps and leaving bloody footprints behind. “A man can spend only so much time without trousers on before he begins to feel like a deviant.” Alex stared up at him, one hand on the banister. The gentleman of Lethe had returned. Doom Sparrow (also Bloodfinch or Black-Winged Harbinger); family Passeridae Provenance: Nepal; date of origin unknown Donor: St. Elmo, 1899 Whether these sparrows were bred or enchanted, or developed their unique traits in the wild is unknown. The first were identified circa 700 when a sparrow colony took up residence in a mountain village, the population of which subsequently poisoned themselves in an act of mass suicide. World population of the bird is also unknown, but at least twelve exist in captivity. Notes on care and feeding: The sparrow is kept in a state of magical stasis but should be fed weekly, at which time it should be allowed to fly or its wings will atrophy. It prefers dark, cold spaces and will become lethargic in sunlight. When tending to the sparrow, keep your ear passages blocked with wax or cotton. Failure to do so may result in listlessness, depression, or, in the case of prolonged exposure, death. See also the Tyneside Canary and Manuscript’s Queen-Moon Nightingale. Gifted by St. Elmo, who believed they were acquiring a CloudBeaked Harbinger, notable for its ability to predict storms in


of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the attainment of wealth. After the death of his father he married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had so much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part of the family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate in Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his attention with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of genius. To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been obliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along which he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthful freedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulged that pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature of his character--the wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves he had floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his early hopes--were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world, and retired hither, to realize the wishes of many years. The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it a comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for every part of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and would not suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the new building, adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it only a simple and elegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in its internal finishing, where the same chaste simplicity was observable in the furniture, and in the few ornaments of the apartments, that characterized the manners of its inhabitants. The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched by a collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This room opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity, that fell towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy and pleasing shade; while from the windows the eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the gay and luxuriant landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was a green- house, stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one of the


Kelly. Wow, that was fast. I waited for the inevitable—the request for my resignation letter. “Can Kirstjen send a note to POTUS confirming she’s not the anonymous author?” In his rage, Trump wanted every cabinet secretary to write him a personal note promising they hadn’t written the op-ed. I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. Kelly admitted the search was a farce. Everyone knew the piece was accurate, so there was no point in finding the writer. We were all culprits. I wrote a note on Kirstjen’s behalf, signed it in her name, and sent it off to the Oval Office. For a moment I worried the guessing game was all anyone cared about, which would have defeated the purpose. Fortunately, the essay also provoked a more serious conversation. Former secretary of state John Kerry called the revelation about the cabinet discussing the Twenty-Fifth Amendment “a moment of enormous consequence to our country.” Republican senator Bob Corker confessed that the piece reflected the deep misgivings his GOP colleagues shared about Trump, which needed to be known. “This is what all of us have understood to be the situation from Day One,” Corker revealed to reporters. “That’s why I think all of us encourage the good people around the President to stay.” The term “resistance” was controversial. In the essay, I was referring to officials who pushed back against irresponsible, immoral, and illegal demands. Not people reversing the lawful orders of a commander in chief. Still, there was a risk that Trump would spin it differently. The Atlantic’s David Frum argued it would cause the president to “grow more defiant, more reckless, more anti-constitutional, and more dangerous.” Years later, former White House communications director Stephanie Grisham validated the point. “His paranoia has always been crazy,” she told me about Trump, “but I think that his level of paranoia started to go bonkers when that op-ed dropped.” “The second burning of the White House” Anabel could sense something was weighing on me. She still didn’t know about the piece. I wanted to protect her and my family from carrying the secret burden. Maintaining discretion wasn’t necessarily the hard part. After years in the national security community, I was trained to keep secrets. This was no different. I needed to keep the circle small, avoid creating a physical or digital trail, and make sure those who knew kept the knowledge compartmented. A deeper enigma troubled me. I had a secret within a secret, so to speak, and no one to talk to about it. The problem was more personal and consequential than hitting “send” on an uncredited op-ed. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet because I was hardly ready to admit it to myself. So I buried the secret internally. A few days after the essay was published, I came home drained. Anabel suggested an evening without phones and laptops. We made a fire and settled in to watch a late-night movie. Then the secure phone chirped upstairs in the guest bedroom. I went to answer it. The caller was Kirstjen. “The president


on the nightstand, which casts a glow over Mrs. Baker’s immaculately made bed. The second is a floor lamp in the corner, which sheds enough light over the other half of the room. I see a dresser, an antique dressing table with an oval mirror, and a sideboard similar to the one in Lenora’s room. Instead of a Walkman on top, this one holds a gramophone, complete with a lily-shaped horn to amplify the music. Quickly and quietly, I slide open dresser drawers and peek into the sideboard, finding nothing of interest. They’re too small to hold a suitcase, and if Mrs. Baker had the pages that were in it, I suspect they suffered the same fate as the ones Lenora and I typed. As for the sample of Lenora’s blood Mary took, that was likely also destroyed. Just in case, I sit at the dressing table and root through the drawers, which contain nothing but rattling jewelry and rolling lipstick tubes. Atop the table is a framed photograph of a young couple in front of the Eiffel Tower. Snow falls around the pair as they huddle together beneath the man’s overcoat. The woman in the photo I assume to be Mrs. Baker, albeit fifty years younger than the person currently gulping down wine in the dining room. They have the same eyes, same nose, same chin. That’s where the resemblance ends. In the photograph, she sports marcelled hair and a wide, genuine smile, something I’ve never seen from Mrs. Baker. The man in the picture is tall, handsome, and maybe ten years older than her. I assume he’s the fiancé Mrs. Baker mentioned the day I arrived. The one whose death prompted her return to Hope’s End. From the way they’re looking at each other in the photo, the two of them definitely seem in love. I move to the other side of the room, where the most likely hiding places reside. Under the bed. In the armoire. Beneath the large sink in the bathroom, which is where I continue my search, yielding nothing. I get the same result when I crack open the armoire doors. Hanging inside is an array of black dresses, with a few pairs of sensible black shoes sitting in a row beneath them. My last stop is to check the area around the bed. On the nightstand is another framed photograph of the same man as the one on the dressing table. He’s alone in this one, looking dashing in an army uniform. I drop to my hands and knees to check under the bed. Instead of a suitcase, I find several shoeboxes. I pull one out and open it, taking care not to leave clean marks on the dusty lid. Inside are more photographs. I sort through them, seeing a young Mrs. Baker in a variety of situations. Wearing a satin gown and lifting a glass of champagne in a toast. Walking down the street with two other women, their arms linked, mouths open in mid-laugh. Reclining naked on a chaise in what appears to


to go home.” “Stay down!” Iris cried, but he wasn’t listening. She could see her breath; she could feel her heart pounding in her ears. “Please stop moving!” A shadow of wings spilled over her. The stench of decay stole through the chilled air. This is the end, Iris thought. She looked at Roman, five paces away. He was so close, and yet too far to reach. She imagined their future. All the things she wanted to do with him. Experience with him. All the things she would never taste now. “Kitt,” she whispered. And she didn’t think he could hear her, but she hoped he could feel the force of such a whisper in his chest. How deep her love was for him. Something small and shiny was falling from the clouds. But Iris didn’t let its descent draw her eyes from Roman. She held his steady gaze, waiting for the bomb to hit the ground between them. {41} Your Hand in Mine She saw her nan. It was Iris’s birthday—the hottest day of summer. The windows were thrown open, the ice cream had left a sticky spot on the kitchen floor, and her grandmother was smiling as she brought her typewriter to Iris. “Is this really for me?” Iris cried, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She was so excited it felt like her heart might burst. “It is,” Nan said in her raspy voice, dropping a kiss in her hair. “Write me a story, Iris.” She saw her brother. Forest was with her at the riverbank, cupping something small in his hands. This was one of their favorite places in Oath; it almost felt as if they were no longer in the city, but deep into the countryside. The rush of the currents masked the clamor of the busy streets. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands, Little Flower,” he said. “Why?” Iris asked, but it was no surprise. She always asked why. And she knew she asked too many questions, but she was often filled with doubt. Forest, knowing her well, smiled. “Trust me.” She did trust him. He was like a god to her, and she closed her eyes and held out her hands, dirty from exploring the moss and the river rocks. He set something cool and slimy on her palm. “All right, take a look,” he said. She opened her eyes to see a snail. She laughed, delighted, and Forest tapped her on the nose. “What will you name it, Little Flower?” “How about Morgie?” She saw her mother. Sometimes Aster worked late at the Revel Diner, and Forest would walk Iris there after school, taking her for dinner. She sat at the bar, watching her mother deliver plates and drinks to customers. Iris had her notebook open before her, desperate to write a story. For some reason, the words were like ice. “Working on a new assignment, Iris?” her mother asked, setting down a glass of lemonade before her. “No, I have all of my schoolwork complete for the day,” Iris said


have most renown, and about their fate all the tales of the Elder Days are woven. The one had leaves of dark green that beneath were as shining silver, and from each of his countless flowers a dew of silver light was ever falling, and the earth beneath was dappled with the shadow of his fluttering leaves. The other bore leaves of a young green like the new-opened beech; their edges were of glittering gold. Flowers swung upon her branches in clusters of yellow flame, formed each to a glowing horn that spilled a golden rain upon the ground; and from the blossom of that tree there came forth warmth and a great light. Telperion the one was called in Valinor, and Silpion, and Ninquelt, and many other names; but Laurelin the other was, and Malinalda, and Culrien, and many names in song beside. In seven hours the glory of each tree waxed to full and waned again to naught; and each awoke once more to life an hour before the other ceased to shine. Thus in Valinor twice every day there came a gentle hour of softer light when both trees were faint and their gold and silver beams were mingled. Telperion was the elder of the trees and came first to full stature and to bloom; and that first hour in which he shone, the white glimmer of a silver dawn, the Valar reckoned not into the tale of hours, but named it the Opening Hour, and counted from it the ages of their reign in Valinor. Therefore at the sixth hour of the First Day, and of all the joyful days thereafter, until the Darkening of Valinor, Telperion ceased his time of flower; and at the twelfth hour Laurelin her blossoming. And each day of the Valar in Aman contained twelve hours, and ended with the second mingling of the lights, in which Laurelin was waning but Telperion was waxing. But the light that was spilled from the trees endured long, ere it was taken up into the airs or sank down into the earth; and the dews of Telperion and the rain that fell from Laurelin Varda hoarded in great vats like shining lakes, that were to all the land of the Valar as wells of water and of light. Thus began the Days of the Bliss of Valinor; and thus began also the Count of Time. But as the ages drew on to the hour appointed by Ilvatar for the coming of the Firstborn, Middle-earth lay in a twilight beneath the stars that Varda had wrought in the ages forgotten of her labours in E. And in the darkness Melkor dwelt, and still often walked abroad, in many shapes of power and fear, and he wielded cold and fire, from the tops of the mountains to the deep furnaces that are beneath them; and whatsoever was cruel or violent or deadly in those days is laid to his charge. From the beauty and bliss of Valinor the Valar came seldom over the mountains to Middle-earth, but gave


wasn’t a kind thing, sending that postcard. The back might as well have read, Look how little you know about me. Or You’ve never been here, have you? It’s possible I was taking the opera class for the same reason. How much farther could I get from Broad Run, Indiana? Not long after we arrived, I was walking down Columbus Avenue when a man who was clearly mentally unwell swerved at me and made like he was grabbing enormous breasts on himself, shaking them in the air. I sidestepped him, hurried down the sidewalk hating the rush to my limbs, my stomach. He called, “Run, little bunny rabbit! Hoppity-hop!” I felt I’d done something wrong and embarrassing, hadn’t been tough enough. On the second day, I ran into Kwan as he returned to the hotel with poster tubes under his arms. “I was at the Met!” he said, and I was so confused, because weren’t we going to the Met every night? He said, “You only pay what you want.” Further confusion. But then he popped open one of the tubes to show me Van Gogh’s self-portrait in a straw hat, the words Metropolitan Museum of Art across the bottom. So on the morning of the third day, our last full day, I set out from Lincoln Square through the park to the museum I’d circled on the free hotel map. I made sure to pass a landmark my map called “Beth. Fountain” because a fountain would be good for photos. I assume you remember what happened next. I saw you and Thalia sitting way too close—legs toward each other, touching at the ankle—on the lip of what I now know is Bethesda Fountain. If I’d been far enough away I’d have stopped, hidden behind other tourists, watched to see what happened next. It would be something to tell Fran when we were back—how Thalia was throwing herself at you. But by the time I saw you, I was five feet away, and you also saw me. You and Thalia jerked your legs apart. Thalia looked like she was trying not to laugh; your cheeks were forest fires. You said, smoothly, “Bodie! Small city, huh?” You said, “Thalia just talked me into being her convocation advisor. Do you have an advisor yet? You need one?” Whatever else I’d been thinking was subsumed by my enormous relief at what seemed like, and indeed was, your offer to work with me. They’d just posted the list of the ten or so faculty who’d be advising convocation speeches, and they expected us to simply approach someone. That was easy for most kids—the hockey players went to Mr. Dar, the skiers to Mr. Granson—but the thought of walking into someone’s classroom, even yours, and asking them to advise me felt egregious. So I said, “I—yeah, I guess I do need one.” You seemed genuinely overjoyed, and I was starved enough to take it. You asked where I was going, and I said “the Metropolitan Art Museum” and you gently corrected me, told me to be sure


rest of us. The things we need to do to survive. Especially unmarried women like me. I’m simply looking out for my future.” “At what price?” I said. “The highest one I can get.” Miss Baker leaned back in her seat, daring me to say another critical word. “Is that what all this is about? You wanted to confront me? Try to shame me?” “No,” I said. “I wanted to show you this.” I stood, pulled the fabric of my dress tight against me, and turned so Miss Baker could see my growing stomach in profile. “Dear me,” she said as she set her teacup on its saucer. Her hands shook so much the teacup rattled the whole way to the table at her side. “How far along are you?” “Six months.” “And the father?” “I’m not going to tell you,” I said, unwilling to risk bringing Ricky into this. If Miss Baker knew, she might tell my father, who would surely fire him. Then there’d be no hope of Ricky and me scraping together enough money for the one thing I most desperately wanted to do--escape. “Did he force himself on you?” Miss Baker said. My face turned red as I shook my head and looked at the floor, too ashamed to face her. “I see.” Miss Baker paused to clear her throat. “Does he know about your . . . predicament?” “Yes.” “And what does he intend to do?” “Make an honest woman out of me,” I said, which prompted a rueful laugh from Miss Baker. Hearing it made me flinch. “You’re still practically a child,” she said. “And a good man would have restrained himself. Or at least taken precautions.” Still stinging from the way her laughter echoed through the sunroom, I gave her a hard stare and said, “Does my father?” Miss Baker stiffened in her seat. “What exactly do you want from me?” “Your help.” I listed all the ways in which I needed assistance, from procuring maternity clothes to accessing the proper amount of food. This needed to occur long enough for Ricky and me to plan our escape. I finished by telling her that it all had to be done in secret. “That’s a tall order,” Miss Baker said. “What makes you think I’ll be willing to help?” “Because if you don’t, I’ll tell my mother everything.” The corners of Miss Baker’s mouth lifted in a cruel smile. “Your mother already knows.” “Then I’ll tell Berniece Mayhew,” I said, knowing full well she was the biggest gossip among the household staff. “About you and my father and what the two of you have been doing when you think no one is watching. Once that gets out, good luck finding another job teaching etiquette. Everyone will know exactly what kind of lady you are.” Miss Baker stood in a huff, looking like she wanted to slap me across the face, storm out of the room, or both. I suspected the only reason she didn’t was because she knew she was trapped. “I’ll help you,” she finally


not know, Ezra, that I am on the side of the Daroqol. But I am worried he expects it.” “Suspects it?” He ignored me, his voice shaking. “The right are mad about NuLife—they say Orson is trying to colonize us like Spain in the sixteenth century. My father wants NuLife out of the country, but many of the left love it. So now the Daroqol go to the centers and get the teaching and use it for—it is their philosophy of combat.” I raised my eyebrows. “What?” “Yes, Synthesis? The good and the bad? They see all the videos of what Orson does on the Farm. This is what they are doing every day before they fight the Urmanese National Army. It is their spiritual anthem. They think of Orson as the leader.” “Holy fuck.” “Yes, holy fuck. And the UNA, they will go to the centers and shoot the Daroqol and the bystanders. They will bomb them.” “They’re destroying the NuLife centers?” I must have spoken too loudly, because Genial dropped his voice even lower. “Yes, it is bad, I know—I did not think this would happen.” If the Urmanese NuLife centers weren’t turning a profit, we couldn’t afford to pay back the Deutsche Bank loan, much less with interest. “Genial,” I said. But he was still deep in his own thought. “Ezra, you are my friend, yes?” “Yes, but—” “Then I will tell you this secret. In my home, I am hiding many Daroqol.” He looked at me wild-eyed. “We have a plan to kill my father.” “Genial.” “Listen, Ezra—we will do it quickly, it will be a coup, and then I will become president, and the country will be free.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He squinted upward suspiciously, as though the sky itself were bugged. “We must do it soon, before my father finds out, Ezra, and before there is any more war.” He turned from the sky back to me: the crease at the corner of his mouth seemed to have grown deeper. “It will be very good for us. And very good for NuLife.” “But from what you’re saying the centers have already been destroyed.” “Yes, maybe some of them, but when I am president, they will be allowed to build even bigger and grow, and the people will love them. If you can put a little more money in, then you can get even more return from them, Ezra.” “And this would be if the coup is successful?” Genial nodded. “It is not as difficult as it seems.” I squinted down at my sneakers, too boxy and thick for the heat. “I can’t just, like, cosign an assassination.” “No, no. Please, not so loud.” “Sorry.” “I am not saying you, Ezra, will do anything. I am saying only the things that you will benefit from.” He raised his voice. “Now you are tired, maybe? Shall we go back to the house and sit by the pool, go for a swim?” * * * Downtown Rezopol wasn’t as I remembered it: parts of the


Grace, thank you ever so much for asking," Sansa said politely. "Only, well, no one will talk to us or tell us what's happened "Us?" Cersei seemed puzzled. "We put the steward's girl in with her," Ser Boros said. "We did not know what else to do with her." The queen frowned. "Next time, you will ask," she said, her voice sharp. "The gods only know what sort of tales she's been filling Sansa's head with." "Jeyne's scared," Sansa said. "She won't stop crying. I promised her I'd ask if she could see her father." Old Grand Maester Pycelle lowered his eyes. "Her father is well, isn't he?" Sansa said anxiously. She knew there had been fighting, but surely no one would harm a steward. Vayon Poole did not even wear a sword. Queen Cersei looked at each of the councillors in turn. "I won't have Sansa fretting needlessly. What shall we do with this little friend of hers, my lords?" Lord Petyr leaned forward. "I'll find a place for her." "Not in the city," said the queen. "Do you take me for a fool?" The queen ignored that. "Ser Boros, escort this girl to Lord Petyr's apartments and instruct his people to keep her there until he comes for her. Tell her that Littlefinger will be taking her to see her father, that ought to calm her down. I want her gone before Sansa returns to her chamber." A GAME OF THRONES 481 "As you command, Your Grace," Ser Boros said. He bowed deeply, spun on his heel, and took his leave, his long white cloak stirring the air behind him. Sansa was confused. "I don't understand," she said. "Where is Jeyne's father? Why can't Ser Boros take her to him instead of Lord Petyr having to do it?" She had promised herself she would be a lady, gentle as the queen and as strong as her mother, the Lady Catelyn, but all of a sudden she was scared again. For a second she thought she might cry. "Where are you sending her? She hasn't done anything wrong, she's a good girl." "She's upset you," the queen said gently. "We can't be having that. Not another word, now. Lord Baelish will see that Jeyne's well taken care of, I promise you." She patted the chair beside her. "Sit down, Sansa. I want to talk to you." Sansa seated herself beside the queen. Cersei smiled again, but that did not make her feel any less anxious. Varys was wringing his soft hands together, Grand Maester Pycelle kept his sleepy eyes on the papers in front of him, but she could feel Littlefinger staring. Something about the way the small man looked at her made Sansa feel as though she had no clothes on. Goose bumps pimpled her skin. "Sweet Sansa," Queen Cersei said, laying a soft hand on her wrist. "Such a beautiful child. I do hope you know how much Joffrey and I love you." "You do?" Sansa said, breathless. Littlefinger was forgotten. Her prince loved her. Nothing else mattered. The


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

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 are you?” asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially speaking person in such a place. “I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide them with something good to eat.” “Is this so?” said I, turning to the turnkey. He said it was. “Well then,” said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man’s hands (for so they called him). “I want you to give particular attention to my friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be as polite to him as possible.” “Introduce me, will you?” said the grub-man, looking at me with an expression which seem to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to give a specimen of his breeding. Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby. “Bartleby, this is Mr. Cutlets; you will find him very useful to you.” “Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant,” said the grub-man, making a low salutation behind his apron. “Hope you find it pleasant here, sir;—spacious grounds—cool apartments, sir—hope you’ll stay with us some time—try to make it agreeable. May Mrs. Cutlets and I have the pleasure of your company to dinner, sir, in Mrs. Cutlets’ private room?” “I prefer not to dine to-day,” said Bartleby, turning away. “It would disagree with me; I am unused to dinners.” So saying he slowly moved to the other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting the dead-wall. “How’s this?” said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of astonishment. “He’s odd, aint he?” “I think he is a little deranged,” said I, sadly. “Deranged? deranged is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought that friend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale and genteel-like, them forgers. I can’t pity’em—can’t help it, sir. Did you know Monroe Edwards?” he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying his hand pityingly on my shoulder, sighed, “he died of consumption


it and stirred restlessly. "You couldn't have a beastie, a snake-thing, on an island this size," Ralph explained kindly. "You only get them in big countries, like Africa, or India." Murmur; and the grave nodding of heads. "He says the beastie came in the dark." "Then he couldn't see it!" Laughter and cheers. "Did you hear that? Says he saw the thing in the dark--" "He still says he saw the beastie. It came and went away again an' came back and wanted to eat him--" "He was dreaming." Laughing, Ralph looked for confirmation round the ring of faces. The older boys agreed; but here and there among the little ones was the doubt that required more than rational assurance. "He must have had a nightmare. Stumbling about among all those creepers." More grave nodding; they knew about nightmares. "He says he saw the beastie, the snake-thing, and will it come back tonight?" "But there isn't a beastie!" "He says in the morning it turned into them things like ropes in the trees and hung in the branches. He says will it come back tonight?" "But there isn't a beastie!" There was no laughter at all now and more grave watching. Ralph pushed both hands through his hair and looked at the little boy in mixed amusement and exasperation. Jack seized the conch. "Ralph's right of course. There isn't a snake-thing. But if there was a snake we'd hunt it and kill it. We're going to hunt pigs to get meat for everybody. And we'll look for the snake too--" "But there isn't a snake!" "We'll make sure when we go hunting." Ralph was annoyed and, for the moment, defeated. He felt himself facing something ungraspable. The eyes that looked so intently at him were without humor. "But there isn't a beast!" Something he had not known was there rose in him and compelled him to make the point, loudly and again. "But I tell you there isn't a beast!" The assembly was silent. Ralph lifted the conch again and his good humor came back as he thought of what he had to say next. "Now we come to the most important thing. I've been thinking. I was thinking while we were climbing the mountain." He flashed a conspiratorial grin at the other two. "And on the beach just now. This is what I thought. We want to have fun. And we want to be rescued." The passionate noise of agreement from the assembly hit him like a wave and he lost his thread. He thought again. "We want to be rescued; and of course we shall be rescued." Voices babbled. The simple statement, unbacked by any proof but the weight of Ralph's new authority, brought light and happiness. He had to wave the conch before he could make them hear him. "My father's in the Navy. He said there aren't any unknown islands left. He says the Queen has a big room full of maps and all the islands in the world are drawn there. So the Queen's got a picture