my fingers would riot if Brad’s weren’t keeping me warm. “I don’t think scores matter at this stage, anyway,” he’s saying. “That first expedition—it’s just practice. Glen Finglas is more heavily weighted. And we know our strengths and weaknesses now, so we can do even better. This is still anyone’s game.” He pauses, giving me space to respond. When I don’t, he keeps talking, cheerful as always. “I’m most looking forward to the—” He breaks off, then continues. “To finishing this whole thing. The suspense is killing me, you know?” Except that’s not what he was going to say. I know him well enough to notice when he’s correcting himself, and it doesn’t take an expert in Brad’s interests to figure out where he was going before he hit that little catch in his voice: he’s looking forward to the ball. The Explorers’ Ball where we all celebrate and meet potential employers, including, oh yeah, my dad. I can’t believe I thought I wanted to see him, or rather, wanted him to see me. I can’t believe I thought his presence could do anything but ruin everything. I can’t believe I talked to Katharine Breakspeare and I didn’t even care, or remember everything she said, or ask her about the Harkness Oil case, or— I don’t even want to go to the stupid ball anymore, I don’t ever want to see my dad again, I don’t— “Celine,” Brad says, sounding so wretched, like someone out of a gothic novel, and it takes me a second to realize he sounds that way because of me. “Don’t cry,” he tells me. I agree. Don’t cry, Celine. Seriously, please. It’s disgusting. But tears are already spilling, scalding hot, down my cheeks and off my chin at an alarming rate. Are teardrops supposed to be this huge? They’re probably steaming in the winter air. They’re probably pooling at the base of my throat like a pond. You could probably drown someone in the vicious, wavelike sobs that shudder through my chest. I press my hands to my face because I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life—I am crying, in public—but I can’t stop I can’t stop I can’t— “Come here,” Brad says, “come on,” and puts an arm around my waist. I can’t see where we’re going, but after a few steps he pushes down on my shoulder and I sit. There’s an icy stone bench beneath me. Then Brad wraps his arms around me and I’m not cold anymore. I’m warm, but there’s still this core of ice in me with a searing, volcanic fissure right down the middle, and all kinds of terrible things are spilling out of that crack. I take my hands away from my face and bury it in Brad’s shoulder instead. He smells like soap and curling up in bed. My fingers twist into the fabric of his coat and pull hard, too hard, but I can’t make myself be careful. “It’s not fair.” The words rip out of me in a sob. “I know,” he says. He doesn’t.


immoral) resemblance between myself and - HEEP. Need I say, that it soon became necessary for me to solicit from - HEEP - pecuniary advances towards the support of Mrs. Micawber, and our blighted but rising family? Need I say that this necessity had been foreseen by - HEEP? That those advances were secured by I.O.U.'s and other similar acknowledgements, known to the legal institutions of this country? And that I thus became immeshed in the web he had spun for my reception?"' Mr. Micawber's enjoyment of his epistolary powers, in describing this unfortunate state of things, really seemed to outweigh any pain or anxiety that the reality could have caused him. He read on: '"Then it was that - HEEP - began to favour me with just so much of his confidence, as was necessary to the discharge of his infernal business. Then it was that I began, if I may so Shakespearianly express myself, to dwindle, peak, and pine. I found that my services were constantly called into requisition for the falsification of business, and the mystification of an individual whom I will designate as Mr. W. That Mr. W. was imposed upon, kept in ignorance, and deluded, in every possible way; yet, that all this while, the ruffian - HEEP - was professing unbounded gratitude to, and unbounded friendship for, that much-abused gentleman. This was bad enough; but, as the philosophic Dane observes, with that universal applicability which distinguishes the illustrious ornament of the Elizabethan Era, worse remains behind!"' Mr. Micawber was so very much struck by this happy rounding off with a quotation, that he indulged himself, and us, with a second reading of the sentence, under pretence of having lost his place. '"It is not my intention,"' he continued reading on, '"to enter on a detailed list, within the compass of the present epistle (though it is ready elsewhere), of the various malpractices of a minor nature, affecting the individual whom I have denominated Mr. W., to which I have been a tacitly consenting party. My object, when the contest within myself between stipend and no stipend, baker and no baker, existence and non-existence, ceased, was to take advantage of my opportunities to discover and expose the major malpractices committed, to that gentleman's grievous wrong and injury, by - HEEP. Stimulated by the silent monitor within, and by a no less touching and appealing monitor without - to whom I will briefly refer as Miss W. - I entered on a not unlaborious task of clandestine investigation, protracted - now, to the best of my knowledge, information, and belief, over a period exceeding twelve calendar months."' He read this passage as if it were from an Act of Parliament; and appeared majestically refreshed by the sound of the words. '"My charges against - HEEP,"' he read on, glancing at him, and drawing the ruler into a convenient position under his left arm, in case of need, '"are as follows."' We all held our breath, I think. I am sure Uriah held his. '"First,"' said Mr. Micawber, '"When


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

often asked him with a silly laugh why they moved so often. A frown of scorn darkened quickly his forehead as he heard again the silly laugh of the questioner. He asked: --Why are we on the move again if it's a fair question? --Becauseboro theboro landboro lordboro willboro putboro usboro outboro. The voice of his youngest brother from the farther side of the fireplace began to sing the air OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. One by one the others took up the air until a full choir of voices was singing. They would sing so for hours, melody after melody, glee after glee, till the last pale light died down on the horizon, till the first dark night clouds came forth and night fell. He waited for some moments, listening, before he too took up the air with them. He was listening with pain of spirit to the overtone of weariness behind their frail fresh innocent voices. Even before they set out on life's journey they seemed weary already of the way. He heard the choir of voices in the kitchen echoed and multiplied through an endless reverberation of the choirs of endless generations of children and heard in all the echoes an echo also of the recurring note of weariness and pain. All seemed weary of life even before entering upon it. And he remembered that Newman had heard this note also in the broken lines of Virgil, GIVING UTTERANCE, LIKE THE VOICE OF NATURE HERSELF, TO THAT PAIN AND WEARINESS YET HOPE OF BETTER THINGS WHICH HAS BEEN THE EXPERIENCE OF HER CHILDREN IN EVERY TIME. * * * * * He could wait no longer. From the door of Byron's public-house to the gate of Clontarf Chapel, from the gate of Clontail Chapel to the door of Byron's public-house and then back again to the chapel and then back again to the public- house he had paced slowly at first, planting his steps scrupulously in the spaces of the patchwork of the footpath, then timing their fall to the fall of verses. A full hour had passed since his father had gone in with Dan Crosby, the tutor, to find out for him something about the university. For a full hour he had paced up and down, waiting: but he could wait no longer. He set off abruptly for the Bull, walking rapidly lest his father's shrill whistle might call him back; and in a few moments he had rounded the curve at the police barrack and was safe. Yes, his mother was hostile to the idea, as he had read from her listless silence. Yet her mistrust pricked him more keenly than his father's pride and he thought coldly how he had watched the faith which was fading down in his soul ageing and strengthening in her eyes. A dim antagonism gathered force within him and darkened his mind as a cloud against her disloyalty and when it passed, cloud-like, leaving his mind serene and dutiful towards her again, he was made aware dimly and without regret


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

of Juno’s newer friends, and although I’ve only met her a few times, the two of them are hysterical when together. Too smart and cute for their own good and more fun than many of the adults I know. Who knew they were making kids so great these days? I adjust my imaginary binoculars. “Well, Stevie’s dad is a hot piece.” “He is, indeed.” River ducks inside the sunshade with the three folding chairs in one big hand. “Who’s a hot piece?” “You.” Jess stretches to kiss him. “And Connor.” I think River gives this fair consideration. I think he says, “Stevie’s dad? I could see that.” But I’m not entirely sure because all motion in my brain has halted. “Did you just say Connor?” I ask, stomach falling. Jess is distracted by a folding chair that won’t open. “Yeah, Connor Prince? He’s the coach you’re checking out.” “No.” Jess slowly looks up at me, sensing danger. “Yes?” “Absolutely not.” I immediately shove my imaginary binoculars away. “What’s wrong with you?” River asks me, laughing. “That’s—that’s Stevie’s dad out there?” I point in the distance at the giant whose shadow now, I admit, looks strikingly similar to the man I wanted to bend me over the kitchen counter the other night. “Adorable Stevie who told me the sad story about global warming and sea turtles, so I threw a bunch of money at the Oceanic Society?” Oh shit, that actually tracks. I groan and sit in the chair Jess has just coaxed open. “Have a seat,” she tells me wryly, opening another and sitting down beside me. “This is a plot twist I should have expected,” I grumble. “Am I a writer or a block of wood?” “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” River asks. Jess holds up her hands. “Don’t look at me.” “Do you know what Connor does for a living?” I ask them. Wincing, Jess admits, “I think Juno said something about conservation?” I look over at River. “What about you?” He presses a surprised hand over his chest. “Me?” “Yes. You out of any of us.” “Why ‘of any of us’?” “Because Connor Prince III is the creator and executive producer on my upcoming dating show, the one that uses your life’s work as its central hook.” Jess presses her fingertips to her lips, speaking from behind them, “Oh my God, you’ve been fucking with Connor this whole time?” “I’ve been nicer lately. I invited him inside after the signing.” Jess’s wince tells me she’s read this right, but she gives me an out. “Please tell me you mean inside for a cup of coffee.” “No, inside my vagine.” River coughs out a sip of water. “Sadly for him, he turned me down.” River’s low, mournful whistle says Awkward. “It’s fine,” I say. “Honestly, it’s probably good one of us had our heads on straight. I was just feeling sexy for the first time in forever, and he was conveniently there.” Nice one, Pinocchio. My best friend nods dubiously. “Right, he was just there, just


way to think through it. Mild, indeed. Undeterred by my silence, Marek continued, “Have you heard the news? They say the Nizahl Heir was spotted near the border to Gahre.” The spike of fear his words drove into my chest irritated me. Gahre was another Omalian lower village sitting a mere hour away. The news of his arrival would have ridden in long before the Commander’s horses. I unclenched my fists. “Chatter of idle merchants, I’m sure.” “Yes,” Marek agreed, glancing askance at my twitching fingers. “It’s Omal’s turn to represent Nizahl in the Alcalah this year. The Heir is probably gracing our humble villages to find his Champion.” Marek’s derisive tone communicated exactly what he thought of such an idea. Hosted once every three years, the Alcalah invigorated every kingdom from the highest crown to the wildest vagrant. The tournament consisted of three grueling trials meant to celebrate the sacrifice of the progenitors of our kingdoms. The location of each trial rotated between the four kingdoms and culminated in a Victor’s Ball. If Mahair’s obsession with the Alcalah was any indication, the kingdoms built their lives around this event. I couldn’t count the number of times I had listened to Rory’s patrons walk around the shop and fantasize about dancing at the Victor’s Ball or cheering in the audience of one of the Alcalah’s trials. Nizahl was the only kingdom not to choose a Champion from among its own people. Shortly after burning Jasad to the ground, Supreme Rawain had generously announced Nizahl’s plan to foster peace by choosing a Champion from a different kingdom every Alcalah. Besides, Nizahl possessed an unfair advantage. They conscripted their youth into the army from adolescence, and their most incompetent soldier could easily match another kingdom’s best. “He wouldn’t choose a Champion from a lower village,” I said. “I’m sure he has some arrangement with the Omal Heir. A preselected Champion the royal family favors, perhaps.” “Felix can’t pick the snot from his nose. The Nizahl Heir certainly will not be asking him his thoughts on picking a Champion.” I made a disgusted sound at the image. “Every Champion he’s chosen has won the Alcalah. I doubt he would agree to train an incompetent just to curry political favor. Even if the Nizahl Heir did decide to choose a lower villager, he would find it a challenge to convince them to accept such a fatal role.” For all they loved to speculate about the Alcalah, lower villagers had too much sense to willingly compete in a tournament that left more than half its Champions dead. At least, I hoped they did. Marek shrugged, navigating the wagon around a stretch of foul-smelling ponds dotting the road. “It might be worth the risk. If they become Victor, they win a retinue of guards, an upper-town home in every kingdom, riches to last their lifetime.” “It’s not worth the risk unless you’re an oat-brained noble whose sole purpose for competing is to prance around and claim you’re celebrating the sacrifice of the Awaleen.” The myths behind the Alcalah


for years (I choose to think she collaborated with Jack under duress and donated all proceedings to the local animal shelter). After a minute, I come across the elusive George— George Green. He’s on two low-impact articles—both recent, both with Jack. There’s next to no online trace of him, but he just finished his postdoc at Harvard and posts on physics subreddits under his real name. “Seriously?” This guy’s being interviewed? Whatever strings Jack had to pull, I’m going to cut them one by one with my poultry shears. His mediocre love child doesn’t stand a chance— My phone rings. I jolt and immediately pick up—Greg. Finally. “Hey! I—” “I need your help.” I swallow a groan. “Hi, Mom.” I’ve made a lethal mistake. “The situation is dire. You need to rein in your brothers.” After two and a half decades of APE, I can safely state that the Elsie my mom wants is a droid. She’s powerful, mobile, financially soluble. She successfully quenched her earthly needs and lives in a state of perennial prosperity. Her main purpose is to score prestige points when Aunt Minnie brags about her son who almost finished law school. Her secondary purpose? To intervene when two idiots decide to embark on months-long feuds over stuff that, historically, has included: who gets the front seat in the car who deserves the piece of cake with the frosting bootie at Cousin Jenna’s baby shower who’s taller (they are identical twins) who’s more handsome (see above) whose birth year, according to the Guinness World Records book, has more recorded python attacks (see above!) who gets to pick the dog’s name (we never had pets) This is a noncomprehensive list. Over the years, the feuds have become more rabid, Dad more absent, Mom more reliant on me for cleanups. “You can’t be your family’s janitorial staff,” Cece tells me once a week, but I do my best to make Mom happy, even though of all the Elsies people want, hers is the fakest—and the one with deepest roots. I have, after all, cursed my way into it, tirelessly and painstakingly. “How are you, Mom—” “Overwhelmed. Lucas and Lance are at it again. Almost came to fists after their soccer game.” “Over the result?” “Over Dana.” I rub my temple. “They both agreed to stop dating her.” “They did. But Dana needed a ride somewhere.” “Who did she call?” “Lucas. Lance slashed his tire. The neighbors are starting to talk. You need to stop them.” “I did, Mom. Two weeks ago. A month ago. Three months ago.” I’ve been holding a series of conflict mediation seminars in my parents’ basement. They mostly consist of me reminding my brothers that murder is illegal. “Well, do it again. Come over tomorrow.” I physically cringe. “I’m sorry. It’s not possible.” “Why?” “I—” No. No I statements. Too personal. “This is a stressful, busy time. The semester just started and . . .” Do I tell her? I shouldn’t. But maybe she’ll want to know? “I’m interviewing for a job.” “You have a job.” “This


about the affair with Brody, like Ethan suggested last night. How is it going to look if the FBI—or Ethan’s partner—learns about the affair, and that she kept quiet about it? She wonders what made Ethan ask about Chelsea having drugs in her system. If their affair comes out and Chelsea’s toxicology comes back positive for opiates, it could look like she didn’t do everything she could to save her. Like they planned it together. How could she prove they hadn’t? She stares at the red glow of taillights in front of her. If only I hadn’t let Evelyn take her break first. She drives beneath an overpass. Headlights shine into her rearview mirror, and Sloane puts on her turn signal to merge into the far right-hand lane. Before merging, she glances over her shoulder. A broad figure sits upright in her backseat. “Ahhh!” Her body tenses as she makes out the familiar, wavy hairline of the man sitting behind her. “Watch out!” Brody reaches forward for the wheel as the car speeds toward the concrete barrier at the side of the freeway. Brody’s hand closes around the steering wheel, and the car jerks to the left. Sloane’s heart jumps as her Porsche swerves across three lanes of high-speed traffic. She’s blinded by the several sets of headlights shining through her driver’s side window as the blare of horns and screeching tires muffle her scream. Sloane grips the wheel on either side of Brody’s hand, yanking it hard to the right before they cross into the far-left lane. She throws her elbow into Brody’s neck. He lets out a grunt as his hand falls away from the wheel. Sloane’s breath catches in her throat as more horns erupt. Her overcorrection sends them speeding across two lanes straight at the concrete barrier again. She pulls the wheel to the left and lets off the gas. The car straightens out when they cruise onto the shoulder, but not in time. A grinding scrape fills the car as the Porsche’s passenger side slams against the barrier. Sloane lays on the brakes, throwing Brody forward between the seats. Sloane is whipped to the side, her head smacking against the window before her seatbelt locks. Her passenger-side mirror nearly snaps off. Sloane flinches as it flaps back and forth against the windshield, causing a crack before it bounces off. Brody holds his palms against her dash as she presses the brake to the floor. More horns resound from cars whizzing past. She flips on her hazard lights as the car slows to a stop. Brody sinks into his seat in the back. She brings her hands to her face, hyperventilating as cars zoom past, shaking the little car. Ahead of her, several tents occupy a small grassy area that separates the interstate from an onramp. A homeless man pokes his head out to assess the source of the noise. A hand on her shoulder causes her to jump. She shrieks, having nearly forgotten Brody was in her backseat. She slaps his hand away before turning around. He


you can’t. Once having set up her idols and built altars to them it was inevitable that she would worship there. It was inevitable that she should accept any inconsistency and cruelty from her deity as all good wor- shippers do from theirs. All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be worshipped. Through indiscriminate suf- fering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood. Mrs. Turner, like all other believers had built an altar to the unattainable—Caucasian characteristics for all. Her god would smite her, would hurl her from pinnacles and lose her in deserts, but she would not forsake his altars. Behind her crude words was a belief that somehow she and others through worship could attain her paradise—a heaven of straighthaired, thin-lipped, high-nose boned white seraphs. The physical impossibilities in no way injured faith. That was the mystery and mysteries are the chores of gods. Beyond her faith was a fanaticism to defend the altars of her god. It was distressing to emerge from her inner temple and find these black desecrators howling with laughter before the door. Oh, for an army, terrible with banners and swords! So she didn’t cling to Janie Woods the woman. She paid homage to Janie’s Caucasian characteristics as such. And when she was with Janie she had a feeling of transmutation, Their Eyes Were Watching God 171 as if she herself had become whiter and with straighter hair and she hated Tea Cake first for his defilement of divinity and next for his telling mockery of her. If she only knew some- thing she could do about it! But she didn’t. Once she was complaining about the carryings-on at the jook and Tea Cake snapped, “Aw, don’t make God look so foolish—findin’ fault wid everything He made.” So Mrs. Turner frowned most of the time. She had so much to disapprove of. It didn’t affect Tea Cake and Janie too much. It just gave them something to talk about in the summertime when everything was dull on the muck. Other- wise they made little trips to Palm Beach, Fort Myers and Fort Lauderdale for their fun. Before they realized it the sun was cooler and the crowds came pouring onto the muck again. 17 A great deal of the old crowd were back. But there were lots of new ones too. Some of these men made passes at Janie, and women who didn’t know took out after Tea Cake. Didn’t take them long to be put right, however. Still and all, jeal- ousies arose now and then on both sides. When Mrs. Turner’s brother came and she brought him over to be introduced, Tea Cake had a brainstorm. Before the week was over he had whipped Janie. Not because her behavior justified his jealousy, but it relieved that awful fear inside him. Being able to whip her reassured him


spaceships ..." "And shouting," added the guard. "And shouting, sure," said Ford patting the blubbery arm clamped round his neck in friendly condescension, "... and he doesn't even know why he's doing it!" Arthur agreed this was very sad. He did this with a small feeble gesture, because he was too asphyxicated to speak. Deep rumblings of bemusement came from the guard. "Well. Now you put it like that I suppose ..." "Good lad!" encouraged Ford. "But alright," went on the rumblings, "so what's the alternative?" "Well," said Ford, brightly but slowly, "stop doing it of course! Tell them," he went on, "you're not going to do it anymore." He felt he had to add something to that, but for the moment the guard seemed to have his mind occupied pondering that much. "Eerrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm ..." said the guard, "erm, well that doesn't sound that great to me." Ford suddenly felt the moment slipping away. "Now wait a minute," he said, "that's just the start you see, there's more to it than that you see ..." But at that moment the guard renewed his grip and continued his original purpose of lugging his prisoners to the airlock. He was obviously quite touched. "No, I think if it's all the same to you," he said, "I'd better get you both shoved into this airlock and then go and get on with some other bits of shouting I've got to do." It wasn't all the same to Ford Prefect after all. "Come on now ... but look!" he said, less slowly, less brightly. "Huhhhhgggggggnnnnnnn ..." said Arthur without any clear inflection. "But hang on," pursued Ford, "there's music and art and things to tell you about yet! Arrrggghhh!" "Resistance is useless," bellowed the guard, and then added, "You see if I keep it up I can eventually get promoted to Senior Shouting Officer, and there aren't usually many vacancies for non-shouting and non-pushing-people-about officers, so I think I'd better stick to what I know." They had now reached the airlock - a large circular steel hatchway of massive strength and weight let into the inner skin of the craft. The guard operated a control and the hatchway swung smoothly open. "But thanks for taking an interest," said the Vogon guard. "Bye now." He flung Ford and Arthur through the hatchway into the small chamber within. Arthur lay panting for breath. Ford scrambled round and flung his shoulder uselessly against the reclosing hatchway. "But listen," he shouted to the guard, "there's a whole world you don't know anything about ... here how about this?" Desperately he grabbed for the only bit of culture he knew offhand - he hummed the first bar of Beethoven's Fifth. "Da da da dum! Doesn't that stir anything in you?" "No," said the guard, "not really. But I'll mention it to my aunt." If he said anything further after that it was lost. The hatchway sealed itself tight, and all sound was lost but the faint distant hum of the ship's engines. They were in a brightly polished cylindrical chamber about


quality of Hepzibah's mind was too unmalleable to take new impressions so readily as Clifford's. He had a winged nature; she was rather of the vegetable kind, and could hardly be kept long alive, if drawn up by the roots. Thus it happened that the relation heretofore existing between her brother and herself was changed. At home, she was his guardian; here, Clifford had become hers, and seemed to comprehend whatever belonged to their new position with a singular rapidity of intelligence. He had been startled into manhood and intellectual vigor; or, at least, into a condition that resembled them, though it might be both diseased and transitory. The conductor now applied for their tickets; and Clifford, who had made himself the purse-bearer, put a bank-note into his hand, as he had observed others do. "For the lady and yourself?" asked the conductor. "And how far?" "As far as that will carry us," said Clifford. "It is no great matter. We are riding for pleasure merely." "You choose a strange day for it, sir!" remarked a gimlet-eyed old gentleman on the other side of the car, looking at Clifford and his companion, as if curious to make them out." The best chance of pleasure, in an easterly rain, I take it, is in a man's own house, with a nice little fire in the chimney." "I cannot precisely agree with you," said Clifford, courteously bowing to the old gentleman, and at once taking up the clew of conversation which the latter had proffered. "It had just occurred to me, on the contrary, that this admirable invention of the railroad --with the vast and inevitable improvements to be looked for, both as to speed and convenience--is destined to do away with those stale ideas of home and fireside, and substitute something better." "In the name of common-sense," asked the old gentleman rather testily, "what can be better for a man than his own parlor and chimney-corner?" "These things have not the merit which many good people attribute to them," replied Clifford. "They may be said, in few and pithy words, to have ill served a poor purpose. My impression is, that our wonderfully increased and still increasing facilities of locomotion are destined to bring us around again to the nomadic state. You are aware, my dear sir,--you must have observed it in your own experience,--that all human progress is in a circle; or, to use a more accurate and beautiful figure, in an ascending spiral curve. While we fancy ourselves going straight forward, and attaining, at every step, an entirely new position of affairs, we do actually return to something long ago tried and abandoned, but which we now find etherealized, refined, and perfected to its ideal. The past is but a coarse and sensual prophecy of the present and the future. To apply this truth to the topic now under discussion. In the early epochs of our race, men dwelt in temporary huts, of bowers of branches, as easily constructed as a bird's-nest, and which they built,--if it should be called building,


. .” He takes a soft, cozy black hat and slides it over my head. It’s not mine, but it feels great. And apparently I’m not awake enough to insist that I don’t need a ride and button up my coat at the same time. “It’s fine, I can even take an Uber and . . .” He notices my shaking hands and gently brushes them away to do my buttons himself. “Elsie, it’s fine. I get it. You don’t want me to take you out.” He gets to the highest button. His knuckles brush against my downturned chin. “At least let me take you home.” • • • J ACK ’ S A CONFIDENT DRIVER , RELAXED EVEN IN BAD WEATHER conditions, with the roads not quite clear and other cars swaying. I sink into the heated seat he turned on for me and remember the time I swerved to avoid a squirrel, almost causing a multivehicle crash. The squirrel turned out to be a Wendy’s paper bag, but it’s fine. I’m good at other things. Probably. “Feel free to pick up,” I say, pointing at Jack’s phone. It’s been buzzing nonstop in the cupholder, a weird techno soundtrack to NPR’s world news segment. “It’s not a call,” he says, looking straight ahead. More buzzing. “Are you sure?” “Yeah. Just an incessant barrage of texts.” “Oh. It sounds . . . urgent.” “It isn’t. Not by any sane definition of the word.” He sighs, uncharacteristically defeated. “Do you mind if I stop somewhere before taking you home? It’s on the way and it’ll take a minute.” “No, it’s fine,” I say—only to regret it when he pulls up a disturbingly familiar driveway. “This is . . . Isn’t this . . . ?” Jack kills the engine. “Regrettably, yes.” “I . . .” Should he be bringing me here, considering . . . literally everything? “Do you want me to, um, hide in the trunk or something?” “It’s ten degrees. The car will get cold pretty fast.” “So I should hide in the bushes?” He looks at me like he’s going to stage an intervention for my tenuous grasp of the second law of thermodynamics. “Come on. It’ll be a minute.” Outside feels like Hoth, and my butt actively mourns the toasty warmth of the seat. It’s considering a commemorative bench when the front door opens to the cruel, menacing, cutthroat glory of the most terrifying Smith. Millicent. “Well, well, well,” she singsongs, standing cross-armed. She’s wearing simple black pants and a cardigan, but even in a casual outfit there’s something intensely matriarchal about her. I cannot picture her ever having been anything but ninety and rich. “Look who’s not dead.” “You know,” Jack says from my side, in that ever-amused tone of his, “I have many regrets in life.” “I’m certain you do.” “But teaching you how to text is the biggest.” Millicent waves her hand. “When you were three, I had to drive you to the ER because you stuck a purple crayon up your butthole. That should be


future, from recuperate, cicatrize, get well, fix, rabbinist, kike, Pharisee, redeemer, now on, from this time on, from this restore, convalesce; (n, v) remedy; savior; (adj) Hebraic, Greek, Jewish, moment on, after this (n) correct. ANTONYMS: (v) dominical heraldic: (adj) communicative, worsen, disfigure, exacerbate heed: (n, v) consideration, concern, communicatory healing: (n) cure, convalescence, regard, mind, attention, notice; (n) heraldry: (n) blazon, blazonry, recuperation, therapy, treatment, caution, advertence, advertency; (v) bearing, crest, emblem, charge, recovery; (adj) curative, sanative, attend, hear. ANTONYMS: (n, v) research, inquiry, coat of arms, sanatory, remedial, therapeutic. disregard; (n) inattentiveness heraldic bearing, enquiry ANTONYM: (n) deterioration heedful: (adj) careful, aware, herb: (n) plant, wort, herbage, healthfulness: (n) salubrity, cautious, mindful, circumspect, amaranth, cottonweed, agueweed, salubriousness, health alert, advertent, watchful, wary, drypis, dittany, dill, digitalis, heap: (n, v) pile, aggregate, amass; (n) observant, thoughtful. dayflower collection, accumulation, mound, ANTONYMS: (adj) forgetful, herd: (n, v) crowd; (adj) bevy, many; mass, group, lot; (v) bank, collect. oblivious (adj, n, v) swarm; (n) drove, gang, ANTONYM: (v) tidy heighten: (v) amplify, enlarge, crew, collection, covey, multitude, hearken: (v) hark, harken, attend, aggravate, raise, deepen, elevate, mob listen, hear, heed, list, listen in, listen boost, grow, expand, compound, hereafter: (adv) thereafter, from now to, regard, look out advance. ANTONYMS: (v) alleviate, on, hence, henceforth, hereinafter, heartlessness: (n) coldheartedness, damage, decrease, improve, lessen afterwards; (n) afterlife, futurity, hardheartedness, callousness, heightened: (adj) excited, intense, time to come, great beyond, future mercilessness, unkindness, atrocity, irritate, keen, resonant, sensitive life pitilessness, brutality, malice, heiress: (n) inheritress, inheritrix, hereby: (adv) thereby, whereby meanness, coldness. ANTONYMS: inheritor, heritor, owner, beneficiary hereditary: (adj) familial, ancestral, (n) sensitivity, humanity heirloom: (n) fixtures, antique, inherent, heritable, inherited, hearty: (adj) heartfelt, healthy, genial, property, legacy, heritage, inborn, congenital, innate, sturdy, cheering, fervent, inheritance, principal, museum patrimonial, native, heredity wholehearted, lusty, enthusiastic, piece, plant, estate; (adj, n) valuable herein: (adv) here, therein convivial; (adj, n) well. heirs: (n) family, posterity, issue heretofore: (adv) formerly, as yet, ANTONYMS: (adj) unhealthy, frail, hellish: (adj, v) diabolic, satanic; (adj) before, so far, yet, already, until old, weak, sluggish, unwholesome, infernal, diabolical, fiendish, now, previously, once, hereunto; meager demonic, beastly, wicked, unholy, (adv, n) hitherto heathen: (adj, n) gentile, ethnic; (n) detestable; (v) mephistophelian hereupon: (adv) immediately, infidel, idolater, paynim, heretic; helmet: (n, v) headpiece; (n) casque, whereupon, thereupon (adj) heathenish, irreligious, giaour, helm, hood, armet, basinet, heaume, hermitage: (n) alcove, bower, grotto, godless, barbaric hard hat, Galea, cowl; (v) greenhouse, arbor, retreat, cloister, heathenish: (adj) pagan, gothic, pickelhaube seclusion, safe house, ivory tower; paganish, savage, doggerel, helper: (n, v) assistant, aid, (adj) cell tramontane, barbarous, gentile, assistance; (n) acolyte, attendant, heroic: (adj) courageous, brave, brutal, ethnic, ferocious ally, associate, supporter, colleague, fearless, chivalrous, dauntless, heavenly: (adj) celestial, blissful, auxiliary, coadjutor. ANTONYMS: valiant, grand, intrepid, gallant, ethereal, delightful, angelic, blessed, (n) detractor, enemy impressive, heroical. ANTONYMS: elysian, holy, unearthly, godlike, helpfulness: (n) use, usefulness, (adj) fearful, normal, despicable, sacred. ANTONYMS: (adj) worldly, avail, kindness, friendliness, lowly miserable, infernal, hellish, cooperation, utility, benefit, good hesitate: (adj, n, v) pause, delay; (adj, Nathaniel Hawthorne 291 v) linger; (v) fluctuate, halt,


ye, and order that carriage, and maybe I'll drive round and inspect the club." The lad departed, and Durbeyfield lay waiting on the grass and daisies in the evening sun. Not a soul passed that way for a long while, and the faint notes of the band were the only human sounds audible within the rim of blue hills. II The village of Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the beautiful Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor aforesaid, and engirdled and secluded region, for the most part untrodden as yet by tourist or landscape-painter, though within a four hours' journey from London. It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the summits of the hills that surround it--except perhaps during the droughts of summer. An unguided ramble into its recesses in bad weather is apt to engender dissatisfaction with its narrow, tortuous, and miry ways. This fertile and sheltered tract of country, in which the fields are never brown and the springs never dry, is bounded on the south by the bold chalk ridge that embraces the prominences of Hambledon Hill, Bulbarrow, Nettlecombe-Tout, Dogbury, High Stoy, and Bubb Down. The traveller from the coast, who, after plodding northward for a score of miles over calcareous downs and corn-lands, suddenly reaches the verge of one of these escarpments, is surprised and delighted to behold, extended like a map beneath him, a country differing absolutely from that which he has passed through. Behind him the hills are open, the sun blazes down upon fields so large as to give an unenclosed character to the landscape, the lanes are white, the hedges low and plashed, the atmosphere colourless. Here, in the valley, the world seems to be constructed upon a smaller and more delicate scale; the fields are mere paddocks, so reduced that from this height their hedgerows appear a network of dark green threads overspreading the paler green of the grass. The atmosphere beneath is languorous, and is so tinged with azure that what artists call the middle distance partakes also of that hue, while the horizon beyond is of the deepest ultramarine. Arable lands are few and limited; with but slight exceptions the prospect is a broad rich mass of grass and trees, mantling minor hills and dales within the major. Such is the Vale of Blackmoor. The district is of historic, no less than of topographical interest. The Vale was known in former times as the Forest of White Hart, from a curious legend of King Henry III's reign, in which the killing by a certain Thomas de la Lynd of a beautiful white hart which the king had run down and spared, was made the occasion of a heavy fine. In those days, and till comparatively recent times, the country was densely wooded. Even now, traces of its earlier condition are to be found in the old oak copses and irregular belts of timber that yet survive upon its slopes, and the hollow-trunked trees that shade so many of its pastures. The forests have departed, but


sister was killed, due to your incompetence? F.P. has been around for sixteen years now.” She pointed a finger right in Ogden’s face. “How many more people have to get killed or injured before you get your act together and do your job?” “What’s going on here?” Captain Somers strode toward them. Marion stepped back, breathing heavily. Peter answered for her. “We were expressing our concern about the way this case is being handled. The bomber went after Marion tonight, and meanwhile your man Ogden here doesn’t seem to understand the seriousness of the situation.” Somers glared at Ogden. “That’s enough. Go back to headquarters.” Once Ogden had slunk away, Somers placed a hand on Marion’s shoulder. “I’m sorry we got sidetracked with the letter you brought to us.” “The letter that I told you was not from the bomber,” interjected Peter. Somers accepted the criticism with a mild nod. “What about the other witness, the usher at the Paramount?” said Marion. “If the bomber came after me, there’s a good chance he’s coming after him as well.” Somers rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Right. About that. That’s why I was late getting here. I’m afraid he’s already been targeted.” “Targeted?” asked Peter. “What does that mean?” “We sent a team to his apartment in the Bronx after we got Marion’s call. His apartment had been broken into, and he’d been attacked.” “Is he all right?” asked Marion. “No. He was killed.” “Killed?” Marion shuddered. “By the bomber?” “He was hit on the head with something, possibly a hammer, and then strangled. We believe the bomber came here right after, to try to neutralize the second witness.” “ ‘Neutralize the second witness’?” repeated Marion. “You mean kill me.” “Captain!” One of the policemen working the scene approached. He carried a hammer in his gloved hand. That was what had made the clattering noise when Marion had stomped hard on the attacker’s foot. He’d dropped it and left it behind. The reality that she could have been murdered finally hit her full force. Her father would have gotten another call in the night saying his daughter had been killed. He would’ve never recovered from the shock, and it would have been all her fault for being selfish and petty-minded, pursuing her dreams at the cost of her own life. He’d been right about everything after all. The room twirled around her as she fainted to the ground. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE DECEMBER 1992 As Piper and I approach the theater, the wet street glistens red and blue from the lights of Radio City’s marquee. Special Christmas Spectacular—Celebrating the 60th Anniversary of the Rockettes, it reads. In spite of myself, my heart lifts into my throat. This was the place that in many ways defined who I am today. Where I learned the value of good friends and hard work. I can still summon up the crazy mix of skittishness and hyper-focus that would settle upon me backstage as we waited for our cue. It falls over me now, like a shower


Once again, he ignores the herbs in the fields for his new "religion" of gold. Notice repeated imagery--the coins are like "unborn children" (another foreshadowing of Eppie) and his life has dwindled to one narrow channel of thought. (Literally, he never walks off the path on his daily journeys. Metaphorically, his life has become like a dried-up rivulet, trickling through the sand.) But now that Silas' metamorphosis is complete, Eliot tells you, an event is coming to change his life. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 3 Eliot leaves you in suspense about Silas' great change while she shifts to the other end of the social spectrum. Squire Cass is the greatest man in Raveloe, she tells you, although her tone is ironic. She first discusses the local gentry as villagers might--pointing out Cass' big brick house, casually mentioning the Osgoods. But then she discusses these landowners with an outsider's perspective. She makes you aware that political conditions later brought this class to ruin, through their wasteful living habits and poor farming. Yet when she describes the generous feasts that people like Cass and Osgood hold, she paints a glowing picture of old-fashioned plenty. (You'll see one of these feasts later, in Chapter 11.) The poor enjoy this bounty, too. Do you think Eliot approves or disapproves of this social system? What evidence supports your opinion? There's a reason why Squire Cass throws big raucous parties and spends his time at the local pub--his wife died long ago. Eliot expresses here her ideal of woman's role--as a source of order, refinement, and loving feelings. Lacking a mother, the Cass sons have turned out badly. Compare this all-male family to Silas Marner's, which seems to consist only of himself, a mother, and a sister. Eliot lets you hear the village gossip about Dunstan and Godfrey. While Dunstan sounds thoroughly bad, Godfrey seems good-hearted. But people have been worried about Godfrey's behavior lately. Everyone's hoping he'll straighten himself out by marrying Nancy Lammeter, obviously the daughter of another important Raveloe family. Now you meet the Cass brothers in person, so you can make up your own mind about them. As Godfrey stands by the fire, the parlor around him defines his gloomy mood. It's dimly lit and messy, full of pleasure's leftovers--discarded hunting clothes, half-empty mugs of beer, ashy pipes, and a dying fire. When Dunsey, who's been drinking, strolls into the room, his jeering tone lives up to the villagers' opinion of him. Agitated, Godfrey demands that Dunstan return the money he borrowed from Godfrey, which was a tenant's rent payment. Dunstan knows how to manipulate Godfrey, though. He threatens to tell the Squire about Godfrey's marriage to drunken Molly Farren, and Godfrey reacts with fear. Now you know why lately Godfrey's been acting strangely. NOTE: PARALLELS Like Silas, Godfrey is taken advantage of by a thieving brother. (Dane was like a brother to Silas.) Both hope to marry a nice young woman but are prevented by shameful situations--Silas' conviction and Godfrey's marriage. What obvious contrasts, however, can you point to? This is the first


would let us?" "I don't know," said George. "She might. You could ask her." "Can't we land there this afternoon?" asked Julian. "No, not if you want to see the wreck," said George. "We've got to get back for tea today, and it will take all the time to row round to the other side of Kirrin Island and back." "Well- I'd like to see the wreck," said Julian, torn between the island and the wreck. "Here, let me take the oars for a bit, George. You can't do all the rowing." "I can," said George. "But I'd quite enjoy lying back in the boat for a change! Look- I'll just take you by this rocky bit- and then you can take the oars till we come to another awkward piece. Honestly, the rocks around this bay are simply dreadful!" George and Julian changed places in the boat. Julian rowed well, but not so strongly as George. The boat sped along rocking smoothly. They went right round the island, and saw the castle from the other side. It looked more ruined on the side that faced the sea. "The strong winds come from the open sea," explained George. "There's not really much left of it this side, except piles of stones. But there's a good little harbour in a little cove, for those who know how to find it." George took the oars after a while, and rowed steadily out a little beyond the island. Then she stopped and looked back towards the shore. "How do you know when you are over the wreck?" asked Julian, puzzled. "I should never know!" "Well, do you see that church tower on the mainland?" asked George. "And do you see the tip of that hill over there? Well, when you get them exactly in line with one another, between the two towers of the castle on the island, you are pretty well over the wreck! I found that out ages ago." The children saw that the tip of the far-off hill and the church tower were practically in line, when they looked at them between the two old towers of the island castle. They looked eagerly down into the sea to see if they could spy the wreck. The water was perfectly clear and smooth. There was hardly a wrinkle. Timothy looked down into it too, his head on one side, his ears cocked, just as if he knew what he was looking for! The children laughed at him. "We're not exactly over it," said George, looking down too. "The water's so clear today that we should be able to see quite a long way down. Wait, I'll row a bit to the left." "Woof!" said Timothy, suddenly, and wagged his tail- and at the same moment the three children saw something deep down in the water! "It's the wreck!" said Julian, almost falling out of the boat in his excitement. "I can see a bit of broken mast. Look, Dick, look!" All four children and the dog, too, gazed down earnestly into the clear


clan. A man's place was not always there, waiting for him. As soon as he left, someone else rose and filled it. The clan was like a lizard, if it lost its tail it soon grew another. Okonkwo knew these things. He knew that he had lost his place among the nine masked spirits who administered justice in the clan. He had lost the chance to lead his warlike clan against the new religion, which, he was told, had gained ground. He had lost the years in which he might have taken the highest titles in the clan. But some of these losses were not irreparable. He was determined that his return should be marked by his people. He would return with a flourish, and regain the seven wasted years. Even in his first year in exile he had begun to plan for his return. The first thing he would do would be to rebuild his compound on a more magnificent scale. He would build a bigger barn than he had had before and he would build huts for two new wives. Then he would show his wealth by initiating his sons into the ozo society. Only the really great men in the clan were able to do this. Okonkwo saw clearly the high esteem in which he would be held, and he saw himself taking the highest title in the land. As the years of exile passed one by one it seemed to him that his chi might now be making amends for the past disaster. His yams grew abundantly, not only in his motherland but also in Umuofia, where his friend gave them out year by year to sharecroppers. Then the tragedy of his first son had occurred. At first it appeared as if it might prove too great for his spirit. But it was a resilient spirit, and in the end Okonkwo overcame his sorrow. He had five other sons and he would bring them up in the way of the clan. He sent for the five sons and they came and sat in his obi. The youngest of them was four years old. "You have all seen the great abomination of your brother. Now he is no longer my son or your brother. I will only have a son who is a man, who will hold his head up among my people. If any one of you prefers to be a woman, let him follow Nwoye now while I am alive so that I can curse him. If you turn against me when I am dead I will visit you and break your neck." Okonkwo was very lucky in his daughters. He never stopped regretting that Ezinma was a girl. Of all his children she alone understood his every mood. A bond of sympathy had grown between them as the years had passed. Ezinma grew up in her father's exile and became one of the most beautiful girls in Mbanta. She was called Crystal of Beauty, as her mother had been called in her youth. The young ailing


have let Virginia love him.” “And what kind of life would that have been? For both Virginia and the child? She couldn’t hold him, let alone feed him. She couldn’t talk to him or play with him or do anything for him.” “You would have figured out a way.” “How?” Lenora says. “I was seventeen. I knew nothing about taking care of a baby.” “That’s still no reason to keep your sister and her child apart!” Anger churns in my chest, crashing inside me like the waves smashing against the cliff directly below us. “How could you be so cruel?” “Cruel?” Lenora says. “It’s quite the opposite, I assure you. Keeping that child away from this family was the ultimate act of kindness. Because of me and Miss Baker, that child grew up never knowing that his real mother was a murderer.” “And you’re punishing Virginia because of that fact.” “She deserves punishment! After what she did, a price needed to be paid. But I’m protecting her, too. I always have. Think about what would happen to a woman in her condition if the police learned what she’d done.” I shake my head. That’s not a good enough reason. Especially when, other than trying to hang herself, there’s nothing to suggest Virginia killed her parents. “Why are you so certain she did it? What about Ricardo Mayhew?” “What about him?” “He and Virginia were having an affair,” I say. “He was the baby’s father. And Berniece Mayhew followed him here that night.” Lenora laughs. The last reaction I’d expected. There’s nothing remotely funny about the fact that she’s blamed her sister for murders she might not have committed. Yet Lenora keeps laughing, a low chuckle that’s more disbelieving than amused. “That’s impossible,” she says. “Why?” I hear footsteps on the service stairs. A second later, Archie emerges into the kitchen. I have no idea how long he’s been there or how much he’s heard. All I know is it was long enough for him to answer my question. “Because Ricardo was with me that night.” It takes me a second to understand what he’s getting at. When I do, all I can say is, “Oh. The two of you were—” “Lovers,” Archie says, sparing me from having to say it. In the span of seconds, I think of a dozen follow-up questions. Archie doesn’t give me time to ask a single one. “I was as surprised as you are now,” he says. “For one, he was married, although in those days and in my limited experience, that was usually the case. It’s not like today, which allows for slightly more freedom. Back then, it had to be kept secret. Especially for someone like me. I was barely eighteen. One wrong move and my whole life could have been ruined.” Archie tells me how he and Ricardo met in secret, sneaking away whenever they could. It wasn’t easy. Ricardo shared the cottage with his wife. Archie lived in one of the rooms over the garage, which is where they usually met. “We called


taking a drag from the table’s pipe, blowing fragrant smoke into the air. “It’s all constructed so we can neatly tick boxes on forms.” Wow. That was deep. “I need to pee,” I suddenly announce. I stumble a little maneuvering out of the booth, but I’m upright in no time. In the bathroom, I start laughing as soon as I’m urinating; I try smothering it and snort instead. I go to wash my hands and see in the mirror above that I have a manic smile spread across my face. I try to straighten it out, but I can’t. I tap the mirror. “Silly, you.” My reflection laughs and makes me laugh with her. A woman comes in and I keep laughing, pointing to the mirror, trying to get her to join in, but she’s not interested. “Some people have no sense of humor,” I tell my reflection. “Fuck off,” she says from inside the cubicle. I return to our table. “You okay?” Cam asks. When I nod, she eyes me and says, “Bit quick for these to work.” “Maybe it hits different on newbies,” Jo says. “Aw, have we corrupted a purist?” Cariad asks. “Virgin, too?” I gasp. “Your mouth,” I tell her, “needs soap.” I then laugh hysterically and they all laugh with me. This is the mood now, to sit and smoke and drink and talk until we see the sun. We share secrets. I tell them about Ben and that sex is painful. “Maybe he’s shit and you’re not wet,” Cariad says and I can’t quite grasp what she means. I don’t know what happens to time, but the pulses of energy leak out of me, leaving me loose and serene. I’m happy to just sit here amongst distorted conversation and colorful, perfumed fog. When it’s not my turn to speak, I think of old memories, things I haven’t thought about in years. Like when I first came on my period and Mum was in Ghana so she had to send someone I didn’t know very well to help me. Or sneaking into James’s room when he called to say he was staying over at a friend’s house, and staring out of his bedroom window. Dad nodding to teachers at parents’ evenings in a crowd filled with mothers. Watching Serena Williams play Wimbledon, Dad looking up from his newspaper and asking, “Do you like tennis, Maddie?” I think of the lemon cake Nia made me for my fifteenth birthday; it’d looked like she’d dropped it but it tasted incredible. Then there’s blurred lights and the cool touch of glass on my forehead. We’re in a cab, just Jo, Cam, and me, driving out of Trafalgar Square. The world is slow tonight but shimmers brightly. “I get what everyone’s talking about now,” I say quietly. “Move out, Maddie. Live a little, Maddie. I never wanted to admit it, but I’m so glad to be out of the house and living my life. I hope that doesn’t make me a bad person. I almost can’t blame James for abandoning me,


ancient tea-table had stood upon them. Half a dozen chairs stood about the room, straight and stiff, and so ingeniously contrived for the discomfort of the human person that they were irksome even to sight, and conveyed the ugliest possible idea of the state of society to which they could have been adapted. One exception there was, however, in a very antique elbow-chair, with a high back, carved elaborately in oak, and a roomy depth within its arms, that made up, by its spacious comprehensiveness, for the lack of any of those artistic curves which abound in a modern chair. As for ornamental articles of furniture, we recollect but two, if such they may be called. One was a map of the Pyncheon territory at the eastward, not engraved, but the handiwork of some skilful old draughtsman, and grotesquely illuminated with pictures of Indians and wild beasts, among which was seen a lion; the natural history of the region being as little known as its geography, which was put down most fantastically awry. The other adornment was the portrait of old Colonel Pyncheon, at two thirds length, representing the stern features of a Puritanic-looking personage, in a skull-cap, with a laced band and a grizzly beard; holding a Bible with one hand, and in the other uplifting an iron sword-hilt. The latter object, being more successfully depicted by the artist, stood out in far greater prominence than the sacred volume. Face to face with this picture, on entering the apartment, Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon came to a pause; regarding it with a singular scowl, a strange contortion of the brow, which, by people who did not know her, would probably have been interpreted as an expression of bitter anger and ill-will. But it was no such thing. She, in fact, felt a reverence for the pictured visage, of which only a far-descended and time-stricken virgin could be susceptible; and this forbidding scowl was the innocent result of her near-sightedness, and an effort so to concentrate her powers of vision as to substitute a firm outline of the object instead of a vague one. We must linger a moment on this unfortunate expression of poor Hepzibah's brow. Her scowl,--as the world, or such part of it as sometimes caught a transitory glimpse of her at the window, wickedly persisted in calling it,--her scowl had done Miss Hepzibah a very ill office, in establishing her character as an ill-tempered old maid; nor does it appear improbable that, by often gazing at herself in a dim looking-glass, and perpetually encountering her own frown with its ghostly sphere, she had been led to interpret the expression almost as unjustly as the world did. "How miserably cross I look!" she must often have whispered to herself; and ultimately have fancied herself so, by a sense of inevitable doom. But her heart never frowned. It was naturally tender, sensitive, and full of little tremors and palpitations; all of which weaknesses it retained, while her visage was growing so perversely stern, and even fierce. Nor had Hepzibah ever any hardihood,


tailoring association still dependent on generators? Was it not just two weeks ago that one of them had died in her sleep after inhaling generator fumes? The third tailor to die that way in as many years. At the latest news, Caro could not cry. Instead, even though the dead woman was someone whose face she could barely remember, her head had pulsed with rage for days. Elections were coming up in a year or so. In the next few months, campaign posters would begin to appear, littering every fence and wall in sight with the faces of men whose smiles already showed they should not be trusted. Last time, her wall had been covered from top to bottom with some senator’s campaign posters because her front yard faced the street. She must remember to ask someone to paint post no bills on the wall soon. She’d ask one of her apprentices. Probably Ẹniọlá. part i Everything Good Will Come Muffled rage stalks like the wind, sudden and invisible. People don’t fear the wind until it fells a tree. Then, they say it’s too much. —Everything Good Will Come by Sefi Atta · 1 · Ẹniọlá decided to pretend it was just water. A single melting hailstone. Mist or dew. It could also be some good thing: a solitary raindrop fallen from the sky, lone precursor to a deluge. The first rains of the year would mean he could finally eat an àgbálùmọ̀. The fruit seller whose stall was next to his school had had a basket of àgbálùmọ̀ for sale yesterday, but Ẹniọlá had not bought any from her, and he’d convinced himself this was because his mother often said they caused cramps if eaten before the first rainfall. But if this liquid was rain, then in a few days he could lick an àgbálùmọ̀’s sweet and sticky juice from his fingers, chew the fibrous flesh into gum, crack open the seeds and gift his sister seedlings that she’d halve into stick-on earrings. He tried to pretend it was just rain, but it did not feel like water. He could sense, though his eyes were downcast, that the dozen or so men who clustered around the newspaper vendor’s table were staring at him. They were all quiet, stone-still. Like disobedient children transformed into rocks by an evil wizard in one of those stories his father used to tell. When he was a child, Ẹniọlá would shut his eyes whenever he got into trouble, certain that he was not visible to anyone he could not see. Although he knew closing his eyes now and hoping he would vanish was as stupid as believing that people could become stones, he squeezed them shut anyway. And, of course, he did not vanish. He was not that lucky. The newspaper vendor’s rickety table was still right in front of him, close enough for his thighs to brush the newspapers that covered its surface. The vendor, whom Ẹniọlá called Ẹ̀gbọ́n Abbey, was still standing next to him, and the hand he’d pressed into Ẹniọlá’s shoulder just


“I don’t know,” Maud said truthfully, “but I promise you that it doesn’t matter.” She pulled back the covers. “Want to sleep here tonight?” Ella nodded and climbed into the bed. They left it at that. What Maud couldn’t say to Ella was this: Thank you for being brave. Thank you for saying something. Thank you for giving us a chance. And thank you for finally freeing me from that marriage. Several weeks later, on a gloomy afternoon of pressing fog and shrieking seagulls, she was in the Victorian garden on Alcatraz, pruning the roses, when an idea made her stop and set down the shears. It came with a jolt, followed by a shimmer, and she thought about it for the rest of the day as she gardened. The history of the world existed in every plant that grew on the island. Not only the history of the Western World. The entire world. The history of the very cosmos. Mineral and vegetal and animal and human. From this one chunk of rock, you could travel everywhere and whenever. After dinner, she sat at the kitchen table with Ella and Louise as they did homework, and she plotted out her idea on a piece of drafting paper. “It would be a website with clickable photos and links,” she told the girls. “With descriptions of every plant on Alcatraz. You’d click on a sentence or a word in the description, and it would lead you to other information about history, botany, literature, geology. You might start with a tulip and end up in Stone Age Africa. I’ll have to learn the technical stuff.” “Go for it, Mom,” Louise said. “Sounds cool,” Ella said. Maud stayed up late for weeks, thinking and taking notes, before pitching the project to the Alcatraz Foundation. Besides the website, they loved her idea of an interactive tour that could be downloaded to visitors’ phones. Maud helped the development office write a grant proposal, and amazingly the funding came through a week later. The donor wanted to remain anonymous, Maud’s boss told her, “though they say you’ll know who they are. They’re a serious piece of work.” Alice, Maud thought, the name soaring through her body. That night, as she wrote a thank-you note, she remembered standing together in the barn, looking at the basket. Something all your own. Something you saw in nothing and brought into the world. She was still learning from that friendship, even though it had ended. And, she thought, as she dropped the envelope in a mailbox, maybe one day she would learn that it hadn’t. The first entry that she completed was on the iris, which grew on Muslim graves and in the wild on the African continent. Which figured on the woodblock prints of the Japanese artist Hiroshige. Which was the fleur-de-lis on the French flag. Which was named in the Homeric Hymns, picked by Persephone before her abduction by Hades. In August, with her portion of the money from the sale of her parents’ property, Maud bought a condominium on the


vain. There he sat; and all he could do --for all my polite arts and blandishments --he would not move a peg, nor say a single word, nor even look at me, nor notice my presence in any the slightest way. I wonder, thought I, if this can possibly be a part of his Ramadan; do they fast on their hams that way in his native island. It must be so; yes, it's part of his creed, I suppose; well, then, let him rest; he'll get up sooner or later, no doubt. It can't last for ever, thank God, and his Ramadan only comes once a year; and I don't believe it's very punctual then. I went down to supper. After sitting a long time listening to the long stories of some sailors who had just come from a plum-pudding voyage, as they called it (that is, a short whaling-voyage in a schooner or brig, confined to the north of the line, in the Atlantic Ocean only); after listening to these plum-puddingers till nearly eleven o'clock, I went up stairs to go to bed, feeling quite sure by this time Queequeg must certainly have brought his Ramadan to a termination. But no; there he was just where I had left him; he had not stirred an inch. I began to grow vexed with him; it seemed so downright senseless and insane to be sitting there all day and half the night on his hams in a cold room, holding a piece of wood on his head. For heaven's sake, Queequeg, get up and shake yourself; get up and have some supper. You'll starve; you'll kill yourself, Queequeg. But not a word did he reply. Despairing of him, therefore, I determined to go to bed and to sleep; and no doubt, before a great while, he would follow me. But previous to turning in, I took my heavy bearskin jacket, and threw it over him, as it promised to be a very cold night; and he had nothing but his ordinary round jacket on. For some time, do all I would, I could not get into the faintest doze. I had blown out the candle; and the mere thought of Queequeg-- .. <p 85 > not four feet off --sitting there in that uneasy position, stark alone in the cold and dark; this made me really wretched. Think of it; sleeping all night in the same room with a wide awake pagan on his hams in this dreary, unaccountable Ramadan! But somehow I dropped off at last, and knew nothing more till break of day; when, looking over the bedside, there squatted Queequeg, as if he had been screwed down to the floor. But as soon as the first glimpse of sun entered the window, up he got, with stiff and grating joints, but with a cheerful look; limped towards me where I lay; pressed his forehead again against mine; and said his Ramadan was over. Now, as I before hinted, I have no objection to any person's religion, be it what it


also. He is now helpless, indeed blind and a cripple."     "Where is he? Where does he now live?"     "At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about thirty miles off: quite a desolate spot."     "Who is with him?"     "Old John and his wife; he would have none else. He is quite broken down, they say."     "Have you any sort of conveyance?"     "We have a chaise, ma'am, a very handsome chaise."     "Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can drive me to Ferndean before dark this day, I'll pay both you and him twice the hire you usually demand."       |Go to Contents |               Chapter XXXVII     THE manor-house of Ferndean was a building of considerable antiquity, moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood. I had heard of it before. Mr. Rochester often spoke of it, and sometimes went there. His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the game covers. He would have let the house, but could find no tenant, in consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. Ferndean then remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with the exception of some two or three rooms fitted up for the accommodation of the squire when he went there in the season to shoot.     To this house I came, just ere dark, on an evening marked by the characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small, penetrating rain. The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed the chaise and driver with the double remuneration I had promised. Even when within a very short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing of it; so thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about it. Iron gates between granite pillars showed me where to enter, and passing through them, I found myself at once in the twilight of close-ranked trees. There was a grass-grown track descending the forest aisle, between hoar and knotty shafts and under branched arches. I followed it, expecting soon to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on and on it wound far and farther; no sign of habitation, or grounds was visible.     I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way. The darkness of natural as well as of' sylvan dusk gathered over me. I looked round in search of another road. There was none; all was interwoven stems, columnar trunk, dense, summer foliage no opening anywhere.     I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little; presently I beheld a railing, then the house scarce, by this dim light, distinguishable from the trees, so dank and green were its decaying walls. Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, I


only by the clucking of the milk in the tall cans behind them. The lane they followed was so solitary that the hazel nuts had remained on the boughs till they slipped from their shells, and the blackberries hung in heavy clusters. Every now and then Angel would fling the lash of his whip round one of these, pluck it off, and give it to his companion. The dull sky soon began to tell its meaning by sending down herald-drops of rain, and the stagnant air of the day changed into a fitful breeze which played about their faces. The quick-silvery glaze on the rivers and pools vanished; from broad mirrors of light they changed to lustreless sheets of lead, with a surface like a rasp. But that spectacle did not affect her preoccupation. Her countenance, a natural carnation slightly embrowned by the season, had deepened its tinge with the beating of the rain-drops; and her hair, which the pressure of the cows' flanks had, as usual, caused to tumble down from its fastenings and stray beyond the curtain of her calico bonnet, was made clammy by the moisture, till it hardly was better than seaweed. "I ought not to have come, I suppose," she murmured, looking at the sky. "I am sorry for the rain," said he. "But how glad I am to have you here!" Remote Egdon disappeared by degree behind the liquid gauze. The evening grew darker, and the roads being crossed by gates it was not safe to drive faster than at a walking pace. The air was rather chill. "I am so afraid you will get cold, with nothing upon your arms and shoulders," he said. "Creep close to me, and perhaps the drizzle won't hurt you much. I should be sorrier still if I did not think that the rain might be helping me." She imperceptibly crept closer, and he wrapped round them both a large piece of sail-cloth, which was sometimes used to keep the sun off the milk-cans. Tess held it from slipping off him as well as herself, Clare's hands being occupied. "Now we are all right again. Ah--no we are not! It runs down into my neck a little, and it must still more into yours. That's better. Your arms are like wet marble, Tess. Wipe them in the cloth. Now, if you stay quiet, you will not get another drop. Well, dear--about that question of mine--that long-standing question?" The only reply that he could hear for a little while was the smack of the horse's hoofs on the moistening road, and the cluck of the milk in the cans behind them. "Do you remember what you said?" "I do," she replied. "Before we get home, mind." "I'll try." He said no more then. As they drove on the fragment of an old manor house of Caroline date rose against the sky, and was in due course passed and left behind. "That," he observed, to entertain her, "is an interesting old place--one of the several seats which belonged to an ancient Norman


I seemed sinking into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have heard there is to drowning men, and then everything seemed passing away from me. My soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air. I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me, and then there was a sort of agonizing feeling, as if I were in an earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do it before I felt you." Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to another subject, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very happy evening together. 19 August.--Joy, joy, joy! Although not all joy. At last, news of Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill, that is why he did not write. I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh so kindly. I am to leave in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister's letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be near my heart, for he is in my heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of dress. Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for it, for it may be that. . .I must write no more. I must keep it to say to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must comfort me till we meet. LETTER, SISTER AGATHA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JOSEPH AND STE. MARY BUDA-PESTH, TO MISS WILLHELMINA MURRAY 12 August, "Dear Madam. "I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require some few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He wishes me to say that he


carefully folded it, hiding it in his jacket. As he hurried back to the Gazette, he couldn’t think of anything else save for Iris and her words. He thought of her as he waited for the lift. It was broken. So he took to the stairs, and his heart continued to race long after he had returned to his desk, and he didn’t know why. It was that ache again. The one that tasted like salt and smoke. A longing he feared would only grow stronger with each passing year. A regret in the making. He shifted, listening to the paper crinkle in his jacket. A paper inked with her words. She was writing brave, bold things. And it had taken him a while, but he was ready now. He was ready to write his own story. Iris remained with Marisol at the infirmary that night. After all the mattresses had been laid down, the two of them had helped in the kitchen, preparing soup and bread. Then they had washed plates and linens and scrubbed blood off the floors and prepared bodies for burial. The soldier Iris had helped off the lorry was one of them. It was almost midnight now, and Iris and Marisol were sitting on a stack of empty crates in a corner, shredding bedsheets into bandages. Attie had been gone for hours, and Iris couldn’t help but wonder where she was, if she had reached the war front yet. How much danger she would be in. “She’ll be safe,” Marisol said gently, as if she had read Iris’s mind. “I know it feels futile to say this, but try not to worry.” Iris nodded, but her thoughts ran in a tight circle. She kept seeing the moment the lorry doors were opened, revealing the wounded soldiers. “Marisol?” “Hmm?” Iris was quiet, watching her shred the sheets with precision. “Is Keegan fighting in the war?” Marisol froze. But she met Iris’s gaze, and there was a hint of fear within her. “Why do you think that, Iris?” “My brother is fighting for Enva, and I recognize the same gleam in you that dwells in me. The worry and the hope and the dread.” Marisol sighed, her hands dropping to her lap. “I was going to tell you and Attie eventually. I was just waiting.” “What were you waiting for?” Iris asked. “I didn’t want it to interfere with your work,” she replied. “Helena has no idea my wife is fighting. I don’t know if she would even send correspondents to my door if she knew. You are, after all, supposed to be writing from a neutral perspective.” “She knows my brother is fighting, and she still hired me,” Iris said. “I don’t think you should have to hide the fact that your wife is brave and selfless.” Marisol was silent, her long fingers tracing the bandages on her lap. “She’s been gone seven months now. The day word broke out that Dacre had taken the town of Sparrow, she enlisted. In the beginning, I asked her—I begged her—not


face. Logan gestures to her as she approaches. “This is Dr. Marks.” Brody’s eyes meet hers, and she feels her heart catch in her throat. Brody stares at her blankly, giving no indication they’ve met before. Or that he texted Sloane hours ago, asking when he could see her again. “Is Chelsea…” Tears brim in his eyes. Sloane swallows. “I’m afraid that despite our best resuscitation efforts, we were unable to revive your wife. Her pulse never returned after her heart stopped, when the emergency responders arrived.” Brody’s chin quivers, and he hangs his head. “She’s right in here if you’d like to see her,” Logan says. Brody nods and follows him into the room. Sloane enters behind them, wishing she could run away. Chelsea’s breathing tube is still in place, but a sheet has been pulled over her chest. She looks peaceful. “Chelsea!” Brody kneels beside her, enveloping her limp hand inside his. He presses his forehead against the side of her face as his body heaves with sobs. “No, no, no!” After a minute, Brody pulls away and sinks into a chair beside his wife’s body. He buries his face in his hands. Sloane watches him in disbelief, disturbed by his convincing act as the grieving husband after what he did to his wife. If she didn’t know better, she would have believed him herself. “We’re very sorry for your loss,” Logan says. “Can I call you a chaplain?” Sloane feels herself back out of the room. She can’t breathe while standing in this tiny room beside her lover and his dead wife, watching him pretend her death was a tragic accident that’s ripping him apart. She collides with Evelyn when she bolts out of the room. “Oh!” Evelyn shrieks. “Sorry,” Sloane mumbles and darts for the staff bathroom, feeling like the walls might cave in on her at any second. “Sloane?” Evelyn calls out. Once inside, she throws open the first stall in the row and locks the door behind her. She leans her head back against the side. Just breathe. She feels like she might throw up, even though she can’t even remember the last time she ate. She hears the bathroom door open as she leans her head over the toilet bowl. “Sloane?” It was Evelyn. “Logan asked me to come see if you’re okay.” Sloane presses her palms against the seat. Evelyn moves toward the stall. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” Sloane thinks back to the weekend and takes a deep breath. She stands up. “No. It’s just been a long day.” “I hear you. You sure you’re all right?” “I’m fine.” “Cool. Because there’s been a double shooting in Pioneer Square. Both victims are en route. Matt and Anil are tied up with other patients, so I’ll need your help.” “Great.” Sloane flushes the toilet for good measure. “Be right there.” Chapter 20 Sloane walks through the breakroom to get to her locker. Her shift from hell is finally over. She feels sick. Numb. Brody’s wife is dead, and it was no accident. She’s not


bead jewelry, clogs. The silver-maned woman at the counter might have been standing there unchanged the whole time, too. I’d picked a few dresses to try on behind the tiny blue curtain, and right as I struggled to get a too-small one back over my shoulders, my phone rang. When I finally answered, it was Defense Team Hector letting me know it had come to his attention that I was seen speaking with other witnesses in the hotel, and just to be on the safe side, could I please avoid all direct contact with other witnesses. It was ten minutes till testimony started, and this was how he was using his time. “But I don’t even have the full witness list,” I said. “So,” he said, “I guess just avoid everyone you don’t know for sure is not a witness.” The hotel, he added, had agreed to make bagged breakfasts for those who needed them, and I could pick mine up at the front desk. “You don’t have to hide in your room,” he said. “Just be careful.” I understood; this was less about actual sequestration than about me looking like some manipulator who scurried around town intimidating people. I emerged from the stall, having decided to buy earrings instead, and came face-to-face with a woman I recognized from the pool yesterday as Robbie Serenho’s wife. She had a couple of shirts draped over her arm, and up close she looked tired. We stood recognizing each other for an awkward moment before she extended her hand. “I know who you are,” she said. “I’m Jen Serenho.” “Oh, I—yes, hello.” “It’s okay if I talk to you, right? I know Robbie’s not supposed to talk to anyone on the list, which—you know Robbie, that’s not easy for him. But Mike is here, and I’ve always loved Mike. He was in our wedding! I’m so fond of the Granby people I know.” Jen Serenho was either the kind of person who always talked nonstop, or the kind of person who talked nonstop when she was face-to-face with the woman who’d ruined her husband’s life. She looked anxious, was leaning in too close, and I was glad for my face mask. I couldn’t imagine Hector would approve of this conversation, but then there was no possible way Jen was a witness. I stepped to the side just to put the dresses back on the rack, but she touched my arm as if to stop me fleeing the store. “You know, it was the hardest thing in his life,” she said. “He told me so on our first date. I asked about the worst time of his life and the best time, and he told me about losing Thalia. He’s someone—he takes things hard. These past few years, especially, it’s brought everything back.” It dawned on me that she wanted an apology. Instead I said, “This must be a lot for you.” “Oh! Well, yes. But the great thing about Robbie testifying, he can clear it up. We’ve been getting emails, phone calls. We took down


hand for the letter. "Shall I take it in?" he asked; but Madame Olenska, shaking her head, sprang out and disappeared through the glazed doors. It was barely half-past ten; but what if the emissary, impatient for her reply, and not knowing how else to employ his time, were already seated among the travellers with cooling drinks at their elbows of whom Archer had caught a glimpse as she went in? He waited, pacing up and down before the herdic. A Sicilian youth with eyes like Nastasia's offered to shine his boots, and an Irish matron to sell him peaches; and every few moments the doors opened to let out hot men with straw hats tilted far back, who glanced at him as they went by. He marvelled that the door should open so often, and that all the people it let out should look so like each other, and so like all the other hot men who, at that hour, through the length and breadth of the land, were passing continuously in and out of the swinging doors of hotels. And then, suddenly, came a face that he could not relate to the other faces. He caught but a flash of it, for his pacings had carried him to the farthest point of his beat, and it was in turning back to the hotel that he saw, in a group of typical countenances--the lank and weary, the round and surprised, the lantern-jawed and mild--this other face that was so many more things at once, and things so different. It was that of a young man, pale too, and half-extinguished by the heat, or worry, or both, but somehow, quicker, vivider, more conscious; or perhaps seeming so because he was so different. Archer hung a moment on a thin thread of memory, but it snapped and floated off with the disappearing face--apparently that of some foreign business man, looking doubly foreign in such a setting. He vanished in the stream of passersby, and Archer resumed his patrol. He did not care to be seen watch in hand within view of the hotel, and his unaided reckoning of the lapse of time led him to conclude that, if Madame Olenska was so long in reappearing, it could only be because she had met the emissary and been waylaid by him. At the thought Archer's apprehension rose to anguish. "If she doesn't come soon I'll go in and find her," he said. The doors swung open again and she was at his side. They got into the herdic, and as it drove off he took out his watch and saw that she had been absent just three minutes. In the clatter of loose windows that made talk impossible they bumped over the disjointed cobblestones to the wharf. Seated side by side on a bench of the half-empty boat they found that they had hardly anything to say to each other, or rather that what they had to say communicated itself best in the blessed silence of their release and their isolation. As the paddle-wheels


which didn’t work the first time but worked the second—and then he was hauling himself up, getting his whole body not over the railing but outside of it, so he stood face-to-face with me, the railing between us. I put my hands on his shoulders and squeezed. He couldn’t hug me back without letting go of the railing and plummeting to the ground. I said, “Look at you!” He said, “Look at you!” Social media had made him enough of a presence that it didn’t seem possible I hadn’t seen him since 1995. He said, “Fill me in!” “On . . . the case? My life?” “Start with the hearing.” I shook my head. “I’m sequestered, but I don’t think they’re actually having me testify.” This was not the devastating news to him that it was to me. He said, “They’re not putting Denny Bloch up there? That’s all I wanted, was for them to subpoena him. Why can’t they?” Geoff had developed the variety of crow’s feet that made him look kind and wise and mischievous. He’d kept his freckles. “I know,” I said, “I know. But the strategy—the thing is, if they get him on the stand and ask, Hey, were you sleeping with Thalia Keith?, he goes No, what the hell. They say, Some kids thought you were. He goes No, never. And he comes off sincere and gentle. End of story, and it looks like we’re grasping at straws.” “Sure. Okay. As long as I get to knock on his door when this is over and punch him in the face.” While we’d been cagey on the podcast about what we knew, what we suspected you of, I’d told Geoff everything. Geoff believed you were involved in Thalia’s death even more than I did—which is to say one hundred percent to my ninety-five. And while I felt some combination of betrayed and horrified when I considered you taking her life, Geoff seemed filled with a more primal rage. The sun was sinking fast, almost gone. I said, “Are your fingers going to freeze to the railing?” “It would be a noble death.” I filled him in on Carlotta—he’d only known bits of it—and he closed his eyes against the news. He said, “I was always in love with her.” “I know.” “What it was, I had a crush on the two of you together. Not in a porny way, not like—it was the two of you as a duo. You were always having so much fun.” I understood, even if I didn’t want to: Geoff and I would banter for hours, make each other laugh, but I was an oily-faced schlub and couldn’t flirt in the slightest. Carlotta would strum her guitar and look stunning. Together, we filled all his needs. “We were never a duo,” I said. “There was Fran.” “Sure. Fran was who I talked to about it.” I said, “You know my absolute favorite memory of Carlotta?” I told him the story, which he’d surely once known: I’d been hanging out in the art studio


Finnegan/Drew is ashen, unsure whether to focus on the spreading fuchsia blotch or the sudden appearance of the one-night stand who wasn’t there when he woke up this morning. He seems to settle for both and neither, mouth falling open while he dabs a napkin two inches to the left of where the stain starts. “I’m so sorry,” I sputter out, wondering if it would reflect poorly on Stella if I turned and made a run for it. “Your shirt, I—” “Not your fault,” Finnegan says to the stain. It’s a different kind of voice than the one he used on me last night. Professional. Distant. The server arrives with another glass of water and a stack of cloth napkins, which Finnegan uses to attack his shirt with a newfound gusto. His manager pulls out a chair for me, and I practically collapse into it, folding my legs to hide the bruise from view. Slowly, the pieces come together. He lives in LA. He was here for a conference—that must have been Emerald City Comic Con. The way he spoke about his career, the vagueness . . . he must have been worried I’d recognize him. Hence the fake name. And when those costumed con-goers showed up, he’d acted strange, hadn’t he? “Well! What a way to break the ice,” his manager says with a laugh. He extends a hand to me. “Joe Kowalczyk.” “Chandler. And you must be Finnegan.” I place a distinct emphasis on his name. “Finn,” he says, and when he breaks from the stain long enough for a handshake, his eyes flash with suspicion. As though maybe I planned this all along. His freckles are even more pronounced in the daylight. At night, he seemed to have an air of mystery about him, but at one thirty, the September sun slanting through the greenhouse windows and turning his red hair golden, he looks every bit the Hollywood type. Defined cheekbones, microscopic pores, a my-aftershave-probably-cost-more-than-your- entire-outfit set of his jaw. This isn’t the first time I’ve touched him, of course, and it’s much less intimate than anything we did in that hotel room. The handshake should be perfunctory. Awkward, maybe. And yet somehow, the way his fingers slide against mine, thumb briefly rubbing my wrist—so slight, I’d think nothing of it if we hadn’t already met—manages to spark far more electricity than anything we did last night. Last night. The way he kissed me up against the door of the hotel room before everything went so horribly wrong. The way I moaned into his mouth and— —and faked an orgasm. I cannot work on this book. Joe sets down his menu. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with us on such short notice,” he says. “Typically, we’d have arranged a video chat before flying you out to LA, but given you live here, it seemed a little like kismet.” Finn continues to scrub at his shirt. I can’t look at him, because when I do, I’m going to imagine the guy who asked Does she like that? starring


resemblance to Hap and Vic ended there. For one, he had no skin covering his metal frame. He also had four arms, a pair attached at what appeared to be his shoulders, the other two on either side of his chest. He didn’t have a head; instead, on top of his shoulders sat a large metal circle. Lining the interior of the circle were wet-looking protrusions that appeared to act as projectors, creating an image of a face. Lines of static rolled through Bernard’s eyes and mouth, red and flat. He placed all four of his hands on his hips as the Coachman approached. When he spoke, his voice sounded like someone had dropped a metal pail filled with loose screws, rough and jangling. “I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.” The Coachman laughed. “Oh, don’t be that way! We’re old friends, Bernard. We have history.” “Yes,” Bernard said. “And it’s this history that makes me want to destroy you where you stand.” The Coachman held up his hands. “Let’s not be too hasty here. I thought we left things on good terms.” “Are your memory circuits faulty? What about how you left the last time suggests we should be on good terms? I was almost decommissioned.” “That’s what I like about you, Bernard. You always were able to hold a grudge with the best of them.” The Coachman glanced back at Vic and the others before turning to Bernard once more. “Need I remind you about what I did for you? The Blue Fairy told me you quite enjoyed when they stuck their hand into your—” Bernard rushed toward the Coachman, covering his mouth with one hand, two gripping his arms, the fourth quivering as the finger folded. His head spun completely around as if looking to see if anyone was listening in. The blocky machines were not, continuing to move crate after crate. “Keep your mouth shut,” Bernard growled. The Coachman knocked his hands away. “Yes, yes. Let’s dispense with all the formalities, shall we? It’s time for you to repay what’s owed.” The Coachman glanced back at them once more before he took Bernard by one of his arms, leading him away, dropping his voice. Vic couldn’t hear what they were saying, but each word the Coachman spoke was punctuated by a finger tapping against Bernard’s chest pointedly. For his part, Bernard didn’t try to shove the Coachman away. Vic hoped that meant he was listening. As the Coachman spoke, Bernard’s head spun until it faced Vic and the others. Rambo waved before they could stop him. “He seems nice.” “I worry about you,” Nurse Ratched said. “Aw, thank you!” It took longer than Vic was comfortable with. He felt exposed, standing out here in the shadows of the city. At any moment, he expected alarms to begin to blare. They could run as the Coachman had told them to do, but he doubted they’d make it far. Hap must have been thinking the same thing, because he leaned over, voice quiet in Vic’s


America. I’d come home after work every day to meticulously draft the story I’d wanted to tell since my childhood: a richly detailed and subtly magical coming-of-age story about grief, loss, and sisterhood titled Over the Sycamore. After I’d queried nearly fifty literary agents without luck, the book was picked up by a small press named Evermore during an open call for submissions. The advance seemed like an absurd amount of money to me at the time—ten thousand dollars up front, with royalties to come once I’d earned out—but that was before I learned Athena had gotten six figures for her debut novel at Penguin Random House. Evermore folded three months before my book went to print. My rights reverted back to me. Miraculously, my literary agent—who had signed me after Evermore’s initial offer—resold the rights to one of the Big Five publishing houses for a twenty-thousand-dollar advance—a “nice deal,” read the Publishers Marketplace announcement. It seemed like I had finally Made It, that all my dreams of fame and success were about to come true, until my launch day drew closer, and my first print run was reduced from ten thousand to five thousand copies, my six-city book tour was reduced to three stops in the DMV area, and the promised quotes from famous writers failed to materialize. I never got a second printing. I sold two, maybe three thousand copies total. My editor was fired during one of those publishing squeezes that happen every time the economy dips, and I got passed along to some guy named Garrett who has so far shown so little interest in supporting the novel that I often wonder whether he’s forgotten about me entirely. But that’s par for the course, everyone told me. Everyone has a shitty debut experience. Publishers are Just Like That. It’s always chaos in New York, all the editors and publicists are overworked and underpaid, and balls get dropped all the time. The grass is never greener on the other side. Every author hates their imprint. There are no Cinderella stories—just hard work, tenacity, and repeat attempts at the golden ticket. So why, then, do some people rocket to stardom on their first try? Six months before Athena’s debut novel came out, she got a big, sexy photo spread in a widely read publishing magazine under the title “Publishing’s Newest Prodigy Is Here to Tell the AAPI Stories We Need.” She sold foreign rights in thirty different territories. Her debut launched amidst a fanfare of critical acclaim in venues like the New Yorker and the New York Times, and it occupied top spots on every bestseller list for weeks. The awards circuit the following year was a foregone conclusion. Athena’s debut—Voice and Echo, about a Chinese American girl who can summon the ghosts of all the deceased women in her family—was one of those rare novels that perfectly straddled the line between speculative and commercial fiction, so she accrued nominations for the Booker, Nebula, Hugo, and World Fantasy awards, two of which she won. And that was only three years