stuff. For several weeks they poked my body,

probed my mind.

Drug-free, they concluded. They seemed surprised.

Also, videos to the contrary notwithstanding, not a total thicko.

So...proceed.

My first aircraft would be a Firefly, they said. Bright yellow, fixed wing,

single prop.

Simple machine, according to my first flight instructor, Sergeant Major

Booley.

I got in and thought: Really? Didn’t look simple to me.

I turned to Booley, studied him. He wasn’t simple either. Short, solid,

tough, he’d fought in Iraq and the Balkans and should’ve been a hard case,

given all he’d seen and been through, but in fact he seemed to suffer no ill-

effects from his tours of combat. On the contrary, he was all gentleness.

He needed to be. With so much on my mind, I entered our sessions wildly

distracted, and it showed. I kept expecting Booley to lose patience, to begin

shouting at me, but he never did. In fact, after one session, he invited me for

a motorbike ride in the country. Lets go and clear our heads, Lieutenant

Wales.

174

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary

It worked. Like a charm. And the motorbike, a gorgeous Triumph 675,

was a timely reminder of what I was after in these flight lessons. Speed and

power.

And freedom.

Then we discovered we weren’t free: the press had followed us the whole

way and papped us outside Booley’s house.

After a period of acclimatizing to the Firefly’s cockpit, becoming familiar

with the control panel, we finally took her up. On one of our first flights

together, with no warning, Booley threw the aircraft into a stall. I felt the left

wing dip, a sickening feeling of disorder, of entropy, and then, after several

seconds that felt like decades, he recovered the aircraft and leveled the

wings.

I stared at him. What in the absolute—?

Was this an aborted suicide attempt?

 <p


yard and then stood there, looking around in vain for anything that might perhaps have been the opening of an old well. It was all so overgrown. Sand had blown in from the shore, and weeds and bushes of all kinds grew there. The stones that had once formed the floor of the big courtyard were now cracked and were no longer lying flat. Most of them were covered with sand or weeds. "Look! There's a rabbit!" cried Dick, as a big sandy rabbit lollopped slowly across the yard. It disappeared into a hole on the other side. Then another rabbit appeared, sat up and looked at the children, and then vanished too. The children were thrilled. They had never seen such tame rabbits before. A third rabbit appeared. It was a small one with absurdly big ears, and the tiniest white bob of a tail. It didn't even look at the children. It bounded about in a playful way, and then, to the children's enormous delight, it sat up on its hind legs, and began to wash its big ears, pulling down first one and then another. But this was too much for Timothy. He had watched the other two bound across the yard and then disappear without so much as barking at them. But to see this youngster actually sitting there washing its ears under his very nose was really too much for any dog. He gave an excited yelp and rushed full-tilt at the surprised rabbit. For a moment the little thing didn't move. It had never been frightened or chased before, and it stared with big eyes at the rushing dog. Then it turned itself about and tore off at top speed, its white bobtail going up and down as it bounded away. It disappeared under a gorse bush near the children. Timothy went after it, vanishing under the big bush too. Then a shower of sand and earth was thrown up as Tim tried to go down the hole after the rabbit and scraped and scrabbled with his strong front paws as fast as he could. He yelped and whined in excitement, not seeming to hear George's voice calling to him. He meant to get that rabbit! He went almost mad as he scraped at the hole, making it bigger and bigger. "Tim! Do you hear me! Come out of there!" shouted George. "You're not to chase the rabbits here. You know you mustn't. You're very naughty. Come out!" But Tim didn't come out. He just went on and on scraping away madly. George went to fetch him. Just as she got up to the gorse bush the scraping suddenly stopped. There came a scared yelp- and no more noise was heard. George peered under the prickly bush in astonishment. Tim had disappeared! He just simply wasn't there any more. There was the big rabbit-hole, made enormous by Tim- but there was no Tim. "I say, Julian- Tim's gone," said George in a scared voice. "He surely can't have gone down that rabbit's hole can he? I


August took a long look at her face, seeming to register her terror for the first time. How polite of him. And he momentarily softened, cupping the side of her face. “I’m adding it to my wedding vows. I won’t get hurt. It’s written in stone now, just like the rest of them.” He kissed her hard and took one last look at her face. “My God, I am fucking crazy about you.” With that, he shot from the truck with the backpack over one shoulder, leaving her reeling, her heart bleeding profusely. But instinct kicked in a second later and Natalie moved into the warm spot left behind by his body, watching him through the windshield, the scrape of the wiper blades suddenly becoming the soundtrack to a horror film. He shouted at a group of huddled men, joined them. After a brief exchange, they moved as one big unit toward the top of the road—and that’s when their location finally registered. She’d taken this shortcut a million times throughout her life. When town was jam-packed with tourist traffic, this road was a way to avoid it. Elevation wise, she supposed it was much lower than the surrounding area, but that fact had never seemed important until now. Up ahead, August disappeared around a bend in the road with the huddle of rescue workers and without her husband in view, everything inside her screamed to throw herself out of the truck and sprint after him. But she would not distract him in a dangerous scenario like this. Absolutely not. If he made a mistake and got hurt or killed because of her, she would never forgive herself. She was staying in the damn truck. But there was no one around to stop the truck from creeping forward a little. Just so she could keep tabs on any developments. August had left the motor running, so she put the truck into drive and inched slowly around the police vehicles and their flashing lights, stopping when the very top of the rushing water came into view below. And her blood ran cold. The van was halfway submerged in turbulent water. Teri Frasier, Zelnick Cellar’s one and only customer, and her triplets were holding on to one another for dear life on the roof of the van. For the first time, she noticed a man on the scene with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, wearing what looked to be a sodden suit. His hysterical tone reached through the rain and windshield and though the voice was muffled, Natalie somehow knew it was Teri’s husband. Helpless, watching the water slowly rise around his family. “Oh no. Oh no.” A chill rent through Natalie, making her shiver even harder than before. Her rickety breaths were causing the windshield to fog up so she turned on the defroster, retreating into the seat and pulling up her knees to her chest. “Please, please, please, August. Get them. Get them and be okay. Please.” A few minutes later, a yellow raft approached from upstream and there was August,


you. I don't believe in pampering vanity, Anne, I'll tell you that right off. Those dresses are good, sensible, serviceable dresses, without any frills or furbelows about them, and they're all you'll get this summer. The brown gingham and the blue print will do you for school when you begin to go. The sateen is for church and Sunday school. I'll expect you to keep them neat and clean and not to tear them. I should think you'd be grateful to get most anything after those skimpy wincey things you've been wearing." "Oh, I AM grateful," protested Anne. "But I'd be ever so much gratefuller if-if you'd made just one of them with puffed sleeves. Puffed sleeves are so fashionable now. It would give me such a thrill, Marilla, just to wear a dress with puffed sleeves." "Well, you'll have to do without your thrill. I hadn't any material to waste on puffed sleeves. I think they are ridiculous-looking things anyhow. I prefer the plain, sensible ones." "But I'd rather look ridiculous when everybody else does than plain and sensible all by myself," persisted Anne mournfully. "Trust you for that! Well, hang those dresses carefully up in your closet, and then sit down and learn the Sunday school lesson. I got a quarterly from Mr. Bell for you and you'll go to Sunday school tomorrow," said Marilla, disappearing downstairs in high dudgeon. Anne clasped her hands and looked at the dresses. "I did hope there would be a white one with puffed sleeves," she whispered disconsolately. "I prayed for one, but I didn't much expect it on that account. I didn't suppose God would have time to bother about a little orphan girl's dress. I knew I'd just have to depend on Marilla for it. Well, fortunately I can imagine that one of them is of snow-white muslin with lovely lace frills and three-puffed sleeves." The next morning warnings of a sick headache prevented Marilla from going to Sunday-school with Anne. "You'll have to go down and call for Mrs. Lynde, Anne." she said. "She'll see that you get into the right class. Now, mind you behave yourself properly. Stay to preaching afterwards and ask Mrs. Lynde to show you our pew. Here's a cent for collection. Don't stare at people and don't fidget. I shall expect you to tell me the text when you come home." Anne started off irreproachable, arrayed in the stiff blackand-white sateen, which, while decent as regards length and certainly not open to the charge of skimpiness, contrived to emphasize every corner and angle of her thin figure. Her hat was a little, flat, glossy, new sailor, the extreme plainness of which had likewise much disappointed Anne, who had permitted herself secret visions of ribbon and flowers. The latter, however, were supplied before Anne reached the main road, for being confronted halfway down the lane with a golden frenzy of windstirred buttercups and a glory of wild roses, Anne promptly and liberally garlanded her hat with a heavy wreath of them. Whatever other people might have thought


the wraiths could hide from the Nine’s artists. Something jostled in Io’s mind. The masterminds behind the Order of the Furies and behind the wraiths were one and the same. Powerful puppeteers, who were guiding the fury-born’s hand. Who, when their army was destroyed, sought a new weapon, a new Order to sow vengeance and deliver justice. But it still didn’t make sense. If whoever hid behind the wraiths had slipped into the Plaza, severed Bianca’s threads, and turned her into a wraith, all so that they could use her as a weapon to slay the Nine, then why would they leave Bianca locked in a cell— Oh gods. They knew Io was the only person the Nine had let into their fortress in months. That Io was the only way into the House of Nine, the only way to take vengeance on the Muses for their part in the fury-born genocide. They knew that Io would come for Bianca. That Io would find the mob queen threadless and try to save her by taking her to the Nine. They’d left Bianca locked in a cell because they knew Io. They knew her better, perhaps, than anybody else. Io took a breath that scraped down her lungs. “Do you want justice?” With animal speed, Bianca moved in Io’s direction. She stopped a few feet away, a finger raised straight in Io’s face. “You know who did this to me?” The greenhouse was empty now. Edei and the Muses were gone, hopefully somewhere safe, far away from here. Io and Bianca stood in a room of beautiful corpses. Io exhaled shakily. “If it’s justice you want, you need to do exactly what I tell you.” “And what is that?” A terrifying calm had descended on Io. “You’re going to help me get a confession out of them.” “So you do know,” snarled Bianca. “Who did this to me.” Yes, Io knew. Of course she did. It had been a trap, from the very beginning. A trap designed specifically for Io, relying on a single choice: that Io would find Bianca dying and choose to save her. That Io, a professional breaker of hearts, with all her guilt and her shame, couldn’t bear to hurt Ava again. Thais’s question echoed in the deathful night. You would do anything for Ava, wouldn’t you? CHAPTER XXXV ENDLESS SHADES OF GRAY IO SAT ALONE in the middle of a room full of death, pulling on the thread. Three short tugs, two long: the Ora sisters’ call to arms. Silver flowed through her fingers, casting a snowy iridescence against the furred bodies around her. Nightfall had arrived in Alante like a drape tonight, the heavy smog swallowing all light. The glass doors were all unlocked, exposing every side of the greenhouse. Chill air kissed her cheeks and billowed the curtains. The hair on the dead women’s heads stirred on the marble, like streams of ice water after the thaw. Bianca had disappeared to carry out the last of Io’s commands. They had undressed and redressed the bodies in


studied it carefully. The children did not dare to tell Uncle Quentin what they knew. It was true he was all smiles now, and was promising to buy them new shrimping-nets, and a raft for themselves- but he was such a changeable person. He might fly into a furious temper if he heard that Julian had taken the box and opened it himself, while his uncle was sleeping. When they were alone the children discussed the whole matter. It seemed very serious indeed to them. They half-wondered if they should let Aunt Fanny into the secret-but it was such a precious secret, and so marvellous, that they felt they didn't want to give it away to anyone at all. "Now listen!" said Julian, at last. "We'll ask Aunt Fanny if we can go to Kirrin Island and spend a day or two there- sleep there at night too, I mean. That will give us a little time to poke round and see what we can find. The sightseers won't come after a day or two, I'm sure. Maybe we'll get in before anyone tumbles to our secret. After all, the man who brought the box may not even guess that the map shows Kirrin Castle." They felt more cheerful. It was so awful to do nothing. As soon as they had planned to act, they felt better. They decided to ask their aunt the next day if they might go and spend the week-end at the castle. The weather was gloriously fine, and it would be great fun. They could take plenty of food with them. When they went to ask Aunt Fanny, Uncle Quentin was with her. He was all smiles again, and even clapped Julian on the back. "Well!" he said. "What's this deputation for?" "We just wanted to ask Aunt Fanny something," said Julian, politely. "Aunt Fanny, as the weather is so fine, do you think you would let us go for the week-end to Kirrin Castle, please, and spend a day or two there on the island? You can't think how we would love to!" "Well- what do you think, Quentin?" asked their aunt, turning to her husband. "If they want to, they can," said Uncle Quentin. "They won't have a chance to, soon. My dears, we have had a marvellous offer for Kirrin Island! A man wants to buy it, rebuild the castle as a hotel, and make it into a proper holiday place! What do you think of that?" All four children stared at the smiling man, shocked and horrified. Somebody was going to buy the island! Had their secret been discovered? Did the man want to buy the castle because he had read the map, and knew there was plenty of gold hidden there? George gave a curious choke. Her eyes burned as if they were on fire. "Mother! You can't sell my island! You can't sell my castle! I won't let them be sold." Her father frowned. "Don't be silly, Georgina," he said. "It isn't really yours. You know that. It belongs to your


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

heart that loves another heart. Take hands together, my dear children, and you will be happy together and your hearts will love each other. The chapel was flooded by the dull scarlet light that filtered through the lowered blinds; and through the fissure between the last blind and the sash a shaft of wan light entered like a spear and touched the embossed brasses of the candlesticks upon the altar that gleamed like the battle-worn mail armour of angels. Rain was falling on the chapel, on the garden, on the college. It would rain for ever, noiselessly. The water would rise inch by inch, covering the grass and shrubs, covering the trees and houses, covering the monuments and the mountain tops. All life would be choked off, noiselessly: birds, men, elephants, pigs, children: noiselessly floating corpses amid the litter of the wreckage of the world. Forty days and forty nights the rain would fall till the waters covered the face of the earth. It might be. Why not? --HELL HAS ENLARGED ITS SOUL AND OPENED ITS MOUTH WITHOUT ANY LIMITS-- words taken, my dear little brothers in Christ Jesus, from the book of Isaias, fifth chapter, fourteenth verse. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. The preacher took a chainless watch from a pocket within his soutane and, having considered its dial for a moment in silence, placed it silently before him on the table. He began to speak in a quiet tone. --Adam and Eve, my dear boys, were, as you know, our first parents, and you will remember that they were created by God in order that the seats in heaven left vacant by the fall of Lucifer and his rebellious angels might be filled again. Lucifer, we are told, was a son of the morning, a radiant and mighty angel; yet he fell: he fell and there fell with him a third part of the host of heaven: he fell and was hurled with his rebellious angels into hell. What his sin was we cannot say. Theologians consider that it was the sin of pride, the sinful thought conceived in an instant: NON SERVIAM: I WILL NOT SERVE. That instant was his ruin. He offended the majesty of God by the sinful thought of one instant and God cast him out of heaven into hell for ever. --Adam and Eve were then created by God and placed in Eden, in the plain of Damascus, that lovely garden resplendent with sunlight and colour, teeming with luxuriant vegetation. The fruitful earth gave them her bounty: beasts and birds were their willing servants: they knew not the ills our flesh is heir to, disease and poverty and death: all that a great and generous God could do for them was done. But there was one condition imposed on them by God: obedience to His word. They were not to eat of the fruit of the forbidden tree. --Alas, my dear little boys, they too fell. The devil, once a shining angel, a son


in my mind’s eye – the smallest handwriting, neat like stitching in dark thread. All of the words, lines and lines of a strangely dark story pouring into my mind. I could hardly catch my breath. I was so excited I ran as fast as I could in the direction of the tattoo parlour. ‘Look, best I can do is Tuesday,’ she said. A young guy with half a tiger blazing on his arm was sitting in the chair. ‘I just, I feel like I need to do it now, as soon as possible.’ ‘I get it,’ tiger man said. ‘Sometimes you just gotta strike while the iron’s hot.’ ‘Exactly,’ I said, slightly out of breath. ‘He gets it.’ ‘Okay, I could make a start when I’m finished here, but I won’t be able to do the whole thing.’ I told her that was fine and grabbed a pen and paper while I waited, in case I forgot the words. But it didn’t seem possible to forget this time. They were emblazoned on my brain. The sound of the needle carried on until it was my turn. I lifted my jumper to show her where the lines would go. She needed a magnifying glass – I wanted to keep the writing as small as it had appeared to me. ‘Um, hang on, what did you say the final line was again?’ ‘“Cold as marble. She was dead.”’ ‘It’s already here.’ ‘What? It can’t be.’ She brought me to a full-length mirror and gave me another smaller one to hold in my hand. My back was covered. The entire story was already inked on my skin. ‘That’s weird,’ she said. It wasn’t weird. It was impossible. And yet there it was. ‘It’s a cool story.’ She was trying to make the situation a little less weird by completely ignoring the look of shock on my face and focusing on what was real. I tried to do the same. ‘Yeah.’ That was all I could manage. ‘Kind of gothic.’ She gently reminded me that she wanted to close up now and apparently I didn’t need a tattoo after all. I couldn’t even remember walking home. I let myself in as quietly as possible. Madame Bowden was watching the TV she said she wouldn’t use, at a volume that would wake the dead. Walking into my basement flat, I saw it with new eyes. Everything was brighter, clearer. As I took my jacket off and hung it on the hook, my body felt different. I felt physically stronger and freer, as though my muscles had been released from some invisible restraints. I looked at my neat little bed and the branches of the tree growing in an arch over it, the kitchenette with its pretty wall tiles, which I had thought were plain blue but were now patterned with little flowers. I realised that I loved living here and weirdly, just as I had read in Madame Bowden’s face, I suddenly felt like I never wanted to leave. Like I belonged here. But why? I


some of the Career Tributes. I'm about to panic when I re- member the rabbit I startled earlier today. It has to drink, too. I just have to find out where. Twilight is closing in and I am ill at ease. The trees are too thin to offer much concealment. The layer of pine needles that muffles my footsteps also makes tracking animals harder when I need their trails to find water. And I'm still heading downhill, deeper and deeper into a valley that seems endless. I’m hungry, too, but I don’t dare break into my precious store of crackers and beef yet. Instead, I take my knife and go to work on a pine tree, cutting away the outer bark and scrap- 153 ing off a large handful of the softer inner bark. I slowly chew the stuff as I walk along. After a week of the finest food in the world, it’s a little hard to choke down. But I’ve eaten plenty of pine in my life. I’ll adjust quickly. In another hour, it’s clear I’ve got to find a place to camp. Night creatures are coming out. I can hear the occasional hoot or howl, my first clue that I’ll be competing with natural pre- dators for the rabbits. As to whether I’ll be viewed as a source of food, it’s too soon to tell. There could be any number of an- imals stalking me at this moment. But right now, I decide to make my fellow tributes a priori- ty. I’m sure many will continue hunting through the night. Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will have food, an abundance of water from the lake, torches or flashlights, and weapons they’re itching to use. I can only hope I’ve traveled far and fast enough to be out of range. Before settling down, I take my wire and set two twitch-up snares in the brush. I know it’s risky to be setting traps, but food will go so fast out here. And I can’t set snares on the run. Still, I walk another five minutes before making camp. I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set in a clump of other willows, offering concealment in those long, flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to the stronger branches close to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my bed. It takes some doing, but I arrange the sleeping bag in a relatively com- fortable manner. I place my backpack in the foot of the bag, then slide in after it. As a precaution, I remove my belt, loop it all the way around the branch and my sleeping bag, and refas- 154 ten it at my waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won’t go crashing to the ground. I’m small enough to tuck the top of the bag over my head, but I put on my hood as well. As night falls, the air is cooling quickly. Despite the risk I took in getting the backpack, I know now


compare the light in his eyes to the scattered stars in the sky and find his brighter, when I wish I could touch every inch of him the way this silver glow does—it’s not just aesthetic. At all. Lately, when I’m falling asleep, I have this weird half-awake fantasy of Brad giving me a tiny piece of himself and letting me put it in my pocket and keep it. I should really Google dream symbolism and figure out what that means—I could make a TikTok about it—except I’m afraid of the answer. I don’t know how long I can keep doing this. “Hey.” Brad pokes the tip of my nose with unnerving accuracy. “Pay attention. Want to go to the park?” I flush hot and look down at myself. “Er, I’m wearing my pajamas.” “Want to change?” “We have a curfew.” “Want to break it?” I remember I am still going, inch by torturous inch, through the arduous trial of acknowledging and expressing my true feelings. “Yes.” He beams. “Good. I’ll wait here. Wear your gloves.” I roll my eyes, zip up the tent, and ignore Aurora and Sophie’s sniggering while I hurriedly throw on a tracksuit. And a coat. And a scarf. And gloves, because wearing all that without them would be weird, not because he told me to. When I crawl out of the tent and zip it up behind me, the campsite is still and quiet, except for the haunting hoot of a nearby owl, the ominous howl of wind blowing through the forest to the north, and the resonant snore of That One Guy. Brad is waiting with his hands in his pockets, but as soon as I stand up, he hooks our arms together like he’s escorting me around a ballroom and we head slowly, cautiously, toward the park. “How is it this dark?” he asks. “Well, at night, the sun goes away—” He elbows my ribs. “The sun does not go away.” “You’re such a pedant.” “We would fly out into space and die.” I tut. “You don’t know that.” “Celine,” he says seriously, “if you tell me you’ve been swayed by a conspiracy theory against the existence of gravity, I will be forced to reconsider our—” I think he’s going to say relationship—which would be a problem, obviously, because we’re not in a relationship. And that’s a good thing, a safe and sensible thing, so I’m relieved when he says, “reconsider our friendship.” I am. I am. If I fall quiet, it’s because I have to concentrate. The park is on the other side of the campsite and when clouds blow in front of the moon, which they do every few seconds, we might as well be stumbling around with clay pasted over our eyes. “What’s wrong?” Brad asks. “I’m trying not to smack into the side of someone’s caravan.” “I mean lately. With you. You seemed off today.” There he goes again, noticing things. “It’s nothing.” The moon reappears, and we’re here at the park, which is a convenient distraction. Brad slooowwwly eases the


nothing more than a means of keeping the enemy preoccupied while the admiral was busy assembling his armada of red ships … not so unlike how the humans were dealt with prior … with the Lincoln vessel so many cycles past.” Lu-puk’s irritation was almost at the breaking point, corroborated by the most recent deep and ragged claw tears upon his command seat armrests. “We must ask ourselves, good commander, what we can offer the admiral that will be of worth to him. Something he can utilize for his own advancement … Is he not looking to add another star to his epaulet?” This #5 was far more cunning than Lu-puk had given him credit for. He’d have to watch out for this one … But for now, he’d take full advantage of #5’s serpentine mind. “What could we possibly offer the admiral—” “Advanced technology.” Did he really just do that? Cut me off mid-sentence? Lu-puk would enjoy making an example of this one. “Our technology is, naturally, far more advanced than these primitive humans … The simple fact that we have been bested by little more than electromagnetic pulses would be an insult to our superiority, no?” Lu-puk said nothing. “Think about it, wise commander. Has not a great weakness in our technology been revealed … one that, quite easily, could be used to bring down much larger vessels … say the admiral’s prized red ships?” Lu-puk, interest now piqued, scratched at his backside, letting the implications take hold. “Go on … speak more of this technology. I will need to explain it with confidence … with bluster.” “Embedded within the human warships’ EMP discharges, recently discovered and unbeknownst to us, lay a form of electromagnetic radiation known as resonance emissions. This particular frequency holds a unique property: it has the ability to interact with the intricate energy fields that power Liquilid Empire ships, shields, weapon systems, even our micro-nanite technology. “Again, Commander, these energy fields are characterized by specific resonant frequencies that are exclusive to Liquilid technology. As the human warships directed their EMP discharges, their weapons were, I suspect unknowingly, augmented with these resonance emissions. The consequences … Their electromagnetic waves penetrated our energy fields, instigating the unforeseen chain of events.” Remote Operator #2 jumped back into the mix. “The admiral will be most concerned about his red ships, the pride of Liquilid Celestial Forces. He’ll see how these resonance emissions could disrupt the delicate equilibrium of his ships’, his armada’s energy fields, causing nothing less than catastrophic results.” Lu-puk ventured a smile. This was good, no … This was very good. “The admiral will need to know the science; anyone can bark off vague theories, ambiguous suppositions …” Remote Operator #2, momentarily stymied, glanced nervously to Operator #5. Operator #5 took the ball and ran with it. “The electromagnetic radiation interferes with the Liquilid Empire’s intricate energy matrices, triggering failures within power systems and subsystems. As the resonance emissions infiltrate the energy fields of our assets, they create destructive interference patterns. Liquilids’ energy fields oscillate wildly, resonating with


wheels in motion; for, in an institution like this, where its officers are appointed to subserve their own profit and convenience, and seldom with a leading reference to their fitness for the duty to be performed, they must perforce seek elsewhere the dexterity which is not in them. Thus, by an inevitable necessity, as a magnet attracts steel-filings, so did our man of business draw to himself the difficulties which everybody met with. With an easy condescension, and kind forbearance towards our stupidity- -which, to his order of mind, must have seemed little short of crime--would he forth-with, by the merest touch of his finger, make the incomprehensible as clear as daylight. The merchants valued him not less than we, his esoteric friends. His integrity was perfect; it was a law of nature with him, rather than a choice or a principle; nor can it be otherwise than the main condition of an intellect so remarkably clear and accurate as his to be honest and regular in the administration of affairs. A stain on his conscience, as to anything that came within the range of his vocation, would trouble such a man very much in the same way, though to a far greater degree, than an error in the balance of an account, or an ink-blot on the fair page of a book of record. Here, in a word--and it is a rare instance in my life--I had met with a person thoroughly adapted to the situation which he held. Such were some of the people with whom I now found myself connected. I took it in good part, at the hands of Providence, that I was thrown into a position Thesaurus comprehended: (adj) understood, ANTONYMS: (n) impatience, ANTONYM: (n) native. apprehended. intolerance. mainspring: (n) motive, spring, condescension: (n) arrogance, fulness: (n) fullness, entirety, primum mobile, reason, ground, lordliness, disparagement, patronage, completeness, totality. inducement, coil, grounds, affability, disdain, pride, harassing: (adj) troublesome, carking, incitement, keystone, fountain. superciliousness, contempt, stoop, galling, thorny, vexatious; (v) perforce: (n) on compulsion; (adv) depreciation. ANTONYMS: (n) bothering, pestering, tormenting, needs. respect, acceptance, admiration. worrying, annoy, harass. wand: (n, v) stick, rod; (n) scepter, forbearance: (n) patience, clemency, interloper: (adj, n) stranger, alien; (n) verge, mace, pole, baton, sceptre, pardon, abstention, abstinence, encroacher, trespasser, invader, fasces, rod of empire; (v) staff. mercy, longanimity, avoidance, boarder, bodkin, foreigner, wheels: (n) vehicle, truck, car, brush, postponement, indulgence, restraint. gatecrasher, go between, unknown. force. 26 The Scarlet Letter so little akin to my past habits; and set myself seriously to gather from it whatever profit was to be had. After my fellowship of toil and impracticable schemes with the dreamy brethren of Brook Farm; after living for three years within the subtle influence of an intellect like Emerson's; after those wild, free days on the Assabeth, indulging fantastic speculations, beside our fire of fallen boughs, with Ellery Channing; after talking with Thoreau about pine-trees and Indian relics in his hermitage at Walden; after growing fastidious by sympathy with the classic refinement of Hillard's culture; after becoming imbued with poetic sentiment at


first time leaving the fourth courtyard since giving birth. Anticipation and joy buoy me, but I don’t go far before my legs—unused to walking beyond the confines of my room—begin to tremble. My eyes moisten when I reach Grandfather. He holds my face in his hands and wipes my tears with his thumbs. I could do the same for him. I’ve never before seen a man be so affected by yin emotions. “I would bring you home if I could,” he says at last. “But this is not possible. A wife only follows her husband. But I’ve made arrangements that should help you. I’ve spoken to Master Yang.” I try to imagine what that must have been like. Master Yang has far more property and money than my grandfather, who, in turn, outranks my father-in-law in officialdom by many, many degrees. It also surprises me that he has gone above my grandmother, who should have been the one to speak—woman to woman—to my mother-in-law. This, more than anything, tells me how much my grandfather loves me, even though I’m married out. “Let me explain,” he goes on. “In situations like this, a girl’s natal family can send strings of cash or give another mou of land to secure a favor. But our family has something even better—connections. I reminded your father-in-law that my father, my brother, my son, and I have all been presented to the emperor through our achievements in the imperial exams.” A shiver runs through me. If Master Yang is anything like his wife, he will not have taken well to the suggestion that he is less than… Grandfather stares out across the pond. Koi have gathered below the pavilion, and they gape at us, their mouths begging. “You’ve never questioned me about what I did when I worked on the Board of Punishments,” Grandfather remarks after a long pause. And I never would have asked, because the world knows this is one of the most powerful positions in government and also one of the most despised. “People like me follow the Great Ming Code to determine sentences,” he explains. “We consider what method of torture will be used to extract the truth. We decide if the guilty will be punished with military service, be forced to wear a heavy cangue around his neck, or be placed in shackles in the public square. And for how long. Will someone be banished to a distant province or will his miseries end quickly by decapitation?” As I listen, I sense his anguish. “Your grandmother and I have taught you about the balance of life through yin and yang—dark and light, death and life. Everything I did, while necessary for society to function and flourish, came from the shadow side of existence.” “Is this why you became a physician?” He nods. “Following your grandmother in her practice was the opposite of all that. Medicine keeps people aligned with the cosmos.” Another silence falls over us. I’m aware of birds twittering, the trickle of the stream that meanders through the garden, the water


trap, however, and let them know that you intend to walk home." "To walk across the moor?" "Yes." "But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me not to do." "This time you may do it with safety. If I had not every confidence in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but it is essential that you should do it." "Then I will do it." "And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any direction save along the straight path which leads from Merripit House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home." "I will do just what you say." "Very good. I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast as possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon." I was much astounded by this programme, though I remem- bered that Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit would terminate next day. It had not crossed my mind however, that he would wish me to go with him, nor could I understand how we could both be absent at a moment which he himself declared to be critical. There was nothing for it, how- ever, but implicit obedience; so we bade good-bye to our rueful friend, and a couple of hours afterwards we were at the station of Coombe Tracey and had dispatched the trap upon its return journey. A small boy was waiting upon the platform. "Any orders, sir?" "You will take this train to town, Cartwright. The moment you arrive you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name, to say that if he finds the pocketbook which I have dropped he is to send it by registered post to Baker Street." "Yes, sir." "And ask at the station office if there is a message for me." The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It ran: Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive five-forty. Lestrade. "That is in answer to mine of this morning. He is the best of the professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. Now, Watson, I think that we cannot employ our time better than by calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons." His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident. He would use the baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were really gone, while we should actually return at the instant when we were likely to be needed. That telegram from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry to the Stapletons, must remove the last suspicions from their minds. Already I seemed to see our nets drawing closer around that leanjawed pike. Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened his interview with a frankness and directness which considerably amazed her. "I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death of the late Sir Charles Baskerville," said he. "My friend here, Dr. Watson, has informed me of what you have communi- cated, and also of what


WAS HARD for both of us, while dealing with all that, to focus on the

million and one details of planning a royal wedding.

Strangely, the Palace had trouble focusing too.

We wanted to get married quickly. Why give the papers and paps time

to do their worst? But the Palace couldn’t seem to pick a date. Or a venue.

While waiting for a decree from on high, from the nebulous upper

regions of the royal decision-making apparatus, we went off on a

traditional “engagement tour.” England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales—we

traveled up and down and all over the UK, introducing Meg to the public.

Crowds went wild for her. Meg, Diana would’ve loved you! I heard

women scream this again and again. A total departure from the tone and

tenor of the tabloids, and also a reminder: the British press wasn’t reality.

On our return from that trip I rang Willy, sounded him out, asked his

thoughts about where we might get married.

I told him we were thinking of Westminster Abbey.

350

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.me/Afghansalarlibrary

No good. We did it there.

Right, right. St. Pauls?

Too grand. Plus Pa and Mummy did it there.

Hm. Yes. Good point.

He suggested Tetbury.

I snorted. Tetbury? The chapel near Highgrove? Seriously, Willy? How

many does that place seat?

Isnt that what you said you wanted—a small, quiet wedding?

In fact we wanted to elope. Barefoot in Botswana, with maybe a friend

officiating, that was our dream. But we were expected to share this

moment with other people. It wasn’t up to us.

38.

| TURNED BACK TO the Palace. Any progress on a date? A venue?

Nope, was the reply.

How about March?

Alas, March was all booked.

How about June?

Sorry. Garter


an immense belly, a black beard turning now to gray, and a swarthy skin. In his clerical dress there was indeed something in him to suggest the tar-barrel; and though on principle he gave five hundred lines to any boy on whose lips he overheard his nickname, at dinner-parties in the precincts he often made little jokes about it. He was the most worldly of the masters; he dined out more frequently than any of the others, and the society he kept was not so exclusively clerical. The boys looked upon him as rather a dog. He left off his clerical attire during the holidays and had been seen in Switzerland in gay tweeds. He liked a bottle of wine and a good dinner, and having once been seen at the Cafe Royal with a lady who was very probably a near relation, was thenceforward supposed by generations of schoolboys to indulge in orgies the circumstantial details of which pointed to an unbounded belief in human depravity. Mr. Turner reckoned that it took him a term to lick boys into shape after they had been in the Upper Third; and now and then he let fall a sly hint, which showed that he knew perfectly what went on in his colleague's form. He took it good-humouredly. He looked upon boys as young ruffians who were more apt to be truthful if it was quite certain a lie would be found out, whose sense of honour was peculiar to themselves and did not apply to dealings with masters, and who were least likely to be troublesome when they learned that it did not pay. He was proud of his form and as eager at fifty-five that it should do better in examinations than any of the others as he had been when he first came to the school. He had the choler of the obese, easily roused and as easily calmed, and his boys soon discovered that there was much kindliness beneath the invective with which he constantly assailed them. He had no patience with fools, but was willing to take much trouble with boys whom he suspected of concealing intelligence behind their wilfulness. He was fond of inviting them to tea; and, though vowing they never got a look in with him at the cakes and muffins, for it was the fashion to believe that his corpulence pointed to a voracious appetite, and his voracious appetite to tapeworms, they accepted his invitations with real pleasure. Philip was now more comfortable, for space was so limited that there were only studies for boys in the upper school, and till then he had lived in the great hall in which they all ate and in which the lower forms did preparation in a promiscuity which was vaguely distasteful to him. Now and then it made him restless to be with people and he wanted urgently to be alone. He set out for solitary walks into the country. There was a little stream, with pollards on both sides of it, that ran through green fields,


them all alive, that this was one more thing she could bluff and bare-knuckle her way through. “I’m not letting go.” But her voice sounded distant. And she thought she heard someone, maybe something, laughing. It wanted her here. It wanted her broken. What would hell look like for her? She knew damn well. She’d wake up back in their old apartment, back with Len, as if none of this had ever happened, as if it had all been some wild dream. There would be no Yale, no Lethe, no Darlington, no Dawes. There would be no secret stories, no libraries full of books, no poetry. Alex would be alone all over again, staring into the deep black crater of her future. Suddenly the wolf’s jaws released and Alex screamed louder as the blood rushed back to her arm. It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing. Darlington was fighting the wolves, and he was neither demon nor man but both. His horns blazed golden as he wrenched one of the beasts off Turner and hurled it into the rubble. It yelped and fell in a heap, its back broken. The box. It was still in her hands, but it was empty now, that bright, victorious vibration gone. He’d slipped free. To save them. He tore another monster off Dawes and his eyes met Alex’s as he snapped the wolf’s neck. “Go,” he said, voice deep and commanding. “I’ll keep them at bay.” “I won’t leave you.” He tossed the wolf that had been tormenting Tripp into the desert sand, and it ran, whimpering, tail between its legs. But there were more coming, shadows slinking between the crooked silhouettes of the Joshua trees. “Go,” Darlington insisted. But Alex couldn’t. Not when they were this close, not when she’d held his soul in her hands. “Please,” she begged. “Come with us. We can—” Darlington’s smile was small. “You found me once, Stern. You’ll find me again. Now go.” He turned to face the wolves. Alex made herself follow the others, but all the fight had gone out of her. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. She wasn’t supposed to fail again. “Come on!” Turner demanded, dragging Tripp and Dawes down the desert highway. There were more wolves waiting, blocking the road. “How do we get past them?” Tripp cried. “This isn’t how this works,” Dawes said, her voice raw with fear. She had blood on her forearm and she was limping. “They shouldn’t be trying to stop us from leaving.” Turner stepped forward, hands held up as if hoping the wolves would part like the Red Sea. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…” One of the wolves cocked its head, like a dog that didn’t understand a command. Another whimpered, but it wasn’t a sound of distress. It sounded almost like a laugh. The largest of the wolves padded toward them, head lowered. “For thou art with me,” Turner proclaimed. “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort


had heard what she had heard in Stilgar's voice--the unspoken offer of more than his countenance. Did he need a wife? She realized she could step into that place with him. It would be one way to end conflict over tribal leadership--female properly aligned with male. But what of Paul then? Who could tell yet what rules of parenthood prevailed here? And what of the unborn daughter she had carried these few weeks? What of a dead Duke's daughter? And she permitted herself to face fully the significance of this other child growing within her, to see her own motives in permitting the conception. She knew what it was--she had succumbed to that profound drive shared by all creatures who are faced with death--the drive to seek immortality through progeny. The fertility drive of the species had overpowered them. Jessica glanced at Stilgar, saw that he was studying her, waiting. A daughter born here to a woman wed to such a one as this man--what would be the fate of such a daughter? she asked herself. Would he try to limit the necessities that a Bene Gesserit must follow? Stilgar cleared his throat and revealed then that he understood some of the questions in her mind. "What is important for a leader is that which makes him a leader. It is the needs of his people. If you teach me your powers, there may come a day when one of us must challenge the other. I would prefer some alternative." "There are several alternatives?" she asked. "The Sayyadina," he said. "Our Reverend Mother is old." Their Reverend Mother! Before she could probe this, he said: "I do not necessarily offer myself as mate. This is nothing personal, for you are beautiful and desirable. But should you become one of my women, that might lead some of my young men to believe that I'm too much concerned with pleasures of the flesh and not enough concerned with the tribe's needs. Even now they listen to us and watch us." A man who weighs his decisions, who thinks of consequences, she thought. "There are those among my young men who have reached the age of wild spirits," he said. "They must be eased through this period. I must leave no great reasons around for them to challenge me. Because I would have to maim and kill among them. This is not the proper course for a leader if it can be avoided with honor. A leader, you see, is one of the things that distinguishes a mob from a people. He maintains the level of individuals. Too few individuals, and a people reverts to a mob." His words, the depth of their awareness, the fact that he spoke as much to her as to those who secretly listened, forced her to reevaluate him. He has stature, she thought. Where did he learn such inner balance? "The law that demands our form of choosing a leader is a just law," Stilgar said. "But it does not follow that justice is always the thing a people


sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry is even. Must be in a certain mood. THE DREAMY CLOUDY GULL WAVES O'ER THE WATERS DULL. He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of Yeates and Son, pricing the fieldglasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a chat with young Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow. Probably at his lunch. Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Goerz lenses six guineas. Germans making their way everywhere. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. Undercutting. Might chance on a pair in the railway lost property office. Astonishing the things people leave behind them in trains and cloakrooms. What do they be thinking about? Women too. Incredible. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to her at Limerick junction. Unclaimed money too. There's a little watch up there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses by. His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides. Can't see it. If you imagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it. He faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm's length towards the sun. Wanted to try that often. Yes: completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. Must be the focus where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting. There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we were in Lombard street west. Looking up from the back garden. Terrific explosions they are. There will be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time. Now that I come to think of it that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Must go out there some first Saturday of the month. If I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family. That would do to: man always feels complimented. Flattery where least expected. Nobleman proud to be descended from some king's mistress. His foremother. Lay it on with a trowel. Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurt out what you know you're not to: what's parallax? Show this gentleman the door. Ah. His hand fell to his side again. Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas: then solid: then world: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon out, she said. I believe there is. He went on by la maison Claire. Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon. She was humming. The young May moon she's beaming, love. He other side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. Touch.


took out her phone and squatted by the vent. She shone her phone light up the air shaft. On a jagged metal seam farther up the duct a few Pupkin fibers waved gently back and forth in the draft. Upstairs in the attic, something small fell over and rolled across the floor. Their eyes met, wide and white in the gloom. Louise pointed straight up. Mark nodded. She put on her jeans and shoes so she could move more freely, then she got the hammer from the kitchen counter and gave it to Mark, who stood on one of the dining room chairs Pupkin had used to trap her and pried the boards off the attic hatch as quietly as he could. He handed the pieces down to Louise one at a time, spiked with bent nails and broken screws. She laid them carefully against the wall. When Mark got the last one free he gave her the hammer, and she laid it by the little pile of wood. Mark hooked his fingers into the edge of the attic door and looked down and met her eyes. Louise nodded. Mark pulled down with both arms and the springs screamed, echoing through the empty attic. He stopped halfway, then yanked it down the rest of the way, letting the springs squawk loudly, once. Then he hopped off the chair with a loud thump that shook the framed pictures still hanging on the walls, and Louise folded down the raw wooden stairs and the two of them looked up into the empty black rectangle in the ceiling. Cold air spilled out of the hole, rolling down the stairs, making Louise’s arms shake uncontrollably. Nothing moved. The hall toilet cut on and Louise jumped. The water ran for a second, then shut off. The silence inside the house felt loud. They listened as hard as they could but didn’t hear anything. Mark lit up his flashlight, gun in one hand, and put his foot on the first step, then the second step. The springs groaned and the wood cracked as he climbed up into the attic hatch. Louise made herself climb up after him. The ladder bounced and creaked beneath their combined weight. The dark attic smelled like sap and raw pine and forgotten things. Louise turned on her flashlight app. If downstairs had been cluttered, this was chaos. She played her light over bright yellow stacks of National Geographic, which no one could bring themselves to throw away because of the pictures, piled on top of old luggage they almost never used. A lacrosse stick from Mark’s three-month lacrosse career hung from a hatstand, and a pair of Rollerblades Louise used to love sat on an open box of water-damaged theater programs from Mark’s old shows. Her light caught the tiny spiderwebs around the Rollerblades’ wheels, bleaching them silver. Something bumped against the back of her hand. She jerked away. Mark held a tennis racquet out to her. She took it, hefted it in her hand, and felt reassured. If it had worked with


Mary remained at home to entertain him. The last thing Mrs. Thatcher said to Becky, was: "You'll not get back till late. Perhaps you'd better stay all night with some of the girls that live near the ferry-landing, child." "Then I'll stay with Susy Harper, mamma." "Very well. And mind and behave yourself and don't be any trouble." Presently, as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky: "Say -- I'll tell you what we'll do. 'Stead of going to Joe Harper's we'll climb right up the hill and stop at the Widow Douglas'. She'll have ice-cream! She has it most every day -- dead loads of it. And she'll be awful glad to have us." "Oh, that will be fun!" Then Becky reflected a moment and said: "But what will mamma say?" --------------------------------------------------------- -261- "How'll she ever know?" The girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly: "I reckon it's wrong -- but -- " "But shucks! Your mother won't know, and so what's the harm? All she wants is that you'll be safe; and I bet you she'd 'a' said go there if she'd 'a' thought of it. I know she would!" The Widow Douglas' splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. It and Tom's persuasions presently carried the day. So it was decided to say nothing anybody about the night's programme. Presently it occurred to Tom that maybe Huck might come this very night and give the signal. The thought took a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations. Still he could not bear to give up the fun at Widow Douglas'. And why should he give it up, he reasoned -- the signal did not come the night before, so why should it be any more likely to come to-night? The sure fun of the evening outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-like, he determined to yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think of the box of money another time that day. Three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at the mouth of a woody hollow and tied up. The crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest distances and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and laughter. All the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone through with, and by and --------------------------------------------------------- -262- by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified with responsible appetites, and then the destruction of the good things began. After the feast there was a refreshing season of rest and chat in the shade of spreading oaks. By-and-by somebody shouted: "Who's ready for the cave?" Everybody was. Bundles of candles were procured, and straightway there was a general scamper up the hill. The mouth of the cave was up the hillside -- an opening shaped like a letter A. Its massive oaken door stood unbarred. Within was a small chamber, chilly as an ice-house, and walled by Nature with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. It was romantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look out upon the


our cigars he said, "Lord. . ., but Arthur interrupted him. "No, no, not that, for God's sake! Not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to speak offensively. It is only because my loss is so recent." The Professor answered very sweetly, "I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you `Mr.' and I have grown to love you, yes, my dear boy, to love you, as Arthur." Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly. "Call me what you will," he said. "I hope I may always have the title of a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for your goodness to my poor dear." He paused a moment, and went on, "I know that she understood your goodness even better than I do. And if I was rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so, you remember,"-- the Professor nodded--"You must forgive me." He answered with a grave kindness, "I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such violence needs to understand, and I take it that you do not, that you cannot, trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot, and may not, and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others, and for her dear sake to whom I swore to protect." "And indeed, indeed, sir," said Arthur warmly. "I shall in all ways trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jack's friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like." The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak, and finally said, "May I ask you something now?" "Certainly." "You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?" "No, poor dear. I never thought of it." "And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's papers and letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them, no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep them, if I may. Even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost, and in the good time I shall give them back to you. It is a hard thing that I ask, but you will


“There’s no way around this, Cody. She’s never going to keep quiet. But if we hide the body, it’ll look like she took off.” Cody flinched. I just turned her words over in my mind, marveling at the way she skipped so neatly over that transition. No mention of killing me. From alive to a body, like it was a process they could have nothing to do with. “People will look for her,” he said. “Some,” she allowed. “But Marcus Barnes called me right before you did. She left his place completely wrecked and acting erratic. Covered in dirt. People will believe that she took off.” “Marcus Barnes? What does he know?” He looked at me. “What did you tell him?” “It wasn’t about that,” Cass said. “She found out…” She hesitated, like it was painful for her to say. “Liv was the one who stabbed her when we were kids. Had some kind of psychotic break and attacked her.” I thought of all the time Cass had spent with me, after the attack. At the hospital and after. How she’d taken care of being our voice, telling the story again and again to anyone who asked. Taking control of the narrative. And of us. “What?” Cody said, clearly shocked. I felt a petty surge of pleasure that I wasn’t the only one getting blindsided. “That’s what Liv meant when she said you lied about Stahl.” “It makes sense that Naomi would be freaked out and take off after finding that out,” Cass said, sounding satisfied. “We can’t just kill her,” Cody said, voice strained. “I can’t—” “You know we have to. It’s that, or you go to prison, and that baby of yours is in college before you get to see her except on the other side of Plexiglas.” She sighed. “You don’t have to actually do it. I don’t mind.” She held out her hand for the gun. Cody stared at her. Looked at me. I was past pleading. I met his eyes and tried to keep myself from shaking. He dropped his eyes and handed off the gun. Cass checked it expertly to ensure it was loaded. “There’s a tarp in the bag. We should lay it down so we don’t leave blood behind,” she said. He turned away, mouth set and eyes downcast. He knelt to unzip the bag, and Cass turned her wrist this way and that, as if getting used to the weight of the gun. “I really am sorry about this, Naomi,” she said, sounding tired. “Fuck you,” I ground out. “You can’t even tell me the truth when I’m about to die.” “What? I am sorry. I would rather not have to kill you,” she said, irritated. “Not about that. You lied about Liv. About that day.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. Cody had paused, looking up at us. “Why did you say it was Stahl?” I asked. She blinked. “To protect Liv, obviously. Prison would have killed her. You know that.” I let out a sound like a growl,


doing so, since he was being fed at what appeared to be regular intervals. He was getting, he judged, three meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he wondered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day. The food was surprisingly good, with meat at every third meal. Once there was even a packet of cigarettes. He had no matches, but the never-speaking guard who brought his food would give him a light. The first time he tried to smoke it made him sick, but he persevered, and spun the packet out for a long time, smoking half a cigarette after each meal. They had given him a white slate with a stump of pencil tied to the corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when he was awake he was completely torpid. Often he would lie from one meal to the next almost without stirring, sometimes asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries in which it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown used to sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference, except that one's dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all through this time, and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit ruins, with his mother, with Julia, with O'Brien--not doing anything, merely sitting in the sun, talking of peaceful things. Such thoughts as he had when he was awake were mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power of intellectual effort, now that the stimulus of pain had been removed. He was not bored, he had no desire for conversation or distraction. Merely to be alone, not to be beaten or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be clean all over, was completely satisfying. By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the strength gathering in his body. He would finger himself here and there, trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were growing rounder and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were now definitely thicker than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began exercising himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres, measured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a walk, he could not hold his stool out at arm's length, he could not stand on one leg without falling over. He squatted down on his heels, and found that with agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself to a standing position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to lift his weight


all three of them working, moving the statue was fairly easy. Gabe directed them—the statue was on a track, barely visible against the wood grain in the dark—and they inched the statue forward until it slotted into a notch carved into the top of the well wall. “Upon reflection,” Bastian said, hooking his hands on his hips and scowling at the statue, “moving it toward the notch seems obvious.” “What an auspicious start we’re off to,” Gabe muttered. Lore was too out of breath to say anything. Even sliding along a track, the damn statue was heavy. Bastian moved the wooden piece covering the top of the well, now unencumbered by stone gods. Inside, a perfect ring of pitch-black, so thick it looked almost liquid. Cold emanated from the depths of the well, and all three of them took a tiny, instinctual step back. “Do you have a key?” Gabe’s voice was low and dark, still suspicious. He arched a brow at Bastian, who looked utterly confused. “A key for what?” “The chambers,” Gabe said. “The chambers within the catacombs. They aren’t just left open.” “Well.” Bastian pushed back his hair. “Fuck.” “I can get in.” Lore didn’t look at either of them. She looked at that vast well of darkness, an entry to deep parts of the earth where the living weren’t meant to go. “I can get in,” she repeated. Gabe’s brows knit. “How?” Behind him, Bastian said nothing. A swallow worked down her dry throat. “I can get into any chamber we find. Just trust me.” She knew it like she knew the shape of the catacombs, like she knew her name and the crescent edges of the scar on her palm. No part of that world beneath the earth would remain closed to her. The war in Gabe’s mind played out on his face, cut through in silver moonlight. They circled trust, but never quite landed, carrion birds with a body dying slowly. “She was a poison runner,” Bastian said, cast in darkness beneath the lip of the well’s roof. His arms were crossed, his voice low. “She knows how to pick a lock.” Gabe could tell there was more to it, and could tell she wasn’t going to share. Lore could read it in the line of his mouth, hard and unyielding and shaped like well-hidden hurt. Gabriel Remaut had lived a lifetime of subtle wounds, and she just kept giving him more. But he shook it off. Nodded. “Fine.” Bastian’s eyes never left Lore. The moment she felt steadier, tamped down the guilt in her gut, he seemed to know. A tiny inclination of his head, then he stepped up to the well. “Right. Lore and I will go in and search. I don’t know how long it will take to find the bodies, but I would imagine we’ll be back before dawn. Remaut, you stay here and—” “Absolutely not.” It was near a growl. “You think I’ll let you take her down there alone?” “I think you’re going to have to,” Bastian said, his voice


of Oliver's old friend. 'Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It'll keep the swelling down.' Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye. CHAPTER VII OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment. 'Why, what's the matter with the boy!' said the old pauper. 'Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!' cried Noah, wit well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, --which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. 'Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!' said Noah: 'Oliver, sir, --Oliver has--' 'What? What?' interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. 'Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?' 'No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious,' replied Noah. 'He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!' And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated,


miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin, became a traitor to good feeling and honour and had quitted Italy with his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid him, as he said, in some plan of future maintenance. "Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix and rendered him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could have endured poverty, and while this distress had been the meed of his virtue, he gloried in it; but the ingratitude of the Turk and the loss of his beloved Safie were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul. "When the news reached Leghorn that Felix was deprived of his wealth and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her lover, but to prepare to return to her native country. The generous nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to expostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate. "A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment and told her hastily that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn had been divulged and that he should speedily be delivered up to the French government; he had consequently hired a vessel to convey him to Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn. "When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it would become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence in Turkey was abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings were alike averse to it. By some papers of her father which fell into her hands she heard of the exile of her lover and learnt the name of the spot where he then resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her determination. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her and a sum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn, but who understood the common language of Turkey, and departed for Germany. "She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her with the most devoted affection, but the poor girl died, and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language of the country and utterly ignorant of the customs of the world. She fell, however, into good hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for which they were bound, and after her death the woman of the house in which they had lived


release of these scrolls. And why wouldn't they? The scrolls highlight glaring historical discrepancies and fabrications, clearly confirming that the modern Bible was compiled and edited by men who possessed a political agenda-to promote the divinity of the man Jesus Christ and use His influence to solidify their own power base." "And yet," Langdon countered, "it's important to remember that the modern Church's desire to suppress these documents comes from a sincere belief in their established view of Christ. The Vatican is made up of deeply pious men who truly believe these contrary documents could only be false testimony." Teabing chuckled as he eased himself into a chair opposite Sophie. "As you can see, our professor has a far softer heart for Rome than I do. Nonetheless, he is correct about the modern clergy believing these opposing documents are false testimony. That's understandable. Constantine's Bible has been their truth for ages. Nobody is more indoctrinated than the indoctrinator." "What he means," Langdon said, "is that we worship the gods of our fathers." "What I mean," Teabing countered, "is that almost everything our fathers taught us about Christ is false. As are the stories about the Holy Grail." Sophie looked again at the Da Vinci quote before her. Blinding ignorance does mislead us. O! Wretched mortals, open your eyes! Teabing reached for the book and flipped toward the center. "And finally, before I show you Da Vinci's paintings of the Holy Grail, I'd like you to take a quick look at this." He opened the book to a colorful graphic that spanned both full pages. "I assume you recognize this fresco?" He's kidding, right? Sophie was staring at the most famous fresco of all time-The Last Supper-Da Vinci's legendary painting from the wall of Santa Maria delle Grazie near Milan. The decaying fresco portrayed Jesus and His disciples at the moment that Jesus announced one of them would betray Him. "I know the fresco, yes." "Then perhaps you would indulge me this little game? Close your eyes if you would." Uncertain, Sophie closed her eyes. "Where is Jesus sitting?" Teabing asked. "In the center." "Good. And what food are He and His disciples breaking and eating?" "Bread." Obviously. "Superb. And what drink?" "Wine. They drank wine." "Great. And one final question. How many wineglasses are on the table?" Sophie paused, realizing it was the trick question. And after dinner, Jesus took the cup of wine, sharing it with His disciples. "One cup," she said. "The chalice." The Cup of Christ. The Holy Grail. "Jesus passed a single chalice of wine, just as modern Christians do at communion." Teabing sighed. "Open your eyes." She did. Teabing was grinning smugly. Sophie looked down at the painting, seeing to her astonishment that everyone at the table had a glass of wine, including Christ. Thirteen cups. Moreover, the cups were tiny, stemless, and made of glass. There was no chalice in the painting. No Holy Grail. 159 Teabing's eyes twinkled. "A bit strange, don't you think, considering that both the Bible and our standard Grail legend celebrate


Sloane glances at the closed double doors of her home office as The One loads on her phone. She’s still wearing her scrubs, having been too tired to change when she got home from the hospital. At forty-two, she’s never used a dating app before. It feels weird, and not just because she’s married. She feels a tingle of apprehension as she taps the JOIN NOW button beneath The One’s bold logo. Beneath it, in red, is their slogan: Real connections. Lasting love. Evelyn assured her after they finished stabilizing a gunshot victim earlier that night that The One wasn’t like other dating apps. Her profile wouldn’t be public and would only be seen by someone the data-driven app found as a potential. “You just put in your age, gender, interests, and what you’re looking for in a partner,” Evelyn said, as Sloane washed her hands outside one of the ER’s treatment rooms. “Then you take a short compatibility test. The app does everything else.” Sloane had heard of the app before, which was well-known for its success in using artificial intelligence to seemingly form real connections and long-lasting relationships. But she never thought she’d be using it. Then again, she also never thought Ethan would betray her. “So, there’s no photos?” Sloane stepped aside to make room for a trauma patient being transported to the OR. Evelyn shook her head. “Not until The One finds your potentials. Then, after seeing their basic info, you can choose to message them and send a photo if you want. Or request one.” Sloane tossed a paper towel into the trash. “Sounds exhausting.” “Just think about it. It could be worth it, you know. It’s how I met Ming.” "I took a few classes with Brody Carr in college. He was a premed major before he dropped out.” Evelyn’s eyes widened. "You did?" "We were chemistry lab partners for half a semester. He was really quiet and kind of a nerd. Not whom I would’ve expected to go on to create a billion-dollar dating app." Evelyn raised her eyebrows. "Well, he doesn't seem nerdy now.” Outside, rain drums against the window behind where Sloane now sits in her favorite overstuffed chair. She pauses before answering the last question on the app’s compatibility test. How do you feel when you realize the person you are with is not the one for you? I feel shattered, she thinks as she stares at the multiple-choice options. But it’s not one of the answers. For lack of a better option, she selects I feel disappointed and clicks SUBMIT. Hearts dance across the screen as the app searches for potentials. “Hey.” Sloane jumps. Ethan stands in the doorway. She hates the feeling that she still gets when she sees him. That she still loves him, even after what he did. “Sorry,” he says, “I thought you heard me come in.” She presses her phone screen against her thigh, chiding herself for feeling guilty after what Ethan did. “I guess I didn’t.” They hold each other’s gaze in silence for a


to take the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to be listening, so she went on again: `Twenty-four hours, I THINK; or is it twelve? I--' `Oh, don't bother ME,' said the Duchess; `I never could abide figures!' And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of every line: `Speak roughly to your little boy, And beat him when he sneezes: He only does it to annoy, Because he knows it teases.' CHORUS. (In which the cook and the baby joined):-- `Wow! wow! wow!' While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so, that Alice could hardly hear the words:-- `I speak severely to my boy, I beat him when he sneezes; For he can thoroughly enjoy The pepper when he pleases!' CHORUS. `Wow! wow! wow!' `Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!' the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. `I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen,' and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her. Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer- shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, `just like a star-fish,' thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it. As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. `IF I don't take this child away with me,' thought Alice, `they're sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be murder to leave it behind?' She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). `Don't grunt,' said Alice; `that's not at all a proper way of expressing yourself.' The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had a VERY turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all. `But perhaps it was only sobbing,' she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. `If you're going to turn


of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the 4 per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.'' It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now. ``You are too hasty, Sir,'' she cried. ``You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do it without farther loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me, I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline them.'' ``I am not now to learn,'' replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the hand, ``that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.'' ``Upon my word, Sir,'' cried Elizabeth, ``your hope is rather an extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. -- You could not make _me_ happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make _you_ so, -- Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.'' ``Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,'' said Mr. Collins very gravely -- ``but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of seeing her again I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable qualifications.'' ``Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.'' And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr.


cleared his throat and moved his feet to the beat of the drums. It filled him with fire as it had always done from his youth. He trembled with the desire to conquer and subdue. It was like the desire for woman. "We shall be late for the wrestling," said Ezinma to her mother. "They will not begin until the sun goes down." "But they are beating the drums." "Yes. The drums begin at noon but the wrestling waits until the sun begins to sink. Go and see if your father has brought out yams for the afternoon." "He has. Nwoye's mother is already cooking." "Go and bring our own, then. We must cook quickly or we shall be late for the wrestling." Ezinma ran in the direction of the barn and brought back two yams from the dwarf wall. Ekwefi peeled the yams quickly. The troublesome nanny-goat sniffed about, eating the peelings. She cut the yams into small pieces and began to prepare a pottage, using some of the chicken. At that moment they heard someone crying just outside their compound. It was very much like Obiageli, Nwoye's sister. "Is that not Obiageli weeping?" Ekwefi called across the yard to Nwoye's mother. "Yes," she replied. "She must have broken her waterpot." The weeping was now quite close and soon the children filed in, carrying on their heads various sizes of pots suitable to their years. Ikemefuna came first with the biggest pot, closely followed by Nwoye and his two younger brothers. Obiageli brought up the rear, her face streaming with tears. In her hand was the cloth pad on which the pot should have rested on her head. "What happened?" her mother asked, and Obiageli told her mournful story. Her mother consoled her and promised to buy her another pot. Nwoye's younger brothers were about to tell their mother the true story of the accident when Ikemefuna looked at them sternly and they held their peace. The fact was that Obiageli had been making inyanga with her pot. She had balanced it on her head, folded her arms in front of her and began to sway her waist like a grown-up young lady. When the pot fell down and broke she burst out laughing. She only began to weep when they got near the iroko tree outside their compound. The drums were still beating, persistent and unchanging. Their sound was no longer a separate thing from the living village. It was like the pulsation of its heart. It throbbed in the air, in the sunshine, and even in the trees, and filled the village with excitement. Ekwefi ladled her husband's share of the pottage into a bowl and covered it. Ezinma took it to him in his obi. Okonkwo was sitting on a goatskin already eating his first wife's meal. Obiageli, who had brought it from her mother's hut, sat on the floor waiting for him to finish. Ezinma placed her mother's dish before him and sat with Obiageli. "Sit like a woman!" Okonkwo shouted at her. Ezinma brought her two


into another. “Harriet,” he rasps, shaking his head. “It was more complicated than that.” More complicated than thinking I’d betrayed him. It wasn’t that he was angry. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust me. He just didn’t want me anymore. It feels like my body is turning to sand, like in a minute I’ll be nothing but a shapeless heap on the floor. “I was in a dark place,” he goes on. I turn from him because I feel the cracks spreading, my eyes stinging. “I know.” I did know. Every second of every day. “I just didn’t know how to fix it,” I choke out. “You couldn’t have,” he says. I close my eyes as I try to gather myself, stuff all these messy feelings back down. The truth is, I knew he hated San Francisco. I felt guilty that he’d followed me there. Guilty about keeping him there, even as it was killing me not being able to make him happy. His hand slides through mine, tentatively lacing our fingers and tugging me back to him. “It wasn’t just that,” he says. “My dad . . .” I nod, the ache in my throat too severe to speak. Hank’s passing was so sudden. I don’t know if that made it any worse. There never would have been an okay time to lose him. Not for Wyn. Not for anyone who knew Hank. Everything combusted at once, and somehow I still thought we’d make it. When he promised to love me forever, I believed him. That was what made me the angriest, with both of us. “I didn’t think that I . . .” His eyes hold mine, his jaw muscles working. “I never wanted to hurt you.” “I know.” But it changes nothing. “All I want,” he says, “is for you to be happy.” There it is again, that word. “That’s what I was trying to say, down in the cellar,” he goes on. “That I don’t want to do anything this week that messes anything else up for you. And I’m sorry I almost did.” The pieces click together. “I’m not with him,” I say. “There’s nothing to mess up.” His lips part. I wish I could roll the words back into my mouth and down my throat. “If that’s what you were getting at.” “Okay,” he says. Okay? What kind of response is that? After a beat of awkward silence, he says, “I’m not either.” I suppress a smile. “You’re not in a long-distance relationship with my coworker you’ve met once?” An irresistible blush hits the tops of his cheekbones. He knocks his foot against the leg of the air hockey table. “I can hardly believe it myself. The chemistry was undeniable, but it wasn’t enough.” I swallow the second half of a laugh, and he looks up at me from under that one lock of his. “There’s no one else,” he says. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. It can’t matter. He wasn’t happy with you. He broke your heart. He was never yours to keep, and


webbing, then another, so tiny they almost looked like hairs. Alex heard a soft snuffling sound, and then Mercy gasped as the egg sac gave way, a wave of tiny baby spiders cascading over her hands. She shrieked and dropped the spindle. “Get in there,” Darlington said, crouching down. He sounded calm, but it took all of Alex’s will to stay still as the spiders flowed over the ground like a spreading stain. Darlington placed his palm on the paving stone and let them course over his fingers. “Let them bite you.” Turner cast his eyes skyward and muttered something under his breath. He dropped into a crouch and dipped his hand in, Dawes followed, and Alex forced herself to do the same. She wanted to scream at the feel of all those slender legs whispering over her skin. The bites didn’t hurt, but she could see her skin swelling in places. Thankfully the spiders moved on quickly, pouring up the trunks of the trees, casting silk strands into the air, letting them catch on the wind. The previous night they’d all taken turns weaving with the spindle, the skein of spider silk falling in a lumpen mass. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was the act of the weave that mattered, pouring their focus into it, a single phrase again and again: Make a trap. Make a trap of sorrow. In the past, the spindle had been used to create charisma and love spells to bind groups together, to make them loyal, to steal their will. This was a different kind of bond. High above them, the spiders had begun to weave, seemingly in rhythm with the metronome. It was like watching mist form, a soft, soundless blur spreading from the gutters and corners atop the roof, until they stood beneath a wide canopy of spider silk, the web like spangled frost, turning the night sky into a kind of mosaic. Alex could feel sadness radiating from it, as if the strands were weighted with it, making the web bow at the center. A sense of hopelessness filled her. “Just ride it out,” said Turner. But he had his hands pressed to the sides of his head, as if he could squeeze the misery out of it. Somewhere in the library, Alex heard glass breaking. Mercy drew her salt sword. “They’re coming,” said Dawes. “They wouldn’t—” She was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. “No!” Dawes cried. “The stained glass—” said Darlington. But the demons didn’t care. They’d been drawn by a beacon of utter hopelessness, and their only thought was to feed. “Hands on the basin!” Alex yelled. “On three!” Alex saw the demons racing toward them. There would be no time for last words or fond goodbyes. She counted down fast. As one, they seized the edges of the fountain. 43 Alex had tried to prepare herself for the fall—the fingers clawing at her, choking her, dragging her down—but this time, she splashed backward into water. The sea was warm around her, and when the reaching hands never came,


the depths of her head. This was not the time and place to disintegrate. “I’m not blaming you,” Rosa said, caressing Io’s arm comfortingly. “I’m trying to say the opposite: you did what you had to.” “I know,” said Io. Rosa gave her a sad smile, a bandage coated with salt. “Do you?” CHAPTER XXI HIS GAZE WAS A WARNING THANK THE GODS, Io didn’t have to answer. A curtain rustled; Edei climbed out of the pod, pillow wrinkles across his cheek. They quickly filled him in on the new findings: the wraiths being Initiative pledges, the victims being Saint-Yves’s failed cases, the murky funding of the Initiative. Then Rosa took off to report to City Plaza and make some excuse about her absence, patting the sleeping cop’s head on the way out. “We need to tell Bianca,” Edei announced. And off they went, back out to the streets, walking briskly against the morning chill. The Fortuna was dark and silent when they entered. The single guard posted on the side door jumped upright at the sight of Edei’s grim expression and ran off to fetch Bianca. In the guard’s absence, Edei looked lost in the empty foyer. He fidgeted with the buttons of his overcoat, scrubbed at his growing stubble. He didn’t look at Io, as if she were making him uncomfortable. Had she crossed a line by falling asleep next to him? His unease made her uneasy. Moments trickled by at a snail’s pace. The room was too quiet, the walls too dark, her outfit too damp and stinky. She needed a bath and a change of clothes. Something to eat and a gallon of water. A painkiller would be nice, and ice on her bruises. “Coffee?” Edei said. “Yes, please.” He hesitated, as though about to speak again, but seemed to decide coffee was good enough. He led her down the corridor and into a small kitchen: stovetops, a kitchen island, four tall stools around it. There was even a fruit bowl on the counter. Much homelier than Io ever guessed the Fortuna could be. “Sugar? Milk?” Edei was making modern-style coffee, lining up three cups on the kitchen counter, each with a small paper filter on it. “A spoonful of sugar,” Io replied. “No milk.” “Yes, boss.” He paused, bent over a small pot, and looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I’ve thought of a good one. Comeback, I mean. About horses.” His voice was undecipherable, somewhere between mischievous and nervous. Either way, Io couldn’t gods-damn wait. A running joke—it felt like a friendship milestone. “Let’s hear it.” “You would say: Always nice to be equated to a horse. And I would say: So you vote neigh on the horse, boss?” A stunned silence followed, long and unbroken. He grinned at the cups he was preparing, breathed a chuckle, peeked at her. “It’s . . . a pun,” she said. “What’s wrong with a pun?” “Nothing wrong. I just didn’t, um, expect a pun.” He was properly laughing now, these strange full-hearted huffs through his


thought. Improbably enough. And I couldn’t help the hint of a smile at the thought of him, which only made Cass sigh heavily again. “The funeral’s tomorrow. I don’t want us to be angry with each other, not right now. We can’t turn on each other, or we’re never going to get through this.” I nodded mutely. She squeezed my arm and then gave me a fragile smile. “You can’t get rid of me, Naomi. You’re my best friend, remember? And I’ve only got one left.” She stepped past me, moving briskly as if she would start crying if she didn’t. She opened the door to leave, revealing Ethan, in the middle of raising his hand to knock. They stared at each other for a moment in surprise, then Cass glanced back at me. “Well. At least he’s cute,” she said in resignation. “Excuse me.” She strode out past the bemused Ethan, crossing the lot toward her car. “What was that about?” Ethan asked. I watched as Cass climbed into her car and started the engine. My gut churned. When Cass decided on a reality, nothing could dissuade her. If she’d decided that it hadn’t been Oscar she’d seen, she could have convinced even herself. Or convinced herself that lying was the right thing to do. “Naomi?” Ethan prompted. I let out a long breath. “Can we hit Pause?” I asked him. “Until the funeral, at least. I can’t deal with all of this right now.” “Of course,” Ethan said. “We can do whatever you need.” “Thank you,” I said. I stepped into his arms, and he held me there, my cheek against his chest. I felt safe in his arms—the safest I’d felt in a long time. It was starting to scare me. The day of the funeral, I slipped the case that held Persephone’s finger bone into the pocket of my black dress. The afternoon was bright, with only a few white clouds scraped over the sky. We gathered in the church. I’d gone with Liv and Cass a few times growing up, whenever I spent a Saturday night with them. Kimiko was always there, impeccably dressed, with flyaway hair. Marcus never went, and they gave Liv the option. She liked the ritual. The singing. The way it filled your chest and made your skin tingle when everyone lifted their voices together. But I didn’t know that she had ever believed. Marcus sat in the front pew with his head down and his hands folded around a crumpled program. When Ethan and I entered, the church was half full, but still he seemed to sense my presence. He raised his head and looked back at me, and his gaze seemed to pierce through me. Kimiko turned in her seat to see who he was looking at. Ethan and I started to take seats in the back, but Kimiko stood and waved us forward. I approached, at a loss for what I should say to her—what I could say, that would begin to put words to the loss that shrouded her.