closing shift—and said that she needed me to drive her to the emergency room. She sobbed through the entire ten-minute drive, doubled over in agony in the passenger seat, hands cradling her abdomen. I had never seen her in so much pain. I was afraid that she was dying. I don’t know how I managed to keep control of the wheel, or how long we waited at the hospital for her to be seen, or when she was admitted, or whether my father came, or how I left her there, which I must have done, so that I could drive back to our house and wake up a few hours later for school. I know that I was home the following afternoon, doing homework, when my grandmother called and told me that I could come see my mother in the hospital. Mom had trouble keeping her eyes open as she told me that she’d had emergency surgery to remove her uterus, ovaries, and fallopian tubes. I learned new words that day: endometriosis, fibroids, hysterectomy. She had been in pain for months. She never told me why she had not sought treatment earlier; there could have been any number of reasons. What I now know is that my parents’ employment at the time was tenuous, and we had no health coverage. At sixteen, seventeen, I knew that my parents had little choice but to use credit cards in an emergency, but couldn’t have said how much debt they carried. I didn’t know anything about the health-care system, or that we sometimes had insurance and sometimes didn’t, or that even when we did, the out-of-pocket burden made my parents more reluctant to use it. I remember feeling perplexed when I began applying to college and Mom mentioned that she would need to figure out health insurance for me, because most universities would not allow me to enroll without it. I couldn’t understand why my future school would care about such a thing—I was young and healthy and typically went to the doctor only when I needed vaccinations or when my mother, always adept at diagnosing me, suspected that I needed antibiotics. My parents didn’t want me to worry about the family finances, which they believed were hardly a teenager’s business—as I learned when I barged in on one of their late-night money arguments, asking them to keep it down so I could sleep, and my father, who had a quick hot temper when stressed, threw a Corelle serving bowl at the wall to get me to retreat. But there was only so much privacy in an eleven-hundred-square-foot house, and as an only child who had always been closely attuned to my parents, I noticed my father’s dejection when he lost a job he was good at; my mother’s relief—thank you, Jesus—the day we found five hundred dollars in an envelope taped to our front door, a gift from anonymous friends. I did not need to see past-due medical bills or be included in budgeting discussions to understand that we were well short of what


well done; she "ran" the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting "cotton warp" quilts-she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices-and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing eye. She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinkywhite bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lyndea meek little man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel Lynde's husband"-was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel know that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life. And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there? Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled. "I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's gone and why," the worthy woman finally concluded. "He doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he NEVER visits; if he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for


tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard. Now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall--much lower down--and there was the same tree inside. "It's in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "It's the garden without a door. He lives in there. How I wish I could see what it is like!" She ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. Then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and, beginning to preen his feathers with his beak. "It is the garden," she said. "I am sure it is." She walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before--that there was no door in it. Then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door. "It's very queer," she said. "Ben Weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door. But there must have been one ten years ago, because Mr. Craven buried the key." This gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to Misselthwaite Manor. In India she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little. She stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. She did not feel cross when Martha chattered away. She felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. She asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire. "Why did Mr. Craven hate the garden?" she said. She had made Martha stay with her and Martha had not objected at all. She was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants' hall downstairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her Yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves. Martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in India, and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enough to attract her. She sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

this examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that to some sanguine temperaments it would be altogether intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet Byron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand. Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so that immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay. In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating what it was I wanted him to do—namely, to examine a small paper with me. Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving from his privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.” I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.” “Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here—take it,” and I thrust it towards him. “I would prefer not to,” said he. I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper


she had daily proof. She blew on her tea—cooling it, controlling it, forcing it back into line. * * * Beneath her, on the pavement, Jane-one and Jane-two were moving in quickstep down Park Lane. They were playing their game. One of them sped up, then the other. You had to be alert; you couldn’t blink. If you did, you’d fall out of step—you’d lose. They ducked and wove their way down the street. Jane-one rang the tradesmen’s bell. Jane-two slipped a wrench from her pocket to her bag. “Ready?” She hardly needed to ask. Jane-one nodded. “Ready.” * * * The butler interviewed them in his office. He smelled of gas lamps, and sweated incessantly. There was a general sense of disorder and confusion in the servants’ hall: the Janes had picked up on it immediately. There were tradesmen waiting at the side door, boxes piling up in the passage outside the kitchen, kitchen maids scurrying around in hectic, directionless circles. This house had lost its circus master. Chaos was creeping in, chuckling all the way. “We’re presently seeking a housekeeper,” Mr. Shepherd told the girls. “And she would do the interviews. But we’ve yet to find a satisfactory candidate...” The Janes knew that already. Mrs. King and Hephzibah had paid a call on Mr. Shepherd’s preferred agency. His letters requesting fresh applicants kept going missing. The Janes had snaffled one or two themselves. Shepherd peered up at them. “You’ve got glowing references. You served a... Mrs. Grandcourt? Correct?” “Yes,” they said. “Yes, Mr. Shepherd,” he corrected with a sniff. “Yes, Mr. Shepherd.” He scratched his nose. “Hotel trained, are you?” he said. Jane-one felt him assessing her like a butcher, checking her parts: neck, chest, thighs, waist. She kept her face blank. “Yes, sir.” “Thought as much. But you haven’t worked in a big house before?” “Not as big as this one.” “Well, that’s quite understandable. Few have, my dear. Are you good Christians?” They stared at him. “Well?” “Yes,” they said in perfect unison. Mrs. King had instructed them in this, too. Mr. Shepherd liked clean, scrubbed-up voices. It indicated a desire for self-improvement. “Mr. Shepherd is a great advocate of self-improvement,” Winnie Smith had said flatly. “Show me your hands.” They shoved their fingers right in his face, making him jump, giving him a whiff of carbolic soap and chemicals. “Well, very clean. Good nails.” He shuffled his papers again, and Jane-one waggled her fingers. “Yes, that’s fine.” He thought of something. “You know there’s no allowance for sugar or tea in your wages?” “We don’t drink tea,” said Jane-two. Mr. Shepherd liked that, too. “Very good. Most economical.” “We are economical.” Jane-one pressed her palms to his desk again. “We’ll split our rations between us.” “Two for the price of one, ha-ha,” said Mr. Shepherd, plainly ready to have this business over and done with. “Well, consider yourselves on trial.” They nodded, stepped back. “We’ll meet the mistress now, then,” said the Jane-two. “Meet the... No, you certainly will not. Madam has delegated all downstairs matters entirely


lining was intact. It had rusted with the years of lying in the wet, and the lid was so tightly fitted down that it was almost impossible to move it. But once George began to work at it with her pocket-knife, scraping away the rust, it began to loosen- and in about a quarter-of-an-hour it came off! The children bent eagerly over it. Inside lay some old papers and a book of some kind with a black cover. Nothing else at all. No bar of gold. No treasure. Everyone felt a little bit disappointed. "It's all quite dry," said Julian, surprised. "Not a bit damp. The tin lining kept everything perfect." He picked up the book and opened it. "It's a diary your great-great-great-grandfather kept of the ship's voyages," he said. "I can hardly read the writing. It's so small and funny." George picked up one of the papers. It was made of thick parchment, quite yellow with age. She spread it out on the sand and looked at it. The others glanced at it too, but they couldn't make out what it was at all. It seemed to be a kind of map. "Perhaps it's a map of some place he had to go to," said Julian. But suddenly George's hands began to shake as she held the map, and her eyes gleamed brilliantly as she looked up at the others. She opened her mouth but didn't speak. "What's the matter?" said Julian, curiously. "What's up? Have you lost your tongue?" George shook her head and then began to speak with a rush. "Julian! Do you know what this is? It's a map of my old castle- of Kirrin Castle- when it wasn't a ruin. And it shows the dungeons! And look- just look what's written in this corner of the dungeons!" She put a trembling finger on one part of the map. The others leaned over to see what it was- and, printed in old-fashioned letters was a curious word. INGOTS "Ingots!" said Anne, puzzled. "What does that mean? I've never heard that word before." But the two boys had. "Ingots!" cried Dick. "Why- that must be the bars of gold. They were called ingots." "Most bars of metal are called ingots," said Julian, going red with excitement. "But as we know there is gold missing from that ship, then it really looks as if ingots here meant bars of gold. Oh golly! To think they may still be hidden somewhere under Kirrin Castle. George! George! Isn't it terribly, awfully exciting?" George nodded. She was trembling all over with excitement. "If only we could find it!" she whispered. "If only we could!" "We'll have a jolly good hunt for it," said Julian. "It will be awfully difficult because the castle is in ruins now, and so overgrown. But somehow or other we'll find those ingots. What a lovely word. Ingots! Ingots! Ingots!" It sounded somehow more exciting than the word gold. Nobody spoke about gold any more. They talked about the Ingots. Tim couldn't make out what the excitement was


overactive bladder or sexual arousal?”) then slink off, pretending I have to take a shit, so I can deal with it on my own. * * * — There are a few (extremely specific) genres of porn I prefer to masturbate to, chief among them: “middle-aged man jerking off while being gently pegged” lovemaking with kissing public (Hear me out: Have you ever seen people fucking on a bus?) big ass compilation “fat lady being worshipped” videos where you just watch a dude’s boner grow cuckold massage (maybe what I actually need is a nap) “dudes who fuck like Xavier Thicc” BBW hand job mature lady riding to orgasm KISSING But “Two Old Nuns Having Amzing [sic] Lesbian Sex” is my favorite pornographic piece of cinema. I don’t even remember how I found it years ago now. I’m sure I searched “senior citizen real orgasm” or something like that, because I like to see an orgasm, but also I can’t watch a person engaged in any sort of sexual activity unless I am absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that person is of legal car-renting age. Imagine me going to jail because I clicked on a video called “Hot Teen Squirts on a Banana” or some shit, and said hot teen turns out to be an actual child, and it just so happens to be the day the FBI agent assigned to monitoring my phone activity is awake and paying attention. That shit is terrifying to me. I won’t even watch an obvious thirty-seven-year-old with crow’s-feet and low bone density if she’s in pigtails and fucking braces! Maybe that lady in a plaid school uniform with her pussy waxed down to the bone is old enough to have weird hip pain, or maybe she has an actual backpack full of tenth-grade chemistry homework just out of the camera’s view. Won’t be me finding out! * * * — Let’s break down the tags. HD Porn The video quality is exceptional here, it’s true. I can’t decide whether it makes me feel creepier to rub one out to a high-definition piece of ~cinema~ or a grainy POV shot in the dark on an Android phone, but high-definition television in general is kinda gross to me. I don’t need to see every hairy mole in crystal clarity, I’d actually prefer not to be able to zoom in on a crumb of feces stuck to someone’s anus. Lesbian You already know what this means, but I’ll tell you what it doesn’t: two butch dykes with leg hair fisting each other while talking about what’s on sale at Menards, which is honestly the lesbian sex scene I would most like to watch. Mature This is a nice way of saying fifty-plus, and is easily my most used search term. This isn’t a scientific observation, but I do think the older the participants, the more authentic the sex is…? I hate all that hysterical shrieking and grunting that young people do, that high-pitched unrealistic yowling that is supposed to sound orgasmic but honestly just sounds


Mr. Elijah, that I consider you a little impertinent? No, no, no; I wasn't aware of that, said elijah, slowly and wonderingly looking from me to Queequeg, with the most unaccountable glances. Elijah, said I, you will oblige my friend and me by withdrawing. We are going to the Indian and Pacific Oceans, and would prefer not to be detained. Ye be, be ye? Coming back afore breakfast? He's cracked, Queequeg, said I, come on. Holloa! cried stationary Elijah, hailing us when we had removed a few paces. Never mind him, said I, Queequeg, come on. But he stole up to us again, and suddenly clapping his hand on my shoulder, said -- Did ye see anything looking like men going towards that ship a while ago? Struck by this plain matter-of-fact question, I answered, saying, .. <p 98 > Yes, I thought I did see four or five men; but it was too dim to be sure. Very dim, very dim, said Elijah. Morning to ye. Once more we quitted him; but once more he came softly after us; and touching my shoulder again, said, See if you can find 'em now, will ye? Find who? Morning to ye! morning to ye! he rejoined, again moving off. Oh! I was going to warn ye against --but never mind, never mind --it's all one, all in the family too; --sharp frost this morning, ain't it? Good bye to ye. Shan't see ye again very soon, I guess; unless it's before the Grand Jury. And with these cracked words he finally departed, leaving me, for the moment, in no small wonderment at his frantic impudence. At last, stepping on board the Pequod, we found everything in profound quiet, not a soul moving. The cabin entrance was locked within; the hatches were all on, and lumbered with coils of rigging. Going forward to the forecastle, we found the slide of the scuttle open. Seeing a light, we went down, and found only an old rigger there, wrapped in a tattered pea-jacket. He was thrown at whole length upon two chests, his face downwards and inclosed in his folded arms. The profoundest slumber slept upon him. Those sailors we saw, Queequeg, where can they have gone to? said I, looking dubiously at the sleeper. But it seemed that, when on the wharf, Queequeg had not at all noticed what I now alluded to; hence I would have thought myself to have been optically deceived in that matter, were it not for Elijah's otherwise inexplicable question. But I beat the thing down; and again marking the sleeper, jocularly hinted to Queequeg that perhaps we had best sit up with the body; telling him to establish himself accordingly. He put his hand upon the sleeper's rear, as though feeling if it was soft enough; and then, without more ado, sat quietly down there. Gracious! Queequeg, don't sit there, said I. Oh! perry dood seat, said Queequeg, my country way; won't hurt him face. Face! said I, call that his face? very benevolent countenance .. <p 99 >


said. Maud wondered if she and Gabriel had left a wake of gossip last night when they went home. “She’s nice,” Louise said as they cut through the orchard toward the mansion. “She only likes you because you’re the cute one,” Ella said. “You’re cute too,” Maud said and gave her a hug. As she followed the girls through the trees, time folded, and they were back at Monk’s House. Weekdays, Maud would disappear into Virginia Woolf’s letters and journals and Leonard’s careful lists and gardening books. She wrote papers and articles and led tours. She was always inside and outside, planting or trimming or reading or writing. Her gardening boots stood ready by the kitchen door, which opened onto a brick path that flashed with zinnias and jolted with lavender. She and the girls established their own routine when Peter wasn’t home: tea parties by the pond, wet slickers dropped in a heap in the hallway after puddle-jumping in the orchard, sleepovers in Maud and Peter’s bed. If only they’d never left, she thought, as the trees retreated and the mansion appeared against a watery sky. They couldn’t go inside because the building was sealed off for an asbestos abatement on the second floor. All of the rooms, save the archives, were now stripped bare. But Maud showed the girls the dining room and library through the windows, Louise climbing on Ella’s back to see. The two of them weren’t as wowed as Maud would have liked by the size of the formal garden, but what did she expect, with no flowers yet? The conservatory, however, they found cool, “like a spaceship,” Louise said. She galloped from one end to the other, yells echoing off the glass walls as Ella walked around with her hands over her ears. Down by the pond, the frogs stayed hidden despite Louise’s attempts to find them by flipping over the lily pads with a stick. Ella wanted to go online the minute they got back to the farmhouse, so Maud showed her where to find the Wi-Fi password, then helped Louise unpack her suitcase. “It doesn’t work,” Ella said from the doorway. “Hmm?” Maud dropped shirts into a dresser drawer. Ella held her phone in front of Maud’s face. A message—FaceTime Failed—showed on the screen. “Let me put these away, then I’ll take a look.” “I knew something like this would happen,” Ella said. “You guys just wanted me off my phone and away from my friends.” “Are you sure you got the password right?” Louise said. She was arranging her socks on the bed in a rainbow, her version of unpacking. “I know how to type a password, Louise!” “Don’t yell at your sister,” Maud said. “This isn’t an emergency. Why don’t you unpack and then we’ll look at it together?” “There’s nothing to look at. Because the connection sucks!” Steadily, Maud put away another shirt as Ella ranted: she only had two real friends anyway, and now she would lose them because they wouldn’t be able to FaceTime. Texting wasn’t enough. You had


more fierce adversaries. Haymitch has never seen me run. Maybe if he had he’d tell me to go for it. Get the weapon. Since that’s the very weapon that might be my salvation. And I only see one bow in that whole pile. I know the minute must be almost up and will have to decide what my strategy will be and I find myself position- ing my feet to run, not away into the stir rounding forests but 148 toward the pile, toward the bow. When suddenly I notice Pee- ta, he’s about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance, still I can tell he’s looking at me and I think he might be shak- ing his head. But the sun’s in my eyes, and while I’m puzzling over it the gong rings out. And I’ve missed it! I’ve missed my chance! Because those extra couple of seconds I’ve lost by not being ready are enough to change my mind about going in. My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The pickings are so small and I’m so angry with Peeta for distracting me that I sprint in twenty yards to re- trieve a bright orange backpack that could hold anything be- cause I can’t stand leaving with virtually nothing. A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the same time I do and for a brief time we grapple for it and then he coughs, splattering my face with blood. I stagger back, re- pulsed by the warm, sticky spray. Then the boy slips to the ground. That’s when I see the knife in his back. Already other tributes have reached the Cornucopia and are spreading out to attack. Yes, the girl from District 2, ten yards away, running toward me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. I’ve seen her throw in training. She never misses. And I’m her next tar- get. All the general fear I’ve been feeling condenses into at im- mediate fear of this girl, this predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear 149 the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head. The blade lodges in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees. Somehow I know the girl will not pursue me. That she’ll be drawn back in- to the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin crosses my face. Thanks for the knife, I think. At the edge of the woods I turn for one instant to survey the field. About a dozen or so tributes are hacking away at one another at the horn. Several lie dead already on the ground. Those who have taken flight are disappearing into the trees or into the void opposite me. I continue


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

name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited. The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher. The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to hachettespeakersbureau.com or email HachetteSpeakers@hbgusa.com. Orbit books may be purchased in bulk for business, educational, or promotional use. For information, please contact your local bookseller or the Hachette Book Group Special Markets Department at special.markets@hbgusa.com. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Whitten, Hannah, author. Title: The foxglove king / Hannah Whitten. Description: First Edition. | New York, NY : Orbit, 2023. | Series: The nightshade crown ; book 1 Identifiers: LCCN 2022034979 | ISBN 9780316434997 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316435192 (ebook) Subjects: LCGFT: Novels. Classification: LCC PS3623.H5864 F68 2023 | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220721 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022034979 ISBNs: 9780316434997 (hardcover), 9780316435192 (ebook) E3-20230114-JV-NF-ORI Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Map Epigraph Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Epilogue Acknowledgments Discover More Also by Hannah Whitten To anyone who chose themselves. Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more. Tap here to learn more. The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The Winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not. —William Wordsworth CHAPTER ONE No one is more patient than the dead. —Auverrani proverb Every month, Michal claimed he’d struck a deal with the landlord, and every month, Nicolas sent one of his sons to collect anyway. The sons must’ve drawn straws—this month’s unfortunate was Pierre, the youngest and spottiest of the bunch, and he trudged up the street of Dellaire’s Harbor District with the air of one approaching a guillotine. Lore could work with that. A dressing gown that had seen better days dripped off one shoulder as Lore leaned against the doorframe and watched him approach. Pierre’s eyes kept drifting to where the fabric gaped, and she kept having to bite the inside of her cheek so she didn’t laugh. Apparently, a crosshatch of silvery scars from back-alley knife fights didn’t deter the man when presented with bare skin. She had other, more interesting scars. But she kept her palm closed tight. A cool breeze blew off the ocean, and Lore suppressed a shiver. Pierre didn’t seem to spare any thought for


de Vries’s bedroom. Her heart plunged when she saw Mrs. Bone’s men marching over from the other end of the house, ready to start clearing Mr. de Vries’s suite of its possessions. She hoisted her skirts and legged it along the passage. The double doors were open. The lights were burning dimly in the gigantic suite beyond. Lockwood was already in there. The men frowned at her, halting. “Do as I do,” she said, breathless. She pressed herself behind the half-open door, skirts to the wall. The lawyer didn’t seem to notice that half the objects in the room were sitting under dust sheets, or atop packing crates. He was crouching by the bureau, opening drawers, rifling inside, closing them again. Searching for something. One of the men leaned over her shoulder. His breath smelled very faintly of beer. He had a terrifyingly muscular forearm. “We need him out of there,” he said. Hephzibah scanned the insurance contract in her mind. No gags, no blindfolds. But there was nothing about scaring people... “Death!” she cried, throwing open the sliding doors. “Destruction! Doom!” Lockwood started nearly out of his skin, lurching backward. Hephzibah strode across the bare floorboards, sequins scattering as she went. “Good Lord,” Lockwood said, face reddening in annoyance. He had a nasty bruise on his top lip. “We will deliver you to your doom!” she cried. The men got it: they were sharp lads. They formed a tight circle, leering at Lockwood, their thighs greased and hairy underneath their tunics. “Doom!” they grunted. “Really, Your Grace,” Lockwood said, “the entertainments should stay downstairs.” “Come with us!” boomed Hephzibah. “To my den of—” she considered this “—of terror!” “Terror!” echoed the men. They were still in a ring around him, and began dragging him lockstep toward the door. “Good gracious,” exclaimed Lockwood. “Your Grace, I...” He found himself being pulled bodily from the room. “Would you...would you get out...of...my way.” “He goes of his own volition,” said Hephzibah loudly, as if the insurers were crawling around in the rafters. Lockwood was borne out of the room, leaving the bureau drawers wide open. It seemed he hadn’t discovered what he was looking for. * * * Sliding down the drainpipe, Jane-two found a pair of gentlemen locked in intimate conversation in the shrubbery. They were real guests, costumed, and they were both wearing perfectly enormous ruffs, which seemed to have become unusually tangled. “Excuse me,” said Jane-two, rummaging in the undergrowth, searching for her extendable pole. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” said one of the men, straightening his doublet and hose. “Sneaky is as sneaky does,” said Jane-two severely. “And your codpiece is showing.” She grabbed hold of the fire-eater on the way back inside. He was on their team, naturally. She’d drilled him herself. “Keep the crowd on that side of the garden,” she told him. “Anyone comes near me, you blow your torch at them.” The fire-eater had wonderful eyes, crystalline blue, and a honeyed way with words. He inspected her bloomers. “Sweet Moira, my treasure, my


rough head with a hand that all the dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch. "As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether to particular and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you'll grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care. I I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang." "If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth, ready to share the lecture. "You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly, and no one contradicted her, for the `Mouse' was the pet of the family. As young readers like to know `how people look', we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable room,though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-away look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her `Little Miss Tranquility', and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out. The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the


and want to stick my fingers in my ears. “Why? Because my dad died? By that reasoning, almost everyone should be depressed. So many people have lost someone.” “Comparing yourself to others and deeming yourself better off is no remedy for mental illness. The remedy is internal work—lots of it. But acknowledging the issue at hand must come first. You are suffering from depression, Maddie.” I push my bottom lip into the top one and tears pool in the corners of my eyes. “But I’m carrying on, so I’m also fine.” “You cannot be both.” “I disagree.” “All right,” she says calmly. “For argument’s sake, in what ways are you both fine and depressed?” “I’m fine because I’m still living, I’m still going to work, returning home and waking up the next morning. I’m not so fine because my dad died right after I moved out, my mum is too difficult to comprehend and attempting to manage her drains me of everything but tears. I don’t know what the fuck my brother is doing. The person keeping me momentarily sane broke up with me, but in his defense, I was lying to him—about everything. I think my flatmate hates me, so I stay in my room most of the time. I think I now hate that room, because I gave up my dad for that room.” “Maddie—” “I think my ideas are being stolen by my colleagues, but I honestly can’t tell. I don’t understand what intellectual property means. I want to ask Nia and Shu to drop everything and look after me again, but they have their own lives and maybe they’re tired of feeling like babysitters and … it’s hot in here!” I stand up, pulling at my jumper. “Sorry, I … I just … When did it get so hot in here?” “Maddie?” Angelina’s suddenly very blurry. Is she melting? “Oh, it’s happening again,” I say, stretching my collar. “Panic attack. Anxiety. Something, I don’t know, but I—” * * * There’s a blinding light in my eye. So it’s true what they say about following the light when you die. “Maddie?” “God, is that you?” “No, it’s Dr. Rusher.” “What?” The light disappears and someone hoists me up and into a chair. My vision is still fuzzy when someone hands me a cup of water. I fainted, apparently, induced by a panic attack. Luckily, the doctor who visits the company a couple of times a month, a doctor, who can only be seen by way of an appointment booked a week prior, is in the house. He decides I don’t need to be taken to A&E, but I do need to go home and rest, and that I should book some time in with a GP just to be safe. Ask for something to help with anxiety. “A beta-blocker, perhaps,” he says. I notice Penny standing in the corner; I wonder if she regrets hiring me. “I can work from home.” “No, you heard the doctor,” she says gently. “You need to take today off. I’ll call you


wall.' 'O'Brien!' said Winston, making an effort to control his voice. 'You know this is not necessary. What is it that you want me to do?' O'Brien made no direct answer. When he spoke it was in the schoolmasterish manner that he sometimes affected. He looked thoughtfully into the distance, as though he were addressing an audience somewhere behind Winston's back. 'By itself,' he said, 'pain is not always enough. There are occasions when a human being will stand out against pain, even to the point of death. But for everyone there is something unendurable--something that cannot be contemplated. Courage and cowardice are not involved. If you are falling from a height it is not cowardly to clutch at a rope. If you have come up from deep water it is not cowardly to fill your lungs with air. It is merely an instinct which cannot be destroyed. It is the same with the rats. For you, they are unendurable. They are a form of pressure that you cannot withstand, even if you wished to. You will do what is required of you.' 'But what is it, what is it? How can I do it if I don't know what it is?' O'Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the nearer table. He set it down carefully on the baize cloth. Winston could hear the blood singing in his ears. He had the feeling of sitting in utter loneliness. He was in the middle of a great empty plain, a flat desert drenched with sunlight, across which all sounds came to him out of immense distances. Yet the cage with the rats was not two metres away from him. They were enormous rats. They were at the age when a rat's muzzle grows blunt and fierce and his fur brown instead of grey. 'The rat,' said O'Brien, still addressing his invisible audience, 'although a rodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of that. You will have heard of the things that happen in the poor quarters of this town. In some streets a woman dare not leave her baby alone in the house, even for five minutes. The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time they will strip it to the bones. They also attack sick or dying people. They show astonishing intelligence in knowing when a human being is helpless.' There was an outburst of squeals from the cage. It seemed to reach Winston from far away. The rats were fighting; they were trying to get at each other through the partition. He heard also a deep groan of despair. That, too, seemed to come from outside himself. O'Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed something in it. There was a sharp click. Winston made a frantic effort to tear himself loose from the chair. It was hopeless; every part of him, even his head, was held immovably. O'Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a metre from Winston's face. 'I have pressed the first lever,' said O'Brien. 'You


him and said nothing. “Tell me I’m not alone in that.” The Sun Prince wasn’t one to beg, she knew; Lore thought this was probably the closest he’d ever gotten. It splintered in her, a wound that had been healed and reopened time and time again. “Lore, tell me I’m not alone here.” And wasn’t that all she’d ever wanted? Not to be alone? She stared at him across the dark and the torchlight, the rocks and bones. “You aren’t.” It came out hoarse; she swallowed. “You aren’t alone, Bastian. I feel it, too.” Then she turned and started forward again. Behind her, Bastian pulled in a ragged sigh, and followed. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Nothing is new. —The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 135 Lore could tell the first chamber they came to wasn’t the one they were searching for. The map in her head told her to walk straight past it, to keep winding farther into the dark. But Bastian paused, raising his flickering torch to the splintered wooden door. “Should we check this one out?” “It isn’t the right one,” Lore said, pushing ahead. It was cold this deep beneath the earth, and numbness tingled in her fingertips. “And we need to keep moving if we want to be back by sunrise.” “How can you tell?” Bastian gave the door one more glance before ambling after her. “I don’t think we’ll be able to see when the sun rises down here. Bleeding God, I don’t think we’d be able to tell if the whole world ended.” Hyperbole, but Lore’s shoulders still inched toward her ears. “I can tell.” Her intuition was a spark in her chest, a torch that didn’t lead her wrong. Part of her was at home in the catacombs in a way she never was anywhere else. All she’d ever wanted was to find somewhere she fit that wasn’t in the dark. But shadows and death were the only things that held space for her. “You never did tell me exactly how this navigation thing works.” Bastian stepped up so they were level, adjusted his longer stride to keep it that way. “I assume it has something to do with being born here?” Lore shrugged, studying the dark before her rather than the Sun Prince beside. “I assume so.” “Then you’re the only one who knows the catacombs like this, because you were the only one born in the catacombs.” “No, I wasn’t.” His brow cocked. Lore sighed, rubbed at her eyes. It was a good thing Bastian was the one to come down here with her; she didn’t have the energy to keep secrets. “There were other babies born to the Night Sisters,” she said. “More than one unmarried pregnant person thought hiding in the catacombs was preferable to dealing with their families on the surface.” “Doesn’t say much for their families.” “Or society in general. It takes more than one person to make a baby, but the onus always falls on the one who bodily carries the proof.” “True.” Bastian dipped his chin in acquiescence. “But


hold the center of the stage till Daisy Blunt comes walking down the street in the moonlight. Daisy is walking a drum tune. You can almost hear it by looking at the way she walks. She is black and she knows that white clothes look good on her, so she wears them for dress 80 Zora Neale Hurston up. She’s got those big black eyes with plenty shiny white in them that makes them shine like brand new money and she knows what God gave women eyelashes for, too. Her hair is not what you might call straight. It’s negro hair, but it’s got a kind of white flavor. Like the piece of string out of a ham. It’s not ham at all, but it’s been around ham and got the fla- vor. It was spread down thick and heavy over her shoulders and looked just right under a big white hat. “Lawd, Lawd, Lawd,” that same Charlie Jones exclaims rushing over to Daisy. “It must be uh recess in heben if St. Peter is lettin’ his angels out lak dis. You got three men already layin’ at de point uh death ’bout yuh, and heah’s uhnother fool dat’s willin’ tuh make time on yo’ gang.” All the rest of the single men have crowded around Daisy by this time. She is parading and blushing at the same time. “If you know anybody dat’s ’bout tuh die ’bout me, yuh know more’n Ah do,” Daisy bridled. “Wisht Ah knowed who it is.” “Now, Daisy, you know Jim, and Dave and Lum is ’bout tuh kill one ’nother ’bout you. Don’t stand up here and tell dat big ole got-dat-wrong.” “Dey a mighty hush-mouf about it if dey is. Dey ain’t never told me nothin’.” “Unhunh, you talked too fast. Heah, Jim and Dave is right upon de porch and Lum is inside de store.” A big burst of laughter at Daisy’s discomfiture. The boys had to act out their rivalry too. Only this time, everybody knew they meant some of it. But all the same the porch Their Eyes Were Watching God 81 enjoyed the play and helped out whenever extras were needed. David said, “Jim don’t love Daisy. He don’t love yuh lak Ah do.” Jim bellowed indignantly, “Who don’t love Daisy? Ah know you ain’t talkin’ ’bout me.” Dave: “Well all right, less prove dis thing right now. We’ll prove right now who love dis gal de best. How much time is you willin’ tuh make fuh Daisy?” Jim: “Twenty yeahs!” Dave: “See? Ah told yuh dat nigger didn’t love yuh. Me, Ah’ll beg de Judge tuh hang me, and wouldn’t take nothin’ less than life.” There was a big long laugh from the porch. Then Jim had to demand a test. “Dave, how much would you be willin’ tuh do for Daisy if she was to turn fool enough tuh marry yuh?” “Me and Daisy done talked dat over, but if you just got tuh know, Ah’d buy Daisy uh passenger train and give it tuh her.” “Humph! Is


as I could not help remarking its beauty during our short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this point, and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are very light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train. "Yours faithfully, JEPHRO RUCASTLE.' "That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that before taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter to your consideration." "Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the question," said Holmes, smiling. "But you would not advise me to refuse?" "I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for." "What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?" "Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed some opinion?" "Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?" "That is a possible solution--in fact, as matters stand, it is the most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household for a young lady." "But the money, Mr. Holmes the money!" "Well, yes, of course the pay is good--too good. That is what makes me uneasy. Why should they give you 120 pounds a year, when they could have their pick for 40 pounds? There must be some strong reason behind." "I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I felt that you were at the back of me." "Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger--" "Danger! What danger do you foresee?" Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a danger if we could define it," said he. "But at any time, day or night, a telegram would bring me down to your help." "That is enough." She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety all swept from her face. "I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow." With a few grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and


And she always tried to act like a boy. "It's all right," she said, gruffly, taking the bread and cheese. "You were nearly very silly- and I gave you a kick- so it's all square. Of course you can come this afternoon." Anne sped back to tell the boys that everything was all right- and in fifteen minutes' time four children ran down to the beach. By a boat was a brown-faced fisher-boy, about fourteen years old. He had Timothy with him. "Boat's all ready, Master George," he said with a grin. "And Tim's ready, too." "Thanks," said George, and told the others to get in. Timothy jumped in, too, his big tail wagging nineteen to the dozen. George pushed the boat off into the surf and then jumped in herself. She took the oars. She rowed splendidly, and the boat shot along over the blue bay. It was a wonderful afternoon, and the children loved the movement of the boat over the water. Timothy stood at the prow and barked whenever a wave reared its head. "He's funny on a wild day," said George, pulling hard. "He barks madly at the big waves, and gets so angry if they splash him. He's an awfully good swimmer." "Isn't it nice to have a dog with us?" said Anne, anxious to make up for her mistake. "I do so like him." "Woof," said Timothy, in his deep voice and turned round to lick Anne's ear. "I'm sure he knew what I said," said Anne in delight. "Of course he did," said George. "He understands every single word." "I say- we're getting near to your island now," said Julian, in excitement. "It's bigger than I thought. And isn't the castle exciting?" They drew near to the island, and the children saw that there were sharp rocks all round about it. Unless anyone knew exactly the way to take, no boat or ship could possibly land on the shore of the rocky little island. In the very middle of it, on a low hill, rose the ruined castle. It had been built of big white stones. Broken archways, tumbledown towers, ruined walls- that was all that was left of a once beautiful castle, proud and strong. Now the jackdaws nested in it and the gulls sat on the topmost stones. "It looks awfully mysterious," said Julian. "How I'd love to land there and have a look at the castle. Wouldn't it be fun to spend a night or two here!" George stopped rowing. Her face lighted up. "I say!" she said, in delight. "Do you know, I never thought how lovely that would be! To spend a night on my island! To be there all alone, the four of us. To get our own meals, and pretend we really lived there. Wouldn't it be grand?" "Yes, rather," said Dick, looking longingly at the island. "Do you think- do you suppose your mother would let us?" "I don't know," said George. "She might. You could ask her." "Can't we land there this afternoon?" asked Julian. "No,


O, the whore of the lane! A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the day along the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form endearing? Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Horn. Who had the? Heehaw shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she. Psst! Any chance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be with you in the brown costume. Put you off your stroke, that. Appointment we made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near to home sweet home. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip. Damn her. O, well, she has to live like the rest. Look in here. In Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain: six bob. Might learn to play. Cheap. Let her pass. Course everything is dear if you don't want it. That's what good salesman is. Make you buy what he wants to sell. Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. Wanted to charge me for the edge he gave it. She's passing now. Six bob. Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund. Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked their clinking glasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting last rose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard. Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall. Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is. --True men like you men. --Ay, ay, Ben. --Will lift your glass with us. They lifted. Tschink. Tschunk. Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He saw not gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see. Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Softly. WHEN MY COUNTRY TAKES HER PLACE AMONG. Prrprr. Must be the bur. Fff! Oo. Rrpr. NATIONS OF THE EARTH. No-one behind. She's passed. THEN AND NOT TILL THEN. Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I'm sure it's the burgund. Yes. One, two. LET MY EPITAPH BE. Kraaaaaa. WRITTEN. I HAVE. Pprrpffrrppffff. DONE. * * * * * * * I was just passing the time of day with old Troy of the D. M. P. at the corner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloody sweep came along and he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned around to let him have the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony Batter only Joe Hynes. --Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see that bloody chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush? --Soot's luck, says Joe.


I figured it was just a pervert. Or a photographer. The singer dating a Titan. Always good for copy, especially if the Titan is unusual. Roddy doesn’t want to be in the paper, for sure, but he also doesn’t believe that’s what’s happening, so he bought me the shawl. It’s electro-something or other, bunches up on impact, so even though it’s very thin you get plenty of cushioning. Punched across the room, he said, rather than shot. But it’s lovely. God, he hasn’t hurt someone, has he? By mistake?” “Do you know who he thinks might be following you both?” “Someone from his work.” “At the university?” “His research work. He has contracts through them into the private sector.” “You know what he’s working on?” “Something ambient oxygen something perfusion something? I think? He keeps promising to explain it to me, but…we get distracted. It’s all still so new. We talk about music and what we’ll do together. We eat. There’s a bunch of things he’s never tried, food-wise.” “He propose to you?” “Not yet. He was married before. A really long time ago, it’s so weird. My mother was a kid. You know?” “I’m sorry, I don’t.” “No, I guess most people don’t.” She looks away. “Ms. Green, I’m sorry, I have to ask: you’re only seeing Mr. Tebbit, right now? Not anyone else? And he didn’t, uh, displace anyone?” “Yes, and no, he didn’t. Clean catch.” “Okay.” She doesn’t add to that, and nor do I, so we sit together without talking. The sound of the rowdy tables ebbs and flows. Then she looks right at me. “I worked reception in a hospital once. There was a nurse there who was a complete bitch to everyone. Everyone except the critical patients and their families, and the way you knew someone was getting better was she didn’t have time for them any more. The smart ones got that, and when she was rude, they started to cry, because they knew everything was going to be okay. I think you’re the same way, and I think you’ve wasted enough time being kind.” “I don’t know what to say to that.” “You can tell me the truth, Mr. Sounder. He’s dead, isn’t he?” “What makes you think that?” “You do. I saw what you did in the cage. It was hideous. But here you are being nice to me. Am I right?” “Yes.” The affirmation hits her. Her face is so pale anyway that when the blood drains out of it she’s almost translucent. I keep my hands in my lap. I don’t reach out. It’s better that way. She cries silently for a long minute, maybe a lifetime, and then the tears stop. It’s not that there aren’t more, she’s just not sharing them with me. There’s a hollow moment, after you tell someone, when the first grief is exhausted and the long mourning hasn’t begun, when they’re almost not in pain. They can do the needful things, like pass on the bad news, find a babysitter, or talk to a murder


first assault and wouldn’t mind an excuse to lash out. “And the second step?” “Reformation and Attack Slisset fighters,” the two ensigns said in a nerdy, synchronized response. One of them—the admiral had trouble keeping their names separate in his head—said, “The Slisset fighter craft utilized in this battle had been classified as obsolete … allocated for the scrapyard. They should have been replaced twenty cycles ago …” The admiral inwardly cringed, remembering implementing a cost-savings program himself, one prolonging the life of such marginally defective military equipment. He’d keep that bit of information to himself. Even eight years ago, going up against the Lincoln vessel, they’d utilized far more effective Reformation and Attack Slisset fighters. “As you know, Admiral,” one of the ensigns continued, “any current model nanite-comprised Reformation and Attack Slisset, as long as its power source is still intact, even after severe battle damage, will completely reform and reassemble itself.” “Yes, yes … let’s move on,” the admiral barked with irritation. “Is there nothing we can do now with what we have?” The tag team of geek talk now went to Frill-uk. “You may ask what has happened to all those billions and trillions of smart nanites there in deep space …” The admiral let out a weary breath. “We have made contact with a certain percentage of those already dispersed, albeit drifting, nanites. With updated programming they will attach themselves to any enemy vessel’s hull surface they encounter.” The admiral made a face. “Enemy vessels are shielded—” Frill-uk, in all his excitement, cut the admiral off. Not a smart move, but one the admiral let pass, for now. “At which point our smart nanites will systematically drain the shields, making them useless in short order. At that point, the nanites will settle upon the hull surface … work together … dig, dig, dig into and through the hull until they have breached all the way into the ship’s interior.” Cru-lir said, “And when they come across organic material, they will devour it.” The admiral’s fighting spikes flared as if he was irritated, but in truth, he was impressed. The ensigns had done their jobs quite well, but he certainly wasn’t going to acknowledge that. Overconfident subordinates became complacent, and complacency led to self-defecating messes like Commander Lu-puk. “And what of the third?” “Various vessels maintain food stores that are no longer … uh, viable. USS Lincoln is a perfect example of this. But normally, as standard practice, all captured alien vessels within the quadrant have dormant nanite reservoirs at the ready—most of which still have viable, fresh food supplies. We have a signal prepared to go out to those nanites on board captured ships, those not constrained for food preservation. And before you ask, yes, this applies to USS Lincoln, sir,” Cru-lir said. “On your command, they will attack any non-Liquilids moving within the ship. This way, we can mitigate the future loss of such a fine food storage vessel.” Cru-lir, looking proud of himself, said, “We have already programmed the three innovations into your command array.” Admiral


moment, Lucy tried to understand why that news would worry him so. Nick had been looking for a wife for years; surely this was a good thing. “Simon?” Sighing, he reached into his coat pocket and handed her a letter. “He’s been searching for so long, and the woman has nothing to her name but a modest dowry. I can’t help but wonder if there is more to this than he’s telling me. With Forester, it is impossible to know where the truth ends and the lies begin.” Lucy held the letter for a moment, marveling at how thick it was. “Does he always write such long letters?” Simon chuckled. “Always. Nick Forester writes far more than he speaks, and that’s saying something. Read here.” He pointed to a line near the beginning of the letter. I never told you, but in order to gain the inheritance I was promised, I was required to be married. Lucy raised her eyebrows. “No wonder he was searching so thoroughly. It is good to know he did not choose the first woman who would be willing, putting himself in an unhappy marriage.” “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” Simon said, kissing Lucy’s cheek with a sigh. “Thank you, by the way.” Though his lips were cold, his touch filled her with warmth. “For what?” “For a happy marriage.” Grinning, she pulled him in for a quick but potent kiss on the lips. That was something she would never tire of. “So why the worry for Nick?” she pressed. “You should be glad he finally found someone after all this time.” He sighed. “Here,” he said and pointed to another line in the letter. When I returned to London in the summer, Mr. Mackenzie informed me I had a deadline of six months to be married or I would forfeit my entire inheritance to his granddaughter. “Oh.” Lucy thought she understood now. “You’re worried he has settled with his time running out.” Nodding, Simon ran a hand through his hair. “Forester puts on a good face when in Society, but he feels more than most people. A poor marriage will kill the man, but he’d never admit to such a vulnerability now. He would simply lie and say he was perfectly happy, suffering in silence.” Lucy nudged him. “That isn’t unlike you, you know.” “We’re talking about Nick, my love. Not me.” But he offered her a little smile of acknowledgment before he continued. “Until a few years ago, he was one of the most honest, sincere men I knew.” “What changed?” “I wish I knew. In the middle of the Season, he ended his engagement without explanation and started telling his ridiculous stories until the man I’d grown up with was gone, replaced by the one the world now reveres. Sometimes I see glimpses of the genuine Nick Forester, but I fear this marriage is merely another one of the lies he tells. I worry he is doing it only for the money.” The way Simon was frowning again, Lucy imagined he would sit here


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


The huge yellow somethings went unnoticed at Goonhilly, they passed over Cape Canaveral without a blip, Woomera and Jodrell Bank looked straight through them - which was a pity because it was exactly the sort of thing they'd been looking for all these years. The only place they registered at all was on a small black device called a Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic which winked away quietly to itself. It nestled in the darkness inside a leather satchel which Ford Prefect wore habitually round his neck. The contents of Ford Prefect's satchel were quite interesting in fact and would have made any Earth physicist's eyes pop out of his head, which is why he always concealed them by keeping a couple of dog-eared scripts for plays he pretended he was auditioning for stuffed in the top. Besides the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic and the scripts he had an Electronic Thumb - a short squat black rod, smooth and matt with a couple of flat switches and dials at one end; he also had a device which looked rather like a largish electronic calculator. This had about a hundred tiny flat press buttons and a screen about four inches square on which any one of a million "pages" could be summoned at a moment's notice. It looked insanely complicated, and this was one of the reasons why the snug plastic cover it fitted into had the words Don't Panic printed on it in large friendly letters. The other reason was that this device was in fact that most remarkable of all books ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor - The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. The reason why it was published in the form of a micro sub meson electronic component is that if it were printed in normal book form, an interstellar hitch hiker would require several inconveniently large buildings to carry it around in. Beneath that in Ford Prefect's satchel were a few biros, a notepad, and a largish bath towel from Marks and Spencer. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels. A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitch hiker can have. Partly it has great practical value - you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-to- hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindboggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you - daft as a bush, but very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal,


me word how Lucy is. Do not delay.--Holmwood.' "I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you have only to tell me what to do." Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in the eyes as he said, "A brave man's blood is the best thing on this earth when a woman is in trouble. You're a man and no mistake. Well, the devil may work against us for all he's worth, but God sends us men when we want them." Once again we went through that ghastly operation. I have not the heart to go through with the details. Lucy had got a terrible shock and it told on her more than before, for though plenty of blood went into her veins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as on the other occasions. Her struggle back into life was something frightful to see and hear. However, the action of both heart and lungs improved, and Van Helsing made a sub-cutaneous injection of morphia, as before, and with good effect. Her faint became a profound slumber. The Professor watched whilst I went downstairs with Quincey Morris, and sent one of the maids to pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting. I left Quincey lying down after having a glass of wine, and told the cook to get ready a good breakfast. Then a thought struck me, and I went back to the room where Lucy now was. When I came softly in, I found Van Helsing with a sheet or two of note paper in his hand. He had evidently read it, and was thinking it over as he sat with his hand to his brow. There was a look of grim satisfaction in his face, as of one who has had a doubt solved. He handed me the paper saying only, "It dropped from Lucy's breast when we carried her to the bath." When I had read it, I stook looking at the Professor, and after a pause asked him, "In God's name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she, mad, or what sort of horrible danger is it?" I was so bewildered that I did not know what to say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the paper, saying, "Do not trouble about it now. Forget if for the present. You shall know and understand it all in good time, but it will be later. And now what is it that you came to me to say?" This brought me back to fact, and I was all myself again. "I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do not act properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would have to be produced. I am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for if we had it would surely kill poor Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you know, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra had


time there came from a workshop across a little yard outside the window, a regular sound of hammering that kept a kind of tune: RAT - tat-tat, RAT - tat-tat, RAT - tat-tat, without any variation. 'Well,' said my conductor to one of the three young women. 'How do you get on, Minnie?' 'We shall be ready by the trying-on time,' she replied gaily, without looking up. 'Don't you be afraid, father.' Mr. Omer took off his broad-brimmed hat, and sat down and panted. He was so fat that he was obliged to pant some time before he could say: 'That's right.' 'Father!' said Minnie, playfully. 'What a porpoise you do grow!' 'Well, I don't know how it is, my dear,' he replied, considering about it. 'I am rather so.' 'You are such a comfortable man, you see,' said Minnie. 'You take things so easy.' 'No use taking 'em otherwise, my dear,' said Mr. Omer. 'No, indeed,' returned his daughter. 'We are all pretty gay here, thank Heaven! Ain't we, father?' 'I hope so, my dear,' said Mr. Omer. 'As I have got my breath now, I think I'll measure this young scholar. Would you walk into the shop, Master Copperfield?' I preceded Mr. Omer, in compliance with his request; and after showing me a roll of cloth which he said was extra super, and too good mourning for anything short of parents, he took my various dimensions, and put them down in a book. While he was recording them he called my attention to his stock in trade, and to certain fashions which he said had 'just come up', and to certain other fashions which he said had 'just gone out'. 'And by that sort of thing we very often lose a little mint of money,' said Mr. Omer. 'But fashions are like human beings. They come in, nobody knows when, why, or how; and they go out, nobody knows when, why, or how. Everything is like life, in my opinion, if you look at it in that point of view.' I was too sorrowful to discuss the question, which would possibly have been beyond me under any circumstances; and Mr. Omer took me back into the parlour, breathing with some difficulty on the way. He then called down a little break-neck range of steps behind a door: 'Bring up that tea and bread-and-butter!' which, after some time, during which I sat looking about me and thinking, and listening to the stitching in the room and the tune that was being hammered across the yard, appeared on a tray, and turned out to be for me. 'I have been acquainted with you,' said Mr. Omer, after watching me for some minutes, during which I had not made much impression on the breakfast, for the black things destroyed my appetite, 'I have been acquainted with you a long time, my young friend.' 'Have you, sir?' 'All your life,' said Mr. Omer. 'I may say before it. I knew your father before you. He was five foot nine and a half, and he


many bottomless mimosas at brunch or during literally any kind of penetrative sex? These days, I can’t look at a picture of a lake without leaking a little at that mere suggestion of a body of water, even if it’s one filled with E. coli and horrible bugs! I woke up at four in the morning yesterday, wide awake and drenched in sweat with a dry vagina, moody as fuck, burning up as if I had just dragged myself from the mouth of an active volcano, smelly, anxious, depressed, allergic to everything, on the verge of pissing myself: What should I have done before twenty-seven to get out of all this?! I watched that “Naomi Campbell cleans an entire airplane with a Clorox wipe” video in its entirety at least twice when it first made rounds on the internet, thinking, “Is this before or after she dribbled a little bit in her travel pajamas after too many unlimited Diet Cokes?” Because I’ve had to fashion a makeshift diaper out of the complimentary blanket they hand out on planes since I turned thirty-fucking-five. That’s even if I’ve managed to drink nothing but the swallow of water it takes to get an Ativan down my throat during takeoff! How do the properly hydrated among you get through the goddamned day? Are you just pissing in those Thinx panties all the time? I’ve been following this hipster nutritionist on Instagram (fuck you, an actual one is incredibly expensive and will actually hold me accountable, which is a little too panic-inducing for my current frame of mind), and she was like YOU SHOULD DRINK THREE LITERS OF WATER EVERY DAY BEFORE NOON, and, first of all: Who is out of bed before noon, let alone chugging water? But also, just listening to her even say those words, my bladder muscles reflexed so forcefully that you could hear the waves in the next goddamn room. How do you stay hydrated without (1) urine just slowly leaking out of you all the time with no warning or (2) alienating everyone who loves you because you have to pull the car over every three miles to squat over the Super Big Gulp you’ve designated as the urine catcher? Does it really help your skin look better, or is that just some bullshit the suits over at BIG WATER are trying to sell us? What was I so busy doing when I was a kid instead of training my Kegels for my progressive-lensed years, in a mirror somewhere practicing the Real World audition submission I would never make? Committing petty larceny in the home of a child I was babysitting? Where is the young woman who could hold her pee for hours even when sitting atop a toilet that, frankly, could’ve used a thorough bleaching?! It’s too late, that ship has sailed on a pungent ocean of excreta, and now I spend my whole day tinkling on trees in broad daylight while whoever I’m with hovers nearby with an inside-out plastic bag stretched over their hand in case it turns


“Good. So we’ll head to—” Lore was interrupted when her shoulder smacked into something that felt disconcertingly like another human. “Hmph,” said the other human. Slowly, she turned around. Alienor’s father frowned at her. Standing on lower stairs put him right at eye level with Lore, but Lord Bellegarde still managed to look like he was looming, peering down a straight nose with eyes a near-acidic shade of green, his dark hair caught in an orderly queue at the back of his neck. He smiled, but it was as thin as the rest of him, and did nothing to warm his eyes. Lore caught hold of herself, dipped into as passable a curtsy as she could muster in a dressing gown. Behind her, Gabe was stiff as a board. “Pardon me, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” “I take no offense.” Bellegarde inclined his head to her, then his eyes darted to Gabe. If the sight of them both in states of dishevelment and running down the back stairs threw him off, he did a remarkable job of hiding it. “Gabriel Remaut. I never thought I’d see you in court again.” His voice was cold enough to raise goose bumps. Lore’s brow knit, and she fought the anxious urge to chew a fingernail. The quick spasm of a grimace across Gabe’s face showed he noticed the chill, but he didn’t react in kind. He nodded smoothly, as if he were in a ballroom rather than half dressed in a servant’s stairway at midnight. “Lord Bellegarde. I must admit, I never thought I’d be back, either.” “Fourteen years, this past spring.” Alienor’s father clasped his hands behind his back. Despite the late hour and the odd location, he was still dressed in Citadel finery—white shirt with billowing sleeves beneath a doublet of cream silk and cloth-of-gold, breeches to match. Where Gabe and Bastian both wore boots, though, Bellegarde wore small heeled shoes in the same white as his shirt. They were not flattering, but even ridiculous footwear didn’t lessen the gravitas of his presence. “Fourteen years,” the lord continued, “and only now have we undone all the damage your family caused. The Bellegarde reputation was besmirched along with yours, though you and Alienor had said no wedding vows.” Lore looked from Bellegarde to Gabriel, fingers tightly wound in the long tie of her dressing gown. Good thing, too, because she felt a strong urge to smack Bellegarde in the mouth. But Gabriel weathered the low blow with nothing but a flicker of his eye to the floor. “I know,” he said simply, low and earnest. “Please believe me, Severin, I would never have knowingly ensnared Alie in my family’s troubles. I knew nothing of what my father planned with Kirythea.” Using Bellegarde and his daughter’s given names was a gamble, and one that didn’t pay off—Bellegarde’s eyes went flinty. “And yet you were present in Balgia when the betrayal occurred, when there was no reason for you to have left the court. You can see how such a thing invites ideas of


as it had never fallen before. For days and nights together it poured down in violent torrents, and washed away the yam heaps. Trees were uprooted and deep gorges appeared everywhere. Then the rain became less violent. But it went from day to day without a pause. The spell of sunshine which always came in the middle of the wet season did not appear. The yams put on luxuriant green leaves, but every farmer knew that without sunshine the tubers would not grow. That year the harvest was sad, like a funeral, and many farmers wept as they dug up the miserable and rotting yams. One man tied his cloth to a tree branch and hanged himself. Okonkwo remembered that tragic year with a cold shiver throughout the rest of his life. It always surprised him when he thought of it later that he did not sink under the load of despair. He knew that he was a fierce fighter, but that year-had been enough to break the heart of a lion. "Since I survived that year," he always said, "I shall survive anything." He put it down to his inflexible will. His father, Unoka, who was then an ailing man, had said to him during that terrible harvest month: "Do not despair. I know you will not despair. You have a manly and a proud heart. A proud heart can survive a general failure because such failure does not prick its pride. It is more difficult and more bitter when a man fails alone." Unoka was like that in his last days. His love of talk had grown with age and sickness. It tried Okonkwo's patience beyond words. CHAPTER FOUR "Looking at a king's mouth," said an old man, "one would think he never sucked at his mother's breast." He was talking about Okonkwo, who had risen so suddenly from great poverty and misfortune to be one of the lords of the clan. The old man bore no ill will towards Okonkwo. Indeed he respected him for his industry and success. But he was struck, as most people were, by Okonkwo's brusqueness in dealing with less successful men. Only a week ago a man had contradicted him at a kindred meeting which they held to discuss the next ancestral feast. Without looking at the man Okonkwo had said: "This meeting is for men." The man who had contradicted him had no titles. That was why he had called him a woman. Okonkwo knew how to kill a man's spirit. Everybody at the kindred meeting took sides with Osugo when Okonkwo called him a woman. The oldest man present said sternly that those whose palm-kernels were cracked for them by a benevolent spirit should not forget to be humble. Okonkwo said he was sorry for what he had said, and the meeting continued. But it was really not true that Okonkwo's palm-kernels had been cracked for him by a benevolent spirit. He had cracked them himself. Anyone who knew his grim struggle against poverty and misfortune could not say he had been


next the aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open window and the seductive outside summer scenes as possible. The crowd filed up the aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better days; the mayor and his wife -- for they had a mayor there, among other unnecessaries; the justice of the peace; the widow Douglass, fair, smart, and forty, a generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her hill mansion the only palace in the town, and the most hospitable and much the most lavish in the matter of festivities that St. Petersburg could boast; the bent and venerable Major and Mrs. Ward; lawyer Riverson, the new notable from a distance; next the belle of the village, followed by a troop of lawn-clad and ribbon-decked young heart-breakers; then all the young clerks in town in a --------------------------------------------------------- -59- body -- for they had stood in the vestibule sucking their cane-heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till the last girl had run their gantlet; and last of all came the Model Boy, Willie Mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as if she were cut glass. He always brought his mother to church, and was the pride of all the matrons. The boys all hated him, he was so good. And besides, he had been "thrown up to them" so much. His white handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind, as usual on Sundays -- accidentally. Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had as snobs. The congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more, to warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the church which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the choir in the gallery. The choir always tittered and whispered all through service. There was once a church choir that was not ill-bred, but I have forgotten where it was, now. It was a great many years ago, and I can scarcely remember anything about it, but I think it was in some foreign country. The minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in a peculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country. His voice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached a certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word and then plunged down as if from a spring-board: --------------------------------------------------------- -60- [Image] Shall I be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow'ry beds of ease, Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro' bloody seas? He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church "sociables" he was always called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the ladies would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps, and "wall" their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say, "Words cannot express it; it is too beautiful, too beautiful for this mortal earth." After the hymn had been sung, the


tut," responded Professor Porter, in a kindly and indulgent tone, "do not trouble your pretty head with such weighty and abstruse problems," and again he wandered slowly off in still another direction, his eyes bent upon the ground at his feet, his hands clasped behind him beneath the flowing tails of his coat. "I reckon the daffy old bounder don't know no more'n we do about it," growled the rat-faced sailor. "Keep a civil tongue in your head," cried the young man, his face paling in anger, at the insulting tone of the sailor. "You've murdered our officers and robbed us. We are absolutely in your power, but you'll treat Professor Porter and Miss Porter with respect or I'll break that vile neck of yours with my bare hands--guns or no guns," and the young fellow stepped so close to the rat-faced sailor that the latter, though he bore two revolvers and a villainous looking knife in his belt, slunk back abashed. "You damned coward," cried the young man. "You'd never dare shoot a man until his back was turned. You don't dare shoot me even then," and he deliberately turned his back full upon the sailor and walked nonchalantly away as if to put him to the test. The sailor's hand crept slyly to the butt of one of his revolvers; his wicked eyes glared vengefully at the retreating form of the young Englishman. The gaze of his fellows was upon him, but still he hesitated. At heart he was even a greater coward than Mr. William Cecil Clayton had imagined. Two keen eyes had watched every move of the party from the foliage of a nearby tree. Tarzan had seen the surprise caused by his notice, and while he could understand nothing of the spoken language of these strange people their gestures and facial expressions told him much. The act of the little rat-faced sailor in killing one of his comrades had aroused a strong dislike in Tarzan, and now that he saw him quarreling with the fine-looking young man his animosity was still further stirred. Tarzan had never seen the effects of a firearm before, though his books had taught him something of them, but when he saw the rat-faced one fingering the butt of his revolver he thought of the scene he had witnessed so short a time before, and naturally expected to see the young man murdered as had been the huge sailor earlier in the day. So Tarzan fitted a poisoned arrow to his bow and drew a bead upon the rat-faced sailor, but the foliage was so thick that he soon saw the arrow would be deflected by the leaves or some small branch, and instead he launched a heavy spear from his lofty perch. Clayton had taken but a dozen steps. The rat-faced sailor had half drawn his revolver; the other sailors stood Chapter 13 watching the scene intently. Professor Porter had already disappeared into the jungle, whither he was being followed by the fussy Samuel T. Philander, his secretary and assistant. Esmeralda, the


Zaphod Beeb ..." "We've met," said Arthur sharply. When you're cruising down the road in the fast lane and you lazily sail past a few hard driving cars and are feeling pretty pleased with yourself and then accidentally change down from fourth to first instead of third thus making your engine leap out of your bonnet in a rather ugly mess, it tends to throw you off your stride in much the same way that this remark threw Ford Prefect off his. "Err ... what?" "I said we've met." Zaphod gave an awkward start of surprise and jabbed a gum sharply. "Hey ... er, have we? Hey ... er ..." Ford rounded on Arthur with an angry flash in his eyes. Now he felt he was back on home ground he suddenly began to resent having lumbered himself with this ignorant primitive who knew as much about the affairs of the Galaxy as an Ilford-based gnat knew about life in Peking. "What do you mean you've met?" he demanded. "This is Zaphod Beeblebrox from Betelgeuse Five you know, not bloody Martin Smith from Croydon." "I don't care," said Arthur coldly. We've met, haven't we Zaphod Beeblebrox - or should I say ... Phil?" "What!" shouted Ford. "You'll have to remind me," said Zaphod. "I've a terrible memory for species." "It was at a party," pursued Arthur. "Yeah, well I doubt that," said Zaphod. "Cool it will you Arthur!" demanded Ford. Arthur would not be deterred. "A party six months ago. On Earth ... England ..." Zaphod shook his head with a tight-lipped smile. "London," insisted Arthur, "Islington." "Oh," said Zaphod with a guilty start, "that party." This wasn't fair on Ford at all. He looked backwards and forwards between Arthur and Zaphod. "What?" he said to Zaphod. "You don't mean to say you've been on that miserable planet as well do you?" "No, of course not," said Zaphod breezily. "Well, I may have just dropped in briefly, you know, on my way somewhere ..." "But I was stuck there for fifteen years!" "Well I didn't know that did I?" "But what were you doing there?" "Looking about, you know." "He gatecrashed a party," persisted Arthur, trembling with anger, "a fancy dress party ..." "It would have to be, wouldn't it?" said Ford. "At this party," persisted Arthur, "was a girl ... oh well, look it doesn't matter now. The whole place has gone up in smoke anyway ..." "I wish you'd stop sulking about that bloody planet," said Ford. "Who was the lady?" "Oh just somebody. Well alright, I wasn't doing very well with her. I'd been trying all evening. Hell, she was something though. Beautiful, charming, devastatingly intelligent, at last I'd got her to myself for a bit and was plying her with a bit of talk when this friend of yours barges up and says Hey doll, is this guy boring you? Why don't you talk to me instead? I'm from a different planet." I never saw her again." "Zaphod?" exclaimed Ford. "Yes," said Arthur, glaring at him and trying


would simply be doing everything in her power to salvage what she could of her life. “Lord Calloway, I—” “I seem to recall asking you to use my name, Miss Staley.” She groaned in frustration. “It would hardly be appropriate, given the circumstances. I am not your family, nor your friend.” “But we could become friends, could we not?” This time he reached out his hand, which Lucy took without meaning to. His fingers wrapped around hers with a gentle strength. “And would you give me leave to call you Lucy?” The only people who had called her Lucy in the last five years were Rebecca and now the Calloway family. She had practically forgotten her own name, and hearing it on Lord Calloway’s lips felt like a healing balm on her heart. It made her feel like she was home. “Very well. You may call me Lucy because we are friends,” she agreed, no matter how dangerous that could become. How desperate she was to have friends. Helping her to her feet, he linked her arm through his and led the way out. Though he said nothing, he pulled his eyebrows together as he gazed down at her while they walked. Whatever he saw, it seemed to confuse him, but he said nothing about it until they were halfway up to Mr. Calloway’s chamber. “Will you really not call me Simon?” he asked. His arm tensed beneath her fingers, though he walked easily enough and with a bit of a confident swagger in his step. Her decision truly bothered him? Lucy would not have guessed it. He was influential enough that he could have required civility and deference at all times. But she could not back down, at least not yet. Unless by some miracle she remained a friend to this family after everything, calling Lord Calloway by his Christian name was dangerous. “I suppose you need to earn that right,” she said, though it was a bit too impertinent for her own good. Raising an eyebrow, Lord Calloway pushed his brother’s door open and gestured for her to enter first. “Earn it?” he repeated. “How am I to do such a thing?” Mr. Calloway looked just as she’d left him earlier that morning. Lucy sank into the chair beside the man, her heart aching for him. Surely he should have improved at least a little. “You are a clever man, it seems,” she muttered, though her focus was more on Mr. Calloway than his brother. “You’ll think of something.” Lord Calloway took up a seat on the foot of the bed, and despite his reassurances earlier that Mr. Calloway would make a full recovery, concern pulled his thick eyebrows low. “He hasn’t changed, has he?” he said and reached for his brother’s hand. “He’s still burning.” Lucy did not like sitting there feeling useless, so she took up a rag and dipped it into the bowl of water that had been left there last night. The water was blessedly cool despite the warmth of the room, and she pressed the


evidence and how many cops have the combination to the evidence safe. It’s all but an admission that cops have been stealing evidence, and it’s a small—but likely ineffective—attempt to stop the practice. It’s not a victory, nothing that big, but it’s proof that Nick’s writing did something other than keep people entertained on their morning commute. * * * As soon as the ink is dry on the deed and Andy (and Chemical Corn Bank) officially own the building, something loosens in Nick, some old tension evaporating almost immediately. It’s alarming, because he isn’t expecting it—he had been a little ambivalent about Andy buying the building, but now that it’s done, Nick feels like he has about a dozen fewer things to worry about. He tells himself that he’s only pleased because it means Andy really is here to stay, and maybe that’s part of it. But honestly Nick had already known Andy would stay and he doesn’t need a building as proof. It’s something simpler and more material than that: the guarantee of a roof over his head. It’s the ability to lean on someone. It’s something Nick hasn’t had—maybe hasn’t let himself have—since he was a child. It’s space. It’s room to breathe. The idea of not having to worry about steady work lets Nick imagine a world where life doesn’t revolve around the predictable arrival of his paycheck. Andy already knows that Nick’s getting ready to pitch a couple of ideas to some magazines. A year ago Nick would have rejected the idea out of hand—he was a city reporter, and that was that. That had been the safest and best place for him. But now he thinks he can carve out another, better place for himself. “I mean, you’re right,” Andy says later when Nick, abashed, explains all this to him. It’s late enough that half the lights are out in the newsroom, but Andy and the Chronicle’s treasurer have been burning the midnight oil, trying to find money for the kind of equipment they need to put out a glossy magazine on Sundays. “It goes both ways, you know. If the paper folds, figuring out the next step is less of an emergency since you’ll probably have work.” Andy says this so simply and with such total faith in the idea that Nick is on board with the entangling of their lives and their futures, Nick is momentarily speechless. “Did I get that wrong?” Andy asks, his face going blotchy with rising color. “No,” Nick says quickly. “It’s just—it’s good, you know?” A wild understatement, if ever there was one, but Andy seems to get the point. “It just, uh, made me sort of happy to hear you say that, I guess?” He feels deranged saying that sort of thing out loud, but it makes Andy so transparently thrilled that Nick has decided to get over himself. Andy is sitting in Nick’s chair and Nick is leaning against his desk. They probably ought to move this conversation into Andy’s new office, but Andy looks too tired