which was long and fatiguing. At length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted and was conducted to my solitary apartment to spend the evening as I pleased. The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and paid a visit to some of the principal professors. Chance--or rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father's door--led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. He asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied carelessly, and partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchemists as the principal authors I had studied. The professor stared. "Have you," he said, "really spent your time in studying such nonsense?" I replied in the affirmative. "Every minute," continued M. Krempe with warmth, "every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems and useless names. Good God! In what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies which you have so greedily imbibed are a thousand years old and as musty as they are ancient? I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew." So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books treating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure, and dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning of the following week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he omitted. I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come to concerning them in my early years. As a child I had not been content with the results promised by the modern professors of natural science. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge along the paths of time and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different when the masters of the science sought immortality and


made an extraordinary journey to this continent, another journey was being demanded of them, this time to the Peninsula, trying to complete the journey before winter arrived. Many of McMurdo’s leaders drowned during the sinking of the flagship and a new leadership had taken charge, made up of former generals and admirals from armies around the world. Under their stewardship, the evacuation of McMurdo City had been well-organized and calm, unloading all the supplies from the ships, barely enough to see them through the journey let alone the long dark winter ahead. Many of the snow vehicles had been destroyed in the fire. As for the packs of once devoted huskies, all of them had joined the colony of cold creatures, including Yotam’s dog Copper. Not a single dog remained, as if they understood that this continent had new masters now. As the last refugees set off from the scorched remains of McMurdo City, they fired a hundred flares into a clear blue sky, representing the end of this base where people had lived for one hundred years. The three Survivor Towns responded to the news of the uprising with resilience and generosity, promising to welcome the new arrivals with the same love and compassion as if they were family. But there was no hiding from the fact that humanity had lost their capital city and their most advanced resources. On a practical level, it would be no easy task for the three Survivor Towns to absorb the people of McMurdo. Every family would accept another, dividing the refugees between the three towns until every person had a new home. For those who completed the journey, a different life awaited them, a simpler life. After the truce, there’d been no further sign of the colony of cold creatures. They’d made their home in the most remote depths of the continent where ordinary people couldn’t survive, building the foundations of their new civilization. There’d been no skirmish attacks on the refugees, despite them being so vulnerable in this instant. True to their word, they’d given ordinary people until the winter, when the sun would disappear for months, and the truce would end. For the ice-adapted children the world had changed, a notion spread that ordinary-born people had always intended to create an Antarctic working class, genetically engineered ice-adapted servants to do the jobs they couldn’t. After the uprising, many of the ordinary-born people were more mistrustful of their ice-adapted companions, questioning how long they’d remain loyal while an ascendant community built a radically new and prosperous society, one which they were welcome to join at any time. As they counted the numbers, they noticed several ice-adapted people had defected, disappearing into the wilderness in search of the other colony where they believed they belonged. Towards the front of the snaking line of refugees making their way to the Peninsula, Yotam accompanied his friend Chang-Rae, the renowned chef whose canteen had been destroyed in the fire. Together the two of them were pulling a sleigh loaded with as much cooking equipment as they’d been


perform alone. Vanessa strode to the center of the room when her number was called, a huge smile on her face. The music began, and she did the choreography perfectly, her kicks hitting eye height, exactly as they’d been directed. But on the final piano kick, she caught her heel on the side of her other shoe. It was a tiny bobble, hardly noticeable, but she grimaced before catching herself and smiling wide once more. Hopefully they hadn’t noticed, but several of the judges wrote something down on their pads as Vanessa ran back to her spot. She didn’t meet Marion’s eyes as she passed by. “Next up, number 310.” Marion walked to the front of the room. As the music began, she thought of her favorite dancer, Gwen Verdon. She’d seen her last month on Broadway in Damn Yankees. As the enchantress Lola, there were times her body seemed to be made of liquid, yet she also had an inherent strength, especially in her upper torso, that counteracted the wild freedom of movement in her limbs. She could seduce with a turn of an ankle or a flick of a wrist, yet underneath her performance was a childlike playfulness. The woman was the toast of Broadway, and for good reason. But the choreography Marion had learned today was the exact opposite, all about precision and technique, and presented a different kind of challenge, one that Marion welcomed. She remembered her mother and her wasted dreams and used that energy to fuel every step, keeping each one sharp and taut. When she kicked, she imagined her mother’s glee at finding out she’d been cast in a Broadway play. Same with every arm lift, each snap of the head. She felt her mother’s spirit watching her, pushing her harder, urging her on. And then it was over. Marion was dismissed and withdrew into the crowd of dancers. Vanessa stood on the other side of the room, her arms crossed. A few more women performed, but Marion didn’t bother watching. Now that her audition was over, she’d have to go back to her old life and figure out how to fix it. Figure out what would make her happy. The energy drained out of her at the very thought. As Mr. Markert called out the numbers of those who’d made it, the lucky girls screamed with happiness and were congratulated by the dancers next to them. “And finally, number 310.” Marion looked up. “Sorry?” she said. “That would be you,” said Mr. Markert, pointing to her number and closing his notebook. “That’s it, ladies. Thank you for coming. For those who didn’t make it, please don’t give up. There’s a big dance world out there. For those who did, we’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock for orientation and first rehearsal. Congratulations.” CHAPTER FIVE It’s not fair. If you hadn’t auditioned, I might have gotten your spot.” Vanessa wiped her eyes and refused to look at Marion. They’d taken the elevator together down to the stage door, part of the scrum of girls


rest my head on his chest as he makes the call. 474/551 “Dad?” I register his surprise that Carrick has answered the phone. “Ana’s good. We’re home. Welch has just left. He found out the connection . . . the foster home in Detroit . . . I don’t remember any of that.” Christian’s voice is almost in- audible as he mutters the last sentence. My heart constricts once more. I hug him, and he squeezes my shoulder. “Yeah . . . You will? . . . Great.” He hangs up. “They’re on their way.” He sounds surprised, and I realize that he’s probably never asked them for help. “Good. I should get dressed.” Christian’s arm tightens around me. “Don’t go.” “Okay.” I snuggle into his side again, stunned by the fact that he’s just told me a great deal about himself—entirely voluntarily. As we stand at the threshold to the great room, Grace wraps me gently in her arms. “Ana, Ana, darling Ana,” she whispers. “Saving two of my children. How can I ever thank you?” I blush, touched and embarrassed in equal measure by her words. Carrick hugs me, too, kissing my forehead. Then Mia grabs me, squashing my ribs. I wince and gasp, but she doesn’t no- tice. “Thank you for saving me from those assholes.” Christian scowls at her. “Mia! Careful! She’s in pain.” “Oh! Sorry.” “I’m good,” I mutter, relieved when she releases me. She looks fine. Impeccably dressed in tight black jeans and a pale pink frilly blouse. I’m glad I’m wearing my comfortable wrap dress and flats. At least I look reasonably presentable. Racing over to Christian, Mia curls her arm around his waist. Wordlessly, he hands Grace the photo. She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth to contain her emotion as she instantly recognizes Christian. Carrick wraps his arm around her shoulder as he, too, examines it. “Oh, darling.” Grace caresses Christian’s cheek. Taylor appears. “Mr. Grey? Miss Kavanagh, her brother, and your brother are coming up, sir.” 475/551 Christian frowns. “Thank you, Taylor,” he mutters, bemused. “I called Elliot and told him we were coming over.” Mia grins. “It’s a welcome-home party.” I sneak a sympathetic glance at my poor husband as both Grace and Carrick glare at Mia in exasperation. “We’d better get some food together,” I declare. “Mia, will you give me a hand?” “Oh, I’d love to.” I usher her toward the kitchen area as Christian leads his parents into his study. Kate is apoplectic with righteous indignation that’s aimed at me, Christian, but most of all Jack and Elizabeth. “What were you thinking, Ana?” she shouts as she confronts me in the kit- chen, causing all eyes in the room to turn and stare. “Kate, please. I’ve had the same lecture from everyone!” I snap back. She glares at me, and for one minute I think I’m going to be subjected to a Katherine Kavanagh how-not-to-succumb-to-kidnappers lecture, but instead she folds me in her arms. “Jeez—sometimes you don’t have the brains you were born with, Steele,” she whispers.


with the dawn, and heard the birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and I was glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can make them more bearable. 13 August.--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky, merged together in one great silent mystery, was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully. She did not stir again all night. 14 August.--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness. The red light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself. . . "His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state, with an odd look on her face that I could not quite make out, so I said nothing, but followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was quite a little startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like burning flames, but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the refraction and reflection to make


again.” “You’re a terror,” he muttered, and he meant it. 16 It was colder that morning, and Montserrat’s leg ached. She could do nothing about it except rub the limb and plug in the electric blanket. She dallied in bed, comforted by its warmth, and went through the notes she had gathered. Her meeting with Nando wasn’t until two p.m., so she had time to craft a defensive charm. Ewers’s book was at first glance disorganized. But this was a mirage intended to either ward off dilettantes or enhance the book’s mystique. Anyway, Montserrat had grasped the method he used to explain his magic knowledge. He divided magic into a system of levels and elements, with corresponding runes. According to him, adepts could only grasp the barest glimpses of this magic, while hierophants were able to wield it. Water was associated with death—Ewers made his case by citing both Lethe and the Styx—and therefore with the past. Necromancy, automatic writing, retrocognition were detailed in the chapter he called “The Permutation of Water.” “The Whispers of the Earth” focused on the earth element, and therefore was associated with precious metals and with minerals. He also connected earth with plants and fungi, and thus, it was not difficult to discern why Ewers associated this element with potions and medicine—but also with hexes, as the same elements that could heal someone could also kill them. Ewers tied earth to visions of the future and clairvoyant powers, reasoning that all mirrors and crystals, which can be used for scrying, ultimately came from the depths of the earth. He even mentioned John Dee’s obsidian mirror, made from volcanic glass mined in Mexico, which he used to foretell events. “The Cipher of Fire” included long paragraphs on radiesthesia. This was not surprising, considering it was Ewers’s specialty. Ewers associated fire with passion, transformation, and willpower—the phoenix, reborn from its ashes, appeared as a common motif, but the fire salamander also received lovingly detailed paragraphs. He placed telepathy, illusions, and defensive magic in this chapter. There was no hierophant who could control air by itself. This element was a wild card, something that altered the other elements and was not found alone. Only a master magician, such as Ewers himself, could hope to control fire, earth, and water, and gain access to the ever-elusive aether or “air.” Movies were interesting to Ewers because they seemed to bring together all the four elements he relied on with his magic system. The silver nitrate used in films came from the earth; the spooling film was to him like a river of images; and the carbon arc lamps used to project movies were close to torches in his estimation, and thus connected to fire. These elements were unified and perfect with the inclusion of sound, which he identified as the air element. Air was an amplifier, like old audio systems, like Vitaphone, had amplified sound. Films were also spectacles, and Ewers seemed to be fascinated by the idea of many people coming together to increase the power of a spell. Movies were


dates very often? By choice!). But it seems very understandable that you wonder about other people’s drinking habits. You actually are not my first pen pal. You’re probably my best one, though, or at least this little diversion we have going is very enjoyable. Do you think it’s beautiful when two people are each other’s firsts, or do you think that inevitably creates awkwardness and it’s better when one is more experienced and can guide the other? from: Noah Brewster <NoahRBrewster@gmail.com> to: Sally Milz <Smilz@TNOshow.com> date: Jul 24, 2020, 3:01 PM subject: Actually I’m “probably” your best pen pal? In “this little diversion we have going”? You’re breaking my heart here! Only kidding, but who are all these other pen pals that I probably compare favorably to? Are they current or past? Do I need to find them and challenge them to a duel? In all seriousness, I am honored you’ve been enjoying my music. I might also sound like a cringey fangirl when I tell you that I think I have watched all your sketches. And this also happened in the past, right after I hosted TNO. I’m assuming you know it’s hard to figure out which sketches you wrote because it doesn’t say in the show credits so I had to venture into some deep dark superfan caverns. Now, just for the record, this does not mean I buy into the idea you refer to where I am a celebrity recognized far and wide and you are an unknown. You for sure have fans, even if you aren’t recognized in the grocery store (except by Vinny Kaplan, who I am sure noticed you, knew you were pretending not to see him, and felt devastated). But I know you are a star in the comedy world. Also, plenty of people don’t know or care who I am, and frequently when a stranger comes up to me in a restaurant (in normal times), I think they are about to say “I love your music” and what they say is “You look so familiar…are you my dentist?” But my point is that your sketches are really funny. Although it’s hard to choose, the ones that made me laugh the most are the one about how women supposedly don’t fart, the one about the ICE agents celebrating Thanksgiving, and the 1950s ads for housewives. I respect that you are not afraid to be dark or to acknowledge the awkwardness of life instead of glossing over it like we are all trained to do. Impressive to think your entire career is built on Mad Libs! Thank you for the kind things you wrote about my parents. It took me a while to get here, but I try not to take their judgment personally. I’m grateful that I’ve had a much wider range of experiences and met many more people than they have. Also, it’s not quite fair of me to claim they’re completely unsupportive. Years ago…and warning, big namedrop ahead…I was part of presenting Mick Jagger with an award before joining the band onstage to


he continues to slice off sections of his burger. “They haven’t officially announced it yet, but we’ve all signed on. A special to mark ten years since the finale aired. It’ll be taped at the beginning of December.” “My cousin will be over the moon. She’s a huge fan.” Joe smiles again. “And then you can finish writing on your own—of course, with Finn and the publisher’s input, but that part can be done primarily remotely. You’ll have all the access to him that you want.” Oh, I’ve already had plenty. My traitorous body heats up. All of this is too much, and Noemie’s business casual is nearly suffocating me. Death by ruffles. I tug at the collar of the blouse. Cross and uncross my legs, accidentally flashing my bruise. “That looks painful,” Finn says, and I can see it in his eyes: the chance to gain control over the situation. “How’d you get that?” I do my best to send him a glare as I sink my spoon into the soup bowl, bright orange sloshing over the side. A phone rings, and Joe reaches to pull it out of his pocket. “Would you two excuse me? I have to take this. It’s Blake,” he says with a knowing roll of his eyes, and I mouth, Lively? to Finn, whose mouth only twitches in response. Once Joe leaves, all the questions and confusion about Finn rise to the surface. My grip tightens on my spoon. Because I’m not just confused—I’m angry. Angry he lied to me, angry I’m sitting here like a fucking idiot with my delicious pumpkin soup while his manager taunts me with an amazing job I absolutely cannot take. My mind was made up as soon as I saw him sitting here. “You gave me a fake name.” Somehow, this is the first thing that comes out. Almost too calmly, Finn nudges a fry with his fork. “Typically not my opening line. ‘Nice to meet you, I was on a TV show about werewolves in the early to mid-aughts, some weather we’re having.’ ” “You said you were here on ‘business’ ”—I make a show of the most obnoxious air quotes to ever air quote—“and that you work in tech sales!” When a woman at the table next to us glances over, I lower my voice. “I bet you aren’t even a Lord of the Rings fan.” “That one is real. You heard me speak Quenya.” He crosses his arms over his chest, remembers the stain, and thinks better of it. “And I am here on business. I make money off sales of autographs and photos, so . . .” His gaze flicks around the room, and then, seeing everyone’s immersed in their meals and his manager is still outside: “Besides, if I recall correctly, you were the one who snuck out of my room this morning. If anyone has the right to be upset here, I think it’s me.” And yet he’s so composed, so seemingly unbothered now that the initial shock has worn off, that it makes


his gun. Turns out he was driving a certain vehicle. You saw it when you pulled my fat out of the fire.” “Ah, indeed.” “You have anything to do with his sudden feeling of remorse, Mr. Nugent?” “No, Mr. Sounder, very much not. I should have preferred him discursive. I suspect his death is very much of his own engineering, though of course one always looks to the employer in such a context.” Always, and always assuming that wasn’t Nugent himself, double games hardly being unknown in organised crime. “Did you know Roddy Tebbit?” “You ask a lot of questions for a dinner guest, Mr. Sounder. Please be so kind as to pass the baguette basket.” He can reach the basket, of course. Figure he prefers not to. I pass it along, and Nugent makes a little jazz hands gesture, palms out. “I adore French baking, sir. Adore it.” “Roddy Tebbit, Mr. Nugent. If you don’t mind.” “I knew him a little. We were not friends, but…those of us who are not like the others…well, we meet, inevitably. You conceive that the attempt on your life was related to your investigation.” “I do.” “So do I.” “You turned up at a real convenient moment for me. How’s that happen?” “Good fortune on your part. We were rushing to protect Miss Green.” “And how did you know she needed it?” “Oh, I deduced it, of course. With Mr. Tebbit dead, the possibility is plain.” “Did a bang-up job. She’s worse than me.” “Alas, we may strive for omniscience, but omnipresence is somewhat more problematic.” “I hear Roddy had plans to survey Lake Othrys. Algae or some such.” “Yes, so I gather.” “It crossed my mind maybe you didn’t want that to happen, what with your shyness and all.” Doublewide claps his hands duchess style, wrists close together, pat pat pat with his palms like flippers. “Oh, yes! The lower reaches are said to be a museum of gangsters murdered in the early days. But Mr. Sounder, I assure you, I’ve no bones to pick in that regard. No, indeed, sir. Did Mr. Zoegar not specifically advise you that concrete boots were not on the agenda?” “I took that as a metaphor.” “It was, it was. You need have no personal fear. But as it happens, it is also literally true. The lake and I have no secrets together. Let the waters drain away, and I shall be unabashed. Apart from environmentally, of course. In that connection I should be quite upset. It is a rich and complex habitat.” “You brought me here to talk ecology, Mr. Nugent?” “No, indeed. History. Or perhaps literary fiction. Eat, Mr. Sounder, and I will tell you a story.” “Can it be the one about the horse walking into a bar and the really small piano player?” “If you like. Or if you prefer, it can be about murder and lies.” “That is a tough choice.” “Not for either one of us, I believe. Come now, sir. Please just eat, and I shall satisfy a curiosity you do


his head like a diver’s, have missed his footing and fallen backward down the hill. pointing directly in the opposite. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 264 265 “I’ve taken a notion into my old numbskull,” observed Sil- living, this would be a hot spot for you and me. Six they ver. “Here’s the compass; there’s the tip-top p’int o’ Skeleton were, and six are we; and bones is what they are now.” Island, stickin’ out like a tooth. Just take a bearing, will you, “I saw him dead with these here deadlights,” said Morgan. along the line of them bones.” “Billy took me in. There he laid, with penny- pieces on his It was done. The body pointed straight in the direction eyes.” of the island, and the compass read duly E.S.E. and by E. “Dead—aye, sure enough he’s dead and gone below,” said “I thought so,” cried the cook; “this here is a p’inter. Right the fellow with the bandage; “but if ever sperrit walked, it up there is our line for the Pole Star and the jolly dollars. would be Flint’s. Dear heart, but he died bad, did Flint!” But, by thunder! If it don’t make me cold inside to think of “Aye, that he did,” observed another; “now he raged, and Flint. This is one of HIS jokes, and no mistake. Him and now he hollered for the rum, and now he sang. ‘Fifteen Men’ these six was alone here; he killed ‘em, every man; and this were his only song, mates; and I tell you true, I never rightly one he hauled here and laid down by compass, shiver my tim- liked to hear it since. It was main hot, and the windy was bers! They’re long bones, and the hair’s been yellow. Aye, open, and I hear that old song comin’ out as clear as clear— that would be Allardyce. You mind Allardyce, Tom Mor- and the death-haul on the man already.” gan?” “Come, come,” said Silver; “stow this talk. He’s dead, and “Aye, aye,” returned Morgan; “I mind him; he owed me he don’t walk, that I know; leastways, he won’t walk by day, money, he did, and took my knife ashore with him.” and you may lay to that. Care killed a cat. Fetch ahead for “Speaking of knives,” said another, “why don’t we find his’n the doubloons.” lying round? Flint warn’t the man to pick a seaman’s pocket; We started, certainly; but in spite of the hot sun and the and the birds, I guess, would leave it be.” staring daylight, the pirates no longer ran separate and shout- “By the powers, and that’s true!” cried Silver. ing through the wood, but kept side by side and spoke with “There ain’t a thing left here,” said Merry, still feeling bated breath. The terror of the dead buccaneer had fallen on round among the bones; “not a copper doit nor a baccy box. their spirits. It don’t look nat’ral to me.” Contents “No, by gum, it don’t,” agreed Silver; “not nat’ral, nor not nice, says


ice cream. After fifteen minutes of fast-forwarding through the footage, he recognizes Sloane’s dark hair as she strides down the aisle. She’s looking down at her phone with a grocery basket slung over her arm. Ethan casts a cursory glance at the nightshift detectives on the other side of his cubicle. Both appear to be deeply focused on their computer screens. Sloane stops in front of the freezer doors and turns to her right before she opens the door. She grabs a pint of ice cream and tosses it into her basket when Ethan spots Brody Carr appear in the edge of the screen. Sloane closes the freezer door and glances at her phone as Carr moves down the aisle, seemingly unaware of her standing there. His head is turned in the opposite direction as his eyes scan the shelves opposite the freezer. Sloane lifts her head from her phone and stares into the glass. Ethan leans forward in his seat. What is she doing? Sloane remains still, her gaze transfixed on the freezer door until Carr walks behind her. He has yet to even look in her direction, his attention still focused on the shelving behind Sloane. Ethan watches Sloane back up abruptly before pivoting a second before she collides with the startled app founder’s chest. A chill runs down his arms when Sloane drops her phone. She waits to reach for it until Carr has already picked it up, placing her hand atop his. Their eyes meet for the first time when they both stand. Ethan makes a fist with his hand and presses it against his mouth as he watches Carr seemingly recognize Sloane and they appear to chat. He rewinds the footage and presses play again. He went back too far, and he stares at the empty aisle waiting for Sloane to appear. Movement at the end of the aisle catches his eye. Ethan recognizes Sloane walking past the freezer aisle. A man carrying a shopping basket passes by her in the opposite direction. Ethan leans forward, realizing the man is Carr. Sloane turns toward him, who glances in her direction for a split second before looking away. Sloane stops once Carr is out of view. She spins and stares for a moment before following after him. Ethan swallows, trying to make sense of what he just saw. Despite his wool coat, he feels cold. After Sloane reappears in the aisle, he turns down the speed of the playback. He watches her look up from her phone and look to the right before opening the freezer door, studying her pointed gaze. She’s looking at something or someone specific. She opens the freezer door. Seconds later, Carr comes into view. Ethan pauses the footage. It was Carr she was fixed on before opening the freezer door. He presses play and zooms in on Sloane after she tosses the ice cream into her basket. He enlarges the video more until he can tell what Sloane is staring at as she appears to be looking at ice cream. It’s Carr’s reflection.


had advised her to plug her computer into the modem with an ethernet cord. She called Peter to see if he had any ideas. “FaceTime uses more bandwidth,” he said. “But if the router’s dodgy, she should be able to use cellular.” He told her to check the indicator, which showed only one square at the farmhouse, so she headed down the hill toward the offices, watching the phone like a divining rod. Past the table, two bars showed. By a dogwood tree, four. “Bingo,” she said. “I’ll FaceTime her phone to try,” Peter said. Behind his stippled face, San Francisco skyscrapers loomed through the window. His office was on the top floor of a building that resembled a needle jammed into the streets near Chinatown. “Too bad,” he said. “You’ll never get her off that thing now.” “I’m so happy to have them here,” Maud said. “And I’m already tired.” She was also disappointed in herself for losing her cool with Ella so quickly. “I miss them already,” Peter said. “Even the pouty one.” “We’ll try you again tonight when Ella has calmed down,” Maud said. She said goodbye and hung up, feeling guilty. Peter missed his daughters. Of course he did. There were these windows of connection with him when she forgot herself, forgot their history, when the problems of parenting distracted from the problem of themselves. But if she didn’t stick to her intentions and leave him this summer, she feared she never would. Not wanting to reward a fit, she waited until she and the girls had finished eating dinner to tell Ella about the hot spot. They were sitting outside at the table—with Harriet’s approval, she’d dragged a barbecue from behind the farmhouse to grill burgers. “You can go to that tree if you want to call,” she said. “It’s not called calling,” Ella said, as she got up from the table with her phone. “But thanks.” By seven, Maud was starting to wonder why Gabriel hadn’t texted. His truck had been parked at the cottage for two hours. As she drew the girls’ bedroom curtains shut, Ella said, “What’s that noise?” “Crickets.” “If there are deer, are there mountain lions?” Louise said from her bed. “No. Once upon a time, there were wolves. But they’re long gone.” Maud kissed her on the forehead, then kissed the back of Ella’s head. “Don’t worry. It’ll feel more like home in a couple days.” She closed their door most of the way and turned on the hall light, glancing again through the window. Maybe Gabriel had decided to stay away now that Ella and Louise were here. Maybe the feelings were all on her side and she’d imagined what they’d really been saying last night. “Stop it, you idiot,” she whispered out loud. She put her phone in the kitchen, opened her laptop, and worked on copy for the explanatory placards about Alexander Gilson, trying not to phrase certainties where there was doubt. An hour later, when she checked her phone, there was a message from Gabriel. How is


world could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself. "Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, "When Papa was rich we did so-and-so," which was very touching, and her long words were considered `perfectly elegant' by the girls. Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing, however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin's clothes. Now Florence's mama hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was good, well made, and little worn, but Amy's artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull purple with yellow dots and no trimming. "My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is that Mother doesn't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as Maria Parks's mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful, for sometimes she is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school. When I think of this deggerredation, I fell that I can bear even my flat nose and purple gown with yellow skyrockets on it." Meg was Amy's confidante and monitor, and by some strange attraction of opposites Jo was gentle Beth's. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously exercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way, `playing mother' they called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women. "Has anybody got anything to tell? It's been such a dismal day I'm really dying for some amusement," said Meg,


back to his bloodless cheeks. "That's better!" said he. "And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to be." He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots. "Good heavens!" I cried, "this is a terrible injury. It must have bled considerably." "Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round the wrist and braced it up with a twig." "Excellent! You should have been a surgeon." "It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own province." "This has been done," said I, examining the wound, "by a very heavy and sharp instrument." "A thing like a cleaver," said he. "An accident, I presume?" "By no means." "What! a murderous attack?" "Very murderous indeed." "You horrify me." I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it over with cotton wadding and carbolized bandages. He lay back without wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time. "How is that?" I asked when I had finished. "Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through." "Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying to your nerves." "Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but, between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement, for it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of proof with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the clews which I can give them are so vague that it is a question whether justice will be done." "Ha!" cried I, "if it is anything in the nature of a problem which you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police." "Oh, I have heard of that fellow," answered my visitor, "and I should be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to him?" "I'll do better. I'll take you round to him myself." "I should be immensely obliged to you." "We'll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?" "Yes; I shall not feel easy until I


March. They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then out came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through them. At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano, but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys and making a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sang. Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could lisp . . . Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar, and it had become a household custom,, for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby. -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.2 A Merry Christmas Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke Meg with a "Merry Christmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day. In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given. "Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books,


whither she was now at last invited by her uncle, Mr. Gibson, who had come down to direct his sister's interment, and settle the family affairs. Georgiana said she dreaded being left alone with Eliza; from her she got neither sympathy in her dejection, support in her fears, nor aid in her preparations; so I bore with her feeble-minded quailings, and selfish lamentations, as well as I could, and did my best in sewing for her, and packing her dresses. It is true, that while I worked she would idle; and I thought to myself, "If you and I were destined to live always together, cousin, we would commence matters on a different footing. I should not settle tamely down into being the forbearing party; I should assign you your share of labor, and compel you to accomplish it, or else it should be left undone. I should insist, also, on your keeping some of those drawling, half-insincere complaints hushed in your own breast. It is only because our connection happens to be very transitory, and comes at a peculiarly mournful season, that I consent thus to render it so patient and compliant on my part."     At last I saw Georgiana off; but now it was Eliza's turn to request me to stay another week. Her plans required all her time and attention, she said; she was about to depart for some unknown bourne; and all day long she stayed in her own room, her door bolted within, filling trunks, emptying drawers, burning papers, and holding no communication with any one. She wished me to look after the house, to see callers, and answer notes of condolence.     One morning she told me I was at liberty. "And," she added, "I am obliged to you for your valuable services and discreet conduct! There is some difference between living with such a one as you and with Georgiana; you perform your own part in life, and burden no one. To-morrow," she continued, "I set out for the continent. I shall take up my abode in a religious house, near Lisle a nunnery you would call it; there I shall be quiet and unmolested. I shall devote myself for a time to the examination of the Roman Catholic dogmas, and to a careful study of the workings of their system; if I find it to be, as I half suspect it is, the one best calculated to insure the doing of all things decently and in order, I shall embrace the tenets of Rome and probably take the veil."     I neither expressed surprise at this resolution nor attempted to dissuade her from it. "The vocation will fit you to a hair," I thought; "much good may it do you!"     When we parted, she said: "Good-by, Cousin Jane Eyre; I wish you well; you have some sense."     I then returned:" You are not without sense, Cousin Eliza; but what you have, I suppose, in another year


try to remember it and put it down. "It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel, that's what it be and nowt else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' bar-guests an' bogles an' all anent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women a'belderin'. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an' all grims an' signs an' warnin's, be all invented by parsons an' illsome berk-bodies an' railway touters to skeer an' scunner hafflin's, an' to get folks to do somethin' that they don't other incline to. It makes me ireful to think o' them. Why, it's them that, not content with printin' lies on paper an' preachin' them ou t of pulpits, does want to be cuttin' them on the tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will. All them steans, holdin' up their heads as well as they can out of their pride, is acant, simply tumblin' down with the weight o' the lies wrote on them, `Here lies the body' or `Sacred to the memory' wrote on all of them, an' yet in nigh half of them there bean't no bodies at all, an' the memories of them bean't cared a pinch of snuff about, much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin' but lies of one kind or another! My gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment when they come tumblin' up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an' trying' to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was, some of them trimmlin' an' dithering, with their hands that dozzened an' slippery from lyin' in the sea that they can't even keep their gurp o' them." I could see from the old fellow's self-satisfied air and the way in which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was "showing off," so I put in a word to keep him going. "Oh, Mr. Swales, you can't be serious. Surely these tombstones are not all wrong?" "Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin' where they make out the people too good, for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here. You come here a stranger, an' you see this kirkgarth." I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church. He went on, "And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be haped here, snod an' snog?" I assented again. "Then that be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these laybeds that be toom as old Dun's `baccabox on Friday night." He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. "And, my gog! How could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank, read it!" I went over and read, "Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast


of his life, and a certain native shrewdness, made him better worth talking to than many men, morally and socially his betters, whose horizon was bounded by the Battery and the Central Park. How should any one coming from a wider world not feel the difference and be attracted by it? Madame Olenska, in a burst of irritation, had said to Archer that he and she did not talk the same language; and the young man knew that in some respects this was true. But Beaufort understood every turn of her dialect, and spoke it fluently: his view of life, his tone, his attitude, were merely a coarser reflection of those revealed in Count Olenski's letter. This might seem to be to his disadvantage with Count Olenski's wife; but Archer was too intelligent to think that a young woman like Ellen Olenska would necessarily recoil from everything that reminded her of her past. She might believe herself wholly in revolt against it; but what had charmed her in it would still charm her, even though it were against her will. Thus, with a painful impartiality, did the young man make out the case for Beaufort, and for Beaufort's victim. A longing to enlighten her was strong in him; and there were moments when he imagined that all she asked was to be enlightened. That evening he unpacked his books from London. The box was full of things he had been waiting for impatiently; a new volume of Herbert Spencer, another collection of the prolific Alphonse Daudet's brilliant tales, and a novel called "Middlemarch," as to which there had lately been interesting things said in the reviews. He had declined three dinner invitations in favour of this feast; but though he turned the pages with the sensuous joy of the book-lover, he did not know what he was reading, and one book after another dropped from his hand. Suddenly, among them, he lit on a small volume of verse which he had ordered because the name had attracted him: "The House of Life." He took it up, and found himself plunged in an atmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed in books; so warm, so rich, and yet so ineffably tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions. All through the night he pursued through those enchanted pages the vision of a woman who had the face of Ellen Olenska; but when he woke the next morning, and looked out at the brownstone houses across the street, and thought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair's office, and the family pew in Grace Church, his hour in the park of Skuytercliff became as far outside the pale of probability as the visions of the night. "Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!" Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added: "Newland, dear, I've noticed lately that you've been coughing; I do hope you're not letting yourself be overworked?" For it was the conviction of both ladies that, under the iron despotism of his senior


your brother going to have to call you out when he rises from his deathbed?” “Nothing happened,” Simon repeated. “I haven’t compromised Miss Staley, and I have no plans to.” “Good, because you’re a decent fellow, Calloway, and I would hate to think less of you.” Thankfully, he smiled a little at that. “I wanted this conversation less than you did, you know.” Simon had a hard time believing that. “Then, why bring it up?” “Because you’re one of my closest friends, and if someone else had discovered you—” “On my own grounds?” Forester shrugged. “Experience has taught me that no one is safe from the prying eyes of the world. I only wish to see you content in life, and the extent to which you like Lucy could get you into trouble.” Simon’s stomach twisted. “Who said I like her?” One eyebrow lifting, Forester made it clear without speaking that it would take a fool not to see the way Simon’s eyes were drawn to her whenever they were in the same room. “We all like Lucy,” he said simply. Desperate to get out of the house and do something before his thoughts ran away from him, Simon grabbed Forester by the shoulder and led him out into the corridor and straight for the front door. “You’re coming with me,” he said with as much strength as he could muster. He needed Forester to listen to him. “Er, why?” Forester followed close behind him, though he seemed wary. “Because I’m not leaving you in this house with my sister.” Forester scoffed. “You can’t honestly think I would—” “She fancies herself in love with you, and you have been wife hunting for more than two years. That is not a combination I am comfortable with.” Thankfully, Forester didn’t argue, and the pair of them headed out into the sunshine. Today was a lot brighter than yesterday had been, which was nothing short of ridiculous. Why couldn’t the English weather mimic Simon’s mood like it usually did? Why couldn’t it have been sunny and warm at the pond yesterday so Lucy wouldn’t have been so keen to get out of the water and return to the house and he could have learned the truth? Why couldn’t Forester have waited five more minutes before announcing himself? Simon growled to himself as he walked. At what point had he become such a terrible person that he wanted to act on his attraction to someone completely outside the boundaries of propriety? His own brother’s betrothed! He was a cad for even entertaining thoughts of something more with the woman. But he had come so close to learning something important about her, and now he feared he never would. Especially because Forester was right. Simon should not be alone with her, no matter how innocent the intention. But thinking that only made him want to be alone with her even more. Simon growled again and picked up his pace. He needed to get over this attraction, and fast. “Where are we going?” Forester asked. He had fallen


She wasn’t the girl she’d been. She wasn’t helpless. She knew how to handle Grays. She had power. She could get a job. Go to community college. Hell, do some ghost-listening and hire herself out to some rich Malibu douchebags. Galaxy Stern, psychic to the stars. She took a long hot shower, then changed into jeans and boots and the heaviest sweater she had. Their Shakespeare and the Metaphysical class was in LC, and Alex wondered what would happen if she ran into the Praetor. Would Professor Walsh-Whiteley look at her with pity? Give her the cut direct? But if the professor was somewhere in the rush of students, she didn’t see him. They were filing into class when Alex heard her name being called. She glimpsed a familiar head of dark hair in the crowd. “Be right back,” she told Mercy, slipping into the flow of people. “Michelle?” Had the Praetor already sent for Michelle Alameddine to replace her? “Hey,” Michelle said. “How are you holding up?” Better than I told you so. “I don’t really know yet. Are you meeting with Walsh-Whiteley?” There was the faintest pause before Michelle said, “I had an errand to run for the Butler.” “Here?” Michelle did look put together for a work meeting—dark skirt, gray turtleneck, suede boots, and a matching bag. But she worked in gifts and acquisitions at the Butler Library. An errand should bring her to Beinecke or Sterling, not the English department. “It was the easiest place to meet.” Alex didn’t have Turner’s sense for truth, that prickle she’d felt when she’d been in his head, but she still knew Michelle was lying. Was she trying to spare Alex’s feelings? Or was she supposed to keep any Lethe business confidential now that Alex had been excommunicated? “Michelle, I’m fine. You don’t have to tiptoe around me.” Michelle smiled. “Okay, you got me. No meeting in LC. I had to be in New Haven and I wanted to see how you were.” No one is looking out for us but us. That was what Michelle had said when she’d tried to warn Alex not to use the Gauntlet. Even so … “All this back-and-forth must be wiping you out. How was dinner with your boyfriend’s parents?” “Oh, fine,” she said with a small laugh. “I’ve met them before. As long as we avoid talking politics, they’re great.” Alex considered her options. She didn’t want to spook Michelle, but she didn’t want to keep dancing either. “I know you didn’t go back to the city that night.” “What are you talking about?” “You told me you were going back to New York. You said you had a train to catch, but you didn’t leave until the next morning.” Color flooded Michelle’s cheeks. “How is that any of your business?” “Two murders on campus means I get to be skeptical.” But Michelle had regained her composure. “Not that it’s your concern, but I’m seeing someone here and I try to come to town a few times a month. My boyfriend is fine with


mouth to his shoulder, drinking from a catchpocket tube. Presently he straightened, peeled off and detached the suit, handed it carefully into the crowd. He stood waiting, clad in loincloth and some tight fabric over his feet, a crysknife in his right hand. Jessica saw the girl-child Chani helping Paul, saw her press a crysknife handle into his palm, saw him heft it, testing the weight and balance. And it came to Jessica that Paul had been trained in prana and bindu, the nerve and the fiber--that he had been taught fighting in a deadly school, his teachers men like Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck, men who were legends in their own lifetimes. The boy knew the devious ways of the Bene Gesserit and he looked supple and confident. But he's only fifteen, she thought. And he has no shield. I must stop this. Somehow, there must be a way to . . . She looked up, saw Stilgar watching her. "You cannot stop it," he said. "You must not speak." She put a hand over her mouth, thinking: I've planted fear in Jamis' mind. It'll slow him some . . . perhaps. If I could only pray--truly pray. Paul stood alone now just into the ring, clad in the fighting trunks he'd worn under his stillsuit. He held a crysknife in his right hand; his feet were bare against the sand-gritted rock. Idaho had warned him time and again: "When in doubt of your surface, bare feet are best." And there were Chani's words of instruction still in the front of his consciousness: "Jamis turns to the right with his knife after a parry. It's a habit in him we've all seen. And he'll aim for the eyes to catch a blink in which to slash you. And he can fight either hand; took out for a knife shift." But strongest in Paul so that he felt it with his entire body was training and the instinctual reaction mechanism that had been hammered into him day after day, hour after hour on the practice floor. Gurney Halleck's words were there to remember: "The good knife fighter thinks on point and blade and shearing-guard simultaneously. The point can also cut; the blade can also stab; the shearing-guard can also trap your opponent's blade." Paul glanced at the crysknife. There was no shearing-guard; only the slim round ring of the handle with its raised lips to protect the hand. And even so, he realized that he did not know the breaking tension of this blade, did not even know if it could be broken. Jamis began sidling to the right along the edge of the ring opposite Paul. Paul crouched, realizing then that he had no shield, but was trained to fighting with its subtle field around him, trained to react on defense with utmost speed while his attack would be timed to the controlled slowness necessary for penetrating the enemy's shield. In spite of constant warning from his trainers not to depend on the shield's mindless blunting of attack speed, he knew


over again--and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her mind!--but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she positively declared she would not write any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait--and, sure enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not the least idea!--Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she had come to the resolution of accepting it.--I did not know a word of it till it was all settled." "You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?" "Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. `You must all spend your evening with us,' said she--`I positively must have you all come.'" "Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?" "No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him off, he did not;--but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed rather fagged after the morning's party. Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing--and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it. However, I shall always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it." "Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been making up her mind the whole day?" "I dare say she had." "Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her friends--but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is possible--I mean, as to the character and manners of the family." "Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing in the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman!--A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove--and as to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness!-- It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure.--And her salary!-- I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane." "Ah! madam," cried Emma, "if other children are at all like what I remember to have been


luxury of the Welland house and the density of the Welland atmosphere, so charged with minute observances and exactions, that always stole into his system like a narcotic. The heavy carpets, the watchful servants, the perpetually reminding tick of disciplined clocks, the perpetually renewed stack of cards and invitations on the hall table, the whole chain of tyrannical trifles binding one hour to the next, and each member of the household to all the others, made any less systematised and affluent existence seem unreal and precarious. But now it was the Welland house, and the life he was expected to lead in it, that had become unreal and irrelevant, and the brief scene on the shore, when he had stood irresolute, halfway down the bank, was as close to him as the blood in his veins. All night he lay awake in the big chintz bedroom at May's side, watching the moonlight slant along the carpet, and thinking of Ellen Olenska driving home across the gleaming beaches behind Beaufort's trotters. XXII. A party for the Blenkers--the Blenkers?" Mr. Welland laid down his knife and fork and looked anxiously and incredulously across the luncheon- table at his wife, who, adjusting her gold eye-glasses, read aloud, in the tone of high comedy: "Professor and Mrs. Emerson Sillerton request the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Welland's company at the meeting of the Wednesday Afternoon Club on August 25th at 3 o'clock punctually. To meet Mrs. and the Misses Blenker. "Red Gables, Catherine Street. R. S. V. P." "Good gracious--" Mr. Welland gasped, as if a second reading had been necessary to bring the monstrous absurdity of the thing home to him. "Poor Amy Sillerton--you never can tell what her husband will do next," Mrs. Welland sighed. "I suppose he's just discovered the Blenkers." Professor Emerson Sillerton was a thorn in the side of Newport society; and a thorn that could not be plucked out, for it grew on a venerable and venerated family tree. He was, as people said, a man who had had "every advantage." His father was Sillerton Jackson's uncle, his mother a Pennilow of Boston; on each side there was wealth and position, and mutual suitability. Nothing--as Mrs. Welland had often remarked-- nothing on earth obliged Emerson Sillerton to be an archaeologist, or indeed a Professor of any sort, or to live in Newport in winter, or do any of the other revolutionary things that he did. But at least, if he was going to break with tradition and flout society in the face, he need not have married poor Amy Dagonet, who had a right to expect "something different," and money enough to keep her own carriage. No one in the Mingott set could understand why Amy Sillerton had submitted so tamely to the eccentricities of a husband who filled the house with long- haired men and short-haired women, and, when he travelled, took her to explore tombs in Yucatan instead of going to Paris or Italy. But there they were, set in their ways, and apparently unaware that they were


camp for her when we were in elementary school, and I refused to let myself have fun because if everyone else was paired up, it seemed unfair that I didn’t have my person. Then there was the summer in college her moms, Aunt Sarah and Aunt Vivi, took her to Europe for two weeks, and though I wanted to go, my internship at Seattle Met magazine felt more important. So I settled for transcribing interviews and gushing over her photos, unsure if what I was feeling was jealousy or loneliness or both. Again, I feel more than slightly shitty about keeping the truth from her. “I miss you already,” I say, meaning it. Moving in with her a few years ago didn’t just save my mental health—it’s a comfort I’ve needed more than I’d like to admit. It’s felt, quite literally, like coming home. “And you’ll look after my parents?” Noemie knows how I worry. “I’ll invite them over for a healthy, low-cholesterol dinner every Sunday night. It will be understated but elegant.” “Perfect, thanks. And . . .” I trail off, scratching at the lavender nail polish I applied a couple days ago. If I don’t paint my nails, then I’ll anxiety-pick them to mangled stumps. “If work gets awful and you need to talk, you know I’m just a few taps away. Even when I’m in Minnesota or Tennessee.” She nods, but I don’t miss how she breaks eye contact. A classic Noemie deflection. In one swift motion, she turns off the TV and hops off the couch. “I should get the mini quiches in the oven.” “And I should probably finish packing. Unless you want some help?” Tonight she’s throwing me a casual wish-Chandler-good-luck party before I leave early tomorrow morning. A week ago, my life was entirely unremarkable, and now I’m about to spend most of my waking hours with a celebrity. Sometimes I’m excited and sometimes I’m terrified and usually, I just want to throw up. Noemie waves me away. “Not a chance. This is your party.” She squints at me. “You just really don’t want to pack, do you?” “I don’t know how to pack for something like this!” I fake-whine. “How do you pack for ten cities and at least four different climates?” “Layers?” I roll my eyes and head up the stairs. My suitcase, the ancient black one I borrowed from my mom because at age thirty-one, I still don’t own my own luggage, is open and overflowing in the middle of the room. Because my mom read one article one time about how black luggage is the likeliest to be stolen, it’s covered with an array of peeling, faded hippie stickers: stay groovy and free your mind, peace signs and retro flowers. I wasn’t lying when I told Joe I haven’t traveled much. My parents and aunts were always more fond of Oregon Coast road trips than plane travel, and Noemie and I were happy as long as we were together. I’ve been almost swayed by those sleek Instagram suitcases a number of


to tell her about Molly because he fears her disapproval. Later, Nancy's strict code also keeps her from agreeing to adopt a child, which creates the only unhappiness in her marriage to Godfrey. As you read, consider: Is Nancy a good moral example or are her strict principles a flaw in her character? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: DOLLY WINTHROP Dolly represents Raveloe's values of what an individual should be. She's hardworking, skillful, and so efficient that she has time left over to care for her neighbor Silas. She doesn't hesitate to give advice and get involved with other people's lives. She is motherly, not only toward her own child Aaron but toward Eppie. As a wife, she's tolerant of her husband's drinking but fairly independent. She knows she's no scholar, but she earns great respect from Silas for her ability to see matters clearly, almost instinctively. Dolly's friendship with Silas demonstrates concretely how the village gradually accepts him. But Dolly serves another function, too--she is the spokesperson for Raveloe religion, holding it up against Silas' Lantern-Yard beliefs. Dolly believes in religion without knowing the fine points of doctrine. While the rituals of the church comfort her, she concentrates on good deeds here on Earth rather than on a relationship with God. Her concept of God is almost pagan, a fuzzy vision of "Them up above." But with true peasant wisdom, she sees a divine pattern in events, working out over long years. She makes Silas look upon his life with this kind of long-range view, showing him that all his sorrows were simply a path leading to his finding Eppie. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: EPPIE On the title page of Silas Marner, George Eliot placed a quotation from Wordsworth's poem "Michael": A child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts. In the novel, that prophecy is fulfilled by Eppie, the abandoned child that Silas Marner adopts. Symbolically, she is the golden treasure that replaces his stolen gold. Psychologically, she is the force that pulls Silas out of his isolation and restores him to harmony with the human race, as well as with his own past. Although Eppie fulfills these functions in the novel, she is also an interesting character in her own right. She is believable as a toddler, wandering away from her careless mother toward a shiny light. Her needs are simple--she's hungry and her feet are wet--and she clings lovingly to Silas once he has taken care of these needs. Later, you see her as an active little child, getting into anything that's in her reach. Pretty Eppie is blonde like her biological father, Godfrey. She's no common village girl, though Eliot says this is the result of her loving environment, not her upperclass blood. In her simple emotions and her strong attachments, Eppie is like her adoptive father, Silas. But she also has unique qualities, associated throughout the novel with animals, flowers, and nature. In the Wordsworth quotation, a child is said to be a gift of Earth--and Eppie


yellows, the floral curtains waving in the soft breeze. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace was a case of the same cigars Io had seen at Saint-Yves’s office. Next was the kitchen, which was salmon pink and cozy, like it had been taken out of a girl’s dollhouse. The revani was in the tall icebox in the corner, but the scent of semolina and lemon lingered in the room, making Io’s mouth water. Revani had been a rare treat in the Ora household, reserved for Winter’s Feast or their parents’ anniversary. Thais took Io’s hand and dragged her up the stairs, explaining how they had redecorated the bedroom and renovated the bathroom before moving in. Io’s senses bubbled down to that point of contact between them: her fingers in Thais’s, like when they were children, before everything changed. They were in the guest room when Io burst out, “Are you angry with me?” Thais paused in the middle of a sentence, something about the roof needing mending on this part of the house. She faced Io fully, with a serious frown. “Why would I be angry?” Why? Thais used to scatter her anger like a queen throwing coins from her chariot. Here, this is for you. Fall to your knees to grab it—aren’t I generous? And now she could find no reasons to be angry? An image of Rosa on that windowsill, puffing out smoke, came to Io’s mind: What we did to Thais. “You asked Ava not to tell me you were back,” Io said. Thais’s bare toes stretched on the carpet. “I thought you were angry at me. I was harsh with you before I left. I didn’t think you’d forgive me.” Was this . . . an apology? Io had never seen its like on Thais’s lips; she could hardly recognize the shape and timbre of it. It resonated in the arcane hollows of her heart, and from its thrum, a tender hope was born. Things could go back, to the very beginning, when she and Thais and Ava were one soul sharing three bodies, one breath in three chests. She said, her pardon as misshapen as Thais’s apology, “It was a hard time.” “And now?” Thais’s tone was expectant, pleading even. And now—gods, how Io’s heart melted. The two words were an olive branch, extended to mend the past and walk boldly into the future. “Now it’s better,” she replied breathlessly. Her sister squeezed Io’s fingers and pulled her down the stairs. Her voice was singsong, her face beaming. “Let’s make ourselves some coffee, shall we?” Coffee and revani, comfort and safety. Io imagined sitting down and just telling her sister everything: how she had finally met her fate-thread, and he was cute and funny and asked her to wait for him. How she had stood up to Bianca Rossi. How she had argued with Ava. How she had bargained with the Nine, at a terrible cost. Thais had always been good at calming her; perhaps, with Thais by her side, Io could be brave enough to actually


a vital moment had passed him, that he had missed an essential decision and was now caught up in his own myth. He knew he had seen this place before, experienced it in a fragment of prescient dream on faraway Caladan, but details of the place were being filled in now that he had not seen. He felt a new sense of wonder at the limits of his gift. It was as though he rode within the wave of time, sometimes in its trough, sometimes on a crest--and all around him the other waves lifted and fell, revealing and then hiding what they bore on their surface. Through it all, the wild jihad still loomed ahead of him, the violence and the slaughter. It was like a promontory above the surf. The troop filed through the last door into the main cavern. The door was sealed. Lights were extinguished, hoods removed from the cavern openings, revealing the night and the stars that had come over the desert. Jessica moved to the dry lip of the cavern's edge, looked up at the stars. They were sharp and near. She felt the stirring of the troop around her, heard the sound of a baliset being tuned somewhere behind her, and Paul's voice humming the pitch. There was a melancholy in his tone that she did not like. Chani's voice intruded from the deep cave darkness: "Tell me about the waters of your birthworld, Paul Muad'Dib." And Paul: "Another time, Chani. I promise." Such sadness. "It's a good baliset," Chani said. "Very good," Paul said. "Do you think Jamis'll mind my using it?" He speaks of the dead in the present tense, Jessica thought. The implications disturbed her. A man's voice intruded: "He liked music betimes, Jamis did." "Then sing me one of your songs," Chani pleaded. Such feminine allure in that girl-child's voice, Jessica thought. I must caution Paul about their women . . . and soon. "This was a song of a friend of mine," Paul said. "I expect he's dead now, Gurney is. He called it his evensong." The troop grew still, listening as Paul's voice lifted in a sweet boy tenor with the baliset tinkling and strumming beneath it: "This clear time of seeing embers-- A gold-bright sun's lost in first dusk. What frenzied senses, desp'rate musk Are consort of rememb'ring." Jessica felt the verbal music in her breast--pagan and charged with sounds that made her suddenly and intensely aware of herself, feeling her own body and its needs. She listened with a tense stillness. "Night's pearl-censered requi-em . . . "Tis for us! What joys run, then-- Bright in your eyes-- What flower-spangled amores Pull at our hearts . . . What flower-spangled amores Fill our desires." And Jessica heard the after-stillness that hummed in the air with the last note. Why does my son sing a love song to that girl-child? she asked herself. She felt an abrupt fear. She could sense life flowing around her and she had no grasp on its reins. Why did he choose that


if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.'' Darcy only smiled, and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part, indeed, without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield. Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear. ``I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement, and when your sister is recovered, you shall if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill.'' Lydia declared herself satisfied. ``Oh! yes -- it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,'' she added, ``I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.'' Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine_ _eyes_. __ CHAPTER X (10) THE day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing,


an unknown number. I dried my finger on my towel so I could hit play, and Beth’s small voice filled the room. She said, “I still can’t believe you drove all the way to Stowe.” And then she kept talking, but it was there in her voice from the beginning, in her tone of relieved resignation: That she would do this, she would talk to Amy. That she had realized she’d been waiting for decades. 32 A full day passed. Across from Aroma Mocha, where I sat with my laptop and a latte, across a street that had been a street since it was cobblestones and dirt, was a soft-serve ice cream place. Robbie and Jen Serenho were unmistakable, Robbie in a dark blue parka, Jen in her maroon coat, the kids bouncing like rabbits. I was waiting for Amy March, who—after my ridiculously long voicemail—had stalled all day in court, taking far longer than needed to examine the second State Police detective. (She practically asked his shoe size, Geoff texted. She’s like, can you read this entire ten-page document aloud?) And I was waiting for Beth. They were both due here at 4:30, once Amy was done for the day. It would be just the start of a bunch of dominos falling. Rather than wait and recall Beth after the state presented its case, they could use Beth’s husband’s upcoming surgery and petition the judge to let her be recalled out of order. That way, by the time Robbie took the stand—although he’d know what was coming—Amy could ask him directly about Beth’s testimony. I watched as, across the street, Robbie picked the youngest up, swung her by the armpits, set her down. The universe stood still. I wondered if I could at least jump off. Here was the person I’d been looking for, all these years. A person I couldn’t wait to destroy. Here was the person living the life Omar deserved. The life Thalia deserved. Here, also, was someone with young children who loved him, with a wife who loved him. (I know, I know. I know.) It was the kids I thought about. Even if Robbie was never put on trial himself (the chances were slim), even if he kept his job, even if he kept his marriage together, his children would grow up in overwhelming shadow. Not like my kids, who might or might not fully become aware that someone had made an art piece about their father, might dismiss it or embrace it, might accuse or defend him. This was murder, it was strangulation and assault. He had bashed in her head and left her to drown. This was an abuse of privilege that the world would eat up: a boy at a fancy boarding school, an athlete and star, a stock character. For a reason. A guy we’d seen before because we’d seen this guy before. To be absolutely clear: I’m not saying What a fine young man, let’s not ruin his future. I’m saying, I looked at him and knew I was looking at,


products with beleaguered affection. (“Super-plus tampons. Next time I’m going with him.”) She had little to lament when she and Maud sat in the family therapist’s office together. They moved to a monthly session, then a bimonthly session, and in May they all graduated from family therapy. Maud bought herself a carrot cake on her week alone to celebrate; every night she mined a piece straight from the box with a fork. That summer, Peter was officially seeing a real estate agent who drove a BMW and made pasta from scratch. Maud kept herself from asking the girls about his girlfriend too much, but the two of them dropped information now and again. “I mean, she’s okay, I guess,” Ella said, “but she never stops talking.” “She’s probably nervous,” Maud said. “You two can be toughies.” “We’re perfectly nice to her,” Louise protested. “Typical that he finds someone in five minutes,” Annette said. She unspooled a stretch of packing tape. “Men have it so easy.” They were helping Maud’s mother box dishes in her parents’ kitchen. Seemingly out of the blue, their parents had decided to sell the house and garage and move to a retirement community. “Do you think you might start seeing someone too?” her mother asked, studiously matching Tupperware lids with their containers. “I’m not ready yet,” Maud said. “And it’s not that easy to find a someone.” “For what it’s worth, I think you’ll have an easier time than your sister,” her mother said. “You’ll keep your best interests in mind.” Maud uncapped a pen to label a box as she and Annette rolled their eyes at each other. On the drive home from her grandparents’ house, Ella was quiet. Later, she came into Maud’s room and sat on the bed. Maud put down her book. “What’s wrong?” she said, seeing Ella’s expression. “Do you think you’d be with Gabriel now if I hadn’t said what I did?” The trouble on Ella’s face seeped into her voice. “I don’t know,” Maud said truthfully, “but I promise you that it doesn’t matter.” She pulled back the covers. “Want to sleep here tonight?” Ella nodded and climbed into the bed. They left it at that. What Maud couldn’t say to Ella was this: Thank you for being brave. Thank you for saying something. Thank you for giving us a chance. And thank you for finally freeing me from that marriage. Several weeks later, on a gloomy afternoon of pressing fog and shrieking seagulls, she was in the Victorian garden on Alcatraz, pruning the roses, when an idea made her stop and set down the shears. It came with a jolt, followed by a shimmer, and she thought about it for the rest of the day as she gardened. The history of the world existed in every plant that grew on the island. Not only the history of the Western World. The entire world. The history of the very cosmos. Mineral and vegetal and animal and human. From this one chunk of rock, you could travel everywhere and whenever. After dinner,


bloody mongrel. And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, the brothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmet and die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara Curran and she's far from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his knockmedown cigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon! The fat heap he married is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley. Time they were stopping up in the CITY ARMS pisser Burke told me there was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom trying to get the soft side of her doing the mollycoddle playing bezique to come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating meat of a Friday because the old one was always thumping her craw and taking the lout out for a walk. And one time he led him the rounds of Dublin and, by the holy farmer, he never cried crack till he brought him home as drunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him the evils of alcohol and by herrings, if the three women didn't near roast him, it's a queer story, the old one, Bloom's wife and Mrs O'Dowd that kept the hotel. Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking them off chewing the fat. And Bloom with his BUT DON'T YOU SEE? and BUT ON THE OTHER HAND. And sure, more be token, the lout I'm told was in Power's after, the blender's, round in Cope street going home footless in a cab five times in the week after drinking his way through all the samples in the bloody establishment. Phenomenon! --The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom. --Ay, ay, says Joe. --You don't grasp my point, says Bloom. What I mean is ... --SINN FEIN! says the citizen. SINN FEIN AMHAIN! The friends we love are by our side and the foes we hate before us. The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries far and near the funereal deathbell tolled unceasingly while all around the gloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred muffled drums punctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance. The deafening claps of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up the ghastly scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent its supernatural pomp to the already gruesome spectacle. A torrential rain poured down from the floodgates of the angry heavens upon the bared heads of the assembled multitude which numbered at the lowest computation five hundred thousand persons. A posse of Dublin Metropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person maintained order in the vast throng for whom the York street brass and reed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering on their blackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from the cradle by Speranza's plaintive muse. Special quick


Treasure Island. 90 91 “And can you trust your missis?” asked the other. But on this point I was soon to be relieved, for Silver giving a “Gentlemen of fortune,” returned the cook, “usually trusts little whistle, a third man strolled up and sat down by the little among themselves, and right they are, you may lay to it. party. But I have a way with me, I have. When a mate brings a slip “Dick’s square,” said Silver. on his cable—one as knows me, I mean—it won’t be in the “Oh, I know’d Dick was square,” returned the voice of the same world with old John. There was some that was feared of coxswain, Israel Hands. “He’s no fool, is Dick.” And he turned Pew, and some that was feared of Flint; but Flint his own self his quid and spat. “But look here,” he went on, “here’s what I was feared of me. Feared he was, and proud. They was the want to know, Barbecue: how long are we a-going to stand off roughest crew afloat, was Flint’s; the devil himself would have and on like a blessed bumboat? I’ve had a’most enough o’ been feared to go to sea with them. Well now, I tell you, I’m Cap’n Smollett; he’s hazed me long enough, by thunder! I not a boasting man, and you seen yourself how easy I keep want to go into that cabin, I do. I want their pickles and company, but when I was quartermaster, LAMBS wasn’t the wines, and that.” word for Flint’s old buccaneers. Ah, you may be sure of your- “Israel,” said Silver, “your head ain’t much account, nor self in old John’s ship.” ever was. But you’re able to hear, I reckon; leastways, your “Well, I tell you now,” replied the lad, “I didn’t half a ears is big enough. Now, here’s what I say: you’ll berth for- quarter like the job till I had this talk with you, John; but ward, and you’ll live hard, and you’ll speak soft, and you’ll there’s my hand on it now.” keep sober till I give the word; and you may lay to that, my “And a brave lad you were, and smart too,” answered Sil- son.” ver, shaking hands so heartily that all the barrel shook, “and a “Well, I don’t say no, do I?” growled the coxswain. “What finer figurehead for a gentleman of fortune I never clapped I say is, when? That’s what I say.” my eyes on.” “When! By the powers!” cried Silver. “Well now, if you By this time I had begun to understand the meaning of want to know, I’ll tell you when. The last moment I can their terms. By a “gentleman of fortune” they plainly meant manage, and that’s when. Here’s a first-rate seaman, Cap’n neither more nor less than a common pirate, and the little Smollett, sails the blessed ship for us. Here’s this squire and Contents scene that I had overheard was the last act in the corruption doctor with a map and such—I don’t


end of the hall. I will alert someone that you are on your way." Sophie nodded and took her key back. "Which floor?" The man gave her an odd look. "Your key instructs the elevator which floor." She smiled. "Ah, yes." The guard watched as the two newcomers made their way to the elevators, inserted their key, boarded the lift, and disappeared. As soon as the door had closed, he grabbed the phone. He was not calling to alert anyone of their arrival; there was no need for that. A vault greeter already had been alerted automatically when the client's key was inserted outside in the entry gate. Instead, the guard was calling the bank's night manager. As the line rang, the guard switched the television back on and stared at it. The news story he had been watching was just ending. It didn't matter. He got another look at the two faces on the television. The manager answered. "Oui?" "We have a situation down here." "What's happening?" the manager demanded. 121 "The French police are tracking two fugitives tonight." "So?" "Both of them just walked into our bank." The manager cursed quietly. "Okay. I'll contact Monsieur Vernet immediately." The guard then hung up and placed a second call. This one to Interpol. Langdon was surprised to feel the elevator dropping rather than climbing. He had no idea how many floors they had descended beneath the Depository Bank of Zurich before the door finally opened. He didn't care. He was happy to be out of the elevator. Displaying impressive alacrity, a host was already standing there to greet them. He was elderly and pleasant, wearing a neatly pressed flannel suit that made him look oddly out of place-an old-world banker in a high-tech world. "Bonsoir," the man said. "Good evening. Would you be so kind as to follow me, s'il vous plait?" Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and strode briskly down a narrow metal corridor. Langdon walked with Sophie down a series of corridors, past several large rooms filled with blinking mainframe computers. "Voici," their host said, arriving at a steel door and opening it for them. "Here you are." Langdon and Sophie stepped into another world. The small room before them looked like a lavish sitting room at a fine hotel. Gone were the metal and rivets, replaced with oriental carpets, dark oak furniture, and cushioned chairs. On the broad desk in the middle of the room, two crystal glasses sat beside an opened bottle of Perrier, its bubbles still fizzing. A pewter pot of coffee steamed beside it. Clockwork, Langdon thought. Leave it to the Swiss. The man gave a perceptive smile. "I sense this is your first visit to us?" Sophie hesitated and then nodded. "Understood. Keys are often passed on as inheritance, and our first-time users are invariably uncertain of the protocol." He motioned to the table of drinks. "This room is yours as long as you care to use it." "You say keys are sometimes inherited?" Sophie asked. "Indeed. Your key is


and desirous to set forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and, talking again of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, he had travelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence on the way to Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Aubert to take that route, and the latter determined to do so. 'The road from this hamlet,' said Valancourt, 'and that to Beaujeu, part at the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you will give me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wander somewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than any other I could take.' St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together, the young stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert to take a seat in his little carriage. The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral valley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak, beech and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. The mountain-ash too, and the weeping birch, often threw their pendant foliage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely concealed their roots, and where their light branches waved to every breeze that fluttered from the mountains. The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun had not yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks from their folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early, not only that he might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that he might inhale the first pure breath of morning, which above all things is refreshing to the spirits of the invalid. In these regions it was particularly so, where an abundance of wild flowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth their essence on the air. The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling on the tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light, while their sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy mist. Meanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to blush, then to redden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till the golden light darted over all the air, touched the lower points of the mountain's brow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the valley and its stream. All nature seemed to have awakened from death into life; the spirit of St. Aubert was renovated. His heart was full; he wept, and his thoughts ascended to the Great Creator. Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, and to taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed to enjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt often stopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling to point out to them the peculiar objects of his admiration. St. Aubert was pleased