Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

can’t imagine what stronger than what we had looks like. I see Fizzy with these men and must continually repress the possessive instinct to claim her in small and large ways. And that instinct is back now, shaped differently but undeniable, as I watch the two people I realize I want to be my in-laws prepare to meet another man. “You good?” Rory asks, walking back to the cameras. The no is already forming on my lips when I pull myself back into awareness, blinking hard. “Yes. I’m great.” I stand from the table just as Fizzy steps from the makeshift dressing room in the back and into the dining area. Her hair is in two buns, tendrils escaping and framing her face. Eyes slashed with dark liner, a shredded T-shirt and ripped jeans capped with shit-stomping boots. Tonight, Fizzy has come prepared for battle. For a split second, a feverish pulse, I have never wanted anything the way I want her. And the feeling doesn’t dissolve, not even when I step outside for a long, deep breath of fresh air. forty-one FIZZY Because the universe is a bored cat, and I am but a powerless mouse, Connor is without his usual crisp suit and is in a tight black T-shirt and jeans today. Even though I put on all this armor to help prop up my tender insides, it’s all I can do to not cross the room and paw all over him. I barely saw him last week and missed him so much I spent the entire weekend in my pajamas watching the first three episodes of The True Love Experiment over and over just to see him in the confessionals. Now his floppy hair, biceps, and pectorals outlined by soft cotton jersey are right in front of me. He’s exuding that trademark calm patience as he discusses something with Rory and… God, look at him. I love him, and it really, really hurts. Ergo, I have decided I hate love. I outlined a new book last night. It’s basically about a woman who falls in love with a man but she’s a hot mess and he rejects her, so she walks off a cliff. Except at the bottom of the cliff is a big bed of pillows—because I’m not really into literary fiction or horror—and then she suffocates in the pillows. Except she doesn’t suffocate, she just rolls around and feels sorry for herself until Uber Eats gets there with her Krispy Kreme order. I also threw this outline in the trash. And then I tried to sleep, because this week is probably the most important week of filming, but “sleep” mostly looked like me lying facedown on my bed crying into my pillow. I want to go over to him, pull him aside, and tell him that I won’t ever do that again, I won’t run off like that. Does he know how much I admire his cautious side? He is the stillness to my storm, the shadow to my bright sunlight, the Styles to my Harry. The


something behind it, though. Maycomb was an ancient town. It was twenty miles east of Finch's Landing, awkwardly inland for such an old town. But Maycomb would have been closer to the river had it not been for the nimble-wittedness of one Sinkfield, who in the dawn of history operated an inn where two pig-trails met, the only tavern in the territory. Sinkfield, no patriot, served and supplied ammunition to Indians and settlers alike, neither knowing or caring whether he was a part of the Alabama Territory or the Creek Nation so long as business was good. Business was excellent when Governor William Wyatt Bibb, with a view to promoting the newly created county's domestic tranquility, dispatched a team of surveyors to locate its exact center and there establish its seat of government. The surveyors, Sinkfield's guests, told their host that he was in the territorial confines of Maycomb County, and showed him the probable spot where the county seat would be built. Had not Sinkfield made a bold stroke to preserve his holdings, Maycomb would have sat in the middle of Winston Swamp, a place totally devoid of interest. Instead, Maycomb grew and sprawled out from its hub, Sinkfield's Tavern, because Sinkfield reduced his guests to myopic drunkenness one evening, induced them to bring forward their maps and charts, lop off a little here, add a bit there, and adjust the center of the county to meet his requirements. He sent them packing next day armed with their charts and five quarts of shinny in their saddlebags- two apiece and one for the Governor. Because its primary reason for existence was government, Maycomb was spared the grubbiness that distinguished most Alabama towns its size. In the beginning its buildings were solid, its courthouse proud, its streets graciously wide. Maycomb's proportion of professional people ran high: one went there to have his teeth pulled, his wagon fixed, his heart listened to, his money deposited, his soul saved, his mules vetted. But the ultimate wisdom of Sinkfield's maneuver is open to question. He placed the young town too far away from the only kind of public transportation in those days- river-boat- and it took a man from the north end of the county two days to travel to Maycomb for store-bought goods. As a result the town remained the same size for a hundred years, an island in a patchwork sea of cottonfields and timberland. Although Maycomb was ignored during the War Between the States, Reconstruction rule and economic ruin forced the town to grow. It grew inward. New people so rarely settled there, the same families married the same families until the members of the community looked faintly alike. Occasionally someone would return from Montgomery or Mobile with an outsider, but the result caused only a ripple in the quiet stream of family resemblance. Things were more or less the same during my early years. There was indeed a caste system in Maycomb, but to my mind it worked this way: the older citizens, the present generation of people who had lived


lonely. My whole life I had been quite comfortable with the lone wolf lifestyle, but I felt like a total outsider here. ‘So what’s with the obsession?’ ‘Obsession?’ ‘With this manuscript?’ ‘I don’t think I’d call it an obsession.’ ‘Erm, you seemed pretty obsessed outside my window the other day.’ ‘Oh, right. I suppose I did a bit. I’m writing a PhD proposal about lost manuscripts and why we’re so fascinated with them.’ ‘Are we?’ she questioned, scrunching up her nose, then taking a large gulp of her Coke. ‘Come on, surely you can see the appeal? Look at Harper Lee, for example. All those years assuming that she had only written one novel.’ She looked at me askance. ‘To Kill a Mockingbird?’ I said, in case there was any confusion. ‘Oh right, yes.’ There was an awkward silence in which I realised that being an expert in rare books and lost manuscripts could sometimes be construed as quite boring. ‘Of course, there’s Sylvia Plath’s second novel, Double Exposure, which mysteriously vanished after her death.’ ‘Who?’ ‘You’re not much of a reader, are you?’ She stole a glance at me then, a mixture of spite and hurt in her eyes. I really had a knack for pissing her off. ‘Okay, listen to this. Let me tell you the story of Walter Benjamin. He was a writer, intellectual, genius of a man who also happened to be Jewish living in Nazi-occupied Paris. He didn’t have the right papers, so he had to trek south with other refugees, across the Pyrenees and into Spain.’ ‘That’s awful,’ she said, turning her whole body to face me. ‘But there was one thing slowing him down on this perilous journey – a heavy black suitcase containing his manuscript. Speaking to a fellow traveller, Benjamin said that the contents were more valuable than his own life.’ Her face was so animated, as though she were on the journey herself. ‘What happened to him?’ ‘Well, when he arrived at the border, Benjamin was informed by Spanish authorities that he would have to go back to France. He knew it meant certain death, so that night, he swallowed a bottle of morphine.’ ‘Jesus!’ ‘Indeed.’ ‘And what about the manuscript? Did he give it to someone?’ ‘After his suicide, there was no trace of the black suitcase. The manuscript has never been recovered.’ She shook her head and looked to be almost on the verge of tears. And just like that, she was bitten by the same bug. The unrequited love for what might have been, if not for these cruel acts of fate. I had told the exact same story to Isabelle and yet her only response was that she’d never had a properly good holiday in Spain. ‘So, for all we know, someone could have published it under their own name?’ ‘Hmm. I’m not sure which scenario is worse – having lost the work for all time, or having it stolen by someone else.’ I would develop that idea in my paper when I got home. ‘There are so


show that, in the country, the leading families may not be as refined as you would expect. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: MOLLY FARREN Godfrey's unfortunate first wife is seen only briefly, in Chapter 12. Up until then she has simply been a nuisance to Godfrey, but now you see her as a living character, struggling through the snow. Her goal is the Red House where she hopes to have her revenge on Godfrey. Yet she seems like a victim herself, rather than a strong avenger. She has sparks of motherly tenderness, which almost stop her from taking her fatal dose of opium. She is too weak to resist her addiction, however, and soon meets her fate. Is she the victim of her limited background, Godfrey's neglect, and her addiction? Or do you think she, like Godfrey, is morally to blame for taking the easy way out? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: THE MEN AT THE RAINBOW In classical Greek tragedies, a group of citizens called the Chorus comments upon the action of the main characters. The group of men who meet at the Rainbow serve this function in Silas Marner. Their conversation defines the Raveloe values and gives you a sense of how the main characters fit into the society. The scenes of the gentry at the Red House party in Chapter 11 define another part of Raveloe society. But the men from the Rainbow also appear here, as spectators. They are the base of country wisdom that Eliot uses as a moral standard. This is a fully fleshed-out social group, with a whole range of personalities. There's Dowlas the know-it-all farrier, the sarcastic wheelwright Ben Winthrop, the easy-going butcher Lundy, the old codger Mr. Macey, the deputy clerk Tookey who's the butt of their jokes, and the landlord Mr. Snell who moderates and keeps the peace. Think about groups of people you socialize with--don't they interact in typical roles like this? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: SETTING The opening of Silas Marner suggests a world of legend and myth--a pastoral countryside untouched by the modern world, where figures are larger than life. But gradually Eliot establishes that this story occurs in the first years of the nineteenth century, during the Napoleonic wars, when George III was King of England. This is slightly before Eliot's own childhood. It's also before the Reform Act of 1832, which many Englishmen felt marked the end of an era (as Americans today may regard the bombing of Hiroshima or the Vietnam War). It represented for her an age of innocence. The landscape is the farming country of the English Midlands where George Eliot grew up. The villagers of Raveloe live in isolation only because of their old-fashioned customs--they really aren't that far from the rest of civilization. Upperclass characters, such as the Casses, frequently travel to neighboring towns. In general, the two classes in Raveloe inhabit different worlds. The Rainbow pub is the center of the common folks' world, and Squire Cass' Red House is the center of the gentry's world. The Raveloe gentry are representatives of an ancient British social


and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place they removed into a hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success; no such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to every thing? -- Impossible. I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill and keeps her room. Could she exert herself it would be better, but this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not, but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well that I am not afraid of requesting


it couldn’t be right. He could not possibly be considering— The Commander moved with the swiftness of a serpent’s strike, grabbing Marek’s exposed wrist in one hand, Sefa’s in the other. Marek’s deadweight fell onto the bed, and I rushed forward as Sefa tumbled. We collided in a heap next to Marek. I checked their breathing; shallow, but steady. A loud crash spurred me to my feet. The doors of the wardrobe smashed to the floor, and the muscles in Arin’s back went rigid as the ghaiba attacked the Heir. He doubled over, gripping a shelf in the wardrobe as his face contorted with agony. A great shudder went through him. His knuckles whitened around the shelf. What doubts did Arin have that the ghaiba could feed on? What regrets? I gripped his forearm, squeezing the stiff tendons. Touching him in this state was foolish, but I couldn’t stand how helpless I felt. Another endless moment crawled past, and Arin exhaled, eyes flying open. He tore his arm from me, the white sheen on his face dissolving with anger. “Have your limited senses forsaken you? I can scarcely bear your touch under the best circumstances. It only takes seconds to lose control, seconds to snap your neck.” “My limited senses? I am not the one absorbing ghaibas into myself! How did you even know your maneuver would succeed?” Arin swept his hair from his forehead, pointedly ignoring my question. I threw my arms up. “It was a theory, wasn’t it? You calculated the likelihood your ability to sense magic would attract the ghaiba enough to leave Marek and Sefa.” “Close,” Arin said, and offered no clarification. He sat with his back to the wardrobe. “The stronger the mind, the greater the ghaiba’s challenge. I suppose it found me tempting.” “Do not do it again.” The harshness of my tone took us both by surprise. I was still kneeling next to him, a persistent tremble working through me. The sight of Arin bowed in pain was not one I wanted to witness twice. “One day, you will miscalculate. You can’t test a theory using yourself, do you understand? You are an Heir, there are risks you simply cannot take! It is sheer madness, irresponsible—” “Breathe.” With a wince, he reached for his abandoned gloves and put them on. His gloved hand covered the one latched to my knee. “No.” Birds had practiced their sweet songs for generations, but even their music did not compare to the sound of Arin’s laugh. We stared at each other until the shadows in the room lengthened. “Why do you keep trying to save me?” he said, and if I hadn’t been inches from him, I wouldn’t have heard it. “Why do you keep needing to be saved?” Oh, you foolish, foolish girl, Hanim groaned. Arin seemed to realize his hand was still on top of mine. He straightened, clearing his throat. “You said there was a doll in your room?” Arin asked. I shook myself, fumbling to withdraw the wrapped monstrosity from my cloak’s pocket. I passed


Helen hesitates, her hands clutching her dress. She’s like a bird scared to leave her cage, waiting for an arrow to fly and sink into her wing. She takes a few uncertain steps toward the door. She is barely outside when Agamemnon closes it, shutting her out. Clytemnestra hears her sister protest, then her hurried steps. She must be running to Timandra for help. Agamemnon fastens his gaze on Clytemnestra. “Your father has informed you of the marriage.” “Yes.” He seems unsettled by her quietness. “So he also told you of the pact he made with me, of how he betrayed the foreign king.” This is how he operates, she thinks. This is how he turns daughter against father, Spartan against Spartan. Treachery and cruelty are his ways to power. “My husband, you mean.” His face hardens. “I’m to be your husband now.” She stares at him, silent. This disturbs him. She can see that he expected her rage, maybe even wished for it. But he doesn’t know how to react to coldness. “I desired you from the moment I saw you,” he says, tilting his head, looking at her as one looks at a fresco. “It must be easy to live such a life as yours,” she says, “to believe you can take everything you want.” There is a flame in his eyes, though he tries to hide it. “No one has ever given me anything, so I learned to take it.” She laughs bitterly. “You can take people, cities, armies. But love, respect . . . those can’t be taken with force.” He watches her, his eyes glowing. “I won’t touch you until we reach Mycenae. You deserve that.” Does he truly believe he will earn her respect like this? She can barely see for the rage she is feeling. “You may grieve for the foreigner now. But you will soon forget him and learn to love another.” For a moment, she can see Tantalus on the terrace, his body so close to hers she could almost feel his heart. He had looked at her, the heat of his gaze like the warmest blanket in winter, and spoken of Adonis, the young man loved by Artemis. The boy dies, but the goddess’s love for him remains. It is a reminder of beauty and resistance in times of adversity. She gazes at Agamemnon and says, “I do not forget.” * * * It is late evening when she is called for her cleansing. Two servants come for her and Helen, ordering her sister to go back to her husband and taking Clytemnestra to the baths. The hatred in Helen’s eyes as she walks toward the guest rooms is blazing like wildfire, and Clytemnestra clings to it, feeling its warmth as she steps into the bathhouse. The priestess is standing by the painted clay bath, her slim figure reflected in the water. Her long hair cascades down her back like a heavy cloak, and her eyelids are painted black. Upon seeing her, the helots step back and run away. A flicker of


what?” “Her married household.” Mrs. King took a breath. “I see.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “And what do you mean, ‘favor’?” said William with a slight frown. “What?” “You said you need a favor.” He half turned to her. She could smell him: tar soap on his neck, the rough scent of wax. “What is it?” Mrs. King had longed to be free. At liberty to put things straight, to order and corral and bend the world. To make corrections where corrections were required. It made her feel vast and enormous inside, as if her soul were built like a cathedral: a great and mighty project, reaching for the divine. To risk that now would be impossible. “Never mind,” she said. “You’ve got other things on your mind.” She turned and left. She didn’t touch him, although she yearned for it. He said something, but she didn’t wait. She didn’t want to hear. * * * Mrs. King took the grand escalier downstairs, slicing through the crowd in sleek white and gold. The other women were dressed as Eleanor of Aquitaine, Marguerite de Valois, Mary Queen of Scots—beruffed, beribboned, trussed up in lace. There was even an extraordinarily elderly lady who’d come as the great Palmyrene queen, Zenobia herself, stitched from head to toe in green velvet, bearing a gigantic headdress that looked set to snap her neck. She was held up by two men in seal-gray cloaks. Seal gray, thought Mrs. King. It reminded her of men visiting the mews house, men paying calls on girls. It made her clench her fists. But there was one person there in plain dress. She saw the flash of silvery hair, a gentleman in dark tails, forging his own path through the crowd. Just as she had predicted. She was quicker than he was. She met him at the bottom of the stairs, putting a gloved hand out to bar his way. Lawyers never liked to be impeded. They were forever pressing on, counting minutes, charging hours. “Mr. Lockwood,” she said. She saw him transition out of his private thoughts, arrange his public face. It was so much easier to watch people, to really watch them, when they couldn’t assess your own expression in return. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?” he said with a perfect and wolfish smile. She didn’t play with him. “Mrs. King.” The manners fell away. They simply dissolved. Something hard and brutal entered his face. “Mrs. King,” he said, taking in her gloves, her tunic. His lip curled. Perhaps he remembered her choosing the name. She’d done it on his instructions. “Good heavens.” She didn’t move. He glanced up the stairs, judging the crush. Down here the noise was growing into a roar, hundreds of people staggering through the porch and entering the front hall. She knew what he was thinking: what can people see, what can people hear, what reason will they construct for this discussion, when will the risks show themselves? She rattled through a similar list herself, every moment. He smiled,


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

into the opening. His throat was gripped by invisible fingers, and he left his hold on the handle to defend himself. He was forced back, tripped and pitched heavily into the corner of the landing. The empty dressing- gown was flung on the top of him. Halfway up the staircase was Colonel Adye, the recipient of Kemp's letter, the chief of the Burdock police. He was staring aghast at the sudden appearance of Kemp, followed by the extraordinary sight of clothing tossing empty in the air. He saw Kemp felled, and struggling to his feet. He saw him rush forward, and go down again, felled like an ox. Then suddenly he was struck violently. By nothing! A vast weight, it seemed, leapt upon him, and he was hurled headlong down the staircase, with a grip at his throat and a knee in his groin. An invisible foot trod on his back, a ghostly patter passed downstairs, he heard the two police officers in the hall shout and run, and the front door of the house slammed violently. He rolled over and sat up staring. He saw, staggering down the staircase, Kemp, dusty and dishevelled, one side of his face white from a blow, his lip bleeding, holding a pink dressing-gown and some underclothing in his arms. "My God!" cried Kemp, "the game's up! He's gone!" Chapter 25 The Hunting of the Invisible Man For a space Kemp was too inarticulate to make Adye understand the swift things that had just happened. The two men stood on the landing, Kemp speaking swiftly, the grotesque swathings of Griffin still on his arm. But presently Adye began to grasp something of the situation. "He's mad," said Kemp; "inhuman. He is pure selfishness. He thinks of nothing but his own advantage, his own safety. I have listened to such a story this morning of brutal self-seeking! He has wounded men. He will kill them unless we can prevent him. He will create a panic. Nothing can stop him. He is going out now--furious!" "He must be caught," said Adye. "That is certain." "But how?" cried Kemp, and suddenly became full of ideas. "You must begin at once. You must set every available man to work. You must prevent his leaving this district. Once he gets away he may go through the countryside as he wills, killing and maiming. He dreams of a reign of terror! A reign of terror, I tell you. You must set a watch on trains and roads and shipping. The garrison must help. You must wire for help. The only thing that may keep him here is the thought of recovering some books of notes he counts of value. I will tell you of that! There is a man in your police station--Marvel." "I know," said Adye, "I know. Those books--yes." "And you must prevent him from eating or sleeping; day and night the country must be astir for him. Food must be locked up and secured, all food, so that he will have to break his way to it. The houses


time; a miraculous coincidence. Montag held his breath. "There was a girl next door," he said, slowly. "She's gone now, I think, dead. I can't even remember her face. But she was different. How?how did she happen?" Beatty smiled. "Here or there, that's bound to occur. Clarisse McClellan? We've a record on her family. We've watched them carefully. Heredity and environment are funny things. You can't rid yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home environment can undo a lot you try to do at school. That's why we've lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we're almost snatching them from the cradle. We had some false alarms on the McClellans, when they lived in Chicago. Never found a book. Uncle had a mixed record; anti?social. The girl? She was a time bomb. The family had been feeding her subconscious, I'm sure, from what I saw of her school record. She didn't want to know how a thing was done, but why. That can be embarrassing. You ask Why to a lot of things and you wind up very unhappy indeed, if you keep at it. The poor girl's better off dead." "Yes, dead." "Luckily, queer ones like her don't happen, often. We know how to nip most of them in the bud, early. You can't build a house without nails and wood. If you don't want a house built, hide the nails and wood. If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the Government is inefficient, top?heavy, and tax?mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of non?combustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely `brilliant' with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change. Don't give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide?rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won't be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I've tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your dare-devils, jet cars, motor?cycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction


wife of a stranger, an exile and outcast thenceforth from what had been my world---you may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where I grovelled! Shake your head as you will, Nelly, you have helped to unsettle me! You should have spoken to Edgar---indeed you should ---and compelled him to leave me quiet! Oh, I'm burn- ing! I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy and free, and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? Why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills. Open the window again wide---fasten it open! Quick! Why don't you move?" "Because I won't give you your death of cold," I an- swered. "You won't give me a chance of life, you mean," she said sullenly. "However, I'm not helpless yet. I'll open it myself." And sliding from the bed before I could hinder her, she crossed the room, walking very uncertainly, threw it back, and bent out, careless of the frosty air that cut about her shoulders as keen as a knife. I entreated, and finally attempted to force her to retire. But I soon found her delirious strength much surpassed mine (she was delirious, I became convinced by her subsequent actions and ravings). There was no moon, and every- thing beneath lay in misty darkness. Not a light gleamed from any house, far or near---all had been extinguished long ago; and those at Wuthering Heights were never visible---still she asserted she caught their shining. "Look!" she cried eagerly; "that's my room with the candle in it, and the tree swaying before it; and the other candle is in Joseph's garret. Joseph sits up late, doesn't he? He's waiting till I come home, that he may lock the gate. Well, he'll wait a while yet. It's a rough journey, and a sad heart to travel it; and we must pass by Gimmerton Kirk to go that journey! We've braved its ghosts often together, and dared each other to stand among the graves and ask them to come. But, Heath- cliff, if I dare you now, will you venture? If you do, I'll keep you. I'll not lie there by myself. They may bury me twelve feet deep, and throw the church down over me, but I won't rest till you are with me. I never will!" She paused, and resumed with a strange smile. "He's considering; he'd rather I'd come to him! Find a way, then---not through that kirkyard. You are slow! Be content; you always followed me!" Perceiving it vain to argue against her insanity, I was planning how I could reach something to wrap about her, without quitting my hold of herself (for I could not trust her alone by the gaping lattice), when, to my consternation, I heard the rattle of the door-handle, and Mr. Linton entered. He had only then come from the library, and in passing


gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt particularly addressed her, and there was at those times a tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much. They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could distinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding still nearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous bands of gipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds of the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily looked with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people, shewn by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of the scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity, which the eye feared to penetrate. They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over which several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of tent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole formed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their danger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert's pistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was ordered to proceed as fast as possible. They passed the place, however, without being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared for the opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much interest, at the moment, in any thing besides. After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers arrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded; which, though superior to any they had seen since they entered the mountains, was bad enough. The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could be called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved faces at least as dexterously as he set bones. After examining Valancourt's arm, and perceiving that the bullet had passed through the flesh without touching the bone, he dressed it, and left him with a solemn prescription of quiet, which his patient was not inclined to obey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to pain; for ease may be allowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with anguish; and, his spirits thus re-animated, he wished to partake of the conversation of St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, were uncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was obliged to go out with the landlord to buy meat for supper; and Emily, who, during this interval, had been absent as long as she could, upon excuses of looking to their accommodation, which she found rather better than she expected, was compelled to return, and converse with Valancourt alone. They talked of the character of the scenes they had passed, of the natural history of the country, of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subject on which


was driven by Ewers’s ideas about magic systems, some bits from Crowley, some bits from God knows where. He thought when the image and sound are shot separately and then brought together, it’s like closing a circuit.” “Then when you say he stole knowledge…he stole Crowley’s ideas and spliced them with his own?” “Yes, Crowley. I believe Antonin Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty inspired Ewers, too,” Urueta said, looking thoughtful. “Artaud thought theater was the only medium that could create a ‘communion’ with the audience that was akin to a ‘magic exorcism.’ Artaud went to Mexico, by the way. He lived with the Tarahumara, consumed peyote, and participated in a shamanic ritual. Ewers obviously found Artaud’s ideas delicious, but he loved film, not theater.” “And those two things you mentioned…the Vril…” “The Vril Society,” Abel said. “An occultist society based on the ideas of a British writer called Edward Bulwer-Lytton. They thought there was a life force called vril, which, when controlled, could grant someone immense power. Of course, they also thought it was ancient Aryans who harnessed these powers. Ewers said he fraternized with them. There seemed to be a very active occultist scene in Munich when he lived there.” It sounded like something out of The Devil Rides Out or another Hammer film, but rather than feeling put off Montserrat was intrigued. The post-synchronization, the silver nitrate film stock, they both contributed to make this more charming than macabre, although she appreciated the disturbing vein of darkness to the whole tale. Abel seemed to relish telling the story, too: he was a kid narrating ghost stories late at night. Tristán seemed less impressed. Ghouls and monsters were not his favorite dish. He watched them for Montserrat’s sake, stood in line for Freddy Krueger and Pinhead because she wanted to attend the late show. “He sounds like a weirdo. A maybe-I-was-a-Nazi-weirdo, to boot,” Tristán said, his voice languid as he nursed his glass and threw his head back. “It’s hard to imagine anyone taking him seriously.” “There once was a lovely lady called Marjorie Cameron. She became popular among certain socialites and the avant-garde set in 1950s California. She even obtained a couple of bit parts in movies. What is less known is that Marjorie was the wife of Jack Parsons, an occultist and rocket engineer.” “That’s a résumé,” Tristán said. “Well, yes, and Marjorie’s résumé was equally interesting. Marjorie was the founder of a group called The Children, which practiced sex magic rituals hoping to create a third race of ‘Moonchildren.’ ” “It’s starting to sound like eugenics,” Tristán said, cringing. “Of a more benign nature, I suppose. Marjorie believed it was the mixing of different races that would create these special children.” “It still sounds awful. So, what you’re saying is there were a lot of nutjobs hanging around thirty years ago,” Tristán concluded as he lit his cigarette. Montserrat gave him an irritated look. She didn’t want Abel to stop talking about this, and Tristán had that mildly hostile tone he bandied around when he was growing bored. “I


the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He had known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity, having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated in early youth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude 'more in PITY than in anger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues. He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family, and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth should be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by success in the intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the attainment of wealth. After the death of his father he married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had so much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part of the family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate in Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his attention with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of genius. To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been obliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along which he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthful freedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulged that pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature of his character--the wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves he had floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his early hopes--were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world, and retired hither, to realize the wishes of many years. The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it a comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for every part of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and would not suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the new building, adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it only a simple and elegant residence. The


certain eagerness. Wine was a thing he had read and dreamed about. Like the glass paperweight or Mr Charrington's half-remembered rhymes, it belonged to the vanished, romantic past, the olden time as he liked to call it in his secret thoughts. For some reason he had always thought of wine as having an intensely sweet taste, like that of blackberry jam and an immediate intoxicating effect. Actually, when he came to swallow it, the stuff was distinctly disappointing. The truth was that after years of gin-drinking he could barely taste it. He set down the empty glass. 'Then there is such a person as Goldstein?' he said. 'Yes, there is such a person, and he is alive. Where, I do not know.' 'And the conspiracy--the organization? Is it real? It is not simply an invention of the Thought Police?' 'No, it is real. The Brotherhood, we call it. You will never learn much more about the Brotherhood than that it exists and that you belong to it. I will come back to that presently.' He looked at his wrist-watch. 'It is unwise even for members of the Inner Party to turn off the telescreen for more than half an hour. You ought not to have come here together, and you will have to leave separately. You, comrade'--he bowed his head to Julia--'will leave first. We have about twenty minutes at our disposal. You will understand that I must start by asking you certain questions. In general terms, what are you prepared to do?' 'Anything that we are capable of,' said Winston. O'Brien had turned himself a little in his chair so that he was facing file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (94 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt Winston. He almost ignored Julia, seeming to take it for granted that Winston could speak for her. For a moment the lids flitted down over his eyes. He began asking his questions in a low, expressionless voice, as though this were a routine, a sort of catechism, most of whose answers were known to him already. 'You are prepared to give your lives?' 'Yes.' 'You are prepared to commit murder?' 'Yes.' 'To commit acts of sabotage which may cause the death of hundreds of innocent people?' 'Yes.' 'To betray your country to foreign powers?' 'Yes.' 'You are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail, to corrupt the minds of children, to distribute habit-forming drugs, to encourage prostitution, to disseminate venereal diseases--to do anything which is likely to cause demoralization and weaken the power of the Party?' 'Yes.' 'If, for example, it would somehow serve our interests to throw sulphuric acid in a child's face--are you prepared to do that?' 'Yes.' 'You are prepared to lose your identity and live out the rest of your life as a waiter or a dock-worker?' 'Yes.' 'You are prepared to commit suicide, if and when we order you to do so?' 'Yes.' 'You are prepared, the two of you, to separate and never see one another again?' 'No!' broke in Julia. It appeared to Winston that a long time passed before he answered.


Finrod Felagund took counsel with King Thingol, and he was ill pleased, both for that reason, and because he was troubled by dreams concerning the coming of Men, ere ever the first tidings of them were heard. Therefore he commanded that Men should take no lands to dwell in save in the north, and that the princes whom they served should be answerable for all that they did; and he said: 'Into Doriath shall no Man come while my realm lasts, not even those of the house of Bor who serve Finrod the beloved.' Melian said nothing to him at that time, but afterwards she said to Galadriel: 'Now the world runs on swiftly to great tidings. And one of Men, even of Bor's house, shall indeed come, and the Girdle of Melian shall not restrain him, for doom greater than my power shall send him; and the songs that shall spring from that coming shall endure when all Middle-earth is changed.' But many Men remained in Estolad, and there was still a mingled people living there long years after, until in the ruin of Beleriand they were overwhelmed or fled back into the East. For beside the old who deemed that their wandering days were over there were not a few who desired to go their own ways, and they feared the Eldar and the light of their eyes; and then dissensions awoke among the Edain, in which the shadow of Morgoth may be discerned, for certain it is that he knew of the coming of Men into Beleriand and of their growing friendship with the Elves. The leaders of discontent were Bereg of the house of Bor, and Amlach, one of the grandsons of Marach; and they said openly: 'We took long roads, desiring to escape the perils of Middle-earth and the dark things that dwell there; for we heard that there was Light in the West. But now we learn that the Light is beyond the Sea. Thither we cannot come where the Gods dwell in bliss. Save one; for the Lord of the Dark is here before us, and the Eldar, wise but fell, who make endless war upon him. In the North he dwells, they say; and there is the pain and death from which we fled. We will not go that way.' Then a council and assembly of Men was called, and great numbers came together. And the Elf-friends answered Bereg, saying: 'Truly from the Dark King come all the evils from which we fled; but he seeks dominion over all Middle-earth, and whither now shall we turn and he will not pursue us? Unless he be vanquished here, or at least held in leaguer. Only by the valour of the Eldar is he restrained, and maybe it was for this purpose, to aid them at need, that we were brought into this land.' To this Bereg answered: 'Let the Eldar look to it! Our lives are short enough.' But there arose one who seemed to all to be Amlach son of Imlach, speaking fell words


of which were like those of old Matthew Maule, the executed wizard,--"God hath given him blood to drink!" Thus early had that one guest,--the only guest who is certain, at one time or another, to find his way into every human dwelling, --thus early had Death stepped across the threshold of the House of the Seven Gables! Colonel Pyncheon's sudden and mysterious end made a vast deal of noise in its day. There were many rumors, some of which have vaguely drifted down to the present time, how that appearances indicated violence; that there were the marks of fingers on his throat, and the print of a bloody hand on his plaited ruff; and that his peaked beard was dishevelled, as if it had been fiercely clutched and pulled. It was averred, likewise, that the lattice window, near the Colonel's chair, was open; and that, only a few minutes before the fatal occurrence, the figure of a man had been seen clambering over the garden fence, in the rear of the house. But it were folly to lay any stress on stories of this kind, which are sure to spring up around such an event as that now related, and which, as in the present case, sometimes prolong themselves for ages afterwards, like the toadstools that indicate where the fallen and buried trunk of a tree has long since mouldered into the earth. For our own part, we allow them just as little credence as to that other fable of the skeleton hand which the lieutenant- governor was said to have seen at the Colonel's throat, but which vanished away, as he advanced farther into the room. Certain it is, however, that there was a great consultation and dispute of doctors over the dead body. One,--John Swinnerton by name,--who appears to have been a man of eminence, upheld it, if we have rightly understood his terms of art, to be a case of apoplexy. His professional brethren, each for himself, adopted various hypotheses, more or less plausible, but all dressed out in a perplexing mystery of phrase, which, if it do not show a bewilderment of mind in these erudite physicians, certainly causes it in the unlearned peruser of their opinions. The coroner's jury sat upon the corpse, and, like sensible men, returned an unassailable verdict of "Sudden Death!" It is indeed difficult to imagine that there could have been a serious suspicion of murder, or the slightest grounds for implicating any particular individual as the perpetrator. The rank, wealth, and eminent character of the deceased must have insured the strictest scrutiny into every ambiguous circumstance. As none such is on record, it is safe to assume that none existed Tradition,--which sometimes brings down truth that history has let slip, but is oftener the wild babble of the time, such as was formerly spoken at the fireside and now congeals in newspapers,--tradition is responsible for all contrary averments. In Colonel Pyncheon's funeral sermon, which was printed, and is still extant, the Rev. Mr. Higginson enumerates, among the many felicities of his distinguished


"Did that robot say Zaphod Beeblebrox?" he said. ================================================================= Chapter 12 A loud clatter of gunk music flooded through the Heart of Gold cabin as Zaphod searched the sub-etha radio wavebands for news of himself. The machine was rather difficult to operate. For years radios had been operated by means of pressing buttons and turning dials; then as the technology became more sophisticated the controls were made touch-sensitive - you merely had to brush the panels with your fingers; now all you had to do was wave your hand in the general direction of the components and hope. It saved a lot of muscular expenditure of course, but meant that you had to sit infuriatingly still if you wanted to keep listening to the same programme. Zaphod waved a hand and the channel switched again. More gunk music, but this time it was a background to a news announcement. The news was always heavily edited to fit the rhythms of the music. "... and news brought to you here on the sub-etha wave band, broadcasting around the galaxy around the clock," squawked a voice, "and we'll be saying a big hello to all intelligent life forms everywhere ... and to everyone else out there, the secret is to bang the rocks together, guys. And of course, the big news story tonight is the sensational theft of the new Improbability Drive prototype ship by none other than Galactic President Zaphod Beeblebrox. And the question everyone's asking is ... has the big Z finally flipped? Beeblebrox, the man who invented the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, ex-confidence trickster, once described by Eccentrica Gallumbits as the Best Bang since the Big One, and recently voted the Wort Dressed Sentinent Being in the Known Universe for the seventh time ... has he got an answer this time? We asked his private brain care specialist Gag Halfrunt ..." The music swirled and dived for a moment. Another voice broke in, presumably Halfrunt. He said: "Vell, Zaphod's jist zis guy you know?" but got no further because an electric pencil flew across the cabin and through the radio's on/off sensitive airspace. Zaphod turned and glared at Trillian - she had thrown the pencil. "Hey," he said, what do you do that for?" Trillian was tapping her fingers on a screenful of figures. "I've just thought of something," she said. "Yeah? Worth interrupting a news bulletin about me for?" "You hear enough about yourself as it is." "I'm very insecure. We know that." "Can we drop your ego for a moment? This is important." "If there's anything more important than my ego around, I want it caught and shot now." Zaphod glared at her again, then laughed. "Listen," she said, "we picked up those couple of guys ..." "What couple of guys?" "The couple of guys we picked up." "Oh, yeah," said Zaphod, "those couple of guys." "We picked them up in sector ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha." "Yeah?" said Zaphod and blinked. Trillian said quietly, "Does that mean anything to you?" "Mmmmm," said Zaphod, "ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha.


It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon, and form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it open only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation once more beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were coloured with the richest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and an industrious people can awaken into life. Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the foliage; while, sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their treasures. Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and hamlets stretched towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed many a distant sail; while, over the whole scene, was diffused the purple glow of evening. This landscape with the surrounding alps did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovely and the sublime, of 'beauty sleeping in the lap of horror.' The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges of flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils and the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation thrown a gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert's plan to proceed, on the morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and travel along its shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing with his new friends, resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased with him, invited him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation, and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it, that he might prove himself not unworthy of the favour. On the following morning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to Languedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, on his return home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful; St. Aubert's manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, and Emily was serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful. After one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet passed together, they separated for the night. CHAPTER VI I care not, Fortune! what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shews her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave: Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. THOMSON In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily, neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder appeared to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her own. At the commencement of


and still no one had commented on his arrival. “I think I speak for the group when I say . . .” the dumbstruck blonde—Hallie, was it?—finally ventured in a stage whisper. “H’whaaaa is happening here?” August feigned surprise, shaking stiff-shouldered Natalie a little. “You didn’t tell them, hon?” He drained the remainder of his wine, handing it off to a man who only looked confused by the empty glass. Oops, not a waiter. “Natalie and I have been seeing each other for a while now. Just like a fine Cabernet, we wanted to give ourselves room to breathe, so we’ve kept it quiet, but I was under the impression we were stepping out into the open today.” He smiled down at Natalie, who was very clearly three seconds from ripping his throat out with her teeth. “You said you didn’t want to hide anymore. You said, ‘Let’s shout it from the rooftops, my Adonis.’” A sound halfway between a laugh and growl burst out of her. “I don’t think I used those exact words—” “Nope, that’s what you said. Verbatim.” “I must have been sleep talking.” Golden eyes crackled up at August and hell if that temper wasn’t turning him on. “People are known to talk in their sleep,” she continued. “In rare cases, people are even known to murder loved ones in their sleep. Did you know that? You might want to keep it in mind.” August dropped his head back and laughed. “There’s that sense of humor again. One of the million reasons I can’t wait to call you my wife.” You could hear a pin drop in the tent. “What was that?” Corinne inquired in a smooth whisper, though her color had lightened by several shades. “Did he say ‘wife’?” “That’s definitely what I heard,” Julian responded, those studious eyes traveling between his sister and August. “What about you, Hallie?” “Don’t drag me into this.” Then, out of the corner of her mouth, “But if that is what you said, there’s a family discount on floral wedding arrangements.” Apart from the brief, appreciative smile Julian sent his girlfriend, the tension in the tent remained thicker than a porterhouse steak. All right, August had gone too far. He’d been having his fun with Natalie, but now her temper had faded into something close to regret and panic. Thank God he’d run that errand last night. Struck with panic-induced amnesia, he started slapping at his pockets, trying to locate the ring box— Corinne distracted him by stepping between him and Natalie, her fingers digging into both of their forearms. “Listen to me very carefully. You’ve just set something very delicate in motion. Do you understand?” She drilled August with a look. “You obviously think this is some sidesplitting joke, but a sham marriage could do lasting damage to our family name.” Her attention transferred to Natalie, sharpening so much that August almost dragged Natalie behind his back to shield her. Would have, if he didn’t suspect the matriarch had something important to say. Something he needed to hear. “Ingram Meyer


are coming from the dining hall, and she slips past the door to peep inside. A few men are stumbling around, sweat pouring down their arms, the house dogs eating leftovers at their feet. Two servant women are standing among them, their tunics torn, their eyes staring blankly. Electra retreats into the shadows before anyone can see her. Agamemnon isn’t here. She quietly walks toward the baths, her mind buzzing. Her father has committed a horrible crime, it is true, but as much as she wills herself to hate him, she can’t. Maybe it is because she has always been his favorite, the only child he actually paid attention to. Orestes was too generous, Iphigenia too competitive, Chrysothemis too shy. And after all, they already had Clytemnestra’s love. But Electra has always been too quiet, selfish, defiant. It couldn’t have been easy for her mother to love her. Yet her father would always talk to her, ask her questions when her siblings weren’t around. It made her feel special. She is close to the baths when she slips. Her back hits the floor, and when she pulls herself up, her hands are red. She gasps. Aegisthus is dead is the first thought that comes to mind, though she knows that he can’t be here. She moves into the bathhouse slowly, her breath held, like a slave walking toward the altar where he must be whipped. There is water everywhere, and the torches have burned out, shadows circling overhead like crows waiting. Electra limps to the center of the room, her ankle hurting. There is a naked body in front of her, and she brings her hand to it. It is cold and wet. She passes her fingers over the wounds on his chest, blood drying and crusting. She remains there for a long time, her shoulders hunched, like wings. The world around her is too quiet. Finally tears come, like winter rains, flooding her heart. “Father,” she whispers. “Father, please, wake up.” * * * Darkness Clytemnestra runs back to the temple of Hera, eager to find the Trojan girl and take her somewhere safe. The palace is silent, each corridor flooded with darkness. She has ordered the guards to feast and rest tonight, and now they must be sleeping, half drunk next to their lovers. She is already in the garden when she hears a shout. It is coming from the temple, and she hurries in its direction, her bare feet still wet. At the entrance, Aegisthus stops her. He is holding his sword, and there is madness in his eyes. She tries to walk past him, but he holds on to her. His hands are sticky with blood, though he doesn’t look hurt. “It is done,” he says. She feels a numbness coming over her. “Where is Cassandra?” she asks. She can see a small shape at the foot of the columns, curled up like an infant. She pushes Aegisthus aside and runs to it, face contorted. When she bends over the body, she sees that her throat is slashed.


diminished, depraved, perverted, vestment: (n, v) dress, vesture, admirable, noble corrupted, lessened, profligate, clothing, apparel; (n) chasuble, vilely: (adv) dirtily, wickedly, adulterate, faded; (v) morbid garment, alb, cassock, surplice, garb, meanly, foully, disgustingly, vivacious: (adj) lively, animated, attire grossly, sordidly, worthlessly, sprightly, vibrant, spry, effervescent, veteran: (adj) experienced, skilled, infamously, nauseatingly, gay; (adj, v) cheerful, active, seasoned, skillful, versed, practiced, revoltingly buoyant, brisk. ANTONYMS: (adj) old; (n) campaigner, vet, oldtimer, vileness: (n) evil, enormity, dull, lethargic, listless, compliment, old stager. ANTONYMS: (adj) repulsiveness, loathsomeness, inactive, praise, languid, lifeless, green, amateur nefariousness, evilness, wickedness, serious, sluggish vexed: (adj) troubled, irritated, angry, sliminess, meanness, hideousness; vivacity: (adj, n) life, liveliness; (n) pestered, peeved, harassed, sore, (adj) scandal. ANTONYMS: (n) energy, vitality, enthusiasm, dash, harried, uneasy, cross, offended. purity, goodness, pleasantness spirit, vigor, happiness, sparkle, ANTONYMS: (adj) calm, vindicate: (adj, v) absolve, clear, effervescence. ANTONYMS: (n) uncomplicated exonerate, exculpate; (v) excuse, apathy, dullness, sluggishness vibrate: (v) shake, shiver, oscillate, acquit, defend, maintain, uphold, vividly: (adv) brightly, lively, tremble, quiver, shudder, swing, assert, rationalize. ANTONYMS: (v) intensely, clearly, brilliantly, wobble, palpitate, thrill, throb punish, blame, accuse, condemn graphically, strikingly, dramatically, vicinity: (n) region, district, violated: (adj) profaned, seduced, colorfully, glowingly, severely. proximity, place, neighbourhood, dishonored; (v) strained, disunited, ANTONYMS: (adv) blandly, Nathaniel Hawthorne 339 modestly, vaguely waking: (adj) wakeful; (n) blazing, billowy, palpitating; (n) vivify: (adj, v) quicken, stimulate, awakening, wakefulness, wafture accelerate; (v) animate, revive, consciousness waxing: (n) application, covering, enliven, reanimate, refresh, wand: (n, v) stick, rod; (n) scepter, coating. ANTONYM: (adj) waning resuscitate, invigorate, energize verge, mace, pole, baton, sceptre, wayside: (n) edge, curb, verge, vixenly: (adv) termagantly fasces, rod of empire; (v) staff margin, shoulder, border vocal: (adj) oral, unwritten, wanderer: (n) vagabond, roamer, waywardness: (n) tomfoolery, outspoken, noisy, phonetic, sonant, tramp, nomad, drifter, traveler, trouble, unpredictability, sonorous, voiced, vowel, sung, wayfarer, stranger, hobo, traveller; unreliability, untrustworthiness, bad eloquent. ANTONYMS: (adj) (n, v) rambler behavior, wickedness, passion, written, instrumental, shy, wandering: (adj) itinerant, nomadic, foolishness, whimsicality, introverted, modest, silent erratic, rambling, errant, migratory; noncompliance. ANTONYM: (n) vocation: (n, v) calling, profession, (adj, v) stray, vagrant, vagabond, dependability employment; (n) occupation, job, unsettled; (n) peregrination. wearer: (n) enjoyer trade, business, career, line, mission, ANTONYM: (adj) resident weariness: (n) exhaustion, tiredness, line of work warfare: (n) conflict, fighting, battle, lassitude, languor, asthenopia, vogue: (n) fashion, style, mode, rage, contest, combat, action, struggle, defatigation, grogginess, listlessness, trend, popularity, currency, fad, hostility, hostilities, opposition, boredom, ennui, prostration craze, custom, bandwagon. jihad. ANTONYM: (n) harmony wearisome: (adj, v) tiresome, ANTONYMS: (adj) unfashionable, warmed: (adj) warmer, warm, baked irksome, troublesome; (adj) tedious, unpopular, unstylish warmer: (n) stove, oilstove, deicer, dull, monotonous, boring, laborious, volatile: (adj) erratic, unstable, defroster, brasier, radiator, brazier, trying, slow, annoying. mercurial, capricious, variable, warming, warmed, demister, gas ANTONYMS: (adj) satisfying, flighty, inconstant, unsteady; (adj, v) heater soothing, exciting, refreshing, easy fickle; (adj, n) frivolous, giddy. warrior: (n) fighter, combatant, wearisomely: (adv) irksomely, ANTONYMS: (adj) calm, steadfast, champion, brave, gerrard, guerilla, boringly, dully, drearily, placid, nonvolatile, unflappable, centurion, irregular, insurgent, troublesomely, monotonously, reliable, serious, predictable guerrilla, militant longly, wearily, tediously, volley: (n, v) hail, firing,


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


Dickon an' wi' Captain an' Soot an' Nut an' Shell. It's th' springtime an' out o' doors an' sunshine as smells so graidely." She said it as broadly as she could, and you do not know how broadly Yorkshire sounds until you have heard some one speak it. Colin began to laugh. "What are you doing?" he said. "I never heard you talk like that before. How funny it sounds." "I'm givin' thee a bit o' Yorkshire," answered Mary triumphantly. `I canna' talk as graidely as Dickon an' Martha can but tha' sees I can shape a bit. Doesn't tha' understand a bit o' Yorkshire when tha' hears it? An' tha' a Yorkshire lad thysel' bred an' born! Eh! I wonder tha'rt not ashamed o' thy face." And then she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could not stop themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and Mrs. Medlock opening the door to come in drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed. "Well, upon my word!" she said, speaking rather broad Yorkshire herself because there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished. "Whoever heard th' like! Whoever on earth would ha' thought it!" There was so much to talk about. It seemed as if Colin could never hear enough of Dickon and Captain and Soot and Nut and Shell and the pony whose name was Jump. Mary had run round into the wood with Dickon to see Jump. He was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet nose. He was rather thin with living on moor grass but he was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel springs. He had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw Dickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder and then Dickon had talked into his ear and Jump had talked back in odd little whinnies and puffs and snorts. Dickon had made him give Mary his small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle. "Does he really understand everything Dickon says?" Colin asked. "It seems as if he does," answered Mary. "Dickon says anything will understand if you're friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for sure." Colin lay quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but Mary saw he was thinking. "I wish I was friends with things," he said at last, "but I'm not. I never had anything to be friends with, and I can't bear people." "Can't you bear me?" asked Mary. "Yes, I can," he answered. "It's funny but I even like you." "Ben Weatherstaff said I was like him," said Mary. "He said he'd warrant we'd both got the same nasty tempers. I think you are like him too. We are all three alike--you and I


grown up highly ornamental, but perfectly helpless and useless. With her character thus happily formed, in the first bloom of her youth she had encountered Mr. Pocket: who was also in the first bloom of youth, and not quite decided whether to mount to the Woolsack, or to roof himself in with a mitre. As his doing the one or the other was a mere question of time, he and Mrs. Pocket had taken Time by the forelock (when, to judge from its length, it would seem to have wanted cutting), and had married without the knowledge of the judicious parent. The judicious parent, having nothing to bestow or withhold but his blessing, had handsomely settled that dower upon them after a short struggle, and had informed Mr. Pocket that his wife was "a treasure for a Prince." Mr. Pocket had invested the Prince's treasure in the ways of the world ever since, and it was supposed to have brought him in but indifferent interest. Still, Mrs. Pocket was in general the object of a queer sort of respectful pity, because she had not married a title; while Mr. Pocket was the object of a queer sort of forgiving reproach, because he had never got one. Mr. Pocket took me into the house and showed me my room: which was a pleasant one, and so furnished as that I could use it with comfort for my own private sitting-room. He then knocked at the doors of two other similar rooms, and introduced me to their occupants, by name Drummle and Startop. Drummle, an old-looking young man of a heavy order of architecture, was whistling. Startop, younger in years and appearance, was reading and holding his head, as if he thought himself in danger of exploding it with too strong a charge of knowledge. Both Mr. and Mrs. Pocket had such a noticeable air of being in somebody else's hands, that I wondered who really was in possession of the house and let them live there, until I found this unknown power to be the servants. It was a smooth way of going on, perhaps, in respect of saving trouble; but it had the appearance of being expensive, for the servants felt it a duty they owed to themselves to be nice in their eating and drinking, and to keep a deal of company down stairs. They allowed a very liberal table to Mr. and Mrs. Pocket, yet it always appeared to me that by far the best part of the house to have boarded in, would have been the kitchen - always supposing the boarder capable of self-defence, for, before I had been there a week, a neighbouring lady with whom the family were personally unacquainted, wrote in to say that she had seen Millers slapping the baby. This greatly distressed Mrs. Pocket, who burst into tears on receiving the note, and said that it was an extraordinary thing that the neighbours couldn't mind their own business. By degrees I learnt, and chiefly from Herbert, that Mr. Pocket had been educated at


get my head down…’ He paused and his expression was momentarily hopeful. ‘Unless you’ll let me sleep it off on your couch tonight?’ ‘The barge is ten minutes’ walk away,’ Josie told him sternly, then she smiled. ‘It’s good to talk, though, Fergal. Good to share things.’ ‘It is, though.’ Fergal was already at the door. ‘Night, Josie – and thanks again.’ Josie watched him wander down the path, a new spring in his step, mud clinging to the seat of his pants, and she smiled. She’d known Fergal Toomey since they were at school, but now he was widowed, perhaps she was getting to know another side of him. He was thoughtful, kind, good company. She liked him more than ever. Lin sat in the back garden, gazing out over the ploughed field. The soil was rich red-brown and furrowed; Bobby Ledbury had been out planting something in the ground this week. George had been in his tractor too, driving up and down, Nadine at his side. Lin closed her eyes and felt the fading sun on her lids. She wrapped a cardigan closely around her, snuggling in the warmth. She could hear the Lovejoys’ chickens clucking, a calming squawk as they bedded down in the coop. Then she felt an arm around her, and she leaned her head against Neil’s shoulder as a light kiss landed on the top of her head. ‘I brought you a glass of wine.’ His voice was hushed. ‘It’s lovely out here at this time of night. So peaceful.’ Lin sat up and took the glass. ‘You’re so sweet.’ Neil shrugged. ‘Well, you never complain – I’m sorry I was late home this afternoon – I lost track of the time, and you’d made that delicious egg salad…’ Lin gave an awkward laugh. ‘I must be the only person in the world who can ruin boiled eggs and spoil a good lettuce.’ She smiled, but there were tears in her eyes again. ‘The ice cream we had afterwards was nice, though. I love salted caramel.’ Neil’s arm tightened around her. ‘Are you okay, Lindy?’ ‘Fine.’ She swallowed wine, feeling the sudden sharp taste of lies on her tongue. ‘I thought you seemed a bit down these last weeks.’ ‘Perhaps it’s the arthritis.’ ‘Can you talk to Dr Müller?’ ‘I will.’ They were quiet for a while. Lin usually found the times where neither of them spoke a safe and calm place. Now she was wondering if she just had nothing interesting to say. Neil took her hand in his and pressed her fingers to his lips. ‘It’ll be our anniversary in October. I was wondering if you’d like to go somewhere – Wales perhaps?’ ‘Wales?’ Lin marvelled at her unimaginative answer. ‘Can we afford it?’ Now she was being negative, penny-pinching. Neil snuggled closer. ‘We could manage a few nights somewhere nice.’ He sighed. ‘It won’t be a Caribbean cruise but…’ ‘I wouldn’t like all the heat…’ Lin said. ‘We should go somewhere, though, me and you, somewhere romantic. Leave it with me, eh? I’ll


find it at all. Then—the barest slink of darkness, a thin thread of latent death. Lore grabbed it like a lifeline, and wound the strand of Mortem around her hand, tugging it out as deftly as threading a needle. It flowed from the body and into her, twisting through her veins, braided into herself. Her heart froze. Tithed a beat. Her hand thrust sideways, Mortem flowing out of her and into the rosebush Anton had brought into the vault. The blooms withered instantly, leaves dropping, the soil turning dry and pale. Lore’s eyes opened, banishing the grayscale world in favor of the true one. Her veins were blackened to the elbow, her fingertips white and corpsecold. The body on the slab was still, with no visible change to mark what she’d done. This was a human, not an animal. She had to give him a direction. And though August had told her what to do, she couldn’t remember what it’d been, so she asked the question they all wanted the answer to. “Tell us what happened,” Lore whispered, the sound hoarse and broken through her death-dry throat. August started, rounding on her with his brows drawn low. “You are not performing this interrogation,” he said, with every scrap of regal authority he had. “I gave you instruction. Do not overstep your place.” But it was a moot point. The body on the slab stayed still and silent. She’d failed. She’d been the only one who could help, and she failed. “I’m sorry,” Lore said, inane in the face of the King’s displeasure. “I did the same thing as before, I think, but it’s been too long—” She was interrupted by a the deep, rasping noise of a breath being pulled into desiccated lungs. The sound was unmistakable. Lore and August and Anton stared at each other over the body, beneath Apollius’s impassive watching face, the gaping maw of his stone chest. A rustle as the corpse moved. A creak as it sat up. The dead body opened his eyes, and Lore couldn’t help but meet them, no matter how awful—her gaze was drawn there, even as terror set deep in her bones, even as the power that made this possible kept her eyes opaque and her veins inky, looking just as dead as he did. The child’s eyes were wholly black—no white, no iris. Darkened veins stood out around them, like the veins around her own, like the scars around Gabe’s eye patch. The child opened an empty, yawning mouth. And though his lips didn’t move, he began to whisper. CHAPTER THIRTEEN To reach for power beyond what has been given to you is the greatest sin. —The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 78 At first, the whispering was just a soft susurrus, the bare suggestion of language without any detail filled in. The sound reminded Lore of flies buzzing, of suffocating dirt, the soft fall of flesh rotted from bone. But after a moment, words conjured themselves from the shapeless noise. Just one phrase, over and over and stopping abruptly, stuck


Arryn, sky-blue and white. Catelyn had never seen a more welcome sight. "The clans have grown bolder since Lord Jon died," Ser Donnel said. He was a stocky youth of twenty years, earnest and homely, with a wide nose and a shock of thick brown hair. "If it were up to me, I would take a hundred men into the mountains, root them out of their fastnesses, and teach them some sharp lessons, but your sister has 318 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN forbidden it. She would not even permit her knights to fight in the Hand's tourney. She wants all our swords kept close to home, to defend the Vale . . . against what, no one is certain. Shadows, some say." He looked at her anxiously, as if he had suddenly remembered who she was. "I hope I have not spoken out of turn, my lady. I meant no offense." "Frank talk does not offend me, Ser Donnel." Catelyn knew what her sister feared. Not shadows, Lannisters, she thought to herself, glancing back to where the dwarf rode beside Bronn. The two of them had grown thick as thieves since Chiggen had died. The little man was more cunning than she liked. When they had entered the mountains, he had been her captive, bound and helpless. What was he now? Her captive still, yet he rode along with a dirk through his belt and an axe strapped to his saddle, wearing the shadowskin cloak he'd won dicing with the singer and the chainmail hauberk he'd taken off Chiggen's corpse. Two score men flanked the dwarf and the rest of her ragged band, knights and men-at-arms in service to her sister Lysa and Jon Arryn's young son, and yet Tyrion betrayed no hint of fear. Could I be wrong? Catelyn wondered, not for the first time. Could he be innocent after all, of Bran and Jon Arryn and all the rest? And if he was, what did that make her? Six men had died to bring him here. Resolute, she pushed her doubts away. "When we reach your keep, I would take it kindly if you could send for Maester Colemon at once. Ser Rodrik is feverish from his wounds." More than once she had feared the gallant old knight would not survive the journey. Toward the end he could scarcely sit his horse, and Bronn had urged her to leave him to his fate, but Catelyn would not hear of it. They had tied him in the saddle instead, and she had commanded Marillion the singer to watch over him. Ser Donnel hesitated before he answered. "The Lady Lysa has commanded the maester to remain at the Eyrie at all times, to care for Lord Robert," he said. "We have a septon at the gate who tends to our wounded. He can see to your man's hurts." Catelyn had more faith in a maester's learning than a septon's prayers. She was about to say as much when she saw the battlements ahead, long parapets built into the very stone of the mountains


If only she were around that bend, standing on the shore, looking at the Hudson. But the shore was empty. The oak leaves rattled in the breeze. As she ran back up the trail, that terrifying thought rose again: a stranger, a kidnapping, Ella dragged from her bed. She slowed down and texted Gabriel: Ella’s gone. Do you know where she could be? She was crying by the time she reached the top of the trail. Please, God, she thought. Give her back. She would return home with Peter and the girls. She would stay in the marriage. She would never speak to Gabriel again. She would do anything. Back in front of the farmhouse, Peter was talking to a police officer, a man with a goatee whose calm demeanor made Maud more frightened. He said they had sent out patrol cars to look for Ella. “We almost always find these kids in the first hours,” he said. Maud heard only “almost.” “Has your daughter had problems lately?” the officer added. “She’s a teenager,” Peter said. “But nothing out of the ordinary.” Maud had never seen him so afraid, his face so closed, his voice so wobbly. But this wasn’t his fault. She was the one who had decided the girls should leave early. She had made Ella run away. The officer asked her to list everywhere that she’d taken Ella, repeating the places into his walkie-talkie for the other officers who were searching. Sleepy Hollow. The Italian restaurant. “We also went to the city.” Maud told him the name of the camp. “These places are all so far away.” “She might have hitched,” the officer said. “Has she before?” “No. No. She’s never done anything like this.” Who was on the roads in the middle of the night? Men. Men who had drunk too much and wove their cars into the bike lanes. Men with guns in their glove compartments. Men with rope in their trunks. “And no one around lately at this place?” the officer said. “Any strangers? Anything you’ve noticed?” “What do you mean?” Peter said, and Maud saw Ella sobbing in blackness. Ella gagged, wrists bound. Ella calling out for her mother. “There’s just me and the archaeologist who lives down there,” she said, her voice quavering. “He’s away.” “Ma’am, I know it’s hard,” the officer said, “but I don’t think she’s been abducted. Your husband told me her backpack and phone are gone and that he locked the front door when he went to bed. I don’t think you’d sleep through a forced entry.” “What about those people you know?” Peter said. “That guy you work with?” “I’ll go,” Maud said, already turned to head down the drive, through the gates, across the road. She pounded on Lydia and Frazer’s front door. Lydia answered in her robe, her silver hair flowing over her shoulders. “We can’t find Ella,” Maud said. Lydia called to Frazer, and the three of them searched the yard and in the barn. Saying he’d check the road, Frazer drove off in his truck.


Opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love- letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night--was it really only last night?--when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Then something happened that made me afraid. I can't tell you what it was, but it was awful. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! my God! Harry, what shall I do? You don't know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her." "My dear Dorian, the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had married this girl you would have been wretched. Of course you would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman's husband has to [48] pay for. I say nothing about the social mistake, but I assure you that in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure." "I suppose it would," muttered the lad, walking up and down the room, and looking horribly pale. "But I thought it was my duty. It is not my fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions,--that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were." "Good resolutions are simply a useless attempt to interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely nil. They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for us. That is all that can be said for them." "Harry," cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, "why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don't think I am heartless. Do you?" "You have done too


Then I heard it—the faint buzz, buzz, buzz. My phone was ringing in my purse. I maneuvered past Mitch in the narrow hall and got to it on the last ring. Liv—really Liv this time. “Hey,” I said as soon as I picked up, Mitch trailing behind me. “Naomi. I’ve been calling all day,” Liv said, fretful. I could picture her perfectly, folded up in the corner of her couch, wrapping her long black hair around her finger. “Did you hear?” “About Stahl? Yeah. I heard.” “I can’t believe he’s dead.” She sounded far away. “I know. Liv, hang on.” Mitch was standing too casually halfway across the room. I held up a Just one minute finger and slipped back through the hall into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. “Are you okay?” I asked quietly when the door was shut. If I was a mess, I couldn’t imagine how Liv was holding up. “Have you talked to Cassidy?” “A little. She texted. I haven’t … I wanted to talk to you first,” Liv said carefully. “About Stahl?” I asked. “No. Not exactly.” She took a steadying breath. “I did something.” “Liv, you’re kind of freaking me out,” I told her. “What do you mean, you did something? What did you do?” Her words sank through me, sharp and unforgiving. “I found Persephone.” I hadn’t opened the box in years. Through several moves, assorted boyfriends and girlfriends, and three therapists, the box had remained in the back of one closet and then another, collecting stains and dents. The corner of the lid had split, and my fingers came away dusty when I opened it. Most of the box was taken up with the quilt that the school had delivered to me in the hospital—a square of fabric from each of my fellow students and teachers, signed with get-well wishes. It smelled faintly of disinfectant, and there was a blood splotch dried to dull brown at one edge. I am sorry you got murdered, Kayla Wilkerson had written. Almost was added in with a little caret. There were cards, too. Some from the same classmates, some from locals, most from total strangers. They’d filled many more boxes than this, but after years of guiltily hanging on to all of them, I’d grabbed a fistful to keep and shoved the rest into trash bags, holding my breath the whole time. Below the cards was the binder. I paged through, not really reading any of the articles. I knew them all by heart. There were photos, too, of me in the hospital and after. Some were snapshots, others professional, and in none of them did I recognize myself, even knowing it was me. Toward the back was a photo of the three of us. It must have been on one of the days of the trial, given the somber way the other two were dressed: Cassidy in her polished Mary Janes and Liv in a dress with a lace collar—the same one she wore to church. I was wearing a faded Bugs Bunny T-shirt


was the one she was engaged to. That all the rumors were true: He’d gotten her pregnant, paid for her abortion, left his wife for her, helped her through her eating disorder. I’d bought into some stories but dismissed this all-in-one rumor off the bat, coming as it did from Donna Goldbeck, our class gossip and a highly unreliable source. In the darkened classroom, the memory started to roil, to trouble me. We were so quick to spread lurid gossip, but so void of concern. Perhaps because we believed we were adults. If she’d slept with a teacher, that was on her. We were scandalized or even impressed, but not worried. On the screen: A narrow cloud crossed the moon; a man slit a woman’s eyeball. The students covered their faces. 10 Alder found me outside Commons on my way to dinner and asked what I thought of his project, if he should stick with the 1930s or do this thing about comparing the dorm rooms of Virgos and Libras. Or he had a third proposal, about how far Black students had to travel for a haircut, waiting for monthly Dragon Wagon runs to Manchester. (In my day, that wasn’t even an option; kids set up in dorm rooms with clippers or in common rooms with bottles of relaxer whose smell made me ask, one humiliating and probably hurtful time, who was using Nair.) Alder struck me as a hugely creative kid who’d gotten the unfortunate message early on that there was always a right answer. “It’s about committing to something,” I said. Here was Fran, waving at me from inside the doors, where she said we’d meet. “And making the best version of that thing.” Alder nodded. He had a habit of looking up and past you, moving his eyes back and forth as if he were solving equations above your head. “Just—it’s about confidence. If it helps, imagine I’m grading you not on the podcast but on your confidence.” I gestured vaguely at his chest, which was weird of me, as the Bowie shirt was now covered with a gray parka. Alder said, “Confidence,” and he laughed, blew out a flat whistle. “I mean. I’m not great at that.” To me he seemed spectacularly confident, in that he talked all the time and the other kids seemed to love him, but I suppose no eleventh grader has ever felt confident on their wobbly fawn legs. Had any of my classmates? Dorian Culler, maybe, who made his own warped reality, announcing that I was stalking him or that Thalia was his secret fiancée or that poor Blake Oxford had asked to be his prison bitch. Maybe Mike Stiles, our King Arthur, who wore his charisma like a custom-tailored suit. Alder must have taken my staring into space for the end of the conversation. He thanked me too many times and pawed his way through the door. Fran swept me past the mailboxes and into the dining hall, just as she’d done a thousand times—and the bandage was off, I was under


cleared a little: the burned topping had leaked over the side of the dish and stuck, brittle. She took a pace back, stared at the lasagne, and said it again. ‘Oh, dear.’ For a while, she didn’t know what to do except to inhale the harsh smell of spoiled food. She put the oven gloves down next to the burned lasagne. ‘It’s ruined.’ She grabbed a handful of her hair and sniffed it. Burned cheese. Her clothes smelled of it too. Blue smoke hung in the light from the window. Lin took her glasses off and glanced at the wall clock. It was five to seven. Neil would be home at seven on the dot – he was Mr Reliable and she’d promised him a birthday meal to remember. This year, Lin had been determined to cook something nice. Her exact words were, ‘I’ll make you a meal to remember…’ Her friend Josie was on a cruise trip to the Caribbean – she was a widow now – and it reminded Lin that her husband was special; he deserved spoiling. ‘I’ll cook Italian and we’ll have a romantic evening together,’ she’d promised. ‘You go and have a nice stroll in the woods, stretch your legs and I’ll make you the genuine taste of Italy. That’s what it says in the cookery book.’ The tiramisu was a disaster: she’d tried her best to follow the recipe but she added too much coffee. She couldn’t offer it for dessert – it was like mud. A raspberry yogurt from the fridge would have to do. The starter was supposed to be antipasti, boiled eggs and slices of meat, but she forgot to buy sourdough bread for the bruschetta, so she’d buttered thick triangles of white sliced loaf and they didn’t look right. The eggs were undercooked, all jellied whites and runny yolks, and she’d fried the prosciutto ham by mistake. It looked like toenail clippings. The problem had always been the same: Lin couldn’t cook. She had no talent for it. Long before the arthritis in her fingers kept her awake at night, she’d never been able to make a decent meal from scratch. It was a standing joke since she and Neil married, he’d either have to live off ready meals or learn to cook himself. He was a good cook now, but forty-nine years of marriage hadn’t improved Lin’s skills at all. Neil was the best of husbands – he never complained. He told her every day that he loved her. Their marriage was perfect except for the fact that she was the worst cook in the world, and in the grand scale of things, he said, that wasn’t important. Lin left the smelly kitchen behind her and drifted to the lounge, peering through the window. Neil was parking the Sharan in the drive. He glanced towards the window, grinning, waving. Lin waved back. Her eyes fell upon the two wedding photos that had been on the window ledge for many years. In one photo, Lin wore a cream dress, her hair loose


would be disgusting and maybe assault. Plus, lucky for her, my mouth is completely dry. “You don’t have to leave right this minute,” Claire says. “You can stay in here for a while, if you’d like…” But she leans back into her chair, presentation over. Any questions? I again look at them each in turn and the word “fake” springs to mind. It wasn’t long ago Katherine was screaming at me because of calendar clashes she’d caused. As soon as Katherine had gone to her next meeting, they both came rushing to my side, telling me how unacceptable it was, how out of line Katherine had been and was I all right? Are you sure you’re all right, Maddie? I’d felt like they were on my side, and it had made that afternoon disappear quicker. Little did I know, they didn’t give a shit. “I think I’ll leave now.” They each sigh with relief. * * * “Fuck. I’ve just been fired.” No one pays any attention to the woman with wide eyes standing under a bridge, talking to herself. I look back in the direction of the theater, at the doors I was, to all intents and purposes, kicked out of. I look out at the stream of pedestrians around me; everyone is just going about their day. Having nothing to do on a weekday has never happened to me before. Whenever I take days off, it’s not to rest but to get other things done: doctor appointments, washing my hair, immigration office visits when we realized Dad’s visa had expired. Even yesterday saw me cleaning the house and sorting through bills whenever Dad slept. God, I can’t tell Mum I’ve been fired. There exists no greater shame in her mind than forced unemployment. She’d think it was my fault because there’s always a reason someone is fired. What reason do I give her? A missed invite in Katherine’s calendar that I didn’t even accept? She’d never believe me. Understandably. Because aren’t you supposed to get fired for atrocities like sleeping with the married boss, embezzling money or, you know, murder? All that had died in that office was my will to live; all I did was … I’m still not clear on what I did or didn’t do, but I know it didn’t warrant immediate dismissal. I still had my midmorning snack in my bag. Had I even taken my jacket off since I shrugged it on this morning? I shuffle on the spot before heading back into the train station. I sit and wait for the 9:33 A.M. train. I have never gotten on the 9:33 A.M. train. At least the carriages will be empty. Google: What to do when you’ve been fired Shit! You’ve been fired! Here’s what you need to do next: Rejoice—you’re free from the repressing, grinding perpetual cog of capitalism. Search for a new job—you may want to return to the repressing, grinding perpetual cog of capitalism, and that’s okay. It’s never too early or too soon to dust off the old CV and start