snapped in the hearth. Shunted back to wakefulness, she pushed away the furs. When Einlek had written to invite her to Hróth, she had thought of refusing him. Inys needed its queen more than ever, in the aftermath of the Grief of Ages. She had not wanted to part from Sabran, even though she had milk nurses now, and could hold up her own head. By the Feast of Late Summer, her ladies had encouraged her to go. Helisent had seen it first – that she found it harder and harder to rise, as if her bones were not just lined with iron, but with stone. Siyu had warned her that some mothers experienced a deep sorrow after pregnancy, but Glorian had refused to accept it. She had no time or room for that. Yet her own mother had carried a certain darkness, even years after being with child. King Bardholt had called it unmód, when the mind seemed to detach and sink. The Virtues Council had finally agreed that it would be good for Glorian to visit her cousin, to recover from everything. She had arrived in Eldyng as the sky lights began their dance. Einlek had taken her to Isborg and Askdral, and then to the bleak towers of Vattengard, to finally meet the Sea King. Glorian had floated like a dead fish through that day. Einlek had been there to support her, but when she had clapped eyes on Magnaust Vatten, with a reserved Princess Idrega, her thoughts had come untethered, and she remembered little after that. Now she rose and went to the window. Her bedchamber had a breathtaking view – the snowbound trees of a drunken forest. Once the royal visits were over, Einlek had brought her to his hunting lodge in the Nithyan Mountains, where all was quiet, and she could rest. Outside, the daylight was still low, the moon out with the dawn. When she stepped into the snow, her breath froze before her. Hróth was always crisp in late autumn, but this depth of cold was unusual, even in the mountains. The passing of the comet had somehow quenched the Womb of Fire, but in its wake, the cooling had gone on. Glorian had always weathered the cold well, and walked in only her shift and fur boots. When she saw the woman sitting under an ash tree, a streak of white in her hair, she stopped. ‘Aunt Ólrun,’ she said, after a moment. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘You feel it, niece,’ Ólrun Hraustr said, eyes closed. ‘The great chilling – the Vildavintra.’ Glorian stepped a little closer, wary. Her aunt had always been troubled. ‘Vildavintra?’ Wild winter, it meant. ‘We will survive it.’ Ólrun had the same eyes and nose as her dead brother. ‘You and I are touched by night, as Bardholt never was. Einlek will see, in the Vildavintra.’ Unsure of what to say, Glorian continued through the snow. Her aunt had survived two wars. Of all people, she needed peace. The stovehouse was a short walk away, tucked among the


phoned Willy. I couldn’t speak. He couldn’t either. He was sympathetic,

and more. (Raw deal, Harold.) At moments he was even angrier about the

whole thing than I was, because he was privy to more details about the spin

doctor and the backroom dealings that had led to this public sacrifice of the

Spare.

And yet, in the same breath, he assured me that there was nothing to be

done. This was Pa. This was Camilla. This was royal life.

This was our life.

I phoned Marko. He too offered sympathy.

I asked him to remind me, What was this editor’s name? He said it, and I

committed it to memory, but in the years since then I’ve avoided speaking it,

and I don’t wish to repeat it here. Spare the reader, but also myself. Besides,

can it possibly be a coincidence that the name of the woman who pretended I

went to rehab is a perfect anagram for...Rehabber Kooks? Is the universe

not saying something there?

Who am I not to listen?

Over several weeks, newspapers continued to rehash the Rehabber Kooks

libels, along with various new and equally fabricated accounts of goings-on

in Club H. Our fairly innocent teenage clubhouse was made to sound like

Caligula’s bedchamber.

Around this time one of Pa’s dearest friends came to Highgrove. She was

with her husband. Pa asked me to give them a tour. I walked them around the

gardens, but they didn’t care about Pa’s lavender and honeysuckle.

The woman asked eagerly: Where's Club H?

An avid reader of all the papers.

79

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

I led her to the door, opened it. I pointed down the dark steps.

She breathed in deeply, smiled. Oh, it even smells of weed!

It didn’t, though. It smelt of damp earth, stone and moss. It smelt of cut

flowers, clean dirt—and maybe a hint of beer. Lovely smell, totally organic,

but the power of suggestion had taken hold of this woman. Even when I

swore


beyond earning a fortune greater than our wildest dreams?” “Yes.” Mrs. King finished her ice. “Why do you ask?” “Because I know you. You’re a proud woman. But you’re not that proud.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You lost your job. Bad luck, poor you. But you’re not struggling. You’ve got your wits about you. You’ll be fine.” Winnie looked contemplative. “One doesn’t tear a house down every time she grows tired of gainful employment.” Mrs. King laughed. “Oh, doesn’t one?” “No,” said Winnie stubbornly. “So I’m asking: is there something more going on?” Sometimes, in the dark of the night, Mrs. King thought about the one thing that frightened her about her plan. Other people. All their strange little fears, their jealousies, their persistent needs. Animals didn’t buck authority this way. Birds didn’t. They flew in perfect formation, a powerful confederacy. “Oh,” said Mrs. King, “probably.” Winnie’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.” There were times when a titbit, a tiny particle of information, soothed her fine band of women. It was like training dogs, feeding birds. She swiveled position on the bench. “When I first came to Park Lane, Mr. de Vries made me a promise.” She stretched her legs. “Two promises, actually.” Something darkened in Winnie’s eyes. “Mr. de Vries?” “Yes. First: that people wouldn’t ask me where I came from. Second: he’d pay my mother’s hospital fees.” “Hospital?” “Yes. I don’t know what you’d call it. A workhouse. An asylum.” “I understand.” “Do you? I’m not sure I do.” “I’m sorry,” Winnie said. Images came into Mrs. King’s mind, the old ones. Gray light. Mother’s stare, growing stranger. “They promised me I wouldn’t have to talk about it. I could put everyone behind me. Mother. Alice, too.” Winnie said slowly, “We’ve never discussed this, you know. In all our years together, never. I always thought it was a strange thing.” “What was?” “You. Coming to Park Lane. Right out of the blue. No family, no papers. You didn’t even know how to tie your apron properly.” “Well,” said Mrs. King, “I had you to teach me, didn’t I?” Winnie tilted her head. “We know what sort of girl arrives in a house without a character.” Mrs. King laughed. “I wasn’t in that sort of trouble, Winnie.” “No?” “No.” “Then why did Mr. de Vries hire you?” Mrs. King had been asked that question before. “Old friend of the family.” Winnie let out a short laugh. “An old friend. I see.” She shook her head. “Good Lord. When I think about the way we bent over backward for you, made exceptions for you. Changed breakfast time, suppertime, gave you the nice chores, extra candles, extra sugar, more tea. A bed by the window, a room of your own, new caps, free mending...” “You didn’t do so badly by him yourself.” “I worked. I worked my fingers to the bone. I’ve never worked so hard in my life.” Winnie’s face glimmered with something hard to read. Mrs. King had to allow that it was true. Winnie had plodded through that house like


arguing with the nervousness in my chest in a way that would make Dr. Nicole very proud. This was doable. No dry heaving out behind the mechanical room necessary. I could just … breathe. And admire Mrs. Kim’s magazine-worthy tables. And feel the rays of the setting sun warming my skin. And enjoy my skirt’s ruffles swishing around my calves. And sway a little bit to the music of the band. If that’s not a triumph, I don’t know what is. * * * ON A SCIENTIFIC level, it was totally fascinating to watch the fusiform face gyrus somewhere in between functioning and not functioning—seeing it do its thing in real time. It kept prompting me to think about everything my miraculous body did all the time without ever needing help or acknowledgment. Which made me feel grateful. Scientifically and otherwise. There was one confounding variable, though, in my data-gathering. One totally unfamiliar face that should have—by all established patterns—been unintelligible … showed up on the rooftop fully intact. I could see it loud and clear. A guy in a dark blue suit arrived maybe half an hour in … and I recognized him right away—even though I’d never seen him before. I sidled my way over to Sue and elbowed her until I had her attention. “What?” she said. “Tell me who that is,” I said, tilting my head in the blue suit guy’s direction. Sue peeked over. “Oh god, I’m sorry!” she said. “My dad invited him.” “Tell me it’s not—” “It’s Joe,” Sue confirmed, with a no-sense-fighting-it nod. “No, no, no,” I said. Had I just been boasting about how okay I was? “My dad loves him, apparently,” Sue said. “He’s helped him move furniture so many times, my dad nicknamed him Helpful. Did you know that?” “I did,” I said. “My dad invited him as a setup! For you! I cleared it all up and explained that being willing to help move furniture does not definitively make anyone a good person and that a setup was useless because he’d already dumped you and broken your heart. But by then it was too late.” He’d already dumped me and broken my heart. Wow. He sure had. While Joe greeted the Kims, up here in the breeze, against a brilliant pink sunset, I let myself watch him. Seeing my mom’s portrait had been bittersweet bliss. Seeing my own real face in the mirror had been a relief. Seeing Sue and the Kims and various friends from art school had been all varying levels of fun. This was something different. First of all, I wasn’t seeing Joe again. I can’t even capture how mind-bending it is to see someone for the very first time—and recognize him. I mean, I had kissed this guy! Twice! But I’d never seen him before. A memory of Joe’s naked torso as he threw me down on my bed rumbled through my memory like thunder. I shook it off. Fine, fine—I’d seen him but hadn’t seen him. It was a brain glitch. Not news. We got


flared on-screen when he thought he was onto some new lead, or when he talked with palpable hate about Robbie. “I figured you’d be lurking,” I said, not unaware of my word choice. “You finding good stuff?” “Sure. Maybe. Hey, you’re testifying about the dots, right? What are you planning to say?” “You know I can’t answer that. Plus, I think you’re recording.” He looked bewildered, then glanced at the iPad, still gripped in front of his crotch. He said, “No, I—” and flung the device across the frozen lawn like a Frisbee. It landed against one of the icebergs of old, brown snow. “I’m still not telling you,” I said. Seeing the iPad lie there, I realized I had an unprecedented opportunity—speaking to Dane in person with no email trail, no recording phone. There were other ways, besides the witness stand, to get information into the world. There were other ways to blast out your name, in time for some relevant person to hear it and come forward. And whatever I told Dane could make it online by tomorrow. I sat down cross-legged, so my face was closer to his. I said, “Can I give you some advice, though?” He seemed to brace for something, like I was going to tell him to get a life. I added, “A lead.” “Be my guest.” I said, “I was never the biggest Robbie Serenho fan. He was that guy we all knew in high school, the big shot. And he wasn’t a great boyfriend to Thalia. But that doesn’t mean he did anything. You’re missing the obvious.” Dane laughed awkwardly. I could tell he wanted to defend himself against such an accusation, but didn’t want to blow his chance of hearing what I had to say. He said, “I’m listening.” “I hinted about it on the podcast, but the lawyers wouldn’t let me say the name. Dennis Bloch, the music director. He was definitely having sex with her. You have a guy whose marriage is on the line, whose job is on the line. Thalia’s about to graduate, maybe he can’t handle that. There’s something off about him to begin with, right? Not so much in being attracted to her”—I added because Dane was, himself, clearly a man in his forties with a thing for an adolescent Thalia—“but to manipulate her like that, take advantage of her, break every rule. He ruined her life. Chances are he took it, too.” It was a melodramatic speech, to be sure. But I knew by then the way Dane talked, the way he thought. I said, “The worst part is, he’s still teaching. He’s spent the past twenty-seven years out there, moving on to other kids.” Dane cleared his throat. “I think,” he said, “that speaks more to the kind of cover-up Granby is okay with than to that particular individual. I’ve looked into Dennis Bloch, don’t think I haven’t. The school has covered up dozens of guys like him over the years. They give a letter of recommendation and send them on. I’m sure he


Gardens of Babylon were located in Nineveh, one of the seven wonders of the Ancient World. During the coalition invasion he watched his country collapse into anarchy. Having lost many of his family under Saddam’s tyrannical rule, he lost the survivors during the occupation. With no one left, he’d turned mad with grief. Whereas some embraced fanaticism of a destructive kind, Kasim had embraced fanaticism of a protective kind, clinging onto the only thing remaining that he loved – the ruins of Nineveh, swearing to protect them against any man who tried to damage them, defending Nineveh from anyone desecrating the site. Rumours quickly spread that there was a madman – the madman of Mosul, killing those who trespassed with harmful intent. When Islamic State soldiers arrived with earth diggers to smash the Lamassus, the legendary figure of a hybrid human with the wings of a bird and the body of a bull, a masterpiece which sat atop the ancient Nirgal Gate, intending to raze them, he’d used his sniper rifle to pick off the men. When soldiers tried to hunt him, he’d killed them one by one, knowing the maze of tunnels better than any man alive, laying traps, digging holes until finally the ruins were left alone, some people believing them to be protected by the vengeful spirit of King Sennacherib. Living in isolation underground, without phones or computers, he had no idea about the alien occupation until he felt vibrations rippling through the ground. At first, he’d presumed they were a result of Mosul Dam’s collapse. He knew it wasn’t the devastating tremors that follow an earthquake; it was more like the vibrations from a tuning fork, precise and controlled. There’d been a tingle across his skin – his hairs were standing on end. He’d left the underground chamber, walking out into the open. There was no damage that he could see, no fallen rocks, no cracks in the ground. There were no screams, no gunfire, there was no sound of any kind. Puzzled, he arrived at the great gate and stared not at desert but at blue sky. Standing under the Lamassu, his toes were at a cliff edge. One more step and he’d fall, a sheer drop – five hundred metres or more. The ruins of Nineveh were in the air, carved out of the land and floating like a small cloud travelling through the sky. Kasim had been convinced that he was dead, that this was the afterlife, and so he sat calmly, cross-legged under the Nigral Gate, and watched his homeland pass underneath him, thinking that this was a splendid way to transition into the next life: he even cried at the prospect of being reunited with his family. For the first time in many years, he wouldn’t be alone. Soon he began to doubt this idea, replacing it with a far more incredible notion – this was real. The night sky had been filled with shimmering vessels of a kind he’d never seen before, giant in size; these were alien ships, a god-like power


help. You don’t have to go all snotty know-it-all on me.” Hardy crab-walked, finding several solid handholds. The power outlet would have been easy to miss since it had a hinged flap over it. He lifted it, properly positioned the jack cable plug into it, and pressed. He felt it lock into place. “That should do it … Please, please … hold your applause. It was nothing.” Quintos said, “Max, flip the aux power switch. Let’s see if this worked.” Hardy felt the cable come alive with thousands of volts of electricity. Within reach, also covered by a metal flap, was the ship’s starboard flight bay manual access panel. He waited for a prompt to appear. “It’s going to take a few minutes before the ship’s root access protocols are initialized,” Sonya said. The prompt displayed. Hardy entered a fifteen-digit access code, one that worked for all US Space-Navy vessels. “What’s going on, Hardy? Over,” came the captain’s less-than-patient-sounding voice. “The bay doors should have opened,” Hardy said. “Shoulds are shit at this point. Get those doors open.” As if on cue, a near-blinding vertical swath of light, contrasting with the blackness of deep space, emanated from Hardy’s left. The bay doors were indeed opening. Chapter 11 Lost Tombstone Star System Genoma, Stratham Hold Captain Gail Pristy An hour after her shower was rudely interrupted, Captain Pristy had quansported off USS Hercules. Stephan Derrota, Dr. Patty Kline, Superintendent LaSalle, and Petty Officer Second-Class Aubrey Laramie had already amassed within Stratham Hold’s control center. All wore black combat fatigues, body armor, and their tagger sidearms. Pristy gave them a quick overview of the situation, ending with, “Dr. Kline, stay here. If there are wounded, we’ll need you ready. LaSalle, you hang with Corporal Bower The rest, come with me.” Dr. Kline handed a medic’s pack to Aubrey, who slung it over one shoulder, then the time travelers quickly headed below. They’d taken the rickety lift deep down into the rocky, cavernous base there—where the ringularity portal awaited. Derrota had brought along his own field kit, just in case it was needed. Resnick hadn’t said any of these things would be necessary, but Pristy wasn’t about to put her people in jeopardy; trust of the enigmatic general only went so far. She wondered, upon their arrival below, if he’d be annoyed. He always seemed to be annoyed. Pristy would be more sympathetic if the man hadn’t interrupted her shower just an hour earlier—and simply to let her know she needed to assemble her team. Not that I would have minded something more … under different circumstances. The thought colored her cheeks. Sure, Resnick was good looking in a rustic kind of way, well-built, and add to the fact it had been far too long since she’d … She mentally chastised herself. He’s an arrogant asshat. What are you thinking? “Pondering something special, Captain?” Aubrey asked, derailing her train of thought. The young woman looked at her with a bemused expression. “Or maybe someone?” “You enjoy being a petty officer?” Pristy asked. She heard Aubrey


had asked an unusual passing question about Sophie's mother's maiden name. Chauvel. The question now made sense. "And Chauvel?" she asked, anxious. Again he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I know that would have answered some questions for you. Only two direct lines of Merovingians remain. Their family names are Plantard and Saint-Clair. Both families live in hiding, probably protected by the Priory." Sophie repeated the names silently in her mind and then shook her head. There was no one in her family named Plantard or Saint-Clair. A weary undertow was pulling at her now. She realized she was no closer than she had been at the Louvre to understanding what truth her grandfather had wanted to reveal to her. Sophie wished her grandfather had never mentioned her family this afternoon. He had torn open old wounds that felt as painful now as ever. They are dead, Sophie. They are not coming back. She thought of her mother singing her to sleep at night, of her father giving her rides on his shoulders, and of her grandmother and younger brother smiling at her with their fervent green eyes. All that was stolen. And all she had left was her grandfather. And now he is gone too. I am alone. Sophie turned quietly back to The Last Supper and gazed at Mary Magdalene's long red hair and quiet eyes. There was something in the woman's expression that echoed the loss of a loved one. Sophie could feel it too. "Robert?" she said softly. He stepped closer. "I know Leigh said the Grail story is all around us, but tonight is the first time I've ever heard any of this." Langdon looked as if he wanted to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but he refrained. "You've heard her story before, Sophie. Everyone has. We just don't realize it when we hear it." "I don't understand." "The Grail story is everywhere, but it is hidden. When the Church outlawed speaking of the shunned Mary Magdalene, her story and importance had to be passed on through more discreet channels... channels that supported metaphor and symbolism." "Of course. The arts." Langdon motioned to The Last Supper. "A perfect example. Some of today's most enduring art, literature, and music secretly tell the history of Mary Magdalene and Jesus." Langdon quickly told her about works by Da Vinci, Botticelli, Poussin, Bernini, Mozart, and Victor Hugo that all whispered of the quest to restore the banished sacred feminine. Enduring legends like Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, King Arthur, and Sleeping Beauty were Grail allegories. Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame and Mozart's Magic Flute were filled with Masonic symbolism and Grail secrets. 175 "Once you open your eyes to the Holy Grail," Langdon said, "you see her everywhere. Paintings. Music. Books. Even in cartoons, theme parks, and popular movies." Langdon held up his Mickey Mouse watch and told her that Walt Disney had made it his quiet life's work to pass on the Grail story to future generations. Throughout his entire life, Disney had been hailed as


of his companions. "Well, I suppose we'd better be going then, hadn't we?" he suggested. "Shhh!" said Zaphod. "There's absolutely nothing to be worried about." "Then why's everyone so tense?" "They're just interested!" shouted Zaphod. "Computer, start a descent into the atmosphere and prepare for landing." This time the fanfare was quite perfunctory, the voice distinctly cold. "It is most gratifying," it said, "that your enthusiasm for our planet continues unabated, and so we would like to assure you that the guided missiles currently converging with your ship are part of a special service we extend to all of our most enthusiastic clients, and the fully armed nuclear warheads are of course merely a courtesy detail. We look forward to your custom in future lives ... thank you." The voice snapped off. "Oh," said Trillian. "Er ..." said Arthur. "Well?" said Ford. "Look," said Zaphod, "will you get it into your heads? That's just a recorded message. It's millions of years old. It doesn't apply to us, get it?" "What," said Trillian quietly, "about the missiles?" "Missiles? Don't make me laugh." Ford tapped Zaphod on the shoulder and pointed at the rear screen. Clear in the distance behind them two silver darts were climbing through the atmosphere towards the ship. A quick change of magnification brought them into close focus - two massively real rockets thundering through the sky. The suddenness of it was shocking. "I think they're going to have a very good try at applying to us," said Ford. Zaphod stared at them in astonishment. "Hey this is terrific!" he said. "Someone down there is trying to kill us!" "Terrific," said Arthur. "But don't you see what this means?" "Yes. We're going to die." "Yes, but apart from that." "Apart from that?" "It means we must be on to something!" "How soon can we get off it?" Second by second the image of the missiles on the screen became larger. They had swung round now on to a direct homing course so that all that could be seen of them now was the warheads, head on. "As a matter of interest," said Trillian, "what are we going to do?" "Just keep cool," said Zaphod. "Is that all?" shouted Arthur. "No, we're also going to ... er ... take evasive action!" said Zaphod with a sudden access of panic. "Computer, what evasive action can we take?" "Er, none I'm afraid, guys," said the computer. "... or something," said Zaphod, "... er ..." he said. "There seems to be something jamming my guidance system," explained the computer brightly, "impact minus forty-five seconds. Please call me Eddie if it will help you to relax." Zaphod tried to run in several equally decisive directions simultaneously. "Right!" he said. "Er ... we've got to get manual control of this ship." "Can you fly her?" asked Ford pleasantly. "No, can you?" "No." "Trillian, can you?" "No." "Fine," said Zaphod, relaxing. "We'll do it together." "I can't either," said Arthur, who felt it was time he began to assert himself. "I'd guessed that," said Zaphod. "OK computer,


as we used to sit, and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter, and I don't want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all. Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you think about it. Mina, pray for my happiness. Lucy P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret. Goodnight again. L. LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY 24 May My dearest Mina, Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy. My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till today, not a real proposal, and today I had three. Just fancy! Three proposals in one day! Isn't it awful! I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don't know what to do with myself. And three proposals! But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas, and imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from every one except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything. Don't you think so, dear? And I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to be quite as fair as they are. And women, I am afraid, are not always quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them, but he almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to me, Mina, very straightfordwardly. He told me how dear I was to him, though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me to help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I did not care


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

one youth (naturally this youth is said to be of surpassing beauty and/or talent, particularly musical talent, a feature that will not surprise scholars even superficially versed in folklore). Yet here in Hrafnsvik, five have been taken in the last four years. I mentioned stories, and I will turn to those now. Most, unsurprisingly, concern encounters with the common fae. I have thus far recorded a round dozen, some fragmentary (perhaps part of a larger saga?) and others filling multiple pages. I will summarize here those that I find most intriguing—later I will choose one of them for my encyclopaedia. The Woodcutter and His Cat (NB: I have been informed that this is the oldest folktale of Hrafnsvik origin, though one villager argues that it drifted here from Bjarðorp, a village ten miles to the east. The story follows a familiar pattern in folklore: faeries often aid mortals in roundabout ways, and their generosity is instantly turned to vengefulness if their gifts are unappreciated.) A woodcutter dwelt at the edge of the forest in a tiny hut that was all he could afford, and he could barely hold body and soul together. In his youth, after a night of drinking, he became lost and wandered into the mountains. He lost his right hand to frostbite and was terribly disfigured. The woodcutter struggled in his work, naturally, and was sometimes forced to borrow money from his brother, who never missed a chance to rail against his foolishness, though the brother was a rich man whose larder was always full. Near the woodcutter’s house, along a path that was sometimes there and sometimes not, was a faerie tree. Its leaves were red and gold no matter the season, and abundant even in winter, and it was huge and hoary, with knots like windows for the Folk to peep through. Though lovely, it was an offputting thing, for the sun never touched it, and its boughs were cold and clammy, the ground sodden with dew. The village priest often visited the woodcutter to complain about the tree. This was in the days when the Church tried to stand against the Folk and sent dozens of poor priests on doomed missions to kill or convert them. But the woodcutter was too fearful of the Folk to cut it down, and the priest went away disappointed. One winter’s eve, after a particularly frustrating argument with the priest, the woodcutter decided that he might as well see if the faeries would help him —if not, he would consider cutting down their tree, just to silence the tedious priest. The woodcutter travelled along the path that was sometimes there and sometimes not. The faerie tree was all aglow in the darkness, its golden light spilling over the snow like coins, and the woodcutter heard the distant sound of bells and the clink of cutlery. He knelt and asked for the faeries to give him a new hand. He waited for a long time, but there was no reply; the music played on, and the Folk attended to their dinner.


lips. “Yes, we do.” She is about to draw her dagger, but he moves first. With a gesture far too quick for a man of his age, he takes a knife out of his sleeve and points it at her. She doesn’t step back but grabs his wrist without effort and twists it. He drops the knife. She lets her own dagger trace the contours of his face, from his hollow little eyes to his thin lips. He doesn’t struggle. “You won’t spill blood in here,” he says. He doesn’t sound scared, only a little surprised. “You are not that bold.” She is amused he would say that after drawing a knife out of his vest. “You do not know how bold I am,” she says. She sticks the dagger into his eye, the very same eyes that saw her daughter must be sacrificed. He drops to his knees, screaming, and she cuts his throat quickly before anyone can hear. He falls onto the floor, his body small and decrepit in the large vest. In the shadows, it looks like an empty sack. She remains standing, catching her breath. Everything inside her is cold and hateful. She can feel it like tendrils spreading around her bones. She turns to the door, and there is the Trojan girl. Clytemnestra approaches her with caution, putting away her jeweled dagger. Cassandra takes a step forward, her chin out, challenging. She is not afraid. “Do it,” she says when Clytemnestra is close enough. “Do it now.” She truly is a princess. Only royalty would give orders like that. Clytemnestra reaches out and touches her arm gently. “Hide here,” she says. “No one will hurt you, I promise.” The look Cassandra gives her is of utter distrust. Clytemnestra understands. If she were the girl, she wouldn’t trust her either. * * * Dungeon Aegisthus has promised himself that he will trust Clytemnestra, but an entire lifetime of wariness is getting the better of him. This saddens him. If he can’t trust the only woman he has cared for in all his life, then maybe it is too late for him. He is sitting in the dungeon, his hands tied to a wooden column, a guard standing by the door. They can hear the cheers coming from the dining hall, the whispers and clattering from the kitchen. The place is bringing back bad memories. Atreus had once thrown him down here after he had lost yet another wrestling game. “So you learn what it means to lose,” he had said, and Aegisthus had spent two days alone in the dark with rats creeping around him. Agamemnon had come to see him, and when Aegisthus asked him for food, Agamemnon frowned. “You wouldn’t learn anything, would you?” There is also the memory of Thyestes in a cell, how he told him that the sword Aegisthus was wielding was his and that he was his long-lost son. Aegisthus banishes the thoughts and focuses. He had gotten out by himself all those years ago, hadn’t he? He needs to do the


it might go off. Not to mention that someone might recognize the outline of a pistol in her pocket. Evelyn steps around the corner of the corridor at the same time as Sloane. “Hey.” “Oh!” Sloane puts her other hand to her chest. Evelyn laughs. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I heard you were looking for me.” Calm down. Sloane nods while taking a slow breath. “What’d you need?” “Um…” All Sloane can think about is the pistol in her pocket. From the weight of it, she guesses it’s loaded. Evelyn looks at her expectantly, the smile fading from her face the longer it takes Sloane to respond. “Oh. I had Logan start a potassium infusion for your patient in room four, Grant Hopkins, for a potassium of two point two. I also had him hold off on the insulin until after he gets another potassium level. Just wanted to let you know.” “Okay, thanks.” Evelyn crosses her arms, glancing behind her before taking a step toward Sloane. “Ethan came to see me yesterday. Asking about Chelsea Carr.” She’s nearly whispering. “Is everything okay between you two now?” Evelyn hadn’t seen Sloane shout at Logan not to give Narcan. So why had Ethan seemed so sure of my guilt after talking to her? Sloane forges a smile. “Yeah, things are great. Why?” “Well, he kept saying that his questions were standard procedure. That he needed a second review of Chelsea Carr’s medical records, since yours would be a conflict of interest, being you’re his wife. But…” She tilts her head to the side. “He seemed to get fixated on you letting me go on break before Chelsea Carr was brought in. So, I explained to him it was because I’m pregnant.” Sloane nods, masking the angst building in her chest from Evelyn’s revelation. Evelyn shrugs. “The conversation just seemed…a little weird, I guess.” “Hmm.” Sloane presses her lips together. “Knowing Ethan, I think he was just being thorough.” Evelyn uncrosses her arms as she appears to weigh Sloane’s words. “We’re happier than ever now,” Sloane adds. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Evelyn’s eyes drop to Sloane’s hand on her front pocket. Frozen still, Sloane resists the urge to follow her gaze. Just be cool. She can’t see it. The sides of Evelyn’s mouth lift into a smile when she looks up. “You are pregnant, aren’t you?” Sloane swallows, feeling herself nod. “Yes. Yes, I am.” Evelyn’s eyes widen with joy. “It’s still really early, so don’t say anything to any—” “Of course, I won’t!” Evelyn pulls Sloane into a hug before she can stop her. Sloane steps back, afraid Evelyn could feel the outline of the gun behind Sloane’s hand. “Shh!” She looks around, but they’re alone in the corridor. “Sorry,” Evelyn whispers, lifting her shoulders. “Congratulations!” “Thanks.” Sloane steps to the side, giving Evelyn a wide enough berth that she doesn’t go in for another hug as Sloane moves past. “I’m actually not feeling well. Can you stitch up the patient in treatment room seven while I run to


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

thing unseen. There was a pushing and shuffling, a sound of heavy feet as fresh people turned up to increase the pressure of the crowd. People now were coming out of the houses. The doors of the Jolly Cricketers were suddenly wide open. Very little was said. Kempt felt about, his hand seeming to pass through empty air. "He's not breathing," he said, and then, "I can't feel his heart. His side--ugh!" Suddenly an old woman, peering under the arm of the big navvy, screamed sharply. "Looky there!" she said, and thrust out a wrinkled finger. And looking where she pointed, every one saw, faint and transparent as though it was made of glass, so that veins and arteries and bones and nerves could be distinguished, the outline of a hand, a hand limp and prone. It grew clouded and opaque even as they stared. "Hullo!" cried the constable. "Here's his feet a-showing!" And so, slowly, beginning at his hands and feet and creeping along his limbs to the vital centres of his body, that strange change continued. It was like the slow spreading of a poison. First came the little white nerves, a hazy grey sketch of a limb, then the glassy bones and intricate arteries, then the flesh and skin, first a faint fogginess and then growing rapidly dense and opaque. Presently they could see his crushed chest and his shoulders, and the dim outline of his drawn and battered features. When at last the crowd made way for Kemp to stand erect, there lay, naked and pitiful on the ground, the bruised and broken body of a young man about thirty. His hair and beard were white--not grey with age but white with the whiteness of albinism, and his eyes were like garnets. His hands were clenched, his eyes wide open, and his expression was one of anger and dismay. "Cover his face!" said a man. "For Gawd's sake, cover that face!" and three little children, pushing forward through the crowd, were suddenly twisted round and sent packing off again. Some one brought a sheet from the Jolly Cricketers; and having covered him, they carried him into that house. The Epilogue So ends the story of the strange and evil experiment of the Invisible Man. And if you would learn more of him you must go to a little inn near Port Stowe and talk to the landlord. The sign of the inn is an empty board save for a hat and boots, and the name is the title of this story. The landlord is a short and corpulent little man with a nose of cylindrical protrusion, wiry hair, and a sporadic rosiness of visage. Drink generously, and he will tell you generously of all the things that happened to him after that time, and of how the lawyers tried to do him out of the treasure found upon him. "When they found they couldn't prove who's money was which, I'm blessed," he says, "if they didn't try to make me out a blooming treasure trove! Do I look


to wipe the perspiration that began to drip from her jaw. The adrenaline that had fueled her across the field was ebbing, leaving behind a tremor in her bones. She wondered if Roman could feel it, how she was quaking against him, and when his hand pressed harder into her back, she knew he could. Wings flapped steadily above them. Shadows and cold air continued to trickle over their bodies. A chorus of screeches split the clouds, reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. Iris chose to focus on the musty scent of the grass around her, broken from their fall. The way Roman breathed as a counterpoint to her—when his chest rose, hers was collapsing, as if they were sharing the same breath, passing it back and forth. How his warmth seeped into her, greater than the sun. She could smell his cologne. Spice and evergreen. It ushered her back in time to moments they had spent together in the lift and in the office. And now her body was draped across his and she couldn’t deny how good it felt, as if the two of them fit together. A flicker of desire warmed her blood, but the sparks swiftly dimmed when she thought of Carver. Carver. The guilt nearly crushed her. She kept him at the forefront of her mind until a shiver spun through her, and she felt a strange prompting to open her eyes. She dared to do so, only to discover Roman was intently studying her face. Her hair lay tangled across his mouth, and her sweat was dripping onto his neck, and yet he didn’t move, just as she had ordered. He stared at her and she stared back, and they waited for the end to come. It felt as if spring had blossomed into midsummer by the time the eithrals retreated. The shadows fled, the air warmed, the light brightened, the wind returned, and the grass sighed against Iris’s shoulders and legs. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear shouting as life slowly returned to Avalon Bluff. It took her a few more moments to quell her fear, to be confident enough to move again, to trust that the threat was gone. She winced as she pushed upward, her wrists and shoulders numb from holding herself frozen. A slight groan escaped her as she sat back on Roman’s waist, her hands tingling with pins and needles. The pain was good; it reminded her of how furious she was at him, for arriving unannounced in the middle of a siren. How his utter foolishness had nearly killed them both. Iris glared down at him. He was still watching her attentively, as if waiting for her to lift the command over him, and a smirk played across his lips. “What the hell are you doing here, Kitt?” she demanded, shoving his chest. “Have you lost your mind?” She felt his hands slide down her back, resting on the curve of her hips. If she wasn’t so exhausted and stiff from the harrowing encounter they had miraculously survived, she


night of Stew Beef making dynamic subtleties with his drum and living, sculptural, grotesques in the dance. Next day, no Indians passed at all. It was hot and sultry and Janie left the field and went home. Morning came without motion. The winds, to the tini- est, lisping baby breath had left the earth. Even before the sun gave light, dead day was creeping from bush to bush watching man. Some rabbits scurried through the quarters going east. Some possums slunk by and their route was definite. One or two at a time, then more. By the time the people left the fields the procession was constant. Snakes, rattlesnakes began to cross the quarters. The men killed a few, but they could not be missed from the crawling horde. People stayed indoors until daylight. Several times during the night Janie heard the snort of big animals like deer. Once the muted voice of a pan- ther. Going east and east. That night the palm and banana trees began that long distance talk with rain. Several people 182 Zora Neale Hurston took fright and picked up and went in to Palm Beach anyway. A thousand buzzards held a flying meet and then went above the clouds and stayed. One of the Bahaman boys stopped by Tea Cake’s house in a car and hollered. Tea Cake came out throwin’ laughter over his shoulder into the house. “Hello Tea Cake.” “Hello ’Lias. You leavin’, Ah see.” “Yeah man. You and Janie wanta go? Ah wouldn’t give nobody else uh chawnce at uh seat till Ah found out if you all had anyway tuh go.” “Thank yuh ever so much, Lias. But we ’bout decided tuh stay.” “De crow gahn up, man.” “Dat ain’t nothin’. You ain’t seen de bossman go up, is yuh? Well all right now. Man, de money’s too good on the muck. It’s liable tuh fair off by tuhmorrer. Ah wouldn’t leave if Ah wuz you.” “Mah uncle come for me. He say hurricane warning out in Palm Beach. Not so bad dere, but man, dis muck is too low and dat big lake is liable tuh bust.” “Ah naw, man. Some boys in dere now talkin’ ’bout it. Some of ’em been in de ’Glades fuh years. ’Tain’t nothin’ but uh lil blow. You’ll lose de whole day tuhmorrer tryin’ tuh git back out heah.” “De Indians gahn east, man. It’s dangerous.” “Dey don’t always know. Indians don’t know much uh nothin’, tuh tell de truth. Else dey’d own dis country still. De white folks ain’t gone nowhere. Dey oughta know if it’s Their Eyes Were Watching God 183 dangerous. You better stay heah, man. Big jumpin’ dance tuhnight right heah, when it fair off.” Lias hesitated and started to climb out, but his uncle wouldn’t let him. “Dis time tuhmorrer you gointuh wish you follow crow,” he snorted and drove off. Lias waved back to them gaily. “If Ah never see you no mo’ on earth, Ah’ll meet you in Africa.” Others hurried east like the Indians and rabbits and


bed but a chair couldn’t hold her. She dwindled down on the floor with her head in a rocking chair. After a while there was somebody playing a guitar out- side her door. Played right smart while. It sounded lovely too. But it was sad to hear it feeling blue like Janie was. Then whoever it was started to singing “Ring de bells of mercy. Call de sinner man home.” Her heart all but smothered her. “Tea Cake, is dat you?” “You know so well it’s me, Janie. How come you don’t open de door?” But he never waited. He walked on in with a guitar and a grin. Guitar hanging round his neck with a red silk cord and a grin hanging from his ears. “Don’t need tuh ast me where Ah been all dis time, ’cause it’s mah all day job tuh tell yuh.” “Tea Cake, Ah—” “Good Lawd, Janie, whut you doin’ settin’ on de floor?” Their Eyes Were Watching God 143 He took her head in his hands and eased himself into the chair. She still didn’t say anything. He sat stroking her head and looking down into her face. “Ah see whut it is. You doubted me ’bout de money. Thought Ah had done took it and gone. Ah don’t blame yuh but it wasn’t lak you think. De girl baby ain’t born and her mama is dead, dat can git me tuh spend our money on her. Ah told yo’ before dat you got de keys tuh de kingdom. You can depend on dat.” “Still and all you went off and left me all day and all night.” “’Twasn’t ’cause Ah wanted tuh stay off lak dat, and it sho Lawd, wuzn’t no woman. If you didn’t have de power tuh hold me and hold me tight, Ah wouldn’t be callin’ yuh Mis’ Woods. Ah met plenty women before Ah knowed you tuh talk tuh. You’se de onliest woman in de world Ah ever even mentioned gitting married tuh. You bein’ older don’t make no difference. Don’t never consider dat no mo’. If Ah ever gits tuh messin’ round another woman it won’t be on account of her age. It’ll be because she got me in de same way you got me—so Ah can’t help mahself.” He sat down on the floor beside her and kissed and play- fully turned up the corner of her mouth until she smiled. “Looka here, folks,” he announced to an imaginary audi- ence, “Sister Woods is ’bout tuh quit her husband!” Janie laughed at that and let herself lean on him. Then she announced to the same audience, “Mis’ Woods got herself uh new lil boy rooster, but he been off somewhere and won’t tell her.” 144 Zora Neale Hurston “First thing, though, us got tuh eat together, Janie. Then we can talk.” “One thing, Ah won’t send you out after no fish.” He pinched her in the side and ignored what she said. “’Tain’t no need of neither one of us workin’ dis mornin’. Call Mis’ Samuels and let


as usual drawing a few curious glances from patrons who hadn’t been expecting to see an older redheaded white woman with her Asian daughter. Mom got the Reuben she’d told me she wanted, and I ordered a hearty farmer’s breakfast that made me think of the occasional weekends when my dad would bring me along to the diner where his football pool met. I’d read the Sunday comics and savor my bacon and hash browns while the men, all dads I knew, dissected the week’s games, and afterward I would unstick myself from the Naugahyde bench and my father and I would go to a nearby park. It was always special to have a little time alone with him on the weekend, because he had so few of them off. Sitting in my mother’s favorite diner, a warm, well-lit space filled with chairs and tables painted in a cozy kaleidoscope of colors, I struggled to recall the last time we’d gone out to eat together, just the two of us. Mom and I had never really gotten into having “girls’ days” together, shopping sprees or spa visits without Dan or my dad or the kids. Those things weren’t necessarily her idea of fun, and when we did get to see each other, which wasn’t nearly often enough, she wanted to spend time together as a family. Soon, I knew, we would head back to the Airbnb, and her attention would be on the kids. She asked me if they had any big plans for the day. A gingerbread-house-making party, I told her. Though it was the last thing either of us wanted to talk about, I wondered if I should seize this moment of privacy to once again broach the subject of Mom’s advance directives—she had no living will, and had thus far been resistant to discussing anything that had to do with her last wishes. I had printed the necessary forms and brought them along on this trip, hoping that I could get her to fill them out and have them witnessed. They were sitting in the bag I’d looped over my chair. I couldn’t bring myself to mention them. When we both had only an inch or two of coffee left in our mugs, she brought up Dad. “I wish he were here,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder what he would say. It’s so hard going through all of this without him.” I had not considered my father an especially calm or steadying influence. When I was in high school and my mother got sick, I knew I couldn’t talk to Dad about it; he seemed even more fearful and agitated than I was. When he tried to teach me to drive, he made it as far as our neighbor’s mailbox before saying, I can’t do this, turn around, and never got into a car with me in the driver’s seat again. His temper could be unpredictable. He was not what I’d call good in a crisis. At times, though, he surprised me. I remembered his serene pride at my


said. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, bristling. He rested a hand on his hip and shook his head almost regretfully. “That girl was a walking disaster. She had a half dozen guys wrapped around her finger thinking they loved her. Oscar just about lost his damn mind over her. Fractured a guy’s wrist for pinching her ass in the diner, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day.” “He commits assault and she’s supposed to drop her panties?” I asked. Jim scowled at me. Interesting that he didn’t know they’d hooked up—or maybe it wasn’t. Jim wasn’t the kind of guy to keep a close watch on his son’s love life. “Look, I’m just telling you the girl liked drama. She made bad decisions and laughed about them. Everything was a game to her.” He said it all in a matter-of-fact tone, like he was reporting on nothing more fraught than the weather. “That kind of girl doesn’t end up with a happily ever after.” “I don’t think she got one,” I said. I watched his expression, feeling that familiar sense of not knowing where I stood. He’d had an abysmal opinion of Jessi Walker, that was clear. Yet there wasn’t a trace of anger or hatred in his voice. It was like he didn’t care at all. That was the way he’d always seemed to me—disconnected. Everyone else seemed to know this affable, charismatic man, but for me it had always felt like talking to a plank of wood, whatever the subject. It was like a milder version of Oscar—I didn’t get to see the charm, because I wasn’t worth the trouble of putting on a show. He grunted, done with the conversation. “Oscar’s out back. Don’t take too much of his time.” With that, he turned and headed into the office. I stood there, teeth clenched. Plenty of people would put me in the category “that kind of girl.” The only reason my life wasn’t a mess of drama was that I packed up and left everything behind every time things got hairy. I finally understood why I’d never been able to figure out how Jim felt about me. It was the same reason he could say all those things about Jessi Walker without the faintest flicker of emotion. She was beneath caring about. And so was I. He’d done the necessary steps to fulfill his obligations and play his part—mayor, best friend’s father, charitable member of society. And that was it. Except for the moments I intersected with some task he needed to complete, I didn’t even exist to him. Oscar was across the lot when I came around the back of the offices, wiping his hands on a greasy rag, a toolbox open beside him. He looked over and saw me as I approached, but he didn’t move. Waited for me to come to him. I made my way across the rut-striped yard, keeping my steps steady and reminding myself I was a long way from eleven. Oscar was no kind of threat to me


- for me!' Traddles rose from his chair, and, with a triumphant smile, put his hand upon the white cloth I had observed. 'However,' he said, 'it's not that we haven't made a beginning towards housekeeping. No, no; we have begun. We must get on by degrees, but we have begun. Here,' drawing the cloth off with great pride and care, 'are two pieces of furniture to commence with. This flower-pot and stand, she bought herself. You put that in a parlour window,' said Traddles, falling a little back from it to survey it with the greater admiration, 'with a plant in it, and - and there you are! This little round table with the marble top (it's two feet ten in circumference), I bought. You want to lay a book down, you know, or somebody comes to see you or your wife, and wants a place to stand a cup of tea upon, and - and there you are again!' said Traddles. 'It's an admirable piece of workmanship - firm as a rock!' I praised them both, highly, and Traddles replaced the covering as carefully as he had removed it. 'It's not a great deal towards the furnishing,' said Traddles, 'but it's something. The table-cloths, and pillow-cases, and articles of that kind, are what discourage me most, Copperfield. So does the ironmongery - candle-boxes, and gridirons, and that sort of necessaries - because those things tell, and mount up. However, "wait and hope!" And I assure you she's the dearest girl!' 'I am quite certain of it,' said I. 'In the meantime,' said Traddles, coming back to his chair; 'and this is the end of my prosing about myself, I get on as well as I can. I don't make much, but I don't spend much. In general, I board with the people downstairs, who are very agreeable people indeed. Both Mr. and Mrs. Micawber have seen a good deal of life, and are excellent company.' 'My dear Traddles!' I quickly exclaimed. 'What are you talking about?' Traddles looked at me, as if he wondered what I was talking about. 'Mr. and Mrs. Micawber!' I repeated. 'Why, I am intimately acquainted with them!' An opportune double knock at the door, which I knew well from old experience in Windsor Terrace, and which nobody but Mr. Micawber could ever have knocked at that door, resolved any doubt in my mind as to their being my old friends. I begged Traddles to ask his landlord to walk up. Traddles accordingly did so, over the banister; and Mr. Micawber, not a bit changed - his tights, his stick, his shirt-collar, and his eye-glass, all the same as ever - came into the room with a genteel and youthful air. 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Traddles,' said Mr. Micawber, with the old roll in his voice, as he checked himself in humming a soft tune. 'I was not aware that there was any individual, alien to this tenement, in your sanctum.' Mr. Micawber slightly bowed to me, and pulled up his shirt-collar. 'How do you


that he actually saw other-born as human beings? Why did other-born need to prove their worth to the world by servicing a city that kept pushing them to the fringes whatever chance it got? Protecting the same people who created this screwed-up system, where other-born were a thing to fear? Io shook with fury. This was such propagandist bullshit, and the worst thing was these people were eating it all up! “And I know, friends,” Saint-Yves said, “because I have worked closely with other-born to form the proposal of my Initiative. Because . . .” The crowd teetered with excitement. “I am very much in love with one.” He threw one arm toward the side door; the spotlights swung to it. “My dear friends,” Saint-Yves said, “I would like you to meet my best friend, the love of my life—and as of last night, my fiancée—Thais Ora!” CHAPTER XVIII YOU, MOSTLY IO EXPECTED SHOCK, anger, or sadness to register, but nothing came. Only a single thought, dragged sluggishly out of the depths of her mind: Thais looks stunning. For most of their lives, Thais was a sylphid, slim and pale, all ribs and jutting cheekbones. Now her cheeks were full. Her skin vibrant and rosy. Her figure had curves in all the right places, and a little extra on the hips, like every Ora woman. Her silky brown hair framed her face beautifully, reaching just past her ears. She wore glittering eye shadow and a plum lipstick and a necklace with jade beads around her slender neck. Her high heels echoed across the stage, and her white skirt billowed gracefully with every step. She looked like you would imagine a girl of 64 Hanover Street. Smiley, sunny, shiny. She placed her hand in Saint-Yves’s and let him pull her to his side, where he pressed a kiss on her forehead. It was a tender moment, the kind you see on the cover of romance novels, and Io felt both embarrassed and hungry for more. Then someone from the crowd heckled, “How’d he propose?” On the stage, Thais gave Saint-Yves her famous lopsided smile. Io prepared herself for the shock of hearing her sister’s voice after two whole years, after Leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough? “We were going over his notes for this very presentation, sitting on the floor of our living room, surrounded by empty boxes of Iyen food,” she said sweetly. “And suddenly, he took my hand, and he said he couldn’t have done this without me. That he never wanted to do anything without me. And he gave me his grandmother’s ring.” Thais extended her ringed finger to them—the crowd went nuts, exploding with applause, whistles, and supportive crooning. “My fiancée,” Saint-Yves called over the ruckus, “is moira-born. A weaver. She was the first volunteer to join our Initiative and to use her powers to track the connections between other-born and their victims. Tell them, darling, what made you decide to join us?” “You, mostly.” Thais laughed, and the crowd joined her. They were loving this. They were


something he couldn't get any other way." "Damn El Greco," said Lawson, "what's the good of jawing about a man when we haven't a chance of seeing any of his work?" Clutton shrugged his shoulders, smoked a cigarette in silence, and went away. Philip and Lawson looked at one another. "There's something in what he says," said Philip. Lawson stared ill-temperedly at his picture. "How the devil is one to get the intention of the soul except by painting exactly what one sees?" About this time Philip made a new friend. On Monday morning models assembled at the school in order that one might be chosen for the week, and one day a young man was taken who was plainly not a model by profession. Philip's attention was attracted by the manner in which he held himself: when he got on to the stand he stood firmly on both feet, square, with clenched hands, and with his head defiantly thrown forward; the attitude emphasised his fine figure; there was no fat on him, and his muscles stood out as though they were of iron. His head, close-cropped, was well-shaped, and he wore a short beard; he had large, dark eyes and heavy eyebrows. He held the pose hour after hour without appearance of fatigue. There was in his mien a mixture of shame and of determination. His air of passionate energy excited Philip's romantic imagination, and when, the sitting ended, he saw him in his clothes, it seemed to him that he wore them as though he were a king in rags. He was uncommunicative, but in a day or two Mrs. Otter told Philip that the model was a Spaniard and that he had never sat before. "I suppose he was starving," said Philip. "Have you noticed his clothes? They're quite neat and decent, aren't they?" It chanced that Potter, one of the Americans who worked at Amitrano's, was going to Italy for a couple of months, and offered his studio to Philip. Philip was pleased. He was growing a little impatient of Lawson's peremptory advice and wanted to be by himself. At the end of the week he went up to the model and on the pretence that his drawing was not finished asked whether he would come and sit to him one day. "I'm not a model," the Spaniard answered. "I have other things to do next week." "Come and have luncheon with me now, and we'll talk about it," said Philip, and as the other hesitated, he added with a smile: "It won't hurt you to lunch with me." With a shrug of the shoulders the model consented, and they went off to a _cremerie_. The Spaniard spoke broken French, fluent but difficult to follow, and Philip managed to get on well enough with him. He found out that he was a writer. He had come to Paris to write novels and kept himself meanwhile by all the expedients possible to a penniless man; he gave lessons, he did any translations he could get hold of, chiefly business


in…” “Years,” I finish. “What did he say?” It’s embarrassing to admit, even to Mum, that he said pretty much nothing. That, even when faced with his own child, he still wasn’t moved enough to apologize or attempt to make amends. That he didn’t try to get in contact afterward, that he scurried away as soon as he could and didn’t look back. Again. My throat feels tight. “Ah,” Mum murmurs. “Aren’t you angry with me? For…for hiding it?” She turns to look at me for so long I become mildly concerned we might run a red light. After a moment, she says, “I did you girls a disservice when I chose your father. I should’ve chosen a man who would always do his duty. You shouldn’t know what this feels like.” Protest rises without a second thought. “No. It’s not your fault, Mum. His behavior is his choice. You can’t control other people.” She smiles as she checks the rearview mirror. “Mmm. That’s hard to remember sometimes.” “Yeah,” I whisper. “Yeah, it is.” Because even as I said the words, I knew how much of a hypocrite I am. I know my dad disappearing so completely has nothing to do with me as a person, but the hurt’s still there. “How you feel about your father,” Mum begins, “and how you choose to deal with it—I cannot dictate that. It isn’t happening to me. Not in the same way. So I’m sad you didn’t tell me then, Celine, and I’m sad you’ve been alone with this, but I’m grateful you’re telling me now.” My chest is tight because the truth is, I wasn’t alone. I had Brad and he wouldn’t leave me alone for a second, but I still tried to leave him first. “I’ve been thinking.” “Yes?” “What do you think about, like…counseling and stuff? For me, I mean? I did some research,” I add quickly, “and it doesn’t have to be expensive.” It’s amazing what a quick Google search at the back of a bus will teach you. There’s all kinds of options, and one of them’s got to help, because I am sick of being like this—anxious and afraid. “If that’s what you want,” Mum says slowly, “it might be a good idea. And believe it or not, Celine,” she adds dryly, “we have money for important things. We are not utterly destitute.” I flush. “I know.” “Or even slightly destitute.” “I know—” “Good. Maria suggested counseling to me years ago, for you girls.” She chews on her lip. “I didn’t think it was necessary. You seemed…fine. Your sister was angry, yes, but I assumed that was normal. I suppose that was unwise of me. What is normal? What is fine? I don’t know.” She sighs, shrugs. “We’ll sort something out, baby. If that’s what you want. We will.” I take a breath, and as my lungs expand my shoulders rise, looser than I thought they could be. “Thanks, Mum.” She pats my knee and shifts gears. “You said your father’s supposed to be at this ball?” “Maybe.


the table. Therefore, for totally different reasons, her food was as poor as Mrs. Archer's, and her wines did nothing to redeem it. Her relatives considered that the penury of her table discredited the Mingott name, which had always been associated with good living; but people continued to come to her in spite of the "made dishes" and flat champagne, and in reply to the remonstrances of her son Lovell (who tried to retrieve the family credit by having the best chef in New York) she used to say laughingly: "What's the use of two good cooks in one family, now that I've married the girls and can't eat sauces?" Newland Archer, as he mused on these things, had once more turned his eyes toward the Mingott box. He saw that Mrs. Welland and her sister-in-law were facing their semicircle of critics with the Mingottian APLOMB which old Catherine had inculcated in all her tribe, and that only May Welland betrayed, by a heightened colour (perhaps due to the knowledge that he was watching her) a sense of the gravity of the situation. As for the cause of the commotion, she sat gracefully in her corner of the box, her eyes fixed on the stage, and revealing, as she leaned forward, a little more shoulder and bosom than New York was accustomed to seeing, at least in ladies who had reasons for wishing to pass unnoticed. Few things seemed to Newland Archer more awful than an offence against "Taste," that far-off divinity of whom "Form" was the mere visible representative and vicegerent. Madame Olenska's pale and serious face appealed to his fancy as suited to the occasion and to her unhappy situation; but the way her dress (which had no tucker) sloped away from her thin shoulders shocked and troubled him. He hated to think of May Welland's being exposed to the influence of a young woman so careless of the dictates of Taste. "After all," he heard one of the younger men begin behind him (everybody talked through the Mephistopheles- and-Martha scenes), "after all, just WHAT happened?" "Well--she left him; nobody attempts to deny that." "He's an awful brute, isn't he?" continued the young enquirer, a candid Thorley, who was evidently preparing to enter the lists as the lady's champion. "The very worst; I knew him at Nice," said Lawrence Lefferts with authority. "A half-paralysed white sneering fellow--rather handsome head, but eyes with a lot of lashes. Well, I'll tell you the sort: when he wasn't with women he was collecting china. Paying any price for both, I understand." There was a general laugh, and the young champion said: "Well, then----?" "Well, then; she bolted with his secretary." "Oh, I see." The champion's face fell. "It didn't last long, though: I heard of her a few months later living alone in Venice. I believe Lovell Mingott went out to get her. He said she was desperately unhappy. That's all right--but this parading her at the Opera's another thing." "Perhaps," young Thorley hazarded, "she's too unhappy to be left at home." This


Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play. To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour, Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves, And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r, The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves. Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done, But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend; And often as her dying notes their pity have won, They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend. When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star, And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere, How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, came not near! Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love! For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way, And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove, They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray; And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out, While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground, And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout, Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound! But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn, And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string; Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn. Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen, Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me, That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green, To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells can free. And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute; If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand, And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute. O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil, And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind, I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile, And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind! But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar, And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear, Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, come not near! Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his daughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having given his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in silence. A faint erroneous ray Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things, Flung half an image on the straining eye; While waving woods, and villages, and streams, And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene, Uncertain if beheld.*


of Crdit Lyonnais, his working capital amounted to twenty-three million francs, or some twenty-three thousand pounds. For a few moments Bond sat motionless, gazing out of the window across the dark sea, then he shoved the bundle of banknotes under the pillow of the ornate single bed, cleaned his teeth, turned out the lights and climbed with relief between the harsh French sheets. For ten minutes he lay on his left side reflecting on the events of the day. Then he turned over and focused his mind towards the tunnel of sleep. His last action was to slip his right hand under the pillow until it rested under the butt of the .38 Colt Police Positive with the sawn barrel. Then he slept, and with the warmth and humour of his eyes extinguished, his features relapsed into a taciturn mask, ironical, brutal, and cold. CHAPTER 2 - DOSSIER FOR M Two weeks before, this memorandum had gone from Station S of the Secret Service to M, who was then and is today head of this adjunct to the British Defence Ministries: To: M. From: Head of S. Subject: A project for the destruction of Monsieur Le Chiffre (alias 'The Number', 'Herr Nummer', 'Herr Ziffer', etc.), one of the Opposition's chief agents in France and undercover Paymaster of the 'Syndicat des Ouvriers d'Alsace', the Communist-controlled trade union in the heavy and transport industries of Alsace, and as we know, an important fifth column in the event of war with Redland. Documentation: Head of Archives' biography of Le Chiffre is attached at Appendix A. Also, Appendix B, a note on SMERSH. We have been feeling for some time that Le Chiffre is getting into deep water. In nearly all respects he is an admirable agent of the USSR, but his gross physical habits and predilections are an Achilles heel of which we have been able to take advantage from time to time and one of his mistresses is a Eurasian (No 1860) controlled by Station F, who has recently been able to obtain insight into his private affairs. Briefly, it seems that Le Chiffre is on the brink of a financial crisis. Certain straws in the wind were noticed by 1860 - some discreet sales of jewellery, the disposal of a villa at Antibes, and a general tendency to check the loose spending which has always been a feature of his way of life. Further inquiries were made with the help of our friends of the Deuxime Bureau (with whom we have been working jointly on this case) and a curious story has come to light. In January 1946, Le Chiffre bought control of a chain of brothels, known as the Cordon Jaune, operating in Normandy and Brittany. He was foolish enough to employ for this purpose some fifty million francs of the moneys entrusted to him by Leningrad Section III for the financing of SODA, the trade union mentioned above. Normally the Cordon Jaune would have proved a most excellent investment and it is possible that Le Chiffre was motivated more by a


for, 63–64, 65–66, 71, 218, 219 efforts to deny Ukraine military aide by, 152, 211–12 FBI’s 2022 search of home of, 117, 122, 263 firings by, 58–59, 68, 102, 111, 114, 124, 144–45, 183–84, 217, 286, 288 first cabinet meeting of, 61 first impeachment trial of (2020), 37, 80, 152, 211–12, 213, 214, 306 as fixated on GOP predecessors, 42–43 GOP 2016 inoculation plans and attempts to moderate extremist views of, 19–23 government shutdown of (2018–19), 149, 163, 166 gun violence issue and, 78, 79, 80, 145 hasty and careless military proposals of, 64, 66, 71, 133, 146–47, 217, 219, 220, 225–27 hostility to careerists of, 83, 84, 85 hurricane threat response and relief of, 62–63, 83–84, 126, 127 illegal and potentially illegal proposals of, 9, 10, 107, 141–42, 151–52, 167–68, 172, 173, 178–79, 180, 182, 183, 190, 191, 217 immigration and border obsession of, 9, 10, 31, 44, 51, 52, 79–80, 86, 97–98, 100–101, 106, 107–9, 120, 133, 141–42, 145, 151, 162–63, 166–83, 187, 188, 189–90, 191–92, 217, 225, 235 inability to focus of, 58, 61, 62, 63–64, 127, 135 inciting of violence by, 3, 254, 257–58, 261 Insurrection Act invocation efforts of, 9, 225–26, 263 ISIS threat and, 56, 58, 59, 66, 146 isolationist positions of, 20, 60, 64, 220 judges resented and feared by, 9, 23, 94, 109, 121–22, 180 justice system tampering by, 58, 111, 112, 113, 118–20, 123–24, 137, 271 lawsuits used as weapons against political adversaries by, 117, 124, 192, 271 London attacks (2017) and, 50–51, 52 looming midterm elections as check on, 133 loyalty demanded by, 28, 36, 69, 70, 74, 76, 80–82, 102, 112, 153 McCain’s death and, 131–32 media targeted by, 99, 157 militia groups and, 115–16, 192, 261, 263 “Muslim ban” and travel restrictions of, 22–23, 29, 31, 32, 50, 91–94, 122, 170, 205, 206 Nielsen’s tense relations with, 107, 172, 173–74, 175, 178–81, 182–83 North Korea threat and, 96, 97, 98 officials as protecting “Doomsday Book” from, 185, 186, 194 officials as wary of sharing sensitive information with, 56, 218–19 and outsourcing warfare to private contractors proposal, 226–27 in 2017 Oval Office meeting with Russian officials, 59–60, 66 paranoia and mental instability of, 81, 101, 111–12, 119, 129, 135, 136, 139, 142, 211 pardons offered by, 10, 182, 183 post-2016 election transition period of, 27–29 proliferation of leaders modeled after, 10, 11, 34, 35, 41 Puerto Rico/Greenland swap proposal of, 126–27 Putin and, 9, 25, 52, 60, 80, 135, 136, 141, 224 rallies of, 2–3, 173, 243, 254 Russian election interference denied by, 23, 24, 25, 31, 119, 133, 140–41 Russian investigation and, 58–59, 99, 111, 119, 140 sexism of, 10, 25, 103 “Sharpiegate” and, 83–84 thin skin of, 60, 102, 110 in trip to southern border (2019), 176, 177, 181–83 tweeting by, 5, 42, 53, 59, 60, 67, 68, 71, 83, 96, 112, 124, 136, 137, 145, 146, 170, 171, 213, 257–58, 271, 288 in 2016 election, 19, 20, 21–26, 34, 35, 37, 49, 53, 169, 285 2019 State of the Union Address of, 225 in 2020 election, 38, 42,


"What!" said he, thinking from the strangeness of her manner that she was in some delirium. "I have done it--I don't know how," she continued. "Still, I owed it to you, and to myself, Angel. I feared long ago, when I struck him on the mouth with my glove, that I might do it some day for the trap he set for me in my simple youth, and his wrong to you through me. He has come between us and ruined us, and now he can never do it any more. I never loved him at all, Angel, as I loved you. You know it, don't you? You believe it? You didn't come back to me, and I was obliged to go back to him. Why did you go away--why did you--when I loved you so? I can't think why you did it. But I don't blame you; only, Angel, will you forgive me my sin against you, now I have killed him? I thought as I ran along that you would be sure to forgive me now I have done that. It came to me as a shining light that I should get you back that way. I could not bear the loss of you any longer--you don't know how entirely I was unable to bear your not loving me! Say you do now, dear, dear husband; say you do, now I have killed him!" "I do love you, Tess--O, I do--it is all come back!" he said, tightening his arms round her with fervid pressure. "But how do you mean--you have killed him?" "I mean that I have," she murmured in a reverie. "What, bodily? Is he dead?" "Yes. He heard me crying about you, and he bitterly taunted me; and called you by a foul name; and then I did it. My heart could not bear it. He had nagged me about you before. And then I dressed myself and came away to find you." By degrees he was inclined to believe that she had faintly attempted, at least, what she said she had done; and his horror at her impulse was mixed with amazement at the strength of her affection for himself, and at the strangeness of its quality, which had apparently extinguished her moral sense altogether. Unable to realize the gravity of her conduct she seemed at last content; and he looked at her as she lay upon his shoulder, weeping with happiness, and wondered what obscure strain in the d'Urberville blood had led to this aberration--if it were an aberration. There momentarily flashed through his mind that the family tradition of the coach and murder might have arisen because the d'Urbervilles had been known to do these things. As well as his confused and excited ideas could reason, he supposed that in the moment of mad grief of which she spoke her mind had lost its balance, and plunged her into this abyss. It was very terrible if true; if a temporary hallucination, sad. But, anyhow, here was this deserted wife of his, this passionately-fond woman,


In fact, I did before he did, and as I moaned, with his right shoulder by my mouth and his mouth by my left ear, he said in a low, quiet voice, “Oh, Sally,” and then he pulled out and ejaculated all over my stomach and I thought about how Jessa, the older daughter of my mother’s best friend, had told me when I was thirteen that when you didn’t like a guy, the disgusting things about sex were disgusting, and when you did like a guy, the disgusting things about sex were sexy. I tugged Noah onto me, and he said, “Am I too heavy?” and I said, “You’re perfect,” and we both lay still for a long time, my arms wrapped around him, his full weight on me, his face pressed against my neck, his left hand fiddling with my hair. My mind wasn’t racing; I wasn’t nervous; there was nothing other than this that I wanted. After some number of minutes—eight? Or twenty-five?—he rolled off me, onto his side, and pulled me so I was on my side, too, so we were facing each other and he looked at me from about three inches away with such intensity and affection that I had to avert my gaze; I couldn’t help it. But then I looked back at him and said, “You’re definitely worth driving twenty-six hours for. And definitely not boring, even though you don’t work at TNO.” He laughed. “And you haven’t even tasted my pan-seared salmon yet.” “By the way I have an IUD. In case next time you want to—” I paused and raised my eyebrows, aware again of the strangeness of how the most precise and succinct way of saying something could feel splendidly obscene. I continued, “In case next time you want to come inside me.” “I’d love to come inside you next time.” He grinned. “I hope I didn’t make too much of a mess before.” “It was a good kind of mess,” I said. “And I also have, uh, a clean bill of health. Sexually.” “Good to know and same for me.” He leaned in and kissed my mouth and the sex we had that time was slower and calmer before it reverted to clawing and devouring each other. After the second time, before the third time, when it became apparent there was going to be a third time, he was on his back, and I was straddling him, and I didn’t care about the pooching of my stomach because I’d decided I was beautiful just as I was. Just kidding! Because it was getting dark and also because presumably sex hormones were coursing through me. He wasn’t yet inside me again though I could feel his erection, and I said, “Did you take Viagra?” “Wow,” he said. “Thanks a lot.” “That wasn’t an insult. It was a compliment.” “To which one of us?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Sorry that I’m really turned on by you. No, I didn’t take Viagra.” Sincerely, I said, “I apologize if that was


to go back to drink alone at the bar. I’d rather drink alone, period. But the Corner Store would still be open. Marsha was still behind the counter, counting the day’s take. I gave her a curt wave and headed for the back. I grabbed the nearest, cheapest bottle of red and ambled up to the counter. She gave it A Look and I bounced one right back at her. “That stuff is basically cold medicine cut with a little grape juice,” she told me. “That suits the mood I’m in,” I replied blithely. She looked amused. “Can’t blame you. But there are better ways to get where you’re going,” she said. She reached behind the counter, and plunked down a half-full bottle of bourbon. Not bad quality, either. “Pretty sure you’re not allowed to sell the hard stuff, Marsha,” I said, feigning shock. “On the house. Given the circumstances.” She pushed it toward me. It was a Chester kind of gift. So much so I almost laughed. Here you go, kid, get drunk and puke on some spruces. I slapped down a twenty. “I said on the house,” she grouched. I grabbed a Snickers bar. “For the candy. Keep the change.” I left before she could object. I should have gone back to my room. Back to the stiff motel sheets and Forensic Files and the faint scent of mold. I got into my car instead. I tried not to think where I was heading, even though I knew before I started the engine. Outside of town the streetlights dropped to an occasional smudge of light. The forest had grown more wild and dense than it had ever been in my childhood. Everywhere else, nature was retreating. But here it was galloping back. From green to brown and back again, like a slow season turning. I wasn’t sure how I knew when to pull off the road, only that this was the place. Twenty years ago, this stretch of road had been blocked by a dozen cars, an ambulance, police, a seething crowd of onlookers. This was where Cody Benham had stumbled out of the woods with a girl in his arms, most of the way to dead. I parked. I kept the light on in the car, even though it left me blind to the outside. It felt safer. I opened the bottle that Marsha had given me and took a swig. I winced. I wasn’t much for straight liquor. Wasn’t that big on drinking, all things considered, but when the occasion called for it … It had happened right here. Well. Not right here. It ended here, though that was the part I remembered least of all. My brief consciousness while Cody was carrying me had failed before we reached the road. I had a memory of the ambulance and the commotion that followed the discovery of my broken little body, but I knew it wasn’t real, just an amalgam of all the stories I’d been told. The reel always ran backward in my mind. Cody’s arms, and then


likes the cover of the California oaks marshalled along its length. Because the trees are year-around shedders, the ground is mantled with small, dry, oval leaves like beetle shells that crunch underfoot. The sound isn’t loud enough to draw the attention of anyone in the house, and Calaphas likes it so much that he takes shorter and more steps than necessary; the sound makes him feel powerful, like a giant scoring points by stomping through the puny structures of elves, like a massive dragon under whose taloned feet the bones of vanquished knights are crushed to splinters and dust. Killing is always satisfying work. The pathetic plea for mercy, whether spoken or unvoiced. The desolate last cry of pain and fear. The pale clouding or else the sudden bloody brightness of the eyes. The rattle in the throat, the stuttering of a last word that can’t quite be pronounced. The final flexing of the hands as they grasp at what they may no longer have. The terminal cascade of fluids. The spasms and shudders before the long stillness. As rewarding as it is to execute and witness any murder, by far the best experiences are those in which the labor is as hands-on as possible. Recently, with events moving at roller-coaster speed, Calaphas has been required by circumstances to use only a gun and finish the task expeditiously. He theorizes that advancement through the game occurs more rapidly when the killings are intimate and the thrill is therefore greatest: strangulation with bare hands, bludgeoning either with fists or a hammer, stabbing and slashing, a good long smothering with a pillow, a wire garrote applied with such measured force that the victim is able to hold on to false hope for an agonizing minute. If Michael Mace is the game-winning kill toward which Calaphas’s life has been directed, perhaps a disabling gunshot wound can be only preliminary to a more protracted and entertaining little circus of pain and blood. Amped on bennies, having become a dragon if only in his mind, with a priapism that can be relieved only by orgasmic violence, Calaphas arrives at the motor court in front of the grand residence. Near the steps to the terrace stands Carter Woodbine’s Bentley—the treasure that symbolizes absolute power and that every game worth playing comes to in the end—enveloped in a supernatural glow, the moon favoring it above all things. At the house, the second-floor windows are dark, but light is universal downstairs. As Calaphas approaches the Bentley, intending to pause there to reconnoiter further, he sees a woman at a window. He has come this far under the presumption that Michael Mace is on the run alone, as he was when he escaped Beautification Research and as he still seemed to be, less than twenty-four hours earlier, when he took half a million dollars from Woodbine. Calaphas doesn’t know this woman, can’t imagine who she might be or why she might have cast her lot with Mace. Then his astonishment swells into perplexity when a young boy appears next to her.


Cherwell. Clad in a fedora, a military jacket and black Doc Martens, she was strolling down to where the Cherwell met the Thames to watch the punts glide past. The Christ Church Meadow walk was one of her favourites; she’d often ambled along the riverbank over the years, dawdling with lovers or wandering alone, thinking about her studies. It was a calm place, passing the Jubilee bridge, the overhanging branches dipping leaves in the green river. Minnie was still thinking about her conversation with Tina several days ago. It disturbed her, like an itch she couldn’t reach. Minnie had reminded her they were flesh and blood, and Tina had replied, ‘That’s all we are, though.’ It had taken her breath away. She thought about the hug they’d exchanged on the allotments as they parted. Tina had felt vulnerable, fragile. Minnie had never imagined Tina as anything other than robust, healthy, but she was reminded now of her sister’s mortality. Neither she nor Tina were young any more, and the thought made Minnie strangely melancholy. She reached the boathouse; the river was beautiful and still. She loved the glassy smoothness of it, the way it reflected back the sky and the clouds, the foliage that hung over. There was a tranquil symmetry, a poetry; Minnie sat down on the bank where the students would often load themselves into boats and row away, arms pumping in unison. A starling landed in a small puddle and beat its wings, splashing in the water. From nowhere, one or two punters glided past, their poles digging deep as they called to each other cheerily. Then they were gone. There would be more boats soon; the river would be busy on a Sunday in summer. Minnie looked deeply into the Thames, often called the Isis in Oxford, a place of stories and memories, and she loved the deep mystery of it. However hard you stared, you couldn’t see the bottom. It was dangerous to swim in it, twenty metres deep, she’d heard, but the sight of the Thames twisting into the distance always thrilled her. Minnie liked unfathomable depths; it was like knowledge, it intrigued her, there was always more waiting to be plumbed, to be discovered beneath the smooth surface. Minnie smiled; her mood was lifting. Then she heard footsteps behind her, followed by a warm New York accent. ‘It’s Minnie, isn’t it?’ She whirled round. Jensen Callahan was smiling, wearing a blue jacket and neat jeans. She recognised the unruly white hair that stuck out from his head like a cloud, the gold-rimmed spectacles, the intelligent face. ‘We met at a dinner party – Francine and Melvyn’s…’ ‘We did – hello, Jensen.’ Minnie had never been one to play games in relationships; other women might have paused, nonplussed, pretended they didn’t remember him, but Minnie had always been direct when faced with an attractive man. She didn’t believe in batting her eyelashes and playing coy. ‘What are you doing down here?’ he asked, interested. ‘Walking – my Sunday constitutional,’ she replied simply. ‘And you?’ ‘The same…’


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

swiping the card at the door. Silence swallows us up as she drops her clutch and key on the table, and I’m consumed with a flushing panic. I’m not an idiot; I know this is exactly how sex starts. I’ve had sex with her already, am half in love with her at this point, and we’re both high on party vibes and champagne. Coming up here was a bloody terrible idea. Fizzy walks over, turning her back to me. “Get to work.” Luckily—or unluckily, depending on how you look at it—unbuttoning her gown goes infinitely faster than buttoning it did. But to my relief and true to her word, she does not immediately let it fall to the floor and face me in whatever complicated lacy underwear situation she’s hiding under there. She steps away with a hand holding it up at the front, smiling over her shoulder at me. “I’m gonna change in the bathroom; you get the episode pulled up.” I find the remote, connect to the right app, and get it ready to play. With Fizzy still changing, I duck out onto the balcony to call Stevie. The cool sea air washes over my flushed skin, and I draw in a steadying breath before pulling my phone from my pocket. When Nat answers, I can hear another breathless, adrenaline-fueled voice chattering in an excited stream in the background. “Greetings from fangirl central,” Nat says. “Again?” I ask, laughing. I wasn’t sure Stevie would still be awake but should have known better. The Wonderland concert DVD has been viewed no fewer than ten times in the week since Fizzy gave it to my kid. “She’s watching with Insu and giving him a blow-by-blow of the concert with you and Fizzy. You’re a shoo-in for parent of the year, you jackass. How’s the wedding?” “Gorgeous.” “How’s Fizzy?” Ahh, the real question. “Equally gorgeous,” I say on a pained exhale. “I see.” “We’re in her hotel room to watch the show. She’s changing.” I can almost hear Nat’s brows lift through the line. “I seeeeee.” I push away the image of Fizzy’s bare back before she turned to grab her pajamas from the drawer and duck into the loo. “It’s fine,” I tell her. What I don’t tell Nat is that I slipped a couple of condoms into my wallet this morning. I’m not having sex with Fizzy. I’m not. But my lesson in being unprepared for this kind of thing turns eleven in January. You don’t have to tell me twice. I move to the railing on the balcony. During the day, Fizzy’s room would have a stunning view of the ocean. I can see it now, but only as a dark mass of churning movement in the distance. The proximity is underscored by the loud tumble of waves as they crash. The unremitting turbulence mirrors what’s happening in my chest. “Anyway, I called to tell Stevie good night, but if she’s busy, I’ll just catch her in the morning.” “You sure? I can grab her.” “No, let her educate Insu.


one another and do not live alone--to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone: From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink--greetings! He was already dead, he reflected. It seemed to him that it was only now, when he had begun to be able to formulate his thoughts, that he had taken the decisive step. The consequences of every act are included in the act itself. He wrote: Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death. Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible. Two fingers of his right hand were inkstained. It was exactly the kind of detail that might betray you. Some nosing zealot in the Ministry (a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired woman or the dark-haired girl from the Fiction Department) might start wondering why he had been writing during the lunch interval, why he had used an old-fashioned pen, WHAT he had been writing--and then drop a hint in the appropriate quarter. He went to the bathroom and carefully scrubbed the ink away with the gritty dark-brown soap which rasped your skin like sandpaper and was therefore well adapted for this purpose. He put the diary away in the drawer. It was quite useless to think of hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether or not its existence had been discovered. A hair laid across the page-ends was too obvious. With the tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken off if the book was moved. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (18 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt Chapter 3 Winston was dreaming of his mother. He must, he thought, have been ten or eleven years old when his mother had disappeared. She was a tall, statuesque, rather silent woman with slow movements and magnificent fair hair. His father he remembered more vaguely as dark and thin, dressed always in neat dark clothes (Winston remembered especially the very thin soles of his father's shoes) and wearing spectacles. The two of them must evidently have been swallowed up in one of the first great purges of the fifties. At this moment his mother was sitting in some place deep down beneath him, with his young sister in her arms. He did not remember his sister at all, except as a tiny, feeble baby, always silent, with large, watchful eyes. Both of them were looking up at him. They were down in some subterranean place--the bottom of a well, for instance, or a very deep grave--but it was a place which, already far below him, was itself moving downwards. They were in the saloon of a sinking ship, looking up at him through the darkening water. There was still air in the saloon, they could still see him and he them, but all the while they were sinking down,


me your opinion on some things. I could bring you a coffee?” She breathes into the phone. “Okay, fine. I can meet you at The Evergreen Café beside the hospital in half an hour. But I can’t stay long. And I’ll take a decaf latte.” “You got it. And thank you.” Chapter 39 Her doorbell rings again, longer this time. Sloane pushes herself to her feet and takes a deep breath before going inside. The doorbell chimes a third time as she moves through the house. She stops, wondering if Brody has come back. She tries to make out the figure through the frosted glass of her front door, wishing she had taken the time to install the doorbell video camera on their front porch. It’s been collecting dust in the entryway cabinet practically all year. She can tell it’s not Brody from the lean silhouette. It’s a woman. Her hand still trembles from Brody’s attack when Sloane unlocks the door and swings it open. “Oh.” Ethan’s mother, Kay, retracts her hand from the doorbell. “Hello, dear. I was starting to think you weren’t expecting me.” Sloane is at a loss for words as Kay brushes past her into the house, trailing her Louis Vuitton suitcase behind her. “Thanks for having me.” she adds. Her mother-in-law’s Chanel perfume catches in Sloane’s throat, still aching from Brody’s grip. Sloane scans the empty street in front of her house for Brody. “I Ubered from downtown,” Kay says, following Sloane’s gaze. Sloane closes the door, her mind still focused on Brody as she tries to make sense of her mother-in-law’s impromptu visit from California. Being the founding partner of the biggest legal firm in the Bay Area makes her a busy woman. In the nearly ten years she’s been married to Ethan, her mother-in-law had never visited Seattle. Sloane hasn’t seen her since her late husband’s funeral last March. “Is everything okay?” Kay glances toward the direction of the garage. “I thought I heard a scream.” “Oh.” Sloane clears her throat. “Yeah. I just got home from…um…yoga.” Kay raises her eyebrows. “And someone marked up the hood of my car while I was in class.” Sloane motions toward the garage. “I was just assessing the damage. And it’s pretty bad.” Her mother-in-law puts a hand over her heart. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry, dear.” She shakes her head. “Crime seems to be on the rise everywhere these days. I hate going anywhere in San Francisco without secure parking. I’m just glad you’re okay.” Sloane forces a smile. “Thank you.” What on earth is she doing here? And why did it have to be now? Kay’s heels clack against the hardwood floor as Sloane follows her into the living room. Her platinum-blonde bob is teased a good inch at the roots, adding to her already tall stature. Kay stands a good head taller than Sloane’s own mother, and Sloane wonders what Kay would think of Crystal if she were still alive. Kay is a well-kept woman, sparing no cost in her appearance. Crystal bleached her hair