iPad. He asked if we could chat again and I said we shouldn’t, I’d already said too much. A thousand pounds left my shoulders. I imagined those weights taking flight from the balcony to find you, to settle around your neck. Were you on some pleasant trajectory before I interfered? Did I expedite your karma? I will not apologize. 13 The Calvin Inn had an elaborate breakfast setup, one I’d avoided the day before. You chose a table on the glassed-in sunporch, or the extra sunporch off the first one, and circled your selections on the day’s menu, one thing from each of seven categories. I asked for just oatmeal and a latte, but Geoff got brioche French toast, bacon, yogurt, fruit salad, poached eggs, a croissant, and a coffee, brought to the table in absolute random order. I’d have wondered how he could ingest so much if he weren’t constantly moving every muscle of his body. I’d forgotten that about him. Or maybe, rather, it had seemed normal on a teenage boy and was more idiosyncratic on a grown man. Geoff was the one to face the rest of the room from our corner, leaning back in a chair that might tip at any moment. I was glad to face only him, not to deal with the entrances and exits of the stage play behind me. He said, “Ninety-four was the last good year for pop culture. Like, think of the music: We had the Cranberries, we had Bush, we had Veruca Salt and Smashing Pumpkins. The next year, what do you get? Dave Matthews takes over. Oasis and the Gin Blossoms. Straight downhill. Even the class after us, remember how shiny they all were? They were so peppy. I look back and—they were the first millennials, right?” “I just remember not liking them,” I said. “They seemed—yeah, too happy or something.” “They had this baseline optimism.” And then he said, “Oh, wow, that’s Beth Docherty.” I started to turn, stopped, reached for a jam packet so I’d have something else to do. I could forgive her for being mean, for willingly dating Dorian Culler, for probably sending me that weird note on Facebook asking who I thought I was. The things I couldn’t forgive, the reasons my ribs had just tightened like a corset, were (a) she’d been the first to suggest Omar to the police; and (b) she’d been the one who’d dubbed me the Masturbator, and decided this was worth repeating for a year. Those are on a vastly different scale, I’m aware. I’d have endured a thousand hurtful nicknames to buy Omar one hour of freedom. I’m just saying I couldn’t forgive her for either. I whispered: “Wait, is she testifying today?” Geoff waggled his eyebrows. “She already did. Yesterday morning. Do I suddenly know more than you?” “I’m not that clued in, believe it or not.” I could tell where she was in the room by where Geoff’s eyes followed. He said, “She’d never recognize me. I could mess with her so bad.” “Please do. If


hasn’t collapsed under the strain and partly because he’s too gorgeous not to look at. This thing we’re doing, where we spend all our time together and sneak off to make out and talk about the future while carefully avoiding the distance that future will put between us—I thought it would make things easier. Nothing about this is easy. I know the texture of his skin. I know the way his breathing changes when I twist my fingers into his clothes and pull him closer. I also know the way he sighs when he’s thinking bad thoughts, I know he’s aware of exactly how handsome he is and enjoys it very much, I know he turns into a five-year-old when he’s around his little brother. And I love it. All of it. I should put a stop to this, but every time I try, I learn the hard way that it’s impossible. I am trapped by my own choices. Just take him or leave him. Except I’m pretty sure I lost my chance to take him like that in December, and I can never leave Brad again, so this halfway house is all we have left. My vision blurs for the barest second, turning the image of him wispy around the edges like he’s a ghost. Then I blink and everything’s clean and crisp and clear, the way it’s supposed to be. “Hey.” Aurora’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I realize I’ve been staring blankly at Brad’s head for way too long and pin my gaze to the forest floor instead. It’s all mulchy, frosty moss and twigs almost as thick as my wrist. Glen Finglas, it turns out, is vast and twisty, with ancient trees that stand miles above me like sentinels. I suck in a breath of cold, green-tasting air and face Aurora. “Yeah?” “Is Brad…okay?” she asks, her voice a whisper. There’s something in her tone, in the careful light of her wide, blue eyes, that makes my expression shutter and my voice harden. “He’s fine. Why?” Some people know Brad has OCD. Some people don’t. It really doesn’t matter because it’s no one else’s business. The problem is when people notice there’s something different about him, don’t have a name for it, and make it a thing. Aurora is my friend, and I like her a lot, but if she turns out to be one of those people, I will rip out all her hair and knit a scarf with it. She raises her hands like maybe she read the hair-scarf intent in my eyes and murmurs, “I just noticed he, um, is bothered by certain things, that’s all. And he’s staring at that log pretty hard and I was worried he might be—” “What?” I whip around to check. Brad is indeed staring at a log pretty hard, although log might be the wrong word: we’re approaching a moss-carpeted clearing, and at the center of that clearing is a vast, felled tree trunk, all smoothed out by time and weather but ragged like a wound


moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to shew off before the ladies.'' ``I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependant on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, "Bingley, you had better stay till next week," you would probably do it, you would probably not go -- and, at another word, might stay a month.'' ``You have only proved by this,'' cried Elizabeth, ``that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shewn him off now much more than he did himself.'' ``I am exceedingly gratified,'' said Bingley, ``by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could.'' ``Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?'' ``Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for himself.'' ``You expect me to account for opinions which you chuse to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety.'' ``To yield readily -- easily -- to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit with you.'' ``To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.'' ``You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?'' ``Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?'' ``By all means,'' cried Bingley; ``Let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more


I was in China and North America and South America. We was chased by pirates one voyage. I seen icebergs plenty, growlers. I was in Stockholm and the Black Sea, the Dardanelles under Captain Dalton, the best bloody man that ever scuttled a ship. I seen Russia. GOSPODI POMILYOU. That's how the Russians prays. --You seen queer sights, don't be talking, put in a jarvey. --Why, the sailor said, shifting his partially chewed plug. I seen queer things too, ups and downs. I seen a crocodile bite the fluke of an anchor same as I chew that quid. He took out of his mouth the pulpy quid and, lodging it between his teeth, bit ferociously: --Khaan! Like that. And I seen maneaters in Peru that eats corpses and the livers of horses. Look here. Here they are. A friend of mine sent me. He fumbled out a picture postcard from his inside pocket which seemed to be in its way a species of repository and pushed it along the table. The printed matter on it stated: CHOZA DE INDIOS. BENI, BOLIVIA. All focussed their attention at the scene exhibited, a group of savage women in striped loincloths, squatted, blinking, suckling, frowning, sleeping amid a swarm of infants (there must have been quite a score of them) outside some primitive shanties of osier. --Chews coca all day, the communicative tarpaulin added. Stomachs like breadgraters. Cuts off their diddies when they can't bear no more children. See them sitting there stark ballocknaked eating a dead horse's liver raw. His postcard proved a centre of attraction for Messrs the greenhorns for several minutes if not more. --Know how to keep them off? he inquired generally. Nobody volunteering a statement he winked, saying: --Glass. That boggles 'em. Glass. Mr Bloom, without evincing surprise, unostentatiously turned over the card to peruse the partially obliterated address and postmark. It ran as follows: TARJETA POSTAL, SENOR A BOUDIN, GALERIA BECCHE, SANTIAGO, CHILE. There was no message evidently, as he took particular notice. Though not an implicit believer in the lurid story narrated (or the eggsniping transaction for that matter despite William Tell and the Lazarillo-Don Cesar de Bazan incident depicted in MARITANA on which occasion the former's ball passed through the latter's hat) having detected a discrepancy between his name (assuming he was the person he represented himself to be and not sailing under false colours after having boxed the compass on the strict q.t. somewhere) and the fictitious addressee of the missive which made him nourish some suspicions of our friend's BONA FIDES nevertheless it reminded him in a way of a longcherished plan he meant to one day realise some Wednesday or Saturday of travelling to London via long sea not to say that he had ever travelled extensively to any great extent but he was at heart a born adventurer though by a trick of fate he had consistently remained a landlubber except you call going to Holyhead which was his longest. Martin Cunningham frequently said he would work a pass through Egan but some deuced


was straining away from him with her face averted. He stooped his head to hers, and she raised one hand as if in protest. Next moment I saw them spring apart and turn hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was running wildly towards them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist's angry gestures showed that the lady was included in his displea- sure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very picture of dejection. What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his wit's ends what to do. "Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?" I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather rueful laugh. "You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole countryside seems to have been out to see me do my wooing -- and a mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?" "I was on that hill." "Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front. Did you see him come out on us?" "Yes, I did." "Did he ever strike you as being crazy -- this brother of hers?" "I can't say that he ever did." "I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until to-day, but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a straitjacket. What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a woman that I loved?" "I should say not." "He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he has this down on. What has he against me? I never


for someone else. Though dreams of escape had long held me in thrall, I missed my parents when I spent any considerable length of time away from them, and my mom was the person I most wanted to talk to at the end of the day. I’m sure plenty of people who knew me were surprised that such a homebody only child had set her sights on a life three thousand miles away. It would be years before I would understand that she was the one, all along, who had been preparing me to go. Who wanted me to have the choice. I think of those late-afternoon talks with her now that I have my own children, knowing that the days of both of them falling asleep in their rooms down the hall from mine are dwindling; that a time will come when something trivial or life changing will happen to them—they will be hurt, or caught by surprise, or find that they are happier than they have ever been—and I will not be the first person they tell. That might be why I sometimes let them stay up past bedtime chatting with me or getting silly with each other, why even the brightest moments on the best of days can crack my heart wide open. But then sometimes I think, well, no matter where they go, no matter how far apart we are, maybe I will always be someone they think to call, someone they want to talk to, because my mother is far beyond my sight, beyond the reach of my voice, and not a day goes by when I don’t think of something I wish I could tell her. 2 My mother could barely carry a tune, but she loved music, and she loved watching me sing. At choral concerts, musicals, voice recitals, I would seek and find her in the crowd, sitting somewhere toward the center of the room with her eyes fixed on me. Even if I sang with a hundred others, she would insist that she could pick out my voice. The trick is to look at you while you sing. As long as I can see you, I can hear you. The only performance she ever missed was the fall choir concert of my freshman year of high school, because she was at home recovering from a single mastectomy. She was diagnosed with breast cancer a few weeks before she turned forty-four. I remember my parents’ shock, which I saw in the tense lines of their faces, sensed in the guarded speech and absence of levity at home. We did not talk about my mother’s illness as a family, except in terms of facts and scheduling: her surgery was this day; she would be discharged from the hospital on this day; she would stay home from work until this day. Compared with later crises that would unfold over months or years, the timeline of her first battle with cancer feels remarkably compressed, little more than a blink in my memory. She was diagnosed after finding


after breakfast, four children got ready to go down to the beach. An easy path led down to the bay, and they ran down happily. Even George lost her frown as she felt the warmth of the sun and saw the dancing sparkles on the blue sea. "You go fishing if you want to," said Anne when they were down on the beach. "We won't tell tales of you. We don't want to interfere with you, you know. We've got ourselves for company, and if you don't want to be with us, you needn't." "But we'd like you, all the same, if you'd like to be with us," said Julian, generously. He thought George was rude and ill-mannered, but he couldn't help rather liking the look of the straight-backed, short-haired little girl, with her brilliant blue eyes and sulky mouth. George stared at him. "I'll see, she said. "I don't make friends with people just because they're my cousins, or something silly like that. I only make friends with people if I like them." "So do we," said Julian. "We may not like you, of course." "Oh!" said George, as if that thought hadn't occurred to her. "Well- you may not, of course. Lots of people don't like me, now I come to think of it." Anne was staring out over the blue bay. At the entrance to it lay a curious rocky island with what looked like an old ruined castle on the top of it. "Isn't that a funny place?" she said. "I wonder what it's called." "It's called Kirrin Island," said George, her eyes as blue as the sea as she turned to look at it. "It's a lovely place to go to. If I like you, I may take you there some day. But I don't promise. The only way to get there is by boat." "Who does the funny island belong to?" asked Julian. George made a most surprising answer. "It belongs to me," she said. "At least, it will belong to me- some day! It will be my very own island- and my very own castle!" Chapter Three A QUEER STORY - AND A NEW FRIEND Contents- Prev/Next The three children stared at George in the greatest surprise. George stared back at them. "What do you mean?" said Dick, at last. "Kirrin Island can't belong to you. You're just boasting." "No, I'm not," said George. "You ask Mother. If you're not going to believe what I say I won't tell you another word more. But I don't tell untruths. I think it's being a coward if you don't tell the truth- and I'm not a coward." Julian remembered that Aunt Fanny had said that George was absolutely truthful, and he scratched his head and looked at George again. How could she be possibly telling the truth? "Well, of course we'll believe you if you tell us the truth," he said. "But it does sound a bit extraordinary, you know. Really it does. Children don't usually own islands, even funny little ones like that." "It isn't a


he said and clutched Montserrat’s hand while she muttered under her breath. Alma had extended an imperious hand, and Montserrat felt the sting of a cord of light against the back of her legs, as if it were a whip, making her stumble forward. She gripped the can of film tight. “Break,” she said. The crack that had been growing across the mirror gave way, and there was a harsh, sharp sound that made Alma turn her head. She saw the mirror and held her hands up, as if meaning to ward off the spell. But it was too late. In a flash the mirror had shattered, and its shards, rather than rolling to the floor, seemed to explode; they were hurtled away, in Alma’s direction, and embedded themselves in her flesh with a terrible fury. The woman screamed. Both Tristán and Montserrat fell to the ground, as if pushed back by a powerful gust of wind, away from the flying fragments of glass. The tendrils of electricity all around them glowed a searing white, giving off sparks, before they dissipated into nothingness. The hallway smelled of burned plastic and wood, the walls were crisscrossed with dark marks, and patches of carpet had been completely singed off. Several light bulbs had simply burned out, leaving the hallway a patch of shadows. Montserrat coughed. Tristán leaned against a wall with a groan and, clenching his teeth, helped Montserrat to her feet. They shuffled next to the spot where Alma lay on the floor. A fragment of glass had sliced her throat with clinical expertise, and blood welled profusely from the cut. Blood also poured from her mouth, and her eyes stared up at them as she stretched out a hand, as if still trying to reach for the film can Montserrat was carrying. Then her arm fell down limply. She was dead. A transformation overtook the body, the skin atop it dissolving as if it were painted on, and then the muscles turned to gelatin, bones poked out from this mess of melting flesh so that the natural process of decomposition seemed to take place in the blink of an eye. A second more and Alma was nothing but a mound of dust, and even this seemed to then break and decay even more, becoming nothing but the faint outline of a body upon a dirty carpet. Montserrat was breathing fast, and there was a thundering pain in her head. Tristán looked worse than her. She thought he would vomit, but he shivered and grabbed her hand, and they stumbled through the messy lobby and then outside. The night air was good against her face, and Montserrat thought in a few minutes more she’d be able to get into the car and attempt the drive back. But then the men came out from the shadows, with their dogs at their sides, and although Montserrat held up a feeble hand with a smudged rune, she knew they could do nothing except stand still as the dogs circled them, black bile dripping down their open


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

lopsided now with roguery. --Simon, said Mrs Dedalus, you haven't given Mrs Riordan any sauce. Mr Dedalus seized the sauceboat. --Haven't I? he cried. Mrs Riordan, pity the poor blind. Dante covered her plate with her hands and said: --No, thanks. Mr Dedalus turned to uncle Charles. --How are you off, sir? --Right as the mail, Simon. --You, John? --I'm all right. Go on yourself. --Mary? Here, Stephen, here's something to make your hair curl. He poured sauce freely over Stephen's plate and set the boat again on the table. Then he asked uncle Charles was it tender. Uncle Charles could not speak because his mouth was full; but he nodded that it was. --That was a good answer our friend made to the canon. What? said Mr Dedalus. --I didn't think he had that much in him, said Mr Casey. --I'LL PAY YOUR DUES, FATHER, WHEN YOU CEASE TURNING THE HOUSE OF GOD INTO A POLLING-BOOTH. --A nice answer, said Dante, for any man calling himself a catholic to give to his priest. --They have only themselves to blame, said Mr Dedalus suavely. If they took a fool's advice they would confine their attention to religion. --It is religion, Dante said. They are doing their duty in warning the people. --We go to the house of God, Mr Casey said, in all humility to pray to our Maker and not to hear election addresses. --It is religion, Dante said again. They are right. They must direct their flocks. --And preach politics from the altar, is it? asked Mr Dedalus. --Certainly, said Dante. It is a question of public morality. A priest would not be a priest if he did not tell his flock what is right and what is wrong. Mrs Dedalus laid down her knife and fork, saying: --For pity sake and for pity sake let us have no political discussion on this day of all days in the year. --Quite right, ma'am, said uncle Charles. Now, Simon, that's quite enough now. Not another word now. --Yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus quickly. He uncovered the dish boldly and said: --Now then, who's for more turkey? Nobody answered. Dante said: --Nice language for any catholic to use! --Mrs Riordan, I appeal to you, said Mrs Dedalus, to let the matter drop now. Dante turned on her and said: --And am I to sit here and listen to the pastors of my church being flouted? --Nobody is saying a word against them, said Mr Dedalus, so long as they don't meddle in politics. --The bishops and priests of Ireland have spoken, said Dante, and they must be obeyed. --Let them leave politics alone, said Mr Casey, or the people may leave their church alone. --You hear? said Dante, turning to Mrs Dedalus. --Mr Casey! Simon! said Mrs Dedalus, let it end now. --Too bad! Too bad! said uncle Charles. --What? cried Mr Dedalus. Were we to desert him at the bidding of the English people? --He was no longer worthy to lead, said Dante. He was a public sinner. --We are all


the palace, she had not slept more than a few hours each night. There was so much to learn: land and taxes and estates, the distribution of authority, which gods had gone to sleep in each of the twelve provinces. Still, holding it all in her head had been easy. She had a good memory, and her mother and the Grand Empress had filled her with knowledge. In hindsight, Dumai should have guessed that something was amiss – no godsinger needed to both write and speak in Lacustrine and Sepuli. They must have both feared she would one day be found. In all her lessons, she had heard almost nothing of the ordinary people of Seiiki, and what their lives were like. That troubled her. Her mother had once been one of those people. What she had come to understand was how cleverly the Kuposa had consolidated power. They held every important position at court. She also sensed their hand in the absence of the other Noziken, who lived in isolation on remote estates, separated from each other, apparently for their protection. Osipa was right. Not many remained. ‘I am happy to have pleased you,’ Dumai said to her father. ‘Are you?’ he asked. ‘Happy?’ Dumai drank. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Standing before the great Furtia convinced me that this is my path.’ She put the cup down. ‘I had long dreamed that the gods would call.’ ‘So you are as much a dreamer as your name implies.’ He smiled. ‘Tell me something, Dumai. Did you have a happy childhood?’ ‘The happiest anyone could ask for.’ ‘Who did you think your father was?’ ‘A net weaver from the coastal village of Apampi. Mother told me he died in a storm.’ ‘How afraid she must have been.’ His gaze strayed back to the garden. ‘I have many regrets, Dumai. One is that I wasted years without knowing my daughter. The other is losing your mother.’ He always looked so tired. His eyes were set in shadow, and beneath his layers, he was thinner. ‘Father, why do the Kuposa act as they do?’ Dumai said, to distract him from the subject. Speaking of her mother seemed to pain him deeply, even now. ‘Why not use their wealth and power to seize the throne, instead of controlling us through regencies and kinship?’ ‘I wish I knew. I can only think that they fear to usurp us outright, because we have the gods’ friendship.’ She nodded slowly. ‘In the past, the Day of the Golden Catch would be celebrated by the sea,’ he continued. ‘Then it was deemed too dangerous for the ruling family of Seiiki to travel so far from the Rayonti Basin. For all I have tried, I have not been able to override that old rule.’ Two lines were carved on either side of his mouth, which was soft and wide, like hers. ‘When we did go to the sea,’ he said, ‘the dragons would rise from the depths to greet us, recalling the day they first came to our island. Without them, the


shadow of a smile flickered across his old, tired face. They ate the rest of the dinner in silence; but when the maid had given them the port and left the room, the old man leaned back and fixed his sharp eyes on Philip. "It stung you up a bit when I spoke of your game leg, young fellow?" he said. "People always do, directly or indirectly, when they get angry with me." "I suppose they know it's your weak point." Philip faced him and looked at him steadily. "Are you very glad to have discovered it?" The doctor did not answer, but he gave a chuckle of bitter mirth. They sat for a while staring at one another. Then Doctor South surprised Philip extremely. "Why don't you stay here and I'll get rid of that damned fool with his mumps?" "It's very kind of you, but I hope to get an appointment at the hospital in the autumn. It'll help me so much in getting other work later." "I'm offering you a partnership," said Doctor South grumpily. "Why?" asked Philip, with surprise. "They seem to like you down here." "I didn't think that was a fact which altogether met with your approval," Philip said drily. "D'you suppose that after forty years' practice I care a twopenny damn whether people prefer my assistant to me? No, my friend. There's no sentiment between my patients and me. I don't expect gratitude from them, I expect them to pay my fees. Well, what d'you say to it?" Philip made no reply, not because he was thinking over the proposal, but because he was astonished. It was evidently very unusual for someone to offer a partnership to a newly qualified man; and he realised with wonder that, although nothing would induce him to say so, Doctor South had taken a fancy to him. He thought how amused the secretary at St. Luke's would be when he told him. "The practice brings in about seven hundred a year. We can reckon out how much your share would be worth, and you can pay me off by degrees. And when I die you can succeed me. I think that's better than knocking about hospitals for two or three years, and then taking assistantships until you can afford to set up for yourself." Philip knew it was a chance that most people in his profession would jump at; the profession was over-crowded, and half the men he knew would be thankful to accept the certainty of even so modest a competence as that. "I'm awfully sorry, but I can't," he said. "It means giving up everything I've aimed at for years. In one way and another I've had a roughish time, but I always had that one hope before me, to get qualified so that I might travel; and now, when I wake in the morning, my bones simply ache to get off, I don't mind where particularly, but just away, to places I've never been to." Now the goal seemed very near. He would have finished his


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

nothing without the right questions. —Kirythean proverb The next week fell into an easy routine. Gabe and Lore would wake up, eat breakfast, and go to the Church library. Then they’d spend hours poring over old manuscripts and bound copies of notes from the years after the Godsfall, Compendiums translated from Eroccan and Kirythean and even old Myroshan, from before Myrosh was subsumed by the Kirythean Empire and the language was outlawed. The mentions of Spiritum, when they found them, were brief. Still, they came every day, looking at the books Malcolm had already procured for Anton, trying to find something to make everything—Bastian, the bodies from the villages, what August and Anton were planning—coalesce into sense. Their studies included more obscure subjects, too. Namely, texts on the strange things accomplished by channeling elemental power leaked from the minor gods. Someone had made a ship sail faster by using the power of Caeliar; another had managed to make events from dreams mirror in the waking world with the power of Lereal. It made sense that Anton would’ve researched such things, if he suspected that the sudden deaths were due to leftover elemental magic. But nothing in the books resembled what had happened to the villages. For six days, Malcolm let them work in relative silence, keeping his curious looks to a minimum. When the questions finally came, Lore was surprised it’d taken so long. “You know,” Malcolm said slowly, “you could just ask Anton what he’s found out.” Lore froze. Across the library, bent over a book, Gabe did, too. They’d both known that at some point, they’d either have to come clean to Malcolm or come up with a plausible lie. On that first day, Gabe had conferred with his fellow Presque Mort while Lore looked at the books and told him that they’d rather the Priest Exalted not know of their current project. Lore had tensed, but after a brief moment of silence, Malcolm agreed. He and Gabe were old friends, and from what Lore understood, the librarian wasn’t quite as devoted to Anton as Gabe was. If Gabe was asking him to be discreet, Malcolm knew it was for good reason. But now, Gabe didn’t move, so Lore made a quick decision. She stood from the bench and stretched out her back, feigning nonchalance. “What exactly is Anton researching, again?” “He didn’t give me specifics,” Malcolm said, sliding another book from its shelf and giving it a cursory study. He’d given Lore and Gabe a pair of the gloves he always wore, but neither of them were allowed to touch the rarest books even with them on. “He wanted everything with a mention of Spiritum’s practical application brought to him. I assumed he had an idea for how it might be used to counteract the Mortem issue, but since it’s been a couple of months and he hasn’t broached the subject, helping doesn’t seem to be his objective.” There was something brittle in Malcolm’s voice. Lore slid a look to Gabe; the Presque Mort was looking at his friend


and friends, three to various spots in the city that were important to her, one to her typewriter, and one to her favorite pair of boots. Io had thirty-seven–thirty-six now, she supposed, after losing one to cut the wraith’s. She didn’t mean for it to happen. Thais had said once that Io was a hoarder. If she loved something, even for a minute, like the fish noodles at the market stall or the teacher who’d smiled at her last week, she held on to that love with tooth and claw. Most threads frayed over time and distance, but never Io’s. Her love was evergreen. “Io. This thread leads to a frog,” Thais had once chastised. “How can you love a frog?” “He’s a very nice green,” six-year-old Io had replied. Thais had laughed and kissed Io’s head. But to other moira-born, Io must look like a mess on the Quilt. Threads shooting in every direction, close and far, all of them strong and bright. No wonder Ava couldn’t tell which one Io had used to cut the wraith’s thread. She flopped over and studied her threads. Long minutes passed before Io finally said, “Monsieur Poire’s éclairs.” “Ah, a true tragedy.” It was. Once a thread was cut, the connection, love—or in this case, enjoyment—you once felt was gone. Something . . . meh was left in its place. Éclairs were Io’s favorite, and Monsieur Poire’s were beyond divine. But when once Io’s mouth had watered at the thought of them, now there was nothing special. The thread might grow back over time, but most likely it would not; such was the risk of cutting it. Io sighed. “There must be better éclairs somewhere out there. I’ll find them, one day.” Ava scoffed. “You and your one days. Gag.” A full-body chuckle escaped Io. She was so tired she felt drunk. Her sister’s fingers moving through her hair had cast an irresistible sleeping spell to which Io was slowly surrendering. Several minutes of half sleep passed. Then Ava’s fingers stilled. “Do you want me to let the fate-thread out, weaken it? I mean, now that you’ll be working with him? I can make it so you barely sense it. So that you don’t feel . . . suffocated.” That was Ava’s power: she could let out threads or draw them in, hence intensifying or lessening the feeling that accompanied them. Thais had tried to convince Ava to go freelance—did she know how much they could make from the brokenhearted? But Ava always refused. It wasn’t her place to decide what or how much others loved, she said. Which Io found very noble, and very useless. What would it be like if the fate-thread were weakened? If what bound her and Edei Rhuna wasn’t a chain of destiny but a soft yarn of mere acquaintance? The thought made her panic. She spent her days dealing with the threads of cheating spouses and gamblers. Was it so wrong to have this one sweet thing to cherish, a fate larger than life, a destiny beyond the


witched away. But they wound in and out among the shrubbery and out and round the fountain beds, following their carefully planned route for the mere mysterious pleasure of it. But when at last they turned into the Long Walk by the ivied walls the excited sense of an approaching thrill made them, for some curious reason they could not have explained, begin to speak in whispers. "This is it," breathed Mary. "This is where I used to walk up and down and wonder and wonder." "Is it?" cried Colin, and his eyes began to search the ivy with eager curiousness. "But I can see nothing," he whispered. "There is no door." "That's what I thought," said Mary. Then there was a lovely breathless silence and the chair wheeled on. "That is the garden where Ben Weatherstaff works," said Mary. "Is it?" said Colin. A few yards more and Mary whispered again. "This is where the robin flew over the wall," she said. "Is it?" cried Colin. "Oh! I wish he'd come again!" "And that," said Mary with solemn delight, pointing under a big lilac bush, "is where he perched on the little heap of earth and showed me the key." Then Colin sat up. "Where? Where? There?" he cried, and his eyes were as big as the wolf's in Red Riding-Hood, when Red Riding-Hood felt called upon to remark on them. Dickon stood still and the wheeled chair stopped. "And this," said Mary, stepping on to the bed close to the ivy, "is where I went to talk to him when he chirped at me from the top of the wall. And this is the ivy the wind blew back," and she took hold of the hanging green curtain. "Oh! is it--is it!" gasped Colin. "And here is the handle, and here is the door. Dickon push him in--push him in quickly!" And Dickon did it with one strong, steady, splendid push. But Colin had actually dropped back against his cushions, even though he gasped with delight, and he had covered his eyes with his hands and held them there shutting out everything until they were inside and the chair stopped as if by magic and the door was closed. Not till then did he take them away and look round and round and round as Dickon and Mary had done. And over walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees and the gray urns in the alcoves and here and there everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and scents. And the sun fell warm upon his face like a hand with a lovely touch. And in wonder Mary and Dickon stood and stared at him. He looked so strange and different because a pink glow of color had actually crept all


off. And lucky it is for us that his father took him: the kinder he was treated, the more tedious and selfish he'd be. I'm glad you have no chance of having him for a husband, Miss Catherine." My companion waxed serious at hearing this speech. To speak of his death so regardlessly wounded her feel- ings. "He's younger than I," she answered, after a pro- tracted pause of meditation, "and he ought to live the longest. He will---he must live as long as I do. He's as strong now as when he first came into the north; I'm positive of that. It's only a cold that ails him---the same as papa has. You say papa will get better, and why shouldn't he?" "Well, well," I cried, "after all we needn't trouble ourselves; for listen, miss---and mind I'll keep my word; if you attempt going to Wuthering Heights again, with or without me, I shall inform Mr. Linton; and un- less he allow it, the intimacy with your cousin must not be revived." "It has been revived," muttered Cathy sulkily. "Must not be continued, then," I said. "We'll see," was her reply; and she set off at a gallop, leaving me to toil in the rear. We both reached home before our dinner-time; my master supposed we had been wandering through the park, and therefore he demanded no explanation of our absence. As soon as I entered I hastened to change my soaked shoes and stockings, but sitting such a while at the Heights had done the mischief. On the succeeding morning I was laid up, and during three weeks I re- mained incapacitated for attending to my duties---a calamity never experienced prior to that period, and never, I am thankful to say, since. My little mistress behaved like an angel in coming to wait on me and cheer my solitude. The confinement brought me exceedingly low--it is wearisome to a stir- ring, active body; but few have slighter reasons for complaint than I had. The moment Catherine Ieft Mr. Linton's room she appeared at my bedside. Her day was divided between us; no amusement usurped a mi- nute. She neglected her meals, her studies, and her play, and she was the fondest nurse that ever watched. She must have had a warm heart, when she Ioved her father so, to give so much to me. I said her days were divided between us; but the master retired early, and I generally needed nothing after six o'clock; thus the evening was her own. Poor thing! I never considered what she did with herself after tea. And though fre- quently, when she looked in to bid me good-night, I remarked a fresh colour in her cheeks and a pinkness over her slender fingers, instead of fancying the hue borrowed from a cold ride across the moors, I laid it to the charge of a hot fire in the library. CHAPTER XXIV. At the close of three weeks I was able to quit my chamber and move about the house; and on the first


him down before tomorrow’s elections. I know it might look suspicious to people from the Silts, but he is truly trying to help.” “People from the Silts?” Io interrupted, trying to hide her irritation. Criticizing Thais never went well; you had to be careful with your tone of voice, cautious with your phrasing. “You’re from the Silts, Thais.” “You know what I mean. The Silts believe the whole world is out to get them. Bianca Rossi in particular. They think every person in power—politicians, celebrities, the police—is corrupt.” It was true, people from the Silts loved to talk about how the world conspired against them, but they had good reason to. The Silts were made up of immigrants, other-born, the poorest of the poor. The rest of the city didn’t look twice in their direction; in fact, after the Moonset Riots, the whole world blamed the Silts for the death of the Furies. The entire reason Io had a job was because the police never bothered with Silts affairs. Now a rich boy from Nanzy had a grand idea of uniting other-born and police, the poor and the rich. Damn right, the Silts wouldn’t trust him. The world had burned to ashes because of men’s good intentions. “But Luc isn’t like that,” Thais continued. “For gods’ sake, he turned his own parents in when he discovered they were keeping dozens of worker accidents in their factories quiet! In just eight months, he’s arrested more criminals than his two predecessors combined.” “You sound like his voting leaflets.” “Well, that’s because I write them,” Thais snapped. “Baby?” a voice called from the foyer. Her sister craned her neck. “We’re back here!” A chill ran through Io’s body, from her head to her toes. She heard the door close. Shoes taken off, coats hung on the rack. Voices chatting, coming closer down the corridor. Io glanced at Thais in alarm. In a whisper, Thais said, “Stay. Give me a chance to prove it’s not him.” “Thais?” Saint-Yves’s charming voice called out. “Where are you?” Grabbing Io’s wrist, Thais pulled them out of the bathroom. “Coming!” Four people lounged in the kitchen. Two women were discussing a file open on the table, a man was rummaging inside the icebox, and Saint-Yves was leaning over the kitchen counter, bringing a piece of revani to his mouth with his bare fingers. When he spotted Io, he lowered the syrupy cake and said, “And who might that be?” “Luc, meet my younger sister Io,” Thais said brightly, swooping Io in front of her. “Io, this is my fiancé, Luc Saint-Yves. The girls are Marie and Hanne, our campaign managers. Oh, and that little mouse ravaging our icebox is our head of security, Aris Lefteriou.” The women waved a hello, but Io barely saw them. Her attention was on the man straightening from the icebox, two beers in his hand. Io recognized the lanky stature, the goatee, the pale skin and pristine clothes. Run, Io thought. Turn around and bolt. But Thais’s hands were on her shoulders, nailing her to


in the kingdom. He spent years trying to earn invitations to the most exclusive parties and bend the ears of the kingdom’s rich and powerful. What Hani did not grasp was that the inside of the Citadel was a thousand times more lethal than anything he might encounter on the battlefield. When I was thirteen, a prisoner was thrown into Nizahl’s most heavily fortified dungeon. A high-risk Jasadi prisoner who had nearly killed the Heir. Hani and a dozen soldiers guarding the cells were slaughtered by a group of Jasadis later that night. The prisoner vanished, and we laid Hani to rest next to Binyar and Amira. When my turn for conscription arrived, I fled.” I sat up. “A Jasadi group killed your brother?” Marek pushed himself upright. He tossed a half-formed smile in my direction. “I have no animosity toward Jasadis as a whole, if that is what you fear. The group that rescued the prisoner and killed my brother were skilled criminals.” A group of Jasadis breaking into a highly fortified Nizahlan prison should have been the news on everyone’s tongue. Hanim, who regularly traveled into the kingdoms for supplies, would surely have heard about it. Not to mention a Jasadi almost killing the Nizahl Heir. Arin would have been… sixteen? Supreme Rawain must have expended great effort to bury the news. An old conversation between Wes and Jeru surfaced. I was appointed to his guard when he was sixteen. I thought only Vaun was present for that. How bad must the attack on Arin have been to still haunt his guards a decade later? I tried to swallow past my dry throat. “Marek, do you remember what the group was called?” Marek glanced at the door, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Yes, but you cannot speak of it to anyone. I only know because Hani mentioned them a few days before his murder, and he swore me to secrecy.” Foreboding tiptoed down the rungs of my spine. “I promise.” “I believe they called themselves the Mufsids.” As predicted, Arin came to the tunnels only to sleep and swap guards. We had mere days before we were due to leave for Lukub, but he had opted to spend at least one of them hunting the Urabi who sent the Hound. He left detailed instructions on what each training session needed to accomplish, but the guards could be creative about the methods. Heavy footsteps approached the training mast while I stretched. Please let it be Jeru substituting today. Wes focused more on defensive strategies and avoided my magic altogether. Ren preferred having me run in the muddiest portion of the woods and throw spears at moving targets until I could scarcely move. The person who entered the training mast wasn’t any of them. It was Vaun. “What are you doing here?” I asked, covering my unease with indignation. Loose training garments had replaced his uniform. “I don’t train with you.” “Wrong. His Highness said you shouldn’t train with me if there were any available alternatives,” Vaun replied. “The others aren’t


large still considered her smile a great mystery. No mystery at all, Langdon thought, moving forward and watching as the faint outline of the painting began to take shape. No mystery at all. Most recently Langdon had shared the Mona Lisa's secret with a rather unlikely group-a dozen inmates at the Essex County Penitentiary. Langdon's jail seminar was part of a Harvard outreach program attempting to bring education into the prison system-Culture for Convicts, as Langdon's colleagues liked to call it. Standing at an overhead projector in a darkened penitentiary library, Langdon had shared the Mona Lisa's secret with the prisoners attending class, men whom he found surprisingly engaged-rough, but sharp. "You may notice," Langdon told them, walking 81 up to the projected image of the Mona Lisa on the library wall, "that the background behind her face is uneven." Langdon motioned to the glaring discrepancy. "Da Vinci painted the horizon line on the left significantly lower than the right." "He screwed it up?" one of the inmates asked. Langdon chuckled. "No. Da Vinci didn't do that too often. Actually, this is a little trick Da Vinci played. By lowering the countryside on the left, Da Vinci made Mona Lisa look much larger from the left side than from the right side. A little Da Vinci inside joke. Historically, the concepts of male and female have assigned sides-left is female, and right is male. Because Da Vinci was a big fan of feminine principles, he made Mona Lisa look more majestic from the left than the right." "I heard he was a fag," said a small man with a goatee. Langdon winced. "Historians don't generally put it quite that way, but yes, Da Vinci was a homosexual." "Is that why he was into that whole feminine thing?" "Actually, Da Vinci was in tune with the balance between male and female. He believed that a human soul could not be enlightened unless it had both male and female elements." "You mean like chicks with dicks?" someone called. This elicited a hearty round of laughs. Langdon considered offering an etymological sidebar about the word hermaphrodite and its ties to Hermes and Aphrodite, but something told him it would be lost on this crowd. "Hey, Mr. Langford," a muscle-bound man said. "Is it true that the Mona Lisa is a picture of Da Vinci in drag? I heard that was true." "It's quite possible," Langdon said. "Da Vinci was a prankster, and computerized analysis of the Mona Lisa and Da Vinci's self-portraits confirm some startling points of congruency in their faces. Whatever Da Vinci was up to," Langdon said, "his Mona Lisa is neither male nor female. It carries a subtle message of androgyny. It is a fusing of both." "You sure that's not just some Harvard bullshit way of saying Mona Lisa is one ugly chick." Now Langdon laughed. "You may be right. But actually Da Vinci left a big clue that the painting was supposed to be androgynous. Has anyone here ever heard of an Egyptian god named Amon?" "Hell yes!" the big


fastened at the other with stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the key was not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the shuttered window outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from beneath it that the room was not in darkness. Evidently there was a skylight which let in light from above. As I stood in the passage gazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret it might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of steps within the room and saw a shadow pass backward and forward against the little slit of dim light which shone out from under the door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr. Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and ran--ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door, and straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside. "'So,' said he, smiling, 'it was you, then. I thought that it must be when I saw the door open.' "'Oh, I am so frightened!' I panted. "'My dear young lady! my dear young lady!'--you cannot think how caressing and soothing his manner was--'and what has frightened you, my dear young lady?' "But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was keenly on my guard against him. "'I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,' I answered. 'But it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!' "'Only that?' said he, looking at me keenly. "'Why, what did you think?' I asked. "'Why do you think that I lock this door?' "'I am sure that I do not know.' "'It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?' He was still smiling in the most amiable manner. "'I am sure if I had known--' "'Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that threshold again'--here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin of rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon--'I'll throw you to the mastiff.' "I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I was frightened of the house, of the man of the woman, of the servants, even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could only bring you down all would be well. Of course I might have fled from the house, but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My mind was soon made up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and


to climb stairs, with only a few wisps of white hair left to cover a mottled pink scalp. No one really knew how old she was, but his father said she'd been called Old Nan even when he was a boy. She was the oldest person in Winterfell for certain, maybe the oldest person in the Seven Kingdoms. Nan had come to the castle as a wet nurse for a Brandon Stark whose mother had died birthing him. He had been an older brother of Lord Rickard, Bran's grandfather, or perhaps a younger brother, or a brother to Lord Rickard's father. Sometimes Old Nan told it one way and sometimes another. In all the stories the little boy died at three of a summer chill, but Old Nan stayed on at Winterfell with her own children. She had lost both her sons to the war when King Robert won the throne, and her grandson was killed on the walls of Pyke during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion. Her daughters had long ago married and moved away and died. All that was left of her own blood was Hodor, the simpleminded giant who worked in the stables, but Old Nan just lived on and on, doing her needlework and telling her stories. "I don't care whose stories they are," Bran told her, "I hate them." He didn't want stories and he didn't want Old Nan. He wanted his mother and father. He wanted to go running with Summer loping beside him. He wanted to climb the broken tower and feed corn to the crows. He wanted to ride his pony again with his brothers. He wanted it to be the way it had been before. "I know a story about a boy who hated stories," Old Nan said with her stupid little smile, her needles moving all the while, click click click, until Bran was ready to scream at her. It would never be the way it had been, he knew. The crow had tricked him into flying, but when he woke up he was broken and the world was changed. They had all left him, his father and his mother and his sisters and even his bastard brother Jon. His father had promised he would ride a real horse to King's Landing, but they'd gone without him. Maester Luwin had sent a bird after Lord Eddard with a message, and another to Mother and a third to Jon on the Wall, but there had been no answers. "Ofttimes the birds are lost, child," the maester had told him. "There's many a mile and many a hawk between here and King's Landing, the message may not have reached them." 212 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN Yet to Bran it felt as if they had all died while he had slept ... or perhaps Bran had died, and they had forgotten him. Jory and Ser Rodrik and Vayon Poole had gone too, and Hullen and Harwin and Fat Tom and a quarter of the guard. Only Robb and baby Rickon were still here, and Robb was changed. He


sacrificial stone. Her robes are covered with dust, her hands scratching, clawing at Diomedes, trying to free herself. “Father!” she is shouting. “Father, please!” Clytemnestra moves forward, as fast as a lion. Some men back away, and others come at her, trying to stop her. She cuts them down, one after another. Their bodies wriggle like insects on the ground, useless. She is almost at the altar stone when Odysseus and Agamemnon turn. They see her. Her husband’s knife is flashing in the sun, its gems catching the white light. Odysseus shakes his head. Clytemnestra jumps forward to cut their treacherous throats, but someone takes her by the hair and pulls her backward. She hits the ground. She tries to anchor herself with her hands, but her fingers break. “Iphigenia!” she calls, and for a moment, her daughter stops crying and thrashing and turns to her. Their eyes lock. Then Clytemnestra feels a knee in her back, and she knows she is about to be knocked unconscious. As her daughter disappears and everything goes to black, she wonders, How? How is someone not killed by such sorrow? Part IV My sister Clytemnestra, They told me you wanted to die, but I didn’t believe it. I almost had the envoys flogged in the megaron when they said it. “My sister would never do such a thing,” I told the fools. “You do not know her.” They told me that you wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t let anyone into your quarters. They said that you wavered between life and death. If such a thing is true, then you must stop. We grew up thinking we understood death, but we didn’t. We would fight in the gymnasium, hunt with Tyndareus, witness the priestess’s floggings. Often enough, we would be flogged ourselves. We were starved and beaten, scolded and defeated. And yet we always believed that the strongest would never die, or the most cunning. That was a mistake. Our brother was the most cunning man I knew, yet he was killed by another. Tyndareus was strong, stronger than most men. When he fought in the gymnasium, other Spartans cheered him, and I watched, thinking no one could beat him. And yet he died. You can do nothing about death, and you can do nothing about pain. The gods follow those who have grown too rich, beautiful, and happy, then grind them down. I told the same things to Helen years ago, when we were riding back to Sparta from that cursed town of Aphidnae. After Theseus had taken her, she wanted to die. She told me that the pain and the shame were too much to bear. I told her she had nothing to be ashamed of and that death was inevitable but she wasn’t meant to die then. So it is with you. Your daughter is gone, but you must go back to life. There is nothing more powerful than a strong-willed woman. That is what you have always been and must be no matter what others do to you. It is easier for


and exhaust billowing over him. He heard the crunching of tires on gravel and sat up just in time to see the truck's wide wheelbase fail to navigate a turn. There was a crash as the front bumper clipped a tree. The engine roared, and the tree bent. Finally, it was the bumper that gave, tearing half off. The armored car lurched away, its front bumper dragging. When the truck reached the paved access road, a shower of sparks lit up the night, trailing the truck as it sped away. Vernet turned his eyes back to the ground where the truck had been parked. Even in the faint moonlight he could see there was nothing there. 141 The wooden box was gone. 142 CHAPTER 50 The unmarked Fiat sedan departing Castel Gandolfo snaked downward through the Alban Hills into the valley below. In the back seat, Bishop Aringarosa smiled, feeling the weight of the bearer bonds in the briefcase on his lap and wondering how long it would be before he and the Teacher could make the exchange. Twenty million euro. The sum would buy Aringarosa power far more valuable than that. As his car sped back toward Rome, Aringarosa again found himself wondering why the Teacher had not yet contacted him. Pulling his cell phone from his cassock pocket, he checked the carrier signal. Extremely faint. "Cell service is intermittent up here," the driver said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "In about five minutes, we'll be out of the mountains, and service improves." "Thank you." Aringarosa felt a sudden surge of concern. No service in the mountains? Maybe the Teacher had been trying to reach him all this time. Maybe something had gone terribly wrong. Quickly, Aringarosa checked the phone's voice mail. Nothing. Then again, he realized, the Teacher never would have left a recorded message; he was a man who took enormous care with his communications. Nobody understood better than the Teacher the perils of speaking openly in this modern world. Electronic eavesdropping had played a major role in how he had gathered his astonishing array of secret knowledge. For this reason, he takes extra precautions. Unfortunately, the Teacher's protocols for caution included a refusal to give Aringarosa any kind of contact number. I alone will initiate contact, the Teacher had informed him. So keep your phone close. Now that Aringarosa realized his phone might not have been working properly, he feared what the Teacher might think if he had been repeatedly phoning with no answer. He'll think something is wrong. Or that I failed to get the bonds. The bishop broke a light sweat. Or worse... that I took the money and ran! 143 CHAPTER 51 Even at a modest sixty kilometers an hour, the dangling front bumper of the armored truck grated against the deserted suburban road with a grinding roar, spraying sparks up onto the hood. We've got to get off the road, Langdon thought. He could barely even see where they were headed. The truck's lone working headlight had been knocked off-center and was


take his own way. Dey's two angels hoverin' roun' 'bout him. One uv 'em is white en shiny, en t'other one is black. De white one gits him to go right a little while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can't tell yit which one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. But you is all right. You gwyne to have considable trouble in yo' life, en con- sidable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's gwyne to git well agin. Dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo' life. One uv 'em's light en t'other one is dark. One is rich en t'other is po'. You's gwyne to marry de po' one fust en de rich one by en by. You wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin, en don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to git hung." When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap -- his own self! CHAPTER V. I HAD shut the door to. Then I turned around. and there he was. I used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. I reckoned I was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was mistaken -- that is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away after I see I warn't scared of him worth bothring about. He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining through like he was behind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his long, mixed-up whiskers. There warn't no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like another man's white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl -- a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. As for his clothes -- just rags, that was all. He had one ankle resting on t'other knee; the boot on that foot was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them now and then. His hat was laying on the floor -- an old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid. I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his chair tilted back a little. I set the candle down. I noticed the window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me all over. By and by he says: "Starchy clothes -- very. You think you're a good deal of a big-bug, DON'T you?" "Maybe I am, maybe I ain't," I says. "Don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "You've put on considerable many frills since I been away. I'll take you down a


and hopes were whirling through my mind, and all the colours of my life were changing. 'Dearest Agnes! Whom I so respect and honour - whom I so devotedly love! When I came here today, I thought that nothing could have wrested this confession from me. I thought I could have kept it in my bosom all our lives, till we were old. But, Agnes, if I have indeed any new-born hope that I may ever call you something more than Sister, widely different from Sister! -' Her tears fell fast; but they were not like those she had lately shed, and I saw my hope brighten in them. 'Agnes! Ever my guide, and best support! If you had been more mindful of yourself, and less of me, when we grew up here together, I think my heedless fancy never would have wandered from you. But you were so much better than I, so necessary to me in every boyish hope and disappointment, that to have you to confide in, and rely upon in everything, became a second nature, supplanting for the time the first and greater one of loving you as I do!' Still weeping, but not sadly - joyfully! And clasped in my arms as she had never been, as I had thought she never was to be! 'When I loved Dora - fondly, Agnes, as you know -' 'Yes!' she cried, earnestly. 'I am glad to know it!' 'When I loved her - even then, my love would have been incomplete, without your sympathy. I had it, and it was perfected. And when I lost her, Agnes, what should I have been without you, still!' Closer in my arms, nearer to my heart, her trembling hand upon my shoulder, her sweet eyes shining through her tears, on mine! 'I went away, dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, loving you. I returned home, loving you!' And now, I tried to tell her of the struggle I had had, and the conclusion I had come to. I tried to lay my mind before her, truly, and entirely. I tried to show her how I had hoped I had come into the better knowledge of myself and of her; how I had resigned myself to what that better knowledge brought; and how I had come there, even that day, in my fidelity to this. If she did so love me (I said) that she could take me for her husband, she could do so, on no deserving of mine, except upon the truth of my love for her, and the trouble in which it had ripened to be what it was; and hence it was that I revealed it. And O, Agnes, even out of thy true eyes, in that same time, the spirit of my child-wife looked upon me, saying it was well; and winning me, through thee, to tenderest recollections of the Blossom that had withered in its bloom! 'I am so blest, Trotwood - my heart is so overcharged - but there is one thing I must say.'


taking it forward. We wish you the very best with your writing in the future. Sincerely, Carrow Books I’d forgotten all about the rough draft I submitted, which makes the rejection no real loss. I put my phone away and pause beneath the office’s spiral staircase when I hear Penny and Kris walking up. “I think Maddie should be more involved with Love Stories than she currently is,” Kris says. “She did bring us Afra and picked out great photographers—we’re even contacting two of her choices. She’s been on top of her admin since she started and is full of ideas for an assistant. I did tell you the concept of Flavor Pairings and the play on the word ‘pair’ were her ideas, didn’t I?” What? “You did, and I know,” Penny says. “I am impressed, but we were drowning in general admin before her, and we can’t afford to split her focus now.” “We should give her the opportunity to do both.” “She’s just lost her father,” Penny says. “Let’s not overwhelm her.” The door closes behind them, but I stay where I am. So it wasn’t Kris “stealing” my ideas, it was Penny refusing to acknowledge they were mine. Why would she do that? Was that person from the internet right? Is it to keep me as an assistant for longer, rather than pay for my promotion and replacement? Should I confront her? You can’t confront your boss and accuse her of stealing. I briefly close my eyes and accept that I don’t have the energy to fight the (wo)man today. My phone buzzes again. Unknown number Hi Maddie! I’m not sure if you remember me but it’s Emma here. I got your number off Jo she thinks I’m asking you for publishing tips so if she asks play along! I don’t know if you and Cam know but it’s Jo’s birthday on Sunday and I want to throw her a surprise party at your place in the garden. Can you both help? xx Emma has been to the house a few times with her boyfriend, Tinka. I remember her from her very short, blond bob and freckle-splattered cheeks. I’m about to type out an excuse to get out of it when I think, maybe this is how I make amends for blaming Dad’s death on Jo. Even though I don’t plan to stay for much longer, I am rather tired of going to work and coming home only to go straight to my room when she’s in the kitchen or in front of the TV. I did apologize but clearly that wasn’t enough. Maybe this action will speak louder than my words. People pleasing? Maybe, but baby steps. I check in with Cam before responding. Maddie Hi Emma, We’d be happy to! X * * * Cam and I spend the whole of Saturday together, driving around town in her car, picking up balloons, snacks, barbecue food, cups, and decorations from various shops. We stopped for lunch and both ordered soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I give her a


in. He had, in fact, ridden quite at random for over an hour, taking any turning that came to hand in order to prolong companionship with her, and giving far more attention to Tess's moonlit person than to any wayside object. A little rest for the jaded animal being desirable, he did not hasten his search for landmarks. A clamber over the hill into the adjoining vale brought him to the fence of a highway whose contours he recognized, which settled the question of their whereabouts. D'Urberville thereupon turned back; but by this time the moon had quite gone down, and partly on account of the fog The Chase was wrapped in thick darkness, although morning was not far off. He was obliged to advance with outstretched hands to avoid contact with the boughs, and discovered that to hit the exact spot from which he had started was at first entirely beyond him. Roaming up and down, round and round, he at length heard a slight movement of the horse close at hand; and the sleeve of his overcoat unexpectedly caught his foot. "Tess!" said d'Urberville. There was no answer. The obscurity was now so great that he could see absolutely nothing but a pale nebulousness at his feet, which represented the white muslin figure he had left upon the dead leaves. Everything else was blackness alike. D'Urberville stooped; and heard a gentle regular breathing. He knelt and bent lower, till her breath warmed his face, and in a moment his cheek was in contact with hers. She was sleeping soundly, and upon her eyelashes there lingered tears. Darkness and silence ruled everywhere around. Above them rose the primeval yews and oaks of The Chase, in which there poised gentle roosting birds in their last nap; and about them stole the hopping rabbits and hares. But, might some say, where was Tess's guardian angel? where was the providence of her simple faith? Perhaps, like that other god of whom the ironical Tishbite spoke, he was talking, or he was pursuing, or he was in a journey, or he was sleeping and not to be awaked. Why it was that upon this beautiful feminine tissue, sensitive as gossamer, and practically blank as snow as yet, there should have been traced such a coarse pattern as it was doomed to receive; why so often the coarse appropriates the finer thus, the wrong man the woman, the wrong woman the man, many thousand years of analytical philosophy have failed to explain to our sense of order. One may, indeed, admit the possibility of a retribution lurking in the present catastrophe. Doubtless some of Tess d'Urberville's mailed ancestors rollicking home from a fray had dealt the same measure even more ruthlessly towards peasant girls of their time. But though to visit the sins of the fathers upon the children may be a morality good enough for divinities, it is scorned by average human nature; and it therefore does not mend the matter. As Tess's own people down in those retreats are never tired of saying among


took up their meager residence inside the devastated shrine. The odd choice of lodging, Langdon explained, had been anything but random. The Knights believed the documents the Priory sought were buried deep under the ruins- beneath the Holy of Holies, a sacred chamber where God Himself was believed to reside. Literally, the very center of the Jewish faith. For almost a decade, the nine Knights lived in the ruins, excavating in total secrecy through solid rock. Sophie looked over. "And you said they discovered something?" "They certainly did," Langdon said, explaining how it had taken nine years, but the Knights had finally found what they had been searching for. They took the treasure from the temple and traveled to Europe, where their influence seemed to solidify overnight. Nobody was certain whether the Knights had blackmailed the Vatican or whether the Church simply tried to buy the Knights' silence, but Pope Innocent II immediately issued an unprecedented papal bull that afforded the Knights Templar limitless power and declared them "a law unto themselves"-an autonomous army independent of all interference from kings and prelates, both religious and political. With their new carte blanche from the Vatican, the Knights Templar expanded at a staggering rate, both in numbers and political force, amassing vast estates in over a dozen countries. They began extending credit to bankrupt royals and charging interest in return, thereby establishing modern banking and broadening their wealth and influence still further. By the 1300s, the Vatican sanction had helped the Knights amass so much power that Pope Clement V decided that something had to be done. Working in concert with France's King Philippe IV, the Pope devised an ingeniously planned sting operation to quash the Templars and seize their treasure, thus taking control of the secrets held over the Vatican. In a military maneuver worthy of the CIA, Pope Clement issued secret sealed orders to be opened simultaneously by his soldiers all across Europe on Friday, October 13 of 1307. At dawn on the thirteenth, the documents were unsealed and their appalling contents revealed. Clement's letter claimed that God had visited him in a vision and warned him that the Knights Templar were heretics guilty of devil worship, homosexuality, defiling the cross, sodomy, and other blasphemous behavior. Pope Clement had been asked by God to cleanse the earth by rounding up all the Knights and torturing them until they confessed their crimes against God. Clement's Machiavellian operation came off with 109 clockwork precision. On that day, countless Knights were captured, tortured mercilessly, and finally burned at the stake as heretics. Echoes of the tragedy still resonated in modern culture; to this day, Friday the thirteenth was considered unlucky. Sophie looked confused. "The Knights Templar were obliterated? I thought fraternities of Templars still exist today?" "They do, under a variety of names. Despite Clement's false charges and best efforts to eradicate them, the Knights had powerful allies, and some managed to escape the Vatican purges. The Templars' potent treasure trove of documents, which had apparently been their source of power, was Clement's true objective,


tomorrow. Then all that’ll be left is locking everything up and closing the office and control center. Everybody pitches in. We get it done and get home. Deal?” “Deal,” says Kyle. “I’m ready to get up outta here.” “Same,” says Porter. “Let’s go.” CHAPTER 7 We spend the morning cleaning cabins—stripping the sheets and blankets and stuffing them into watertight storage bags, making sure all the windows are closed and locked. When I shut off the main breaker, the electricity to the whole place will go out, so that gets saved for last. Me and Bezi drag canoes out of the lake and stack them against the side of the boathouse. I can’t help but think about what I saw by the lakeside, but the sooner we get everything done the sooner we can leave. Porter helps Kyle take out the trash; Tasha and Paige cover the firepit and sweep out the stripped-down cabins. Javier helps us bring all our personal belongings into the Western Lodge. I’m helping Bezi sweep out the storage shed when Javier waltzes past with an armful of blankets and pillows. “What about the big cabin?” he asks. I tilt my head back and let a long breath hiss out from between my lips. “I completely forgot about that,” I say. “We gotta strip down another staff cabin?” Bezi asks. “Jordan, Heather, and Felix were bunking together in one of the bigger cabins on the west side of camp. I completely forgot.” Bezi huffs. “We can probably knock it out if we head over there now.” I nod, and we make our way to the guest cabins that are situated down a steep slope behind the main office. The cabins in this part of camp sleep eight, and we only use them once or twice a season when big groups come to play the game. Bezi and I cut through the thick grass and climb the steps of Cabin #6. The curtains in the front window are partway open, and I try to peer inside, but the screen is thick with dirt and dead bugs. I try the door, but it’s locked. “You have a key?” Bezi asks. “Don’t really need one,” I say. “It’s a twist lock.” I turn the handle hard to the right and shoulder check the door. It pops open. The smell knocks me back immediately. I quickly cover my nose and mouth with my hand, and Bezi gags. “Oh my god, what is that smell?” she asks, her eyes watery. I pull my shirt up over my nose and scan the room. Sitting on the wooden table in the center of the room is a plate of food. Chicken breast, broccoli, and rice. I try to remember when we had that meal. I remember the broccoli tasting like garbage so I dumped mine. It had to have been this past Thursday, which also happened to be the last time all the staff were on shift and accounted for. The food is rotted and crawling with gnats and flies. I stifle the urge to


in the air. Their boots on the street and the huff of exertion harmonized with the gentle sound of the tide coming in, distant bells on ship prows. Val led them down the narrow lanes, approaching a dark warehouse and gently pushing open the door. It creaked, but if the sound woke anyone inside, they didn’t protest. Bastian and Gabe settled Milo on the floor, then left quickly, soundlessly. He didn’t stir. “You’re a sneaky lot,” Val commented once they were all outside. “Have either of you considered poison running?” Gabe looked stricken, but Bastian shrugged. “Not as such, no, but never say never. Although my current schedule wouldn’t allow for it.” “That’s a shame.” Mari shook her head. “Our crew is dwindling rapidly these days.” “Arrests?” Lore asked quietly. Val’s operation might be newly legal, but bloodcoats had been known to arrest anyone they didn’t like the look of. “If only it were that simple.” A laugh huffed from Mari’s mouth, twisting into the air like smoke. “Our most loyal are still around—everyone you’d know, mouse, don’t worry—but the newer folks keep getting lured away.” She tightened the knot on her headscarf again, lips twisting wryly. “I guess getting paid enough to cover your rent for a year with one night of work is a hard bargain to pass up.” The words registered with all three of them at the same time. Bastian’s eyes widened. Gabe’s lips went flat. Lore’s pulse thumped in her wrists. “You know about the cargo movements?” “Cargo,” Val said derisively. “It’s contraband, has to be. No one pays that amount of money to move anything legal.” “Oh, it’s absolutely not legal.” Mari snorted. “Phillip let some of the details slip when he came by to quit, and you’d think he’d signed his own execution warrant when he realized. I had to promise up and down for nearly an hour that I wouldn’t tell anyone before he’d go.” “Do you have any information about where they move it to?” Gabe sounded like he was conducting an interrogation. Lore scowled at him. He paid no mind. “Or anything about who is actually doing the hiring?” Val gave him an icy glance. “I believe Mari just said she promised a friend not to disclose anything.” The skin on Lore’s shoulders prickled. The last thing she needed was for Gabe to goad Val into a fight. She was certain Gabe would lose. Bastian apparently thought the same thing. “Of course we would never want someone to go back on a promise,” he interjected with a smile. “I apologize for my friend’s impertinence.” If looks could light someone on fire, the glance Gabe shot Bastian would’ve left him in cinders. Mari crossed her arms, thoughtfully chewed her lip. “This is information you need, though, isn’t it?” she asked Lore softly. “For whatever they’re having you do up at the Citadel. Which means it’s more than just hauling contraband.” “Yes,” Lore said. She’d never been able to lie to Mari. She saw through to the core of things, even when you tried


need, it sounds more like a plea. We no longer see anyone outside our immediate household, unless it’s over a screen. My best friend one neighborhood away feels almost as far as my sister in Portland. I stress over which key supplies and shelf-stable foods to buy, stock up on my asthma medicine, and try not to touch my face. I had planned to visit my mother again in mid-March, with a family trip to follow during the kids’ spring break in April. There are no more forms to fill out, no more fraught decisions to make; Mom and I just want to spend more time together while we can. The day before my flight, March 13, I call and say that I’m going to postpone my trip. She agrees it’s probably for the best. “Hopefully this will be over soon, and you and the kids can fly out in a month or two,” she says. I want my children to have at least one more chance to see their grandma. But with each passing day, it’s harder to imagine traveling across the country with them. We know so little about the virus in these early days. Is it airborne? Spread via surfaces? Do cloth masks really help? How badly do kids suffer when they get it? How much risk is compounded if you have coexisting conditions, as I do, or a developmental disability, as my younger daughter does? If one of us picks it up while we’re traveling, will we pass it to my immunocompromised mother, or her hospice nurse, or her other caregivers? At least, I tell myself, Mom’s current risk of exposure is about as low as it gets. She lives in a town of a few thousand people, hundreds of miles from the nearest major outbreak. She and her sister, who recently moved in to care for her, have a handful of masked visitors—a few of my mother’s friends from church, her hospice nurse, her priest—but Mom never leaves home anymore. While we now know that she won’t get better, she has been enjoying a “stable period,” according to her nurse. If I travel to see her now, no matter how careful I try to be in the air, or while transferring planes at LAX or SFO or SEA, I could be the one to carry the virus to her and compromise this fragile, hard-won stability. It also feels as though I’d be abandoning a household in shambles if I left. While Dan and I are both working from home now, as a scientist he is considered essential personnel and expects he’ll need to go back in eventually, and it’s not easy for either of us to get a full day’s work done with schools closed. It gets harder still when remote learning begins in earnest; our kids are grieving, isolated, irritable, and bored, and the last thing they want is to be assigned hours of busywork on a Chromebook. Our younger daughter’s Individualized Education Program—all the supports and accommodations we spent years advocating for and hammering out


get babies from each other. But there's this man, too- he has all these babies just waitin' to wake up, he breathes life into 'em...." Dill was off again. Beautiful things floated around in his dreamy head. He could read two books to my one, but he preferred the magic of his own inventions. He could add and subtract faster than lightning, but he preferred his own twilight world, a world where babies slept, waiting to be gathered like morning lilies. He was slowly talking himself to sleep and taking me with him, but in the quietness of his foggy island there rose the faded image of a gray house with sad brown doors. "Dill?" "Mm?" "Why do you reckon Boo Radley's never run off?" Dill sighed a long sigh and turned away from me. "Maybe he doesn't have anywhere to run off to...." 15 After many telephone calls, much pleading on behalf of the defendant, and a long forgiving letter from his mother, it was decided that Dill could stay. We had a week of peace together. After that, little, it seemed. A nightmare was upon us. It began one evening after supper. Dill was over; Aunt Alexandra was in her chair in the corner, Atticus was in his; Jem and I were on the floor reading. It had been a placid week: I had minded Aunty; Jem had outgrown the treehouse, but helped Dill and me construct a new rope ladder for it; Dill had hit upon a foolproof plan to make Boo Radley come out at no cost to ourselves (place a trail of lemon drops from the back door to the front yard and he'd follow it, like an ant). There was a knock on the front door, Jem answered it and said it was Mr. Heck Tate. "Well, ask him to come in," said Atticus. "I already did. There's some men outside in the yard, they want you to come out." In Maycomb, grown men stood outside in the front yard for only two reasons: death and politics. I wondered who had died. Jem and I went to the front door, but Atticus called, "Go back in the house." Jem turned out the livingroom lights and pressed his nose to a window screen. Aunt Alexandra protested. "Just for a second, Aunty, let's see who it is," he said. Dill and I took another window. A crowd of men was standing around Atticus. They all seemed to be talking at once. "...movin' him to the county jail tomorrow," Mr. Tate was saying, "I don't look for any trouble, but I can't guarantee there won't be any...." "Don't be foolish, Heck," Atticus said. "This is Maycomb." "...said I was just uneasy." "Heck, we've gotten one postponement of this case just to make sure there's nothing to be uneasy about. This is Saturday," Atticus said. "Trial'll probably be Monday. You can keep him one night, can't you? I don't think anybody in Maycomb'll begrudge me a client, with times this hard." There was a murmur of glee that died suddenly


made with more care than the shabbier ones in her own turret. Lore found herself not minding the climb to the top as much as she’d anticipated; it was almost like being in a museum. Somewhere on the third landing, Lore’s foot got tangled in her lavender skirt, sending her sprawling up the last few steps before she caught her footing again. “Shit on the Citadel Wall,” she hissed. But the near-trip was serendipitous, because it made her look up from Bastian’s map, and it made her see the figure in the hall before he saw her. It was easy to recognize Severin Bellegarde. His dark hair gleamed in an orderly queue, his clothing sleekly fitted to his tall, thin body in muted colors. He walked down the hallway in the opposite direction of the stairs with his hands behind his back, as if the tapestries he passed were prisoners trotted out for inspection. Each one, he stopped to peer at through narrowed eyes, examining it like he was reading the weave before moving on. One of the hands behind his back held a small, folded piece of paper. He’d been holding a similar one that night she and Gabe ran into him on the stairs, Lore remembered. When they were running to the vaults. She didn’t have time to puzzle over it right now, though. Lore straightened and turned toward the next set of stairs, hoping Bellegarde didn’t notice her. “Eldelore Remaut.” No such luck. Lore arranged her face into pleasant nonchalance, spun to dip a clumsy curtsy as she returned his greeting in kind. “Severin Bellegarde.” The other man had stopped in front of a tapestry near the stairs; apparently, he’d changed direction while her back was turned. A line formed between his brows, and he didn’t speak. But he did back up, slightly, the tapestry shuddering as his shoulder brushed against it. He stared at her with an expression Lore couldn’t place as admonishing or thoughtful. She was almost ready to turn and walk away, dismissing herself if he wouldn’t do it, when Severin finally spoke. “Will you and Gabriel be attending the ball on the solar eclipse?” Her brow furrowed. Bellegarde didn’t seem the type to be concerned with others’ social plans. “I assume so,” she answered, fighting down an involuntary shiver. The ball on her birthday, her twenty-fourth. The day she’d be Consecrated, if she’d been raised by people who believed in such things. The involuntary shiver became an involuntary lump in her throat. Thinking of Val and Mari still hurt. Bellegarde’s green eyes pinned her in place. “It is a great honor to be chosen.” The word made her think of the Compendium, of everything she and Malcolm and Gabe—and Bastian, now—had been studying in the Church library. Wariness made her spine straighten. “Yes. It seems only a few were invited to the dinner after the ball, correct? Gabe and I plan to do our best to attend.” “You plan to do your best?” One dark brow lifted. “What could possibly be more important than attending


dinner, and here I am.’ He leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs, then he grinned in Minnie’s direction. ‘I have to say, I love everything about Oxford, the beautiful buildings, the culture, the friendly people.’ He met Minnie’s eyes. ‘I do hope you’ll all come and see the play. It opens next week.’ The other guests were suddenly full of enthusiasm. ‘Oh, we’d be delighted.’ ‘How wonderful.’ ‘We’ll be there, won’t we, darling?’ Francine let out a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s all good. Now, how about I get us all some pudding? So, there’s a choice: Eton Mess – or pecan pie with ice cream?’ The guests’ voices chorused in unison, ‘Oh, the pecan pie.’ Jensen said, ‘I’ll have Eton Mess.’ ‘So will I,’ Minnie grinned, her expression already complicit. Then Jensen Callahan caught her eye and he winked. Minnie was sure of it. She raised an eyebrow provocatively and winked back. 11 On Saturday morning, Josie and Lin sat on the bench near the weeping willow tree opposite St Peter and St Paul’s church. From this position, they could see the banks of the Cherwell beyond swathes of nodding daffodils. The river shone glass smooth, reflecting the light that dappled the water. The Toomeys’ red and black barge was in its usual place by the riverbank. There was no sign of the occupants, but the strong smell of cooking bacon and sausages wafted on the air: Fergal was below deck, making his famous Joe Grey stew. Josie was thoughtful: she’d just visited Harry’s grave, holding a conversation with him in her head, before meeting Lin. In her mind, she was still with Harry, crouched on the grass next to the raised earth he lay beneath, a bunch of flowers in her hand. Lin hadn’t stopped talking. Josie was trying to listen; she was clearly troubled about something – she’d been talking about it since she arrived. ‘It’s been three times this week. Surely Jimmy’s bike isn’t in such a state of disrepair…’ Josie shook her head. ‘I’m sorry… what about Jimmy’s bike?’ ‘Neil’s helping him fix it. He was late home on Wednesday – he said they got chatting and forgot the time. Then he went again yesterday, and this morning he said he’d better help him try it out on the roads.’ Lin frowned. ‘Josie, do you think I’m boring?’ ‘Not at all.’ ‘It’s just that I’ve hardly seen Neil – it feels like he’s avoiding me.’ ‘I’m sure he’s not.’ Josie offered an encouraging grin. ‘Has he finished work on Jimmy’s bike now?’ ‘He has.’ ‘Then have lunch at The Sun tomorrow. Take some quality time.’ ‘Do you think so?’ ‘Of course – tell him that’s what you need.’ Josie patted her arm. ‘Thanks, Josie. Yes, I will – I’ll talk to him…’ They were quiet for a moment. A couple jogged past, sleek from head to toe in Lycra, a slim woman with a long swishing ponytail and a tall handsome man. Josie said, ‘What a beautiful couple. Eros and Psyche.’ ‘Beyonce and Jay-Z.’ Lin


He would lie by the hour, eager, alert, at Thornton's feet, looking up into his face, dwelling upon it, studying it, following with keenest interest each fleeting expression, every movement or change of feature. Or, as chance might have it, he would lie farther away, to the side or rear, watching the outlines of the man and the occasional movements of his body. And often, such was the communion in which they lived, the strength of Buck's gaze would draw John Thornton's head around, and he would return the gaze, without speech, his heart shining out of his eyes as Buck's heart shone out. For a long time after his rescue, Buck did not like Thornton to get out of his sight. From the moment he left the tent to when he entered it again, Buck would follow at his heels. His transient masters since he had come into the Northland had bred in him a fear that no master could be permanent. He was afraid that Thornton would pass out of his life as Perrault and Francois and the Scotch half-breed had passed out. Even in the night, in his dreams, he was haunted by this fear. At such times he would shake off sleep and creep through the chill to the flap of the tent, where he would stand and listen to the sound of his master's breathing. But in spite of this great love he bore John Thornton, which seemed to bespeak the soft civilizing influence, the strain of the primitive, which the Northland had aroused in him, remained alive and active. Faithfulness and devotion, things born of fire and roof, were his; yet he retained his wildness and wiliness. He was a thing of the wild, come in from the wild to sit by John Thornton's fire, rather than a dog of the soft Southland stamped with the marks of generations of civilization. Because of his very great love, he could not steal from this man, but from any other man, in any other camp, he did not hesitate an instant; while the cunning with which he stole enabled him to escape detection. His face and body were scored by the teeth of many dogs, and he fought as fiercely as ever and more shrewdly. Skeet and Nig were too good-natured for quarrelling,--besides, they belonged to John Thornton; but the strange dog, no matter what the breed or valor, swiftly acknowledged Buck's supremacy or found himself struggling for life with a terrible antagonist. And Buck was merciless. He had learned well the law of club and fang, and he never forewent an advantage or drew back from a foe he had started on the way to Death. He had lessoned from Spitz, and from the chief fighting dogs of the police and mail, and knew there was no middle course. He must master or be mastered; while to show mercy was a weakness. Mercy did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear, and such misunderstandings made for death. Kill or be killed, eat or


don’t worry at all that you will sell me out. About how I fly…it’s usually in a space shuttle that takes off with rocket boosters. My time is so precious that this allows me to get where I’m going as efficiently as possible without having to interact with the riffraff. Yes, of course I sometimes fly commercial! Admittedly, it’s first class and if the airport has a private terminal, that’s where I wait. On tour, sometimes we charter a plane and sometimes it’s a bus, and even with the fancier buses, there are very unglamorous parts…traffic, band members getting sick, band members washing their hair with the non-potable water, and on and on. And yet on those buses I have for sure had some of my happiest times. My favorite color is yellow. I do not have any pets but would like a rabbit. from: Noah Brewster <NoahRBrewster@gmail.com> to: Sally Milz <Smilz@TNOshow.com> date: Jul 25, 2020, 9:03 AM subject: Actually Sally, Since sending that last email I have realized that asking if I can download a pdf about your marriage and divorce probably sounded disrespectful and I’m very sorry. I was trying to be funny, but I crossed a line. I want you to know that I realize (from watching my sister and some friends) that getting divorced is a very challenging life experience, and I shouldn’t have been flippant about it. As I’ve said before, these emails right now are really a lifeline for me. I hope I have not done anything to jeopardize our communication. Best, Noah from: Sally Milz <Smilz@TNOshow.com> to: Noah Brewster <NoahRBrewster@gmail.com> date: Jul 25, 2020, 9:32 AM subject: Actually I wish you could see how hard I’m laughing right now. You also get an A+ in squirming apologies. I especially appreciate how you included a salutation (I wasn’t sure before this if you knew my name) and a signature (because before this I wasn’t sure what your name was). But the “Best” is a really nice touch, like you were reaching out to ask if my marketing firm is currently hiring. First of all, didn’t I tell you back in 2018 that anyone who works at TNO is hard to offend? The reason I didn’t reply yet wasn’t that I was offended. It was just that it’s taking me a long time to figure out how to summarize my marriage and the mindfuck. I’m still working on them! Maybe the emails should be divided into two parts, like Czechoslovakia in 1992. Second, there are a lot of things about all marriages, including mine, that deserve flippancy and disrespect. Unfortunately, my marriage itself was kind of boring and not that funny, but it’s safe to say that I am not someone who thinks marriage as an institution is sacrosanct. In fact, I aspire to find anything in life sacrosanct. Seriously, your remorse here is very endearing, in addition to being hilarious. Please consider saying a few more things that you think are inappropriate and then apologizing for them. In the meantime, as I write up my marriage/mindfuck