hadn’t slept. Cook broke into Mrs. Bone’s thoughts, breath hot in her ear. “And where are those two?” she said. “Eh?” “Them Janes.” Cook had been stewing on the Janes for days, the indignity of them, their very existence. She’d whipped herself into a frenzy about it. It was the peculiarity of them, she said—their odd looks, those daft expressions. The fact that they were allowed to share their own room. Cook didn’t like this one jot. Sisters could cause trouble if they weren’t separated, she said. “Who let them get away with that? Not Mr. Shepherd. I doubt he even knows about it. I should tell him.” “Go on, then,” said Mrs. Bone, and flicked a bit of dry skin away under the table. “I should ask him what he means by it. He ought to be ashamed of himself. And so should they! Not that they will be, for all the trouble they give me, staring at me all day, marching around like they’re the ladies and we’re the skivvies, as if I weren’t the single most necessary person in this household, specially—” “Hush, Cook,” whispered Mrs. Bone. “Who is talking?” said Mr. Shepherd. “There must be silence!” I’ll silence you, thought Mrs. Bone. I’ll stick flaming pokers in your eyes. Cook waved her hand, voice pious. “It’s them Janes, Mr. Shepherd. We was just saying they’re not here. They’re missing all the orders.” Shepherd seemed annoyed. “But they must join us at once. Someone must fetch them.” “I’ll go,” said Mrs. Bone, unpeeling herself from the wall. She knew exactly where the Janes were. They were sweeping the guest suites, which never had any guests, hauling the contents into packing crates. They’d suggested to Mr. Shepherd that it would be sensible to put things in safekeeping before the ball. Clever girls. Getting a nice head start on the job. Eminently sensible. She caught William’s eye as she scuttled past. He didn’t just look gray—he looked as if he’d had the blood entirely drained out of him. He was more handsome when he was unhappy. It was almost interesting. She held his gaze for half a second and raised her eyes, just a fraction, to jolt him, to say, What’s got your goat? He merely frowned, lost in thought. A bell tinkled in the distance. All eyes went to the bell board, an intake of breath. They were picturing Madam, no doubt. Wispy, wreathed in black muslin, cooking up orders. Shepherd looked quite white in the face. Lovely, thought Mrs. Bone. She wanted everyone nice and rattled. She ignored her own nerves as they scampered all over her skin. * * * Sunday afternoon arrived. The Park Lane servants went off duty, meeting their sisters and cousins and gentlemen callers, and the women gathered to go over the plan together for the final time. They squeezed into a six-seater pleasure boat, two giant wheels crashing through the water, the Janes pumping hard on the pedals. Mrs. King sat in the front seat, studying the horizon. Alice had pulled her hat


something to me when you left, something that’s stayed with me. He said I couldn’t be that way if you weren’t so inclined. It was a revelation.” He stops, and frowns. “I didn’t know any other way, Ana. Now I do. It’s been educational.” “Me, educate you?” I scoff. His eyes soften. “Do you miss it?” he asks. Oh! “I don’t want you to hurt me, but I like to play, Christian. You know that. If you wanted to do something . . .” I shrug, gazing at him. “Something?” “You know, with a flogger or your crop—” I stop, blushing. He raises his brow, surprised. “Well . . . we’ll see. Right now, I’d like some good old-fashioned vanilla.” His thumb skirts my bottom lip, and he kisses me once more. From: Anastasia Grey Subject: Good Morning Date: August 29, 2011 09:14 To: Christian Grey Mr. Grey I just wanted to tell you that I love you. That is all. Yours Always A x 310/551 Anastasia Grey Commissioning Editor, SIP From: Christian Grey Subject: Banishing Monday Blues Date: August 29, 2011 09:18 To: Anastasia Grey Mrs. Grey What gratifying words to hear from one’s wife (errant or not) on a Monday morn- ing. Let me assure you that I feel exactly the same way. Sorry about the dinner this evening. I hope it won’t be too tedious for you. x Christian Grey, CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. Oh yes. The American Shipbuilding Association dinner. I roll my eyes . . . More stuffed shirts. Christian really does take me to the most fascinating functions. From: Anastasia Grey Subject: Ships that pass in the night Date: August 29, 2011 09:26 To: Christian Grey Dear Mr. Grey I am sure you can think of a way to spice up the dinner . . . Yours in anticipation Mrs. G. x 311/551 Anastasia (non-errant) Grey Commissioning Editor, SIP From: Christian Grey Subject: Variety is the Spice of Life Date: August 29, 2011 09:35 To: Anastasia Grey Mrs. Grey I have a few ideas . . . x Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Now Impatient for the ASA Dinner Inc. All the muscles in my belly clench. Hmm . . . I wonder what he’ll dream up. Hannah knocks on the door, interrupting my reverie. “Ready to go through your schedule for this week, Ana?” “Sure. Sit.” I smile, recovering my equilibrium, and minimize my e-mail pro- gram. “I’ve had to move a couple of appointments. Mr. Fox next week and Dr.—” My phone rings, interrupting her. It’s Roach. He asks me up to his office. “Can we pick this up in twenty minutes?” “Of course.” 312/551 From: Christian Grey Subject: Last night Date: August 30, 2011 09:24 To: Anastasia Grey Was . . . fun. Who would have thought the ASA annual dinner could be so stimulating? As ever, you never disappoint, Mrs. Grey. I love you. x Christian Grey In awe, CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. From: Anastasia Grey Subject: I love a good ball game . . . Date: August 30,


and giggling. “Christian!” I scold, glaring at him. I thought we were going to make love in the sea . . . and chalk up yet another first. He bites his lower lip to stifle his amusement. I splash him, and he splashes me right back. “We have all night,” he says, grinning like a fool. “Laters, baby.” He dives beneath the sea and surfaces three feet away from me, then in a fluid, graceful crawl, swims away from the shore, away from me. Gah! Playful, tantalizing Fifty! I shield my eyes from the sun as I watch him go. He’s such a tease . . . what can I do to get him back? While I swim back to the shore, I contemplate my options. At the sun loungers our drinks have arrived, and I take a quick sip of Coke. Christian is a faint speck in the distance. Hmm . . . I lie down on my front and, fumbling with the straps, take my bikini top off and toss it casually onto Christian’s sun lounger. There . . . see how brazen I can be, Mr. Grey. Put this in your pipe and smoke it. I shut my eyes and let the 16/551 sun warm my skin . . . warm my bones, and I drift away under its heat, my thoughts turning to my wedding day. “You may kiss the bride,” Reverend Walsh announces. I beam at my husband. “Finally, you’re mine,” he whispers and pulls me into his arms and kisses me chastely on the lips. I am married. I am Mrs. Christian Grey. I am giddy with joy. “You look beautiful, Ana,” he murmurs and smiles, his eyes glowing with love . . . and something darker, something hot. “Don’t let anyone take that dress off but me, understand?” His smile heats a hundred degrees as his fingertips trail down my cheek, igniting my blood. Holy crap . . . How does he do this, even here with all these people staring at us? I nod mutely. Jeez, I hope no one can hear us. Luckily Reverend Walsh has discreetly stepped back. I glance at the throng gathered in their wedding finery . . . My mom, Ray, Bob, and the Greys are all applauding—even Kate, my maid of honor, who looks stunning in pale pink as she stands beside Christian’s best man, his brother Elliot. Who knew that even Elliot could scrub up so well? All wear huge, beaming smiles—except Grace, who weeps graciously into a dainty white handkerchief. “Ready to party, Mrs. Grey?” Christian murmurs, giving me his shy smile. I melt. He looks divine in a simple black tux with silver waistcoat and tie. He’s so . . . dashing. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” I grin, a totally goofy smile on my face. 17/551 Later the wedding party is in full swing . . . Carrick and Grace have gone to town. They have the marquee set up again and beautifully decorated in pale pink, silver, and ivory with its sides open,


of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity into fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke. St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceived a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys told him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was gone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood, considering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, and endeavoured to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles and precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by the way he had himself passed. Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should return. The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols, and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubert


recently laid off half its staff, including all but one senior editor, and whether the writers in their stable should try their luck in the imminent shuffle or try to get their rights reverted and jump ship to another house. Publishing gossip, it turns out, is a lot of fun when you’re speculating about other people’s misfortune. “So what got you interested in the Chinese Labour Corps?” Marnie asks me. “I’d never heard of them before your book.” “Most people hadn’t.” I preen, flattered that Marnie knows what my book is about at all. I won’t inquire further about her thoughts—it’s good etiquette among writers not to ask if someone has read your work or is just pretending. “I took a course on East Asian history at Yale. A professor referenced it in a discussion section, and I thought it was surprising that there weren’t any novels in English about it, so I thought I’d make that necessary addition to the canon.” The first part is true; the rest is not—I spent most of that class reading about Japanese art history, meaning tentacle porn, but it’s been a convenient cover story for questions like this. “That’s precisely my approach,” Heidi exclaims. “I look for the gaps in history, the stuff no one else is talking about. That’s why I wrote an epic fantasy romance about a businessman and a Mongolian huntress. Eagle Girl. It’s out next year. I’ll have Daniella send you a copy. It’s so important to think about what perspectives aren’t embraced by Anglophone readers, you know? We must make space for the subaltern voices, the suppressed narratives.” “Right,” I say. I’m a little surprised Heidi knows the word “subaltern.” “And without us, these stories wouldn’t get told.” “Precisely. Precisely.” Near the end of the party, I run into my former editor while standing in line at the coat check. He comes in for a hug like we’re best friends, like he didn’t butcher my very first book baby, set it up to fail, and then leave me out in the cold. “Congratulations, June,” he says, smiling broadly. “It’s been wonderful to watch you succeed.” I’ve wondered often for the past year what I would say to Garrett if I ever came across him again. I always held my tongue while I was his author; I was terrified of burning bridges, of him spreading the word that I was impossible to work with. I’ve wished I could say to his face how small he made me feel, how his curt, dismissive emails made me convinced the publisher had already given up on my work, how he nearly made me quit writing with his indifference. But the best revenge is to thrive. Garrett’s imprint has been struggling. He hasn’t landed anything on a bestseller list aside from titles from the literary estates of famous, deceased authors that he’s clinging to like a lifeboat. When the next economic contraction comes, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s out of a job. And I know what the whisper networks are saying behind his back—Garrett


felt as responsible for them as they were for me. But had I been wrong to feel that way? They certainly never saw their burdens as mine to share, instead choosing to shield me from them for as long as they could. They were my parents: they looked after me, not the other way around. * * * The lack of air-conditioning in my childhood home was bearable because we could open our windows at night—except during wildfire season, when we might occasionally suffer and sweat in the hot, tightly sealed rooms of our house. The fires rarely threatened more densely populated areas, and I never worried about them reaching our house. From time to time, we would hear that a friend who lived much farther out from town had to evacuate, but I didn’t know anyone who had lost their home to fire. I can remember only a few late summer or early fall days when smoky air settled in the hills and hollows around us, making it impossible to go outside and play. The land, the climate, and the housing patterns have all changed in the years since I left home. Four months after my mother died, a fire started fifteen minutes from her neighborhood. High winds carried the sparks far afield, allowing the blaze to grow and fan out for miles. Unlike the wildfires I remember from childhood, this one roared parallel to some of the busiest roads in the area, ravaging parkland, businesses, and thousands of homes. I was shocked to see news of the runaway destruction, although California wildfires had been in the news for weeks, and I’d heard about the terrible air quality in the Bay Area, Seattle, Portland, Vancouver. My home region lacks a major urban center and rarely draws outside media attention. But the damage was too vast to be ignored, and terrifying headlines and images from my parents’ tiny town of a few thousand residents soon filled my social media feeds. I checked on friends and acquaintances and tried to call my aunt, who had inherited my parents’ house after my mother died. When I didn’t get an answer, I texted Paula, who confirmed that she, her husband, and my aunt were safe—and so was Buster. They were all hunkered down at Paula’s, in sight of the flames but hoping they wouldn’t need to evacuate. They couldn’t say whether my parents’ home had survived. Dan and I scoured the internet for local news reports, searching for the name of my parents’ park and other nearby landmarks. We watched shaky video footage shot by local residents; paused and zoomed in on aerial video shared by local news outlets, trying to identify my parents’ neighborhood. When I stumbled over an article about entire groves of ponderosa pines lost to wildfire, I felt another kind of grief. What if the cemetery had been leveled, too? I pictured the peaceful graveyard, with its hundred-year-old oaks and pines, bare and smoking; my parents’ gravestones scorched and illegible. I thought again of their house, their windows facing the mountains,


trainer at the prestigious boarding school. He was the only official suspect in the case. Evans falsely confessed under extraordinary pressure after fifteen hours of interrogation, a confession he recanted the next day. He was a victim of an inexperienced and racist small-town police force and a racist school that wanted to close the case quickly. Omar Evans was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to sixty years. He has now been imprisoned nearly twenty-three years for a murder he did not commit. This is the story of two stolen lives: those of Thalia Keith and Omar Evans.” Lola whistled. Alder said, with no apparent irony, “Oh, snap.” Jamila said, “You really just called us prestigious?” I said, “That was well done, Britt. I have a small correction, which is that the case was handed to the State Police. They might’ve been racist, I don’t know, but they weren’t inexperienced. I like how you’ve laid out not just the subject but a thesis statement, too. One danger with that—” I sipped my coffee, buying time. I felt adrenal, wondered what on earth I’d started. “One danger is that if you lay out your theories at the beginning, and then change your mind as you investigate, you’ll be stuck.” “I won’t change my mind,” Britt said. “I’ve already done a ton of research. The case was so flaky.” I assumed she meant flimsy. She asked if I’d seen the Diane Sawyer interview with Omar’s mother. I hadn’t; she told me she’d send it. “When you hear her speak you’ll understand,” she said. I was sure his mother believed with every cell of her body that he was innocent. I was sure that came through on camera. I said, “Maybe there were flaws in the case. But they had his DNA on her swimsuit. One of his hairs was in her mouth. They had him in the building when she died, and they can’t put anyone else there. They had a confession. They had the motive, at least according to her friends. They had that noose he drew in the directory. People get convicted on much less.” I heard myself, a parrot. But Britt was only parroting the Reddit boards. I didn’t want her to swing into obstinacy in either direction. I wanted her to do a good job, to wake all the sleeping tigers and ask all the questions I couldn’t wrap my own head around. Because there were things I could never quite reconcile. In real life, you don’t get the murderer telling you exactly what he did and why he did it. Even Omar’s confession, taken at face value, left major gaps. What I wanted, but could never get, was to go back and see it happen. Not the grisly parts, not the death, but every step leading up to it, every moment when fate could have stepped just an inch to the side and left Thalia intact. “What does everyone think?” I asked the group. “In general, is it better to go in asking questions, or positing answers?” “But I


it still reflected the sun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade. At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk, and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and which still gleamed with the evening light. The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so near, he would alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the carriage. On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in the chase. 'Not much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I am pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me that respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.' 'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man, should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours-- I go in search of health, as much as of amusement.' St. Aubert sighed, and paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: 'If I can hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can, perhaps, give me information on the subject.' The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon. They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a cottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which they entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father's countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds


in and day out,” Simon said, shaking his head. Forester smirked. “By necessity, my friend. Purely by necessity. You don’t think I envy your little hamlet here? But a man needs a partner in life, and I am not going to find her in the countryside.” How was Nick Forester still single? As far as Simon knew, he was one of the most sought-after men outside of the peerage, and he could have had his pick of a wife. Simon envied him that, just as Forester apparently envied Simon his home. Perhaps, if he had the time, Simon might have met Lucy under different circumstances, and things would have been different. There he went, thinking about Lucy again. Forester didn’t help matters when he said, “Speaking of women in the countryside, we should talk about Lucy.” Simon groaned. “Why would we need to do that?” “Because you were alone with her yesterday. Or you would have been, if I hadn’t followed you. And Olivia mentioned finding the two of you along that same path the other day. Unchaperoned, I should add.” A sense of foreboding settled in Simon’s gut as he considered that. Whenever trapped in London, he was always careful to avoid any situation that might compromise himself or a lady. But here at home? He didn’t usually given much thought to Society’s rules. “Calloway, she is to be your sister-in-law.” It was too much to hope Forester had said that as a reason to think nothing untoward had happened. “I know that,” Simon said slowly. “Do you?” “Nothing happened, Forester.” Simon couldn’t fully believe himself, however. At the pond yesterday, something had nearly happened, stopped only by Forester. Simon had temporarily lost his mind when he fell into that water. “How long were you there?” he asked warily. For once, Forester didn’t smile. “Long enough. Have you discovered something about our Lucy, or is your brother going to have to call you out when he rises from his deathbed?” “Nothing happened,” Simon repeated. “I haven’t compromised Miss Staley, and I have no plans to.” “Good, because you’re a decent fellow, Calloway, and I would hate to think less of you.” Thankfully, he smiled a little at that. “I wanted this conversation less than you did, you know.” Simon had a hard time believing that. “Then, why bring it up?” “Because you’re one of my closest friends, and if someone else had discovered you—” “On my own grounds?” Forester shrugged. “Experience has taught me that no one is safe from the prying eyes of the world. I only wish to see you content in life, and the extent to which you like Lucy could get you into trouble.” Simon’s stomach twisted. “Who said I like her?” One eyebrow lifting, Forester made it clear without speaking that it would take a fool not to see the way Simon’s eyes were drawn to her whenever they were in the same room. “We all like Lucy,” he said simply. Desperate to get out of the house and do something before his thoughts ran away


on the 7th of November, the eve of his own thirty- second birthday, as he often remembered afterwards. He was walking home about eleven o'clock from Lord Henry's, where he had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast, and with the collar of his gray ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. He recognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for which he could not account, came over him. He made no sign of recognition, and went on slowly, in the direction of his own house. But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping, and then hurrying after him. In a few moments his hand was on his arm. "Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for you ever since nine o'clock in your library. Finally I took pity on your tired servant, and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am off to Paris by the midnight train, and I wanted particularly to see you before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me. But I wasn't quite sure. Didn't you recognize me?" "In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can't even recognize Grosvenor Square. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don't feel at all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not seen you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?" "No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend [78] to take a studio in Paris, and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture I have in my head. However, it wasn't about myself I wanted to talk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something to say to you." "I shall be charmed. But won't you miss your train?" said Dorian Gray, languidly, as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his latch-key. The lamp-light struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his watch. "I have heaps of time," he answered. "The train doesn't go till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan't have any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes." Dorian looked at him and smiled. "What a way for a fashionable painter to travel! A Gladstone bag, and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will get into the house. And mind you don't talk about anything serious. Nothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be." Hallward shook his head,


in suits were whispering their incantations. The creature shook its head and rushed forward, showing innumerable gleaming teeth and letting out a screech that made Tristán slam his back against the cold metal of the car. From the angle where Tristán stood he did not have a view of López’s face, nor could he hear what he was saying; the snatches of words that reached him were senseless blabbering that were muffled by the dog’s screech as it lurched forward and then took one monstrous leap, landing on López and knocking him to the ground. The dog-thing growled, fixing its eyes on Tristán, and Tristán felt Montserrat’s fingers digging into his shoulder, holding him in place even though his first instinct was to run. Then López kicked or elbowed the thing, and the creature snarled, opened its mouth with too many teeth, intent on tearing through the man’s throat, but this must have been what López had expected, for he shoved the cane into the dog’s open mouth. There was a sudden, incredible splintering of flesh, as if the cane had been acid instead of wood, corroding the creature’s body. The dog’s head became a spray of black liquid that fell on the ground, on Tristán’s shoes, and even on the car. The rest of the dog dissolved, becoming rivulets of blackness that began to smoke and disperse. López was trying to stand up, and Tristán helped him to his feet. The man leaned on him, gripping his cane with his left hand and holding it up, as if he were about to brandish a sword. The two men in suits stared at them but did not move from the spot on the sidewalk where they had stood, impassive, watching the dog-things. Their mouths were closed in two firm, angry lines. “The keys to the car are in my raincoat,” López said. “I would appreciate it if you’d drive.” Montserrat unlocked the car, and Tristán helped López into the back, sitting next to him. The men in suits started slowly walking toward the car. The leashes were wrapped around one hand, and their mouths opened, whispering a word. López rolled down the window, reached into his messenger bag, and tossed out a handful of feathers and nails. The men in suits stumbled and glared at them. As Montserrat sped away, López sprinkled more nails out the window, then coughed and fell heavily back against the seat, his hand resting on the messenger bag. “Where are we going?” Montserrat asked. “Near the Pemex tower in the Anzures,” López muttered. “My house has safeguards.” On a window there was a Garfield plush toy with sucker cups, and three air fresheners in the shape of pines dangled from the rearview mirror. Tristán stared at them with incongruous wonder, astounded by the sight of these ordinary trinkets. He was unable to suppress a laugh, which earned him a glare in the rearview mirror from Montserrat. He reached for the cigarettes in his jacket pocket and turned to López. “Smoke?” he asked. 22 José López’s home was


those, who, having once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure just to meet with him, or just to miss him, just to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, just to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!-- his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love! Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit. How that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary-- and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance!-- After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave


my armor at my new school, where I would finally be just another Asian girl among hundreds, my peacoat spun-wool proof that I belonged. * * * My mother used to proclaim loudly and often that there was nothing she missed about Ohio. Despite his pride in “getting out,” I know there were things about it that my father felt nostalgic for, like attending the Region 4 Boy Scout camp every summer with his dad and brother, or cheering on Cleveland’s sports teams with people who cared about them as much as he did. Our family couldn’t afford to travel, and many of our relatives, especially those in Ohio, thought of Oregon as another planet, so I grew up knowing them as voices on the other end of a phone passed around at holidays. A born-and-bred New Englander once told me that if you picked up the country and shook it, people without deep roots anywhere else would fall to the West Coast. But my parents’ roots in Cleveland ran deep, and even as a child I understood how easy it would have been for them to stay and build a life their families would have understood, surrounded by all that was familiar. Instead, the earliest choices they made together took them far from home, a move they never regretted—they leaped without hesitation, much as they did when they decided to become parents through adoption, though they had little guidance from the child welfare system and no model for how to raise a Korean child as white parents. Perhaps it’s no surprise that when they let me go, it was not with the grudging wonder of my father’s family when they left Ohio, nor the secret shame of the birth parents who gave me up as a baby—they encouraged me because their priority was my happiness, even if the pursuit of it took me away from them. That they frequently saw promise where others might have seen only risk is something I cannot help but admire. Sometimes I wonder if being their child, a product of their choices and their faith if not their genes, is what made me believe that another life might be within my reach. I also wonder if I would have felt the same need to uproot myself had I been one more white girl with good grades, my presence secure and unquestioned in the place I’d been planted. It would be simpler, less discomfiting, to embrace the notion that luck and drive, the desire to get an education and help my family, were the only factors in my flight; I would prefer not to give my racial isolation as an adoptee, or my early experiences with bigotry and bullying, any more weight. But I was a Korean girl, the only Korean girl I knew, growing up in a place where no one seemed to know quite what to make of me, and where others were quick to let me know that I was not wanted. I understood that I would leave long before I knew how I


someone’s uncle or niece or babysitter sitting on an overstuffed sofa, telling the camera what it was like to find the body, or not find the body, or hear the voicemail, or find the purse she never would have left behind. What woman leaves a purse behind? What woman has ever left her purse? The lady taking up the whole sidewalk with her stroller looked happy, if tired, but she couldn’t be. She was late for walking Lester Holt around the scene of the crime. She needed to show Lester Holt the spot where she’d looked into the snowbank and saw what she thought was a mannequin. She needed to take Lester Holt into the ravine, where he would step so carefully over the fallen logs with his Italian shoes. She needed Lester Holt to see the bed, the pillowcase, the broken curtain rod, the hairbrush. Look, Lester Holt: This was her wallet. Who would leave a wallet? #8: YOU Let’s go there, at last. Let’s picture it. You make sure you’re onstage at the end of the show. It’s not so much about being seen but about looking calm, happy, paternal on tape so people will look back and think, This is not a man who’s about to kill someone. Thalia has said she thinks she’s pregnant, although there’s no way, you’re too careful. Every couple of months she’s sure she’s late. You tell her she needs to keep better track of her periods, and she says, “You sound like Bodie Kane. She had this whole system.” You aren’t aware that Thalia has followed that system for the past year, knows damn well she’s not pregnant. As far as you know, Thalia isn’t meticulous about anything: calling when she says she will, taking the pills you pay for, keeping things secret from her friends. Your wife keeps asking her to babysit, and she keeps saying yes. At first the babysitting was a ruse so you could walk her home at the end of the night, but you’ve come up with better plans, and now you tell Thalia to say no when Suzanne asks, but there she is at your house on a Saturday as you and Suzanne head out to dinner with friends in Hanover. That Monday, she sits in your office and pouts and asks where you and your wife honeymooned, and it becomes clear from her follow-ups that she’s looked through your photo albums. Later that week, Suzanne can’t find her blue nightgown. A few weeks later Thalia babysits again, and that night as you climb into bed you find her silver teardrop earrings on your own nightstand, as if you’d bedded her right there, as if Suzanne were supposed to find them, as if Thalia had copied the moment wholesale from some movie. You scoop them deftly into the pocket of your pajama pants, where, at two in the morning when you roll over, they stab your thigh, thankfully just your thigh. You’ve tried three times now to break things off—not because you want to, but because as


said Arthur warmly. "I shall in all ways trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jack's friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like." The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak, and finally said, "May I ask you something now?" "Certainly." "You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?" "No, poor dear. I never thought of it." "And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's papers and letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them, no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep them, if I may. Even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost, and in the good time I shall give them back to you. It is a hard thing that I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for Lucy's sake?" Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self, "Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you with questions till the time comes." The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly, "And you are right. There will be pain for us all, but it will not be all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too, you most of all, dear boy, will have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!" I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Helsing did not go to bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patroling the house, and was never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent through the odor of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night. MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL 22 September.--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping. It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and no news of him, and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand, see what unexpected prosperity does for us, so it may be as well to freshen it up again with an exercise anyhow.


feet, she takes up the two pieces of papers and lowers her glasses to read through them. “These look good, especially the diary one.” She smiles; her mouth is closed but it reaches her eyes. “Thank you for coming in, Maddie.” As I shake her hand, Penny says, “You should hear back very soon.” * * * I’m back home an hour before Cam is and by then I’ve unpacked my kitchen and bathroom things and half of my bedroom. I linger upstairs because Cam’s gone straight to her room and her door is shut. I wonder if I should make myself known, but maybe she wants to be alone and decompress after a day filled with schoolchildren. Google: Should you knock on the door of a new flatmate? Demi: No let me come 2 you. You don’t know what kind of day I’ve had and maybe I want to be left alone Margaret: Bedrooms are off limits so only knock if you need something. Keep socializing restricted to communal areas like the kitchen Tally: OMG of course! If you want to chat that’s so nice! Chris: Don’t bother me. I’m here to get away from family/be closer to work, not to make new friends I decide to leave Cam to it and continue unpacking until Jo is home two hours later. “Hi, girls!” she shouts from downstairs. Cam’s door opens and they both end up in the kitchen. I’ve waited too long to shout “Hi!” so I go down. My pulse jumps as I do. I live with these people, and they’re technically strangers. I should have googled: “How to get flatmates to like you.” I don’t know how to make new friends. “I was thinking maybe that new pizza place,” I hear Jo say. “The one in—Oh, here she comes, I think. Maddie?” Jo has a bright smile when I enter the kitchen. “Welcome!” Cam rolls her eyes and says, “Please don’t mistake my failure to match her enthusiasm as a comment on you moving in. You’ll find Jo and I are slightly different people.” “Whatever,” Jo sings. You couldn’t dampen this girl’s mood if you tried. “So!” she says. “We were thinking the new pizza place in Clapham Common for dinner. You got our message about not eating, right?” “Yes.” For goodness’ sake, say something else. How was your day, maybe? “Good.” Jo claps. “It’s not far, but Cam said she’d drive us.” Say literally anything. “You drive, Cam?” “Yeah,” she says. “Parking’s shit round here, so my car’s on the other side of the road.” “Thirty minutes and then we’ll go?” Jo says. “Let me just freshen up and get the stench of capitalism off me.” Doesn’t she work in the charity sector? “Which reminds me, Maddie, did an Amazon package arrive for me by any chance?” * * * Dinner out with my flatmates, with the girls … On my way home from CGT, I used to walk past the West End restaurants and see tables of girls laughing, talking, eating, and drinking. An hour from now,


folks. If it wuzn’t 166 Zora Neale Hurston for so many black folks it wouldn’t be no race problem. De white folks would take us in wid dem. De black ones is holdin’ us back.” “You reckon? ’course Ah ain’t never thought about it too much. But Ah don’t figger dey even gointuh want us for com- p’ny. We’se too poor.” “’Tain’t de poorness, it’s de color and de features. Who want any lil ole black baby layin’ up in de baby buggy lookin’ lak uh fly in buttermilk? Who wants to be mixed up wid uh rusty black man, and uh black woman goin’ down de street in all dem loud colors, and whoopin’ and hollerin’ and laughin’ over nothin’? Ah don’t know. Don’t bring me no nigger doc- tor tuh hang over mah sick-bed. Ah done had six chillun— wuzn’t lucky enough tuh raise but dat one—and ain’t never had uh nigger tuh even feel mah pulse. White doctors always gits mah money. Ah don’t go in no nigger store tuh buy nothin’ neither. Colored folks don’t know nothin’ ’bout no business. Deliver me!” Mrs. Turner was almost screaming in fanatical earnestness by now. Janie was dumb and bewildered before and she clucked sympathetically and wished she knew what to say. It was so evident that Mrs. Turner took black folk as a personal affront to herself. “Look at me! Ah ain’t got no flat nose and liver lips. Ah’m uh featured woman. Ah got white folks’ features in mah face. Still and all Ah got tuh be lumped in wid all de rest. It ain’t fair. Even if dey don’t take us in wid de whites, dey oughta make us uh class tuh ourselves.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 167 “It don’t worry me atall, but Ah reckon Ah ain’t got no real head fur thinkin’.” “You oughta meet mah brother. He’s real smart. Got dead straight hair. Dey made him uh delegate tuh de Sunday School Convention and he read uh paper on Booker T. Washington and tore him tuh pieces!” “Booker T.? He wuz a great big man, wusn’t he?” “’Sposed tuh be. All he ever done was cut de monkey for white folks. So dey pomped him up. But you know whut de ole folks say ‘de higher de monkey climbs de mo’ he show his behind’ so dat’s de way it wuz wid Booker T. Mah brother hit ’im every time dey give ’im chance tuh speak.” “Ah was raised on de notion dat he wuz uh great big man,” was all that Janie knew to say. “He didn’t do nothin’ but hold us back—talkin’ ’bout work when de race ain’t never done nothin’ else. He wuz uh enemy tuh us, dat’s whut. He wuz uh white folks’ nigger.” According to all Janie had been taught this was sacrilege so she sat without speaking at all. But Mrs. Turner went on. “Ah done sent fuh mah brother tuh come down and spend uh while wid us. He’s sorter outa work now. Ah wants yuh tuh


should let them in that night. The household went to bed; and I, too anxious to lie down, opened my lattice and put my head out to hearken, though it rained, determined to admit them in spite of the prohibition, should they return. In a while, I distinguished steps coming up the road, and the light of a lantern glimmered through the gate. I threw a shawl over my head and ran to prevent them from waking Mr. Earnshaw by knocking. There was Heathcliff, by himself; it gave me a start to see him alone. "Where is Miss Catherine?" I cried hurriedly. "No accident, I hope?" "At Thrushcross Grange," he answered, "and I would have been there too, but they had not the manners to ask me to stay." "Well, you will catch it!" I said, "you'll never be content will you're sent about your business. What in the world led you wandering to Thrushcross Grange?" "Let me get off my wet clothes, and I'll tell you all about it, Nelly," he replied. I bid him beware of rousing the master, and while he undressed, and I waited to put out the candle, he continued-- "Cathy and I escaped from the wash-house to have a ramble at liberty, and getting a glimpse of the Grange lights, we thought we would just go and see whether the Lintons passed their Sunday evenings standing shivering in corners, while their father and mother sat eating and drinking, and singing and laughing, and burning their eyes out before the fire. Do you think they do? Or reading sermons, and being catechised by their man-servant, and set to learn a column of Scripture names, if they don't answer properly?" "Probably not," I responded. "They are good children, no doubt, and don't deserve the treatment you receive, for your bad conduct." "Don't you cant, Nelly" he said. "Nonsense! We ran from the top of the Heights to the park, without stopping--Catherine completely beaten in the race, because she was barefoot. You'll have to seek for her shoes in the bog to-morrow. We crept through a broken hedge, groped our way up the path, and planted ourselves on a flower-plot under the drawing-room window. The light came from thence; they had not put up the shutters, and the curtains were only half closed. Both of us were able to look in by standing on the basement, and clinging to the ledge, and we saw--ah! it was beautiful--a splendid place carpeted with crimson, and crimson-covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains from the centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers. Old Mr. and Mrs. Linton were not there. Edgar and his sister had it entirely to themselves; shouldn't they have been happy? We should have thought ourselves in heaven! And new, guess what your good children were doing? Isabella--I believe she is eleven, a year younger than Cathy--lay screaming at the farther end of the room, shrieking as if witches were running red hot needles into her.


misconception of the shallowest character, was not the case at all. The individual whose visual organs while the above was going on were at this juncture commencing to exhibit symptoms of animation was as astute if not astuter than any man living and anybody that conjectured the contrary would have found themselves pretty speedily in the wrong shop. During the past four minutes or thereabouts he had been staring hard at a certain amount of number one Bass bottled by Messrs Bass and Co at Burton-on-Trent which happened to be situated amongst a lot of others right opposite to where he was and which was certainly calculated to attract anyone's remark on account of its scarlet appearance. He was simply and solely, as it subsequently transpired for reasons best known to himself, which put quite an altogether different complexion on the proceedings, after the moment before's observations about boyhood days and the turf, recollecting two or three private transactions of his own which the other two were as mutually innocent of as the babe unborn. Eventually, however, both their eyes met and as soon as it began to dawn on him that the other was endeavouring to help himself to the thing he involuntarily determined to help him himself and so he accordingly took hold of the neck of the mediumsized glass recipient which contained the fluid sought after and made a capacious hole in it by pouring a lot of it out with, also at the same time, however, a considerable degree of attentiveness in order not to upset any of the beer that was in it about the place. The debate which ensued was in its scope and progress an epitome of the course of life. Neither place nor council was lacking in dignity. The debaters were the keenest in the land, the theme they were engaged on the loftiest and most vital. The high hall of Horne's house had never beheld an assembly so representative and so varied nor had the old rafters of that establishment ever listened to a language so encyclopaedic. A gallant scene in truth it made. Crotthers was there at the foot of the table in his striking Highland garb, his face glowing from the briny airs of the Mull of Galloway. There too, opposite to him, was Lynch whose countenance bore already the stigmata of early depravity and premature wisdom. Next the Scotchman was the place assigned to Costello, the eccentric, while at his side was seated in stolid repose the squat form of Madden. The chair of the resident indeed stood vacant before the hearth but on either flank of it the figure of Bannon in explorer's kit of tweed shorts and salted cowhide brogues contrasted sharply with the primrose elegance and townbred manners of Malachi Roland St John Mulligan. Lastly at the head of the board was the young poet who found a refuge from his labours of pedagogy and metaphysical inquisition in the convivial atmosphere of Socratic discussion, while to right and left of him were accommodated the flippant prognosticator, fresh


I now repined! Yes, just as much good as it would do a man tired of sitting still in a "too easy chair" to take a long walk; and just as natural was the wish to stir, under my circumstances, as it would be under his.     I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backward and forward on the pavement; the shutters of the glass door were closed; I could not see into the interior; and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy house from the gray hollow filled with rayless cells, as it appeared to me to that sky expanded before me a blue sea absolved from taint of cloud; the moon ascending it in solemn march; her orbs seeming to look up as she left the hill-tops, from behind which she had come, far and farther below her, and aspired to the zenith, midnight-dark in its fathomless depth and measureless distance; and for those trembling stars that followed her course; they made my heart tremble, my veins glow when I viewed them. Little things recall us to earth; the clock struck in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon and stars, opened a side door, and went in.     The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung bronze lamp; a warm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak staircase. This ruddy shine issued from the great dining-room, whose two-leaved door stood open, and showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing on marble hearth and brass fire-irons, and revealing purple draperies and polished furniture, in the most pleasant radiance. It revealed, too, a group near the mantel-piece; I had scarcely caught it, and scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of voices, among which I seemed to distinguish the tones of Adle, when the door closed.     I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax's room; there was a fire there too, but no candle, and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the rug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, I beheld a great black and white long-haired dog, just like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so like it that I went forward and said: "Pilot," and the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his great tail; but he looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted a candle; and I wanted, too, to get an account of this visitant. Leah entered.     "What dog is this?"     "He came with master."     "With whom?"     "With master Mr. Rochester he is just arrived."     "Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?"     "Yes, and Miss Adle; they are in the dining-room, and John is


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

real life—I mean, she shows us what she wants us to see. She seems playful and funny and adventurous, but a reality show doesn’t seem like something she’d do. There must be a reason she’s considering it, and if she called you out for seeming less than enthusiastic, you’d better get your attitude squared away.” Natalia looks at me straight on. “You’re a wonderful guy, Conn, but you’ve been acting a little snobby, like this is beneath you.” I turn back to the puzzle. “How is it snobby if it’s accurate? I would never do this if Blaine wasn’t forcing me to.” I know it’s a mistake as soon as the last word is out of my mouth. Even Stevie pushes a somber whistle through her teeth. Natalia stares at me. “Connor, do you think I’m dumb?” “What?” I say, horrified. “Of course not. You’re the smartest person I know.” “Well, I watch reality TV. I read romance. And when you say stuff like that, it’s belittling.” She tilts her head toward Stevie, and the unspoken Especially when you do it in front of our daughter lands like a mallet. “I just meant that it’s not my bag. Of course it’s cool if it’s yours.” Her eyes go round. “Wow. Thank you.” “That is not at all—” She waves this off. “Have you watched any dating shows or read any of her books since you agreed to take this project on?” “I ordered them.” She looks unimpressed. “And,” I continue proudly, “I had Brenna do write-ups on Felicity’s five top sellers.” Stevie shakes her head again. Natalia gives me a disappointed frown. “Okay, I hear how that sounded,” I say. “I’m the arsehole executive pawning my work off onto my assistant, that was shitty. But, Nat, the show isn’t even about Felicity’s books. It’s about her. About how charismatic she is, how good she is in front of people. It’s about the audience rooting for her.” “Are you really so thick not to see that her audience roots for her because of what she gives us in her books?” Before I can answer, she continues. “If you told me you didn’t like Wonderland’s music, I’d say, ‘Fine, to each their own.’ You’ve heard all their songs at least a hundred times, so you would be making an informed opinion. But you’ve never even read a romance novel or watched a reality show and have formed this opinion based on what you think they are.” I slip another piece into place, bridging a large elephant ear to its head. “C’mon, Nat, you’ve got to admit romance novels are a touch predictable.” “Why? Because the couple ends up together?” “Exactly.” “That’s a rule of the genre, Connor,” she says. “Which you would know if you’d bothered to even google it.” I wave her on, hearing the way she’s frothing up over this. “Go on. Get it all out.” “You describe them as my ‘guilty pleasure.’ Do you have any idea how condescending that is?” “Well, don’t they bring you pleasure?” I ask, confused. “How


cheeks and his hair was white and his eyes had faded, with white in the vague blueness there. Then his eyes touched on the book under Montag's arm and he did not look so old any more and not quite as fragile. Slowly his fear went. "I'm sorry. One has to be careful." He looked at the book under Montag's arm and could not stop. "So it's true." Montag stepped inside. The door shut. "Sit down." Faber backed up, as if he feared the book might vanish if he took his eyes from it. Behind him, the door to a bedroom stood open, and in that room a litter of machinery and steel tools was strewn upon a desk-top. Montag had only a glimpse, before Faber, seeing Montag's attention diverted, turned quickly and shut the bedroom door and stood holding the knob with a trembling hand. His gaze returned unsteadily to Montag, who was now seated with the book in his lap. "The book-where did you-?" "I stole it." Faber, for the first time, raised his eyes and looked directly into Montag's face. "You're brave." "No," said Montag. "My wife's dying. A friend of mine's already dead. Someone who may have been a friend was burnt less than twenty-four hours ago. You're the only one I knew might help me. To see. To see. ." Faber's hands itched on his knees. "May I?" "Sorry." Montag gave him the book. "It's been a long time. I'm not a religious man. But it's been a long time." Faber turned the pages, stopping here and there to read. "It's as good as I remember. Lord, how they've changed it- in our `parlours' these days. Christ is one of the `family' now. I often wonder it God recognizes His own son the way we've dressed him up, or is it dressed him down? He's a regular peppermint stick now, all sugar-crystal and saccharine when he isn't making veiled references to certain commercial products that every worshipper absolutely needs." Faber sniffed the book. "Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them when I was a boy. Lord, there were a lot of lovely books once, before we let them go." Faber turned the pages. "Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going, a long time back. I said nothing. I'm one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when no one would listen to the `guilty,' but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself. And when finally they set the structure to burn the books, using the, firemen, I grunted a few times and subsided, for there were no others grunting or yelling with me, by then. Now, it's too late." Faber closed the Bible. "Well--suppose you tell me why you came here?" "Nobody listens any more. I can't talk to the walls because they're yelling at me. I can't talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone


came to love each of those women in return. As Miss Zhao raises a hand to wave, I consider the path my life has taken. I remember my mother on her deathbed, saying, “Human life is like a sunbeam passing through a crack.” I remember when my grandmother visited me in a dream and her prophecy that I would live to reach seventy-three years. If this is to be, then I have lived two-thirds of my life. But who knows, really, how many days might be left for a woman such as myself, and what yet I might do when surrounded by so much beauty and love? POSTSCRIPT TO THE REPRINT OF MISCELLANEOUS RECORDS OF A FEMALE DOCTOR My grandfather’s sister was a woman doctor named Lady Tan Yunxian, a wife, mother, and daughter-in-law of high standing. I remember when I was a boy and still losing my milk teeth, seeing my great-aunt treat patients in the Mansion of Golden Light, where I lived and still reside, and in her marital home, the Garden of Fragrant Delights. She was beyond reproach, and she achieved fame in her lifetime for her medical skills, which she applied to rich and poor as a humanitarian art. She lived to be ninety-six, outliving long-believed predictions for an earlier death. She died in the thirty-fifth year of the Jianjing emperor’s reign [1556], having survived the reigns of five emperors and proving she must have been a very good doctor. It is said that the descendants of a person who saves lives will prosper and thrive, but such did not transpire in this instance. Lady Tan’s son, Yang Lian, died at a young age. Many years later, Lady Tan’s only grandson, Yang Qiao, was beheaded for crimes of a political nature. All his descendants were killed in this purge as well, leaving her without any male heirs to make offerings to her in the Afterworld. Without them, there was no one to see to the preservation of her work either, and her book slowly disappeared from book purveyors. I searched until I met a man who had a copy in his personal library. He lent it to me so I might transcribe her words and have new woodblocks made, allowing the book to be printed and distributed again. Mysteries remain for this great-nephew. The cures Lady Tan formulated in her old age were said to have been even more inspired than the ones found in her book. Many believe she achieved the wondrous abilities of the greatest practitioners of the past, who could simply look at a person—could see through a person—to discern what was wrong. But if Lady Tan had reached these heights, why did she not record those cases? Did she write them down but choose not to share them? If so, where are those writings now? I worry that a servant or lesser wife in the Garden of Fragrant Delights may have found her notebooks, thought them worthless, and used the pages to cover pickle and sauce jars. Now, at the time of this new


and Somers were standing right outside Somers’s office, coffee cups in hand, deep in conversation. Tommy headed straight to them, and they both smiled widely at first, but then caught sight of Marion and exchanged a quick glance. “Tommy, shouldn’t you be out finding pickpockets or whatever you do these days?” said Somers. Even though he was teasing, there was a warmth in his voice. Everyone loved Tommy. “I’ve caught them all, if you can believe it.” “I certainly can. Nice to see you downtown. And I see you have an entourage this morning.” Tommy stood tall. “That’s right. Can I have a minute of your time?” Somers gestured for him to come into his office, and Tommy indicated that Marion and Peter should wait outside. The door didn’t close completely behind them, so Tommy’s words carried out into the hallway. “I know you’ve already met Marion Brooks,” said Tommy. “She’s like family to me. I was hoping you could give her a little more of your time although I know you have your hands full. Can you do that for me?” A moment later, Tommy came out and pointed with his thumb back to where Somers and Ogden waited. “They’re all yours. I love ya, kid. Reach out if there’s anything else I can do.” “Thank you, Tommy.” She squeezed his arm and headed in. “I owe you one.” She and Peter entered, and each took a seat opposite the desk. Ogden stood near the windowsill, a coffee cup in one hand. “It’s good to see you, Miss Brooks,” said Somers, leaning back in his chair. “And I see you brought a friend.” “That’s right. You’re kind to see us.” “I assume this is the shrink you were talking about last week?” “I’m a resident doctor at Creedmoor, in Queens,” interjected Peter. “You look like you recently graduated from high school, if you don’t mind me saying,” said Somers. “I’m in the second year of my residency.” “Right.” This wasn’t off to a great start. “He went to Harvard,” added Marion. “He’s been profiling people who are insane, and I really think he could help us figure out who the Big Apple Bomber is.” “Profiling?” asked Somers. “What’s that?” At least he hadn’t dismissed them outright. Peter cleared his throat. “I ask patients questions about their past, their upbringing, what sort of experiences were seminal in their childhoods and early adulthood. At Creedmoor I have access to thousands of patients—” “Six thousand,” interrupted Marion. “Six thousand. So yes, I’m able to compare patterns. From that, I can tell to a fairly accurate degree whether a patient will be a danger to others during his stay at Creedmoor, or if he can be provided certain freedoms. I try to predict how someone who’s mentally unfit might react to a certain situation, like a conflict with his doctor or an argument with another patient. Whether he’ll lash out in anger or not.” “Well, I can tell you right now that our guy likes to lash out in anger,” said Ogden. “Case closed.” “But


I’d keep a promise I made. I believe now she’ll tell you the rest.” John is good-looking, with large brandy-brown eyes that seem to be lit from within. Michael cannot read minds or discern the quality of anyone’s character with a divining rod, but judging by what Nina has said and what the teachers at Saint Anthony’s School have written in their student reports, he believes this is a smart and steady kid, a fine man in the making. John’s posture, the inclination of his head, his quiet voice, and a hesitant manner suggest a healthy vulnerability that will inoculate him against the psychotic degree of self-esteem that shapes other boys into gangsters like Aleem. He reminds Michael of Shelby. “You’re younger than I thought,” John says. By one calculation, Michael is forty-four, but in another sense, he is only four days old. To the boy, he says, “And I suspect you’re older than your years.” Nina confirms, “He’s that, all right,” and the boy ducks his head, shying away from the praise. “It won’t be easy leaving your friends.” “What friends?” the boy asks. “I know you have them.” “You mean school friends.” “A hard thing for most kids.” “School friends aren’t forever. Everyone grows up and moves on. That’s how it is.” Impressed, Michael says, “I know you’ll help your mother through this.” If John is ever capable of looking at his mother without his intense love being apparent, this is not one of those moments. He clearly adores her. “We’re always all right.” “Always,” she says. “Stay home from school,” Michael advises. “I’m not afraid,” the boy says. “It’s not about being afraid. It’s about being smart.” His mother says, “You can help me pack, sweetheart.” “So we’re going.” “If we really hustle,” she says, “we can be out of here tomorrow afternoon.” “To where?” “Wherever we want. We have resources.” “The sooner the better,” Michael reminds her. He smiles at John, and the boy responds to the smile with a sober expression that says he has been aware of the stakes for most of his life. THE ARM OF THE STATE The declared purpose of the sprawling Internal Security Agency is to seek, discover, monitor, and eliminate every threat to the nation that might arise within its borders, and the ISA actually does some of that. As the agency has evolved, however, its primary purposes are to guarantee the perpetuation of the labyrinthine and unelected bureaucracy that in truth runs the country, ensure the prerogatives of the ruling class, and to monitor that only the right kind of people are gorging themselves at the public trough. With the tens of billions of dollars in its annual budget, the ISA is a vast wasp’s nest that can dispatch swarms of agents to every real, fabricated, and imagined crisis. Among those busy hornets of the law, Durand Calaphas is unique. While some other agents might be dedicated to the job, Calaphas is obsessed with it. He has no wife, no children, no significant other. His mother and father are living,


and even the tiniest child joined in. For the moment the boys were a closed circuit of sympathy with Piggy outside: he went very pink, bowed his head and cleaned his glasses again. Finally the laughter died away and the naming continued. There was Maurice, next in size among the choir boys to Jack, but broad and grinning all the time. There was a slight, furtive boy whom no one knew, who kept to himself with an inner intensity of avoidance and secrecy. He muttered that his name was Roger and was silent again. Bill, Robert, Harold, Henry; the choir boy who had fainted sat up against a palm trunk, smiled pallidly at Ralph and said that his name was Simon. Jack spoke. "We've got to decide about being rescued." There was a buzz. One of the small boys, Henry, said that he wanted to go home. "Shut up," said Ralph absently. He lifted the conch. "Seems to me we ought to have a chief to decide things." "A chief! A chief!" "I ought to be chief," said Jack with simple arrogance, "because I'm chapter chorister and head boy. I can sing C sharp." Another buzz. "Well then," said Jack, "I--" He hesitated. The dark boy, Roger, stirred at last and spoke up. "Let's have a vote." "Yes!" "Vote for chief!" "Let's vote--" This toy of voting was almost as pleasing as the conch. Jack started to protest but the clamor changed from the general wish for a chief to an election by acclaim of Ralph himself. None of the boys could have found good reason for this; what intelligence had been shown was traceable to Piggy while the most obvious leader was Jack. But there was a stillness about Ralph as he sat that marked him out: there was his size, and attractive appearance; and most obscurely, yet most powerfully, there was the conch. The being that had blown that, had sat waiting for them on the platform with the delicate thing balanced on his knees, was set apart. "Him with the shell." "Ralph! Ralph!" "Let him be chief with the trumpet-thing." Ralph raised a hand for silence. "All right. Who wants Jack for chief?" With dreary obedience the choir raised their hands. "Who wants me?" Every hand outside the choir except Piggy's was raised immediately. Then Piggy, too, raised his hand grudgingly into the air. Ralph counted. "I'm chief then." The circle of boys broke into applause. Even the choir applauded; and the freckles on Jack's face disappeared under a blush of mortification. He started up, then changed his mind and sat down again while the air rang. Ralph looked at him, eager to offer something. "The choir belongs to you, of course." "They could be the army--" "Or hunters--" "They could be--" The suffusion drained away from Jack's face. Ralph waved again for silence. "Jack's in charge of the choir. They can be--what do you want them to be?" "Hunters." Jack and Ralph smiled at each other with shy liking. The rest began to talk eagerly. Jack stood up.


pushes his empty plate away, irritated. I gaze at him. “Please. You’re driving me crazy.” I swallow and try to subdue the panic rising in my throat. I take a deep steadying breath. It’s now or never. “I’m pregnant.” He stills, and very slowly all the color drains from his face. “What?” he whis- pers, ashen. “I’m pregnant.” His brow furrows with incomprehension. “How?” How . . . how? What sort of ridiculous question is that? I blush, and give him a quizzical how-do-you-think look. His stance changes immediately, his eyes hardening to flint. “Your shot?” he snarls. Oh shit. “Did you forget your shot?” I just gaze at him unable to speak. Jeez, he’s mad—really mad. “Christ, Ana!” He bangs his fist on the table, making me jump, and stands so abruptly he almost knocks the dining chair over. “You have one thing, one thing to remember. Shit! I don’t fucking believe it. How could you be so stupid?” Stupid! I gasp. Shit. I want to tell him that the shot was ineffective, but words fail me. I gaze down at my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Sorry? Fuck!” he says again. “I know the timing’s not very good.” “Not very good!” he shouts. “We’ve known each other five fucking minutes. I wanted to show you the fucking world and now . . . Fuck. Diapers and vomit and shit!” He closes his eyes. I think he’s trying to contain his temper and losing the battle. “Did you forget? Tell me. Or did you do this on purpose?” His eyes blaze and anger emanates off him like a force field. “No,” I whisper. I can’t tell him about Hannah—he’d fire her. I know. “I thought we’d agreed on this!” he shouts. “I know. We had. I’m sorry.” He ignores me. “This is why. This is why I like control. So shit like this doesn’t come along and fuck everything up.” 401/551 No . . . Little Blip. “Christian, please don’t shout at me.” Tears start to slip down my face. “Don’t start with waterworks now,” he snaps. “Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it as he does. “You think I’m ready to be a father?” His voice catches, and it’s a mixture of rage and panic. And it all becomes clear, the fear and loathing writ large in his eyes—his rage is that of a powerless adolescent. Oh, Fifty, I am so sorry. It’s a shock for me, too. “I know neither one of us is ready for this, but I think you’ll make a wonder- ful father,” I choke. “We’ll figure it out.” “How the fuck do you know!” he shouts, louder this time. “Tell me how!” His gray eyes burn, and so many emotions cross his face. It’s fear that’s most prominent. “Oh fuck this!” Christian bellows dismissively and holds his hands up in a gesture of defeat. He turns on his heel and stalks toward the foyer, grabbing his jacket as he leaves the great room. His footsteps echo off the wooden floor, and


than after.” “Well, that’s nice.” “Very occasionally.” “But other than that it’s a shitty job.” “Yeah.” “Why d’you do it?” “I don’t know. I fell into it, now I’m here.” I know just fine, but I don’t want to talk about Athena with Felton. Felton looks at me a while longer. “I don’t like it, but I get it now. I can deal with it.” He puts his hand out. I shake it. We both look like we’d rather be anywhere but here. “Okay. Thank you.” “You want any more about the gun?” “You think it’s important?” “In my cop judgement? Fuck, no. It is not.” “You get anything off the security tape yet?” “Take out the residents, there’s fourteen people come in that evening. So far we got a racketball teacher, four dinner guests and a massage therapist.” “Like massage massage or the other kind?” “All I can tell you is expensive. That kind of expensive, it’s honestly a little hard to tell. Then there’s a few more we don’t know yet. No faces, no one’s owned up to them. You know there’s going to be two or three we can’t get, right? People doing things they shouldn’t do.” “Yeah.” “You gonna share? Did you get anything?” I’m about to say I’m only supposed to tell Gratton, but I can still feel his handshake. “Janitor collects hair. Like, he gathers it up and colour-matches it.” He stares at me. “The hell?” “He says it’s commercial. I don’t think it’s a thing.” “Oh, it’s a thing I’m gonna think about when I can’t sleep nights. Jesus, Sounder. Anything that isn’t freaky as shit and might be relevant?” “Not yet. You want me to call if I do?” He nods and we look at each other like we’re ten years old and trying to share a pushbike. I walk out before one of us fucks it up. * * * — Twenty minutes with a cup of bad street coffee in my hand gets me to Mick’s Guns on Highdown Road. Mick’s is a militia-aspected executive hipster venue catering to nervous senior vice presidents and Doc Holliday wannabes with deep pockets. They carry the Armani Armour range as a cheap option and head north into bespoke Dyneema, Dragonscale and monofilament. There’s impact cloth ballgowns in the ladies’ section: bulletproof so long as the shooter doesn’t aim for the décolletage, but they solve that with a shawl which’ll take a direct hit at ten feet and keep the contessa standing to return fire with a range of purse-carry accessories. The same pepperpot gun Roddy bought comes in a thigh holster and ships with a selection of replaceable grips in non-slip pearl or abalone. There are no cash registers, so you’d think these items change hands as a courtesy, but in the middle of the room there’s a tall woman—ordinary tall, not Titan tall—in what I’m guessing is about twenty grand’s worth of ballistic spidersilk formal wear. She says her name is Celine. The accent is French with a trace of somewhere else, maybe Bangkok


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

different sizes, different genders, but in death they appeared uniform. All of them were covered in dark fabric. All of them looked like they were merely sleeping, as long as you didn’t get close enough to notice their pallor, the waxy texture of their skin. And all of them looked nearly the same age. No children, no elderly. These corpses would be in the primes of their lives, if they weren’t dead. Bastian moved first. Tentatively, still holding the lit torch, though now they didn’t really need it. “Where are the rest of them?” No children. No elders. It itched at the back of her neck, some formless apprehension she wasn’t sure how to parse. “They could be in another chamber, couldn’t they? Kept apart?” “I guess.” Bastian’s brows slashed down. “But why?” Slowly, Lore approached the nearest slab. Femme, muscular, maybe a handful of years older than her. Reddish hair, a smooth, unlined face. And not a hint of rot. The last attack had been two days ago. Two days, with seventy-five victims. But there were far more than seventy-five bodies in this room, so these had to be corpses from all four attacked villages. But why were they divided by age? And how had they been so well preserved? “Lore.” Bastian’s voice was quiet, like he was afraid to disturb the dead. “Their palm.” One of the corpse’s hands had fallen from the plinth. Lore didn’t want to touch it; instead, she crouched and craned her neck to look. An eclipse was carved into the meat of the corpse’s palm. A sun across the top, its curve running beneath the fingers, rays stretching to where they began. A crescent moon across the bottom, completing the sun’s arc. “I don’t understand,” she murmured, straightening, closing her own scarred hand into a fist. “What does that mean?” “Only one way to find out,” Bastian said. Lore placed her fingers lightly on the stone plinth before her. She closed her eyes and found the death hiding deep in the body, tugged on it gently. The breath she took and held tasted of emptiness and mineral cold. Her fingertips grew cold and pale as strands of darkness eased from the corpse and into her, the world losing its color again. Something didn’t look right. She could see her own body, white light and gray and the mass of dark in her center. Bastian next to her, a light so bright it nearly throbbed. But right above the heart of every corpse, there was a knot of darkness, thickly tangled, the color of a sky devoid of moon or stars. It reminded her of the leak, of the door. Anton, again. What had the Priest Exalted done? Her heartbeat came slow, slower. Her limbs felt heavy. She’d taken in nearly as much Mortem as she could, and she slammed her palms down on the plinth, channeling it into the rock, feeling it grow porous and brittle. Her veins were sluggish; her lungs couldn’t pull in enough air to satisfy. She’d taken in more death than


below. “You said you wanted to help,” he rasped, “so help.” The air still smelled sour. Her feet still felt wobbly. Anton was still knitting Mortem into some unfathomable tangle, shaping it in a way Lore didn’t understand. But Gabe was right, and it was clear from the pathetic wisps of Mortem curling up from the leak that the Presque Mort wouldn’t be able to channel all of this away on their own. So Lore raised her hands, closed her eyes. Held her breath, let the world go black-and-white, and called death into her. Her vision grayed out, but something was different. She could see the knot Anton had made, pulsing in the air above the leak. Lore tried to avoid it as she reeled in threads of death, but she wasn’t sophisticated enough for that, hadn’t learned how to be careful. As she pulled in Mortem, Anton’s knot unraveled, the dark threads curling free into the stagnant air. She anticipated him shouting at her, doing something to stop her, trying to gather up that magic into its tangle again. But the Priest Exalted merely stepped aside, the corona of white light around him turning to face her. Lore tried to stop, but the instinct was too strong now, and she was caught in its current like sand in the tide. The threads of Mortem that Anton had altered flowed to her hands, breached her skin, found her heart. It felt different. Stronger, somehow, slithering through her veins in a torrent. And it didn’t come back out. Panicking, Lore planted her feet and flexed her fingers, trying to hold up against the onslaught— That’s when the screaming started. Her body wouldn’t obey when Lore tried to close her hands, frozen like the corpse she undoubtedly resembled. Everything in her was cold, a deep, numbing wave coursing from her outstretched fingers and all the way down her spine, her heart stopped and stilled as if a giant fist had closed around it. And still, the screaming. The screaming that, somehow, was her fault. But it was hard to hear over the voice in her head. This isn’t something you can escape. Haven’t you figured that out by now? It echoed in every one of her bones, danced on every icy nerve. The voice was alien and familiar at once, and sounded strange, like two throats twined together and speaking as one, harmonizing with itself. One of those voices sounded like Lore’s. Every day, it grows stronger. Growing in you like rot as you come nearer to ascension. The voice felt like oil poured over the grooves of her brain, slipping into every empty surface. It reminded her of the voice that had told her to use her power, that day in the square with Horse, but stronger, more sure. You can’t flee from what you are, daughter of the dark. Death is the one thing that will always find you, and you are its heir. The seed of the apocalypse, end-times walking. You are the wildfire necessary for the forest to grow, the


Granger nodded. "They're faking. You threw them off at the river. They can't admit it. They know they can hold their audience only so long. The show's got to have a snap ending, quick! If they started searching the whole damn river it might take all night. So they're sniffing for a scape-goat to end things with a bang. Watch. They'll catch Montag in the next five minutes! " "But how--" "Watch." The camera, hovering in the belly of a helicopter, now swung down at an empty street. "See that?" whispered Granger. "It'll be you; right up at the end of that street is our victim. See how our camera is coming in? Building the scene. Suspense. Long shot. Right now, some poor fellow is out for a walk. A rarity. An odd one. Don't think the police don't know the habits of queer ducks like that, men who walk mornings for the hell of it, or for reasons of insomnia Anyway, the police have had him charted for months, years. Never know when that sort of information might be handy. And today, it turns out, it's very usable indeed. It saves face. Oh, God, look there!" The men at the fire bent forward. On the screen, a man turned a corner. The Mechanical Hound rushed forward into the viewer, suddenly. The helicopter light shot down a dozen brilliant pillars that built a cage all about the man. A voice cried, "There's Montag ! The search is done!" The innocent man stood bewildered, a cigarette burning in his hand. He stared at the Hound, not knowing what it was. He probably never knew. He glanced up at the sky and the wailing sirens. The cameras rushed down. The Hound leapt up into the air with a rhythm and a sense of timing that was incredibly beautiful. Its needle shot out. It was suspended for a moment in their gaze, as if to give the vast audience time to appreciate everything, the raw look of the victim's face, the empty street, the steel animal a bullet nosing the target. "Montag, don't move!" said a voice from the sky. The camera fell upon the victim, even as did the Hound. Both reached him simultaneously. The victim was seized by Hound and camera in a great spidering, clenching grip. He screamed. He screamed. He screamed! Blackout. Silence. Darkness. Montag cried out in the silence and turned away. Silence. And then, after a time of the men sitting around the fire, their faces expressionless, an announcer on the dark screen said, "The search is over, Montag is dead; a crime against society has been avenged." Darkness. "We now take you to the Sky Room of the Hotel Lux for a half-hour of Just-Before-Dawn, a programme of-" Granger turned it off. "They didn't show the man's face in focus. Did you notice? Even your best friends couldn't tell if it was you. They scrambled it just enough to let the imagination take over. Hell," he whispered. "Hell." Montag said nothing but now, looking back, sat with his


class="s1">

SHIPPED OFF TO RAF Shawbury and discovered that helicopters were much

more complex than Fireflys.

Even the preflight checks were more extensive.

I stared at the galaxy of toggles and switches and thought: How am I

going to memorize all this?

Somehow I did. Slowly, under the watchful eyes of my two new

instructors, Sergeant Majors Lazel and Mitchell, I learned them all.

In no time we were lifting off, rotors beating the frothy clouds, one of the

great physical sensations anyone can experience. The purest form of flying,

in many ways. The first time we ascended, straight vertical, I thought: I was

born for this.

But flying the helicopter, I learned, wasn’t the hard part. Hovering was.

At least six long lessons were devoted to this one task, which sounded easy

at first and quickly came to seem impossible. In fact, the more you practiced

hovering, the more impossible it seemed.

The main reason was a phenomenon called “hover monkeys.” Just above

the ground a helicopter falls prey to a fiendish confluence of factors: air

flow, downdraft, gravity. First it wobbles, then it rocks, then it pitches and

yaws—as if invisible monkeys are hanging from both its skids, yanking. To

land the helicopter you have to shake off those hover monkeys, and the only

way to do that is by...ignoring them.

Easier said. Time and time again the hover monkeys got the better of me,

and it was small consolation that they also got the better of every other pilot

training with me. We talked among ourselves about these little bastards,

these invisible gremlins. We grew to hate them, to dread the shame and rage

that came with being bested by them yet again. None of us could work out

how to restore the aircraft’s equilibrium and put it on the deck without

denting the fuselage. Or scraping the skids. To walk away from a landing

with a long, crooked mark on the tarmac behind you—that was the ultimate

humiliation.

Come the day of our first solos we were all basket cases. The hover

monkeys, the hover monkeys, that was all you heard around


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

bearded face. Marvel's face was astonishment. "I'm dashed!" he said. "If this don't beat cock-fighting! Most remarkable!--And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, 'arf a mile away! Not a bit of you visible--except--" He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. "You 'aven't been eatin' bread and cheese?" he asked, holding the invisible arm. "You're quite right, and it's not quite assimilated into the system." "Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "Sort of ghostly, though." "Of course, all this isn't so wonderful as you think." "It's quite wonderful enough for my modest wants," said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Howjer manage it? How the dooce is it done?" "It's too long a story. And besides--" "I tell you, the whole business fair beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that--I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you--" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "I came up behind you--hesitated--went on--" Mr. Marvel's expression was eloquent. "--then stopped. 'Here,' I said, 'is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me.' So I turned back and came to you--you. And--" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I'm all in a dizzy. May I ask--How is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help?-- Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes--and shelter--and then, with other things. I've left them long enough. If you won't--well! But you will--must." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I'm too flabbergasted. Don't knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you've pretty near broken my toe. It's all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist--Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the voice, "for you have to do the job I've chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I've chosen you," said the voice. "You are the only man, except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me--and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me," he said, "if you fail to do as I direct you--" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel's shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don't want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don't you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you--just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I'm most willing to do." Chapter 10 Mr. Marvel's Visit to Iping After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its


get away." It was a great disappointment. The children were almost ready to cry. After Dick's marvellous rescue of George and Julian, it had seemed as if everything was going right- and now suddenly things were going wrong again. "We must think this out," said Julian, sitting down where he could see at once if any boat came in sight. "The men have gone off- probably to get a ship from somewhere in which they can put the ingots and sail away. They won't be back for some time, I should think, because you can't charter a ship all in a hurry- unless, of course, they've got one of their own." "And in the meantime we can't get off the island to get help, because they've got our oars," said George. "We can't even signal to any passing fishing-boat because they won't be out just now. The tide's wrong. It seems as if all we've got to do is wait here patiently till the men come back and take my gold! And we can't stop them." "You know- I've got a sort of plan coming into my head," said Julian, slowly. "Wait a bit- don't interrupt me. I'm thinking." The others waited in silence while Julian sat and frowned, thinking of his plan. Then he looked at the others with a smile. "I believe it will work," he said. "Listen! We'll wait here in patience till the men come back. What will they do? They'll drag away those stones at the top of the dungeon entrance, and go down the steps. They'll go to the store-room, where they left us- thinking we are still there, and they will go into the room. Well, what about one of us being hidden down there ready to bolt them into the room? Then we can either go off in their motor-boat or our own boat if they bring back our oars- and get help." Anne thought it was a marvellous idea. But Dick and George did not look so certain. "We'd have to go down and bolt that door again to make it seem as if we are still prisoners there," said George. "And suppose the one who hides down there doesn't manage to bolt the men in? It might be very difficult to do that quickly enough. They will simply catch whoever we plan to leave down there, and come up to look for the rest of us." "That's true," said Julian, thoughtfully. "Well- we'll suppose that Dick, or whoever goes down, doesn't manage to bolt them in and make them prisoners- and the men come up here again. All right- while they are down below we'll pile big stones over the entrance, just as they did. Then they won't be able to get out." "What about Dick down below?" said Anne, at once. "I could climb up the well again!" said Dick, eagerly. "I'll be the one to go down and hide. I'll do my best to bolt the men into the room. And if I have to escape I'll climb up the


flirtation is my love language, and that I haven’t gotten laid in a very, very long time. Frankly, I was just being polite by apologizing. “Tell me about Jess and River,” he says, blessing us both with an escape route. “How do you know them?” “Jess and I have been friends forever. River used to come into our coffee shop every morning and they’d do this whole Pride and Prejudice flirt-but-not-flirt thing. It was entertaining but ultimately exhausting. I forced her to do the DNADuo. I’m telling you, if it wasn’t for me, she’d still be single. I should get a finder’s fee.” “I wasn’t really paying attention to the technology yet when the company first launched,” he says, “but they had a very high match, right?” “Diamond—a score of ninety-nine, in fact, still the highest score in company history. The executives actually paid her to get to know him. Honestly, I couldn’t have written a better happily ever after myself.” I make the mistake of letting my eyes wander down the length of his body. He seems strangely fidgety, and when he pulls his sweater up and over his head, folding it on the back of his chair, my brain short-circuits for at least a second. A new emotion invades my blood: soft fondness. I blink at his chest and the five grinning male faces there beneath WONDERLAND in the branded, swooping font. “You’re wearing a Wonderland T-shirt?” “Stevie and I got some merch when you and Juno were stuck in that abysmal porta potty line earlier.” I laugh-whisper, “Merch. You’ve got the lingo.” He grins at my slack-jawed awe. “We are on a quest, right? A quest for joy? Do I not need to attain certain knowledge?” For a beat, I’m speechless. I have a tight feeling in my chest, like twine around my lungs, seeing him in this T-shirt. And not just wearing it, but proudly wearing it. I’ve agreed with Jess about how hot it is that River is such a good dad to Juno, but it’s a truth I can’t look at straight on. I celebrate it for her obliquely, on the sidelines. I want a family, of course, but who knows what that will look like for me. The meet someone + love someone + be together long enough to want to have a kid together math isn’t really mathing for me. I assume my role is being the auntie everyone comes to when they need to learn how to do the perfect winged eyeliner, hide a hangover from a parent, or cry about their first broken heart. I think every child needs someone who adores them unconditionally but is not biologically obligated to. Being attracted to a proud dad is doing weird, painful things to my breathing. It’s only attraction, I remind myself. Don’t make it into a big deal. “I didn’t realize their merch sizes went up to giant,” I say, pushing my voice out past the cork of emotion in my throat. I make the mistake of reaching out to touch the shirt