in great distress, to keep off shore. Mercy on them, and on all poor sailors, said he, if we had another night like the last! I was very much depressed in spirits; very solitary; and felt an uneasiness in Ham's not being there, disproportionate to the occasion. I was seriously affected, without knowing how much, by late events; and my long exposure to the fierce wind had confused me. There was that jumble in my thoughts and recollections, that I had lost the clear arrangement of time and distance. Thus, if I had gone out into the town, I should not have been surprised, I think, to encounter someone who I knew must be then in London. So to speak, there was in these respects a curious inattention in my mind. Yet it was busy, too, with all the remembrances the place naturally awakened; and they were particularly distinct and vivid. In this state, the waiter's dismal intelligence about the ships immediately connected itself, without any effort of my volition, with my uneasiness about Ham. I was persuaded that I had an apprehension of his returning from Lowestoft by sea, and being lost. This grew so strong with me, that I resolved to go back to the yard before I took my dinner, and ask the boat-builder if he thought his attempting to return by sea at all likely? If he gave me the least reason to think so, I would go over to Lowestoft and prevent it by bringing him with me. I hastily ordered my dinner, and went back to the yard. I was none too soon; for the boat-builder, with a lantern in his hand, was locking the yard-gate. He quite laughed when I asked him the question, and said there was no fear; no man in his senses, or out of them, would put off in such a gale of wind, least of all Ham Peggotty, who had been born to seafaring. So sensible of this, beforehand, that I had really felt ashamed of doing what I was nevertheless impelled to do, I went back to the inn. If such a wind could rise, I think it was rising. The howl and roar, the rattling of the doors and windows, the rumbling in the chimneys, the apparent rocking of the very house that sheltered me, and the prodigious tumult of the sea, were more fearful than in the morning. But there was now a great darkness besides; and that invested the storm with new terrors, real and fanciful. I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not continue steadfast to anything. Something within me, faintly answering to the storm without, tossed up the depths of my memory and made a tumult in them. Yet, in all the hurry of my thoughts, wild running with the thundering sea, - the storm, and my uneasiness regarding Ham were always in the fore-ground. My dinner went away almost untasted, and I tried to refresh myself with a glass or two of wine. In vain. I fell into a


laughs again. Ethan takes a few steps back as her voice nears the bathroom door. “Thanks, Brody. I’ll let you know how it goes.” When the door opens, Ethan is standing beside their bed. She’s wearing a short satin robe and more makeup than usual. The light in Sloane’s eyes dims when she sees him. It’s the same look she’s given him countless times since she learned of his affair. A reminder of what a raging disappointment he is to her. His father looked at him the same way after Ethan told him he was becoming a cop. “Ethan. You’re home early.” Her eyes fall to the flowers in his hand. “I wanted to make sure I got here in plenty of time.” He extends the bouquet toward her. “I’m so proud of you.” She accepts the flowers, but her smile looks forced. “Who were you talking to?” “Hmm?” She sniffs the bouquet before setting it on the bed. “In the bathroom.” Ethan tries to stifle the jealousy that surges in his chest. “Oh.” She turns her back to him and strides toward the walk-in closet, phone still in hand. Ethan follows behind her, getting a whiff of a fruity perfume he’s never smelled before. “I was just practicing my acceptance speech for tonight.” She starts to untie her robe as she shuts the closet door behind her. Ethan presses his palm against the wall beside the doorway, fighting the urge to fling open the door and demand to know who she was talking to. Instead, he turns and sinks onto the end of the bed. She hates him. He can see it in her eyes. And he doesn’t blame her after what he did. But the last thing he expected was for her to seek comfort in another man. Maybe he was a fool to not consider this possibility. Some detective I am if I couldn’t see this coming. He flexes his jaw, hearing her humming from inside the closet. She says she’s forgiven him. But she hasn’t. And she won’t. Not until she can understand what it’s like to make a stupid mistake. She’s achieved so much, and without help from anyone, that she’s forgotten what it’s like to be human. Driven herself to perfection. Lately, he’s wondered if he’d be better off with someone else. A woman with hobbies instead of an all-encompassing, high-performance profession. One who loves Christmas and children. A woman whose perfectionism doesn’t illuminate all his own flaws. But he loves Sloane. Her drive, intellect, and beauty are incomparable to anyone else. Coming so close to losing her has made him realize it more than ever. And he’s not ready to give up. He thinks of what she told the man on the phone. I wish you could be there tonight, too. A lot of her physician coworkers were likely attending the gala. So, who is this guy? How did they meet? Ethan looks at the roses lying beside him. They aren’t enough. Neither is the hotel he booked tonight. Nothing will ever be enough until


happened to her. There was no enquiry he could make. She might have been vaporized, she might have committed suicide, she might have been transferred to the other end of Oceania: worst and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her mind and decided to avoid him. The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling and she had a band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The relief of seeing her was so great that he could not resist staring directly at her for several seconds. On the following day he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. When he came into the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the wall, and was quite alone. It was early, and the place was not very full. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (61 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt The queue edged forward till Winston was almost at the counter, then was held up for two minutes because someone in front was complaining that he had not received his tablet of saccharine. But the girl was still alone when Winston secured his tray and began to make for her table. He walked casually towards her, his eyes searching for a place at some table beyond her. She was perhaps three metres away from him. Another two seconds would do it. Then a voice behind him called, 'Smith!' He pretended not to hear. 'Smith!' repeated the voice, more loudly. It was no use. He turned round. A blond-headed, silly-faced young man named Wilsher, whom he barely knew, was inviting him with a smile to a vacant place at his table. It was not safe to refuse. After having been recognized, he could not go and sit at a table with an unattended girl. It was too noticeable. He sat down with a friendly smile. The silly blond face beamed into his. Winston had a hallucination of himself smashing a pick-axe right into the middle of it. The girl's table filled up a few minutes later. But she must have seen him coming towards her, and perhaps she would take the hint. Next day he took care to arrive early. Surely enough, she was at a table in about the same place, and again alone. The person immediately ahead of him in the queue was a small, swiftly-moving, beetle-like man with a flat face and tiny, suspicious eyes. As Winston turned away from the counter with his tray, he saw that the little man was making straight for the girl's table. His hopes sank again. There was a vacant place at a table further away, but something in the little man's appearance suggested that he would be sufficiently attentive to his own comfort to choose the emptiest table. With ice at his heart Winston followed. It was no use unless he could get the girl alone. At this moment there was a tremendous crash. The little man was sprawling on all fours, his tray had gone flying, two streams of soup and coffee were flowing across the floor. He started to his


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

days went by. Whether Bartleby’s eyes improved or not, I could not say. To all appearance, I thought they did. But when I asked him if they did, he vouchsafed no answer. At all events, he would do no copying. At last, in reply to my urgings, he informed me that he had permanently given up copying. “What!” exclaimed I; “suppose your eyes should get entirely well—better than ever before—would you not copy then?” “I have given up copying,” he answered, and slid aside. He remained as ever, a fixture in my chamber. Nay—if that were possible—he became still more of a fixture than before. What was to be done? He would do nothing in the office: why should he stay there? In plain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a necklace, but afflictive to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak less than truth when I say that, on his own account, he occasioned me uneasiness. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I would instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow away to some convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone in the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic. At length, necessities connected with my business tyrannized over all other considerations. Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days’ time he must unconditionally leave the office. I warned him to take measures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered to assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first step towards a removal. “And when you finally quit me, Bartleby,” added I, “I shall see that you go not away entirely unprovided. Six days from this hour, remember.” At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo! Bartleby was there. I buttoned up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him, touched his shoulder, and said, “The time has come; you must quit this place; I am sorry for you; here is money; but you must go.” “I would prefer not,” he replied, with his back still towards me. “You must.” He remained silent. Now I had an unbounded confidence in this man’s common honesty. He had frequently restored to me sixpences and shillings carelessly dropped upon the floor, for I am apt to be very reckless in such shirt-button affairs. The proceeding then which followed will not be deemed extraordinary. “Bartleby,” said I, “I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are thirty-two; the odd twenty are yours.—Will you take it?” and I handed the bills towards him. But he made no motion. “I will leave them here then,” putting them under a weight on the table. Then taking my hat and cane and going to the door I tranquilly turned and added—”After you have removed your things from these offices, Bartleby, you will of course lock the door—since every one is now gone for the day but you—and if you please, slip your key


the seat next to hers. ‘Thank you.’ He eased himself down, adjusting pale shorts over paler legs. ‘I’m so sorry…’ He was still shaking. ‘I’m David Ellis.’ He took off his hat, wiping a hand over his damp forehead. ‘Yes, please – I think I might join you in one of those. Margarita, is it?’ Josie nodded. The waiter was hovering and she ordered another cocktail. Then she put a gentle hand on his arm. ‘Do you feel better?’ ‘Yes, no… oh, I don’t know…’ David muttered. ‘I’ve been so silly, coming here by myself.’ Josie’s eyes were full of sympathy. ‘It’s hard when you’re on your own.’ ‘Are you alone?’ ‘I am.’ Josie smiled bravely. ‘I’m here for the glorious sunshine.’ David turned to her, bright blue eyes in a blank face. ‘It’s too hot for me. I’d be better off on a Baltic cruise…’ ‘Why did you choose the Caribbean?’ Josie frowned behind her sunglasses. ‘Research, I’d hoped,’ David muttered. ‘I’m writing a crime book set on the islands. I thought it would be good for me.’ ‘But it isn’t…’ Josie watched his face carefully to check if he was recovering, ‘…good for you?’ ‘Ah, a fortnight’s a long time by yourself on a boat.’ The waiter had arrived with the cocktail. David took it in trembling fingers and sipped eagerly. ‘I thought it would help me get over my problems, but it’s made them worse.’ Josie attempted to approach the conversation from a different angle. ‘You’re a writer?’ ‘I’m not published yet,’ David admitted. ‘I’ve been trying to write for years. You don’t think seventy is too old to be an author, do you?’ ‘You can do anything if you set your mind to it.’ Josie met his eyes. ‘You seem a determined woman.’ David nodded. ‘I admire your pluck.’ ‘What makes you say that?’ Josie asked. ‘You’re on a cruise by yourself… you’re very sociable.’ She was momentarily taken aback. ‘Sociable?’ David was alarmed. ‘Oh, no, sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. No, what I mean is… I admire how you have the courage to enjoy your own company. I’m grieving, and I thought it would bring me out of myself being here, but it’s made me feel worse.’ Josie touched his hand. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ ‘My partner died last year. He always wanted to go on a Caribbean cruise but we never got round to it so… I’m here by myself.’ Josie understood too well the effort it took to do things by herself nowadays. For a moment, she was lost in thought. David brought the drink to his lips again and said, ‘Alan and I were together for thirty-five years – we lived in Aberystwyth. We always said we’d take this cruise, but we kept putting it off.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ Josie gave David her full attention. ‘So, your ambition is to write a novel?’ ‘It is.’ He smiled and Josie noticed how his eyes shone with tears. ‘I’m going to make my hero a gay Welsh detective by the name of


umbrella dangled to his stride. --Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts. Watch! --Who is he if it's a fair question? Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty? --His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom said smiling. Watch! --He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that one of these days. She broke off suddenly. --There he is, she said. I must go after him. Goodbye. Remember me to Molly, won't you? --I will, Mr Bloom said. He watched her dodge through passers towards the shopfronts. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old times. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly. Meshuggah. Off his chump. Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the two days. Watch him! Out he goes again. One way of getting on in the world. And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have with him. U.P.: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house I bet anything. Round to Menton's office. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods. He passed the IRISH TIMES. There might be other answers Iying there. Like to answer them all. Good system for criminals. Code. At their lunch now. Clerk with the glasses there doesn't know me. O, leave them there to simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. Wanted, smart lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called you naughty darling because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the meaning. Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell me who made the world. The way they spring those questions on you. And the other one Lizzie Twigg. My literary efforts have had the good fortune to meet with the approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr Geo. Russell). No time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry. Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now. Cook and general, exc. cuisine, housemaid kept. Wanted live man for spirit counter. Resp. girl (R.C.) wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop. James Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent dividend. Made a big deal on Coates's shares. Ca' canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the toady news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the IRISH FIELD now. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out with the Ward Union staghounds at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath. Uneatable fox. Pothunters too. Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them. Riding astride. Sit her horse like a man. Weightcarrying huntress. No sidesaddle or pillion


it. “You’re welcome to come look at them sometime. Just let me know beforehand, so I can make sure Anton isn’t going to be around. He’s picky about the Church library.” A scowl flickered at the corner of Gabe’s mouth, but he didn’t say anything. “I’ll take you up on that.” Lore turned in the direction she thought would take them toward the southeast turret. “Assuming I can find the time to unsew myself from Bastian’s ass.” Malcolm snorted. “Let me know if you need a seam ripper.” The sun was low in the sky by the time they made their circuitous way back through the shining halls of the Citadel to their suite. Gabe was quiet the whole time, his face drawn into pensive lines. Any attempt Lore made at a joke was rebuffed with silence. The silence did not alleviate when they got to their apartments. Gabe sighed when he entered the sitting room, hands hung on his hips, before turning right and entering the smaller study off the dining area. She heard a chair creak as he lowered himself into it. Lore went to the sidebar, found a bottle of wine, poured herself a glass. Still vinegary, but passable. She couldn’t find another wineglass, so she poured Gabe’s helping into a small mug clearly not meant for the purpose. A large oak desk dominated the study, empty except for a cut-glass paperweight housing a blood-red rose in its center. Bookshelves lined the walls, but they were mostly empty, too, holding only a dusty copy of the Compendium and a potted fern in desperate need of a good watering. The study was small enough that Lore didn’t have to enter all the way to hand him the cup. For a moment, he just looked at it, but then he took it from her. She leaned her shoulder against the jamb. “Your mood has taken a drastic turn for the dour.” He huffed, sipped the wine. “Being reminded of the excess in this place will do that.” Understandable. It had itched at her, too, wandering through the museumlike halls, seeing all the accumulated wealth while knowing firsthand the lack felt outside the Citadel. Lore had never worried about starving—Mari and Val made sure of that—but hunger was a sleeping wolf crouched at the door, a continuous threat that you learned to live with and did your best not to wake. Lore stared into the depths of her glass. “Our guilt isn’t helping anyone, Gabe.” He stiffened. Her foot tapped against the floor, a nervous rhythm to order her thoughts around. “I mean, part of me feels guilty for enjoying it, too. For wanting all this for myself, when I know how little most people have. But we don’t have time for the luxury of guilt. Not if there’s an actual war coming, and not while we’re stuck here either way.” Gabe still didn’t look at her. He slumped back in his chair, an inelegant pile of monk. “I didn’t think I missed it. But here, in a place where I was…


I am ailing. My mother-in-law has forbidden me to write to Meiling or help the women and girls in the household. I can survive most of these blows, but I will not give up who and what I am—even if that means hiding my actions by practicing medicine in secret. Go Back Home “How lucky we are to live during the age of the Great Ming,” Miss Chen, Master Yang’s concubine, comments. “Our country suffered through centuries of Mongol rule, but Zhu Yuanzhang drove them out, and became the first Ming emperor. Even the word itself—ming—tells of light, brightness, and the radiance of virtue. May the first hundred years of the Great Ming continue for a thousand years and gloriously on to the end of time.” I’m across the room, reclining on a kang, feeling so tired I could doze off, though it’s morning still. I force myself to a sitting position and pick up my embroidery. I send my needle down through the silk, pull it up and through the cloth, and drag the fuchsia-colored thread along the edge of my flower-petal design. I pretend not to listen, but my ears strain to hear the conversation between the concubines, who know so much more about the outer world than wives ever will. “The first Ming emperor asked the populace to embrace Chinese ways once again. Men have gone back to wearing traditional Han dynasty styles, while women like us”—Miss Chen’s hand flows through the air from her hair ornaments to her gown, her fingers trailing like silk gauze lifted by a breeze—“dress in styles that call to mind the elegance of centuries past.” Lady Kuo speaks from her circle of wives. “Life is not just about gowns and jewelry. We are fortunate not to know war—” “Yes, we have relative peace,” the concubine interrupts as she stretches toward a platter of dried fruit and nuts that have been painstakingly arranged into a pattern of butterfly wings. She pops a melon seed in her mouth, spits out the shell, and looks from face to face to confirm that cutting off my mother-in-law has escaped no one’s notice. “My husband has told me of marauders from the north,” Lady Kuo says, proving that Master Yang confides news of the world to her as well. “We can be grateful that the Hongzhi emperor continues construction on the Great Wall to keep out barbarians.” The conversation, which is taking an increasingly competitive turn, is suddenly interrupted by squealing laughter. “Yining!” Second Uncle’s first concubine calls out sharply. “Quiet!” “Yes, Mama,” the girl answers obediently, but she can barely contain her exuberance. She’s become the child I suspected she might be—full of sass and giggles. It will be a matter of only minutes before her boisterous ways get the better of her again. For now, though, the exchange between the concubine and her daughter has brought an end to what could have turned into another quarrel between Lady Kuo and Miss Chen. Oh, but I wish they’d continue their bickering, since the events of which they


him for lying, but the EMTs got testy when I tried to talk and then they were putting me in a helicopter. “You’ve really got to stop doing this,” one of the EMTs joked, yelling over the sound of the blades. “Last time, I promise,” I mumbled, and he shushed me again. And then, despite my best efforts, I faded. Consciousness seeped back slowly, punctuated by the soft beeping of a monitor. With my eyes closed and my body cocooned in the half oblivion of morphine, I might have been eleven years old again. Except this time, my dad was there when I woke up. “Hey, kid,” he said when he saw me open my eyes. “Hey,” I replied weakly. It came out like a shoe scraping over asphalt. “I’m not dead.” “Go figure,” he said. I looked down at my right hand. Even with the thick bandages, the shape of it was obviously wrong, the last two fingers gone almost entirely, the middle finger ending at the second knuckle. “Thought I still had that one,” I said, irrationally irritated at its absence. “The surgeon wanted a souvenir,” Dad said. I gave him a blank look, unable to process the humor. He cleared his throat. “It was damaged. They had to amputate.” I hadn’t even noticed. “What about the rest of me?” “I hope you didn’t have an emotional attachment to your spleen. And a sizable piece of intestine. You’re basically a soup of antibiotics and narcotics with a few chunks of meat to provide texture, but you’ll live.” “That’s good,” I managed. I tried to wet my cracked lips, but my mouth was just as dried out. “What happened?” “You don’t remember?” “I mean after. Did they—is Cody—” “He’s been arrested,” Dad said. “Even these chuckleheads have managed to put two and two together. Plus you kept saying ‘Cody Benham shot me’ over and over again.” “That part I don’t remember,” I confessed. “Yeah, you were pretty loopy,” Dad said. He leaned forward and patted my good hand. “Anyway. Glad you’re not dead. You, ah. Should really stop getting hurt.” “Wasn’t planning on it,” I said. My eyelids were getting heavy. “Naomi, I—” I drifted. I dreamed of a gleaming snake slithering down my throat and a black-eyed woman biting down on my fingers, dull teeth grinding their way through my flesh. I woke alone. * * * I had plenty of visitors. Bishop, Sawant, other cops. Dad. Even Marcus and Kimiko. Ethan never came. I wasn’t sure if that was a disappointment or a relief. There were loose ends to wrap up. I told my story countless times, and after the hundredth repetition or so I finally got some information in return. Marcus Barnes, as it turned out, had indeed been worried about my mental state when I left the house. Worried enough that he called around trying to find out where I was and make sure I wasn’t going to hurt myself. Bishop and Ethan were already on their way to the woods when I made the call—and a


fracture wounds to the back of her skull plus bruising on her neck and damage to her carotid artery and thyroid cartilage, as if she’d been choked. She was a star in musical theater and tennis, a senior who’d been admitted to Amherst College. Suspicion soon settled on Omar Evans, a twenty-five-year-old Black man who worked as head athletic 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


it was only when Aiden took out his wallet to pay and I saw a condom in one of the slots did I remember that couples have sex. When I don’t answer, Sam turns around and says, “That means no.” “We’ve been dating for three weeks,” I say. “We’ve been on ten official dates and you pay for most of them.” He frowns. “And sex is my reward?” “No, of course not. I don’t know why I said that.” “Okay.” “I do want to have sex with you,” I say. “I just don’t want to have sex.” Sam dries his hands on a tea towel. “Why is that?” My instinct is to lie. The day I told Alex the truth was the last day I ever saw him. I want to keep seeing Sam and— “Maddie, stop having conversations with yourself in your head and tell me the truth.” Well, damn. “Sex is painful,” I answer. “For me. Painful and … distant, maybe. I just want to have the sex I’ve heard about, but I don’t know how.” He considers me. “Have you tried doing it alone?” I look away. “Maddie?” “It’s … it’s not really my thing.” “That’s fine. Are you always wet?” I chew my lip and try to think. “Maybe?” “Have you ever been on top?” he asks. “During sex? No, I tend to just lie there.” He steps forward and holds out his hand. “Would you like to try that?” I take his hand and slot my fingers through his. “Yes, I would.” * * * In Sam’s bedroom, my heart thumps in my ears when he closes the door. It’s a large room with the bed’s headboard under an alcove and a desk, covered in his artwork, situated in front of the window. I wipe my forehead when his back is turned. We undress and he’s very slow with me. He brushes his fingers against my skin and I shiver. He puts a condom on and there’s no shuffle under the duvet or asking if I’m on the pill. Sam starts to kiss me and, naturally, I relax because we kiss all the time, until he’s sat on his bed and gently pulls me in. I trip over my feet and fall onto him, my elbow hitting him in the cheek. “Sam, I’m so sorry.” “It’s okay.” He smiles, amused. “Maddie, it’s okay. Let’s try something else.” Sam lays me on my back and climbs off to push a pillow under my waist. He presses a palm to each of my thighs to pull them apart; I resist at first, like an elastic band that won’t pull any farther. “Is everything all right?” I lift my head. “Yes. Sorry.” “That’s okay. We can go slower.” He leans over me, balancing himself on his arms, and slowly kisses my neck. His lips are warm and his kisses bury deep into my throat when he uses his tongue, bites and pulls away. He does this along my chest and my nails dig into his arms when he sucks on


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

swam into view above him. "Good afternoon, Harry," said Dumbledore. Harry stared at him. Then he remembered: "Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He's got the Stone! Sir, quick -- " "Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the times," said Dumbledore. "Quirrell does not have the Stone." "Then who does? Sir, I -- " "Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out." Harry swallowed and looked around him. He realized he must be in the hospital wing. He was lying in a bed with white linen sheets, and next to him was a table piled high with what looked like half the candy shop. "Tokens from your friends and admirers," said Dumbledore, beaming. "What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it." "How long have I been in here?" "Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved you have come round, they have been extremely worried." "But sir, the Stone..." "I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although you were doing very well on your own, I must say." "You got there? You got Hermione's owl?" "We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I reached London than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you." "It was you." "I feared I might be too late." "You nearly were, I couldn't have kept him off the Stone much longer -- " "Not the Stone, boy, you -- the effort involved nearly killed you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed." "Destroyed?" said Harry blankly. "But your friend -- Nicolas Flamel -- " "Oh, you know about Nicolas?" said Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted. "You did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a little chat, and agreed it's all for the best." "But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?" "They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, yes, they will die." Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on Harry's face. "To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all


Umuru, was also at a loss. Ajofia laughed in his guttural voice. It was like the laugh of rusty metal. "They are strangers," he said, "and they are ignorant. But let that pass." He turned round to his comrades and saluted them, calling them the fathers of Umuofia. He dug his rattling spear into the ground and it shook with metallic life. Then he turned once more to the missionary and his interpreter. "Tell the white man that we will not do him any harm," he said to the interpreter. "Tell him to go back to his house and leave us alone. We liked his brother who was with us before. He was foolish, but we liked him, and for his sake we shall not harm his brother. But this shrine which he built must be destroyed. We shall no longer allow it in our midst. It has bred untold abominations and we have come to put an end to it." He turned to his comrades. "Fathers of Umuofia, I salute you." and they replied with one guttural voice. He turned again to the missionary. "You can stay with us if you like our ways. You can worship your own god. It is good that a man should worship the gods and the spirits of his fathers. Go back to your house so that you may not be hurt. Our anger is great but we have held it down so that we can talk to you." Mr. Smith said to his interpreter: "Tell them to go away from here. This is the house of God and I will not live to see it desecrated." Okeke interpreted wisely to the spirits and leaders of Umuofia: "The white man says he is happy you have come to him with your grievances, like friends. He will be happy if you leave the matter in his hands." "We cannot leave the matter in his hands because he does not understand our customs, just as we do not understand his. We say he is foolish because he does not know our ways, and perhaps he says we are foolish because we do not know his. Let him go away." Mr. Smith stood his ground. But he could not save his church. When the egwugwu went away the red-earth church which Mr. Brown had built was a pile of earth and ashes. And for the moment the spirit of the clan was pacified. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE For the first time in many years Okonkwo had a feeling that was akin to happiness. The times which had altered so unaccountably during his exile seemed to be coming round again. The clan which had turned false on him appeared to be making amends. He had spoken violently to his clansmen when they had met in the marketplace to decide on their action. And they had listened to him with respect. It was like the good old days again, when a warrior was a warrior. Although they had not agreed to kill the missionary or drive away the Christians, they had agreed


cannot consider your situation with much compassion.'' ``But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!'' The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses. __ CHAPTER XXII (22) THE Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. ``It keeps him in good humour,'' said she, ``and I am more obliged to you than I can express.'' Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of; -- its object was nothing less than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so favourable that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here, she did injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success could be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure


Hollywood party, where he made the mistake of asking a very famous actor, And who are you? A failed attempt at a tofurkey that nearly burned his house down, which will include a deeper discussion of his vegetarianism. No dark secrets, but I wasn’t expecting them yet—it’s only our first real talk about the book. Even though I should be in my element, I can’t get over the fact that just a week ago, he was kissing me in front of a bookstore. “That wouldn’t be too much?” he’s asking, after I mention that I should probably watch as much of his work as possible, including the entirety of The Nocturnals. “I don’t want to work you too hard.” I quietly burst into flames. It’s criminal that he’s not seeing the innuendo. And that’s when I realize I cannot keep reacting to him like this. Because even if Finn is acting perfectly professional, the history between us is a swath of cotton in my throat, a fist wrapped tight around my lungs. Every time his eyes meet mine, an electric current rushes up my spine and I remember how he pressed me against the door. How his frantic fingers searched and searched and searched. Despite all the faux pas, he knows me, intimately, in a way only a few other people do. And now he’s right in front of me, pretending he doesn’t. If I can’t get past this anxiety, I’m not going to be able to write the book. “Everything okay?” he asks. “You look a little queasy.” I blink myself back to reality. “I feel like . . . we might need to talk about the thing we said we weren’t going to talk about?” I hate the way my voice tilts upward at the end, but I push forward. “I know we said we were going to forget about it, but I just want to make sure it’s not going to be an issue. That both of us are on the same page.” A nervous laugh slips out. “Literally, I guess.” I’m not prepared for the full force of his gaze, hazel eyes intently focused as he studies me. Cheekbones sharper than any of the swords I saw at the con today. I assume Finn wears contacts, but no wonder they had him wear glasses on The Nocturnals—otherwise, Caleb Rhodes, the werewolf protagonist played by former teen heartthrob Ethan Underwood, might have had some competition for leading man status. If my face is growing warm, it’s only because Friday night is now playing on repeat in my head. The way he took in my body. The weight of him on top of me. All that lube and oooh, there it is. “I don’t see why it has to affect our working relationship,” he finally says. “What’s one night of mind-blowing sex between coworkers?” A kalamata olive lodges itself in my windpipe as I lose myself to a coughing fit. In my rush to reach for my glass of water, I knock it over, sending ice cubes skidding across the


his pale unmoving way, silently acquiesced. Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent procession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of the roaring thoroughfares at noon. The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew, and closed by suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement as possible till something less harsh might be done—though indeed I hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview. Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. And so I found him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves. “Bartleby!” “I know you,” he said, without looking round,—”and I want nothing to say to you.” “It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby,” said I, keenly pained at his implied suspicion. “And to you, this should not be so vile a place. Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here. And see, it is not so sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is the grass.” “I know where I am,” he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I left him. As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron, accosted me, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder said—”Is that your friend?” “Yes.” “Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare, that’s all.” “Who are you?” asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially speaking person in such a place. “I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide them with something good to eat.” “Is this so?” said I, turning to the turnkey. He said it was. “Well then,” said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man’s hands (for so they called him). “I want you to give particular attention to my friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be as polite to him as possible.” “Introduce me, will you?” said the grub-man, looking at me with an expression which seem to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to give a specimen of his breeding. Thinking it


to things nearest the heart. His joy was so deep that this blurring of the surface left its essence untouched; but he would have liked to keep the surface pure too. It was something of a satisfaction to find that May Welland shared this feeling. Her eyes fled to his beseechingly, and their look said: "Remember, we're doing this because it's right." No appeal could have found a more immediate response in Archer's breast; but he wished that the necessity of their action had been represented by some ideal reason, and not simply by poor Ellen Olenska. The group about Miss Welland made way for him with significant smiles, and after taking his share of the felicitations he drew his betrothed into the middle of the ball-room floor and put his arm about her waist. "Now we shan't have to talk," he said, smiling into her candid eyes, as they floated away on the soft waves of the Blue Danube. She made no answer. Her lips trembled into a smile, but the eyes remained distant and serious, as if bent on some ineffable vision. "Dear," Archer whispered, pressing her to him: it was borne in on him that the first hours of being engaged, even if spent in a ball-room, had in them something grave and sacramental. What a new life it was going to be, with this whiteness, radiance, goodness at one's side! The dance over, the two, as became an affianced couple, wandered into the conservatory; and sitting behind a tall screen of tree-ferns and camellias Newland pressed her gloved hand to his lips. "You see I did as you asked me to," she said. "Yes: I couldn't wait," he answered smiling. After a moment he added: "Only I wish it hadn't had to be at a ball." "Yes, I know." She met his glance comprehendingly. "But after all--even here we're alone together, aren't we?" "Oh, dearest--always!" Archer cried. Evidently she was always going to understand; she was always going to say the right thing. The discovery made the cup of his bliss overflow, and he went on gaily: "The worst of it is that I want to kiss you and I can't." As he spoke he took a swift glance about the conservatory, assured himself of their momentary privacy, and catching her to him laid a fugitive pressure on her lips. To counteract the audacity of this proceeding he led her to a bamboo sofa in a less secluded part of the conservatory, and sitting down beside her broke a lily-of-the-valley from her bouquet. She sat silent, and the world lay like a sunlit valley at their feet. "Did you tell my cousin Ellen?" she asked presently, as if she spoke through a dream. He roused himself, and remembered that he had not done so. Some invincible repugnance to speak of such things to the strange foreign woman had checked the words on his lips. "No--I hadn't the chance after all," he said, fibbing hastily. "Ah." She looked disappointed, but gently resolved on gaining her point. "You must, then,


were trying to coalesce around someone who could stop him. In the meantime, Paul Ryan wanted House Republicans to distance themselves from the New York businessman, who they all expected would lose anyway. It wasn’t just that Trump was hostile to GOP orthodoxy; he was breathtakingly ignorant about the rule of law, the Constitution, and the democratic system. The select group of lawmakers and staff were tasked with developing a platform that was the antidote to Trumpism. Rarely does anyone other than the Republican nominee release a party strategy during an election year. Speaker Ryan’s “Better Way Agenda” was billed as a right-leaning response to eight years of a Democratic administration. In practice, though, we were drafting an alternative to the ideas Trump was spewing on the campaign trail, where he was badly hurting the GOP brand. We talked about what the document should say. It should repudiate the TV personality’s vitriolic rhetoric, isolationist tendencies, protectionist economic ideas, disparaging comments about our allies, affinity for America’s adversaries, and divisive anti-Muslim views, among other appalling comments. More broadly, it should reflect a party that was focused on the future and not relitigating the culture wars around guns, abortion, sexual orientation, and gender identity. I went to work, charged with co-drafting the national security portion of Ryan’s plan. For me, Donald Trump was number seventeen out of seventeen of the major candidates in the GOP primary race, a foulmouthed imbecile who was doomed to fail. I was happy to do anything to separate us from him. He wasn’t a part of our tribe; he was just trying to create a small faction to infiltrate the Republican Party for personal gain. I’d already seen the Tea Party movement do the same, and so far, we’d kept them at bay. In fact, I didn’t know any legislator on the GOP side who seriously supported Trump. Senator Ted Cruz called the man an “utterly amoral… narcissist.” Texas governor Rick Perry said the businessman was a “cancer on conservatism,” defining Trumpism as “a toxic mix of demagoguery, mean-spiritedness, and nonsense.” Senator Lindsey Graham equated the man to an “evil force,” and openly referred to him as a “jackass” and a “kook.” Representative Mick Mulvaney had an even simpler summation: Trump was “a terrible human being.” Then the unthinkable happened. Donald Trump surged forward in the primaries and effectively clinched the nomination. A schism erupted within the party. While most establishment conservatives begrudgingly decided to coalesce behind the nominee (who still seemed destined to lose in the general election), a “Never Trump” wing formed to sink him using any means necessary. Former mentors and colleagues from the Bush administration signed letters disavowing Trump, but because I was a GOP official, I rationalized that it would be inappropriate to add my name to a public list. Paul Ryan’s policy project took on greater urgency. He advised us not to openly attack Trump—and risk pushing him away from the GOP mainstream—but to quietly point him in the right direction by giving him a plan that sounded Republican, not reckless. We foolishly


me go. Papa—’ ‘Get her away. Take the Old Bridge,’ Lord Robart roared from horseback. ‘Archers, lancers – to me!’ Glorian hung like a broken puppet, head flopping. Her body had quelled the worst of the fear, but now it swept free, unhooking her joints. Horses screamed with their riders. Then a burning wind – a shattering – and black smoke, thick and searing hot, just as she breathed in. 52 North Einlek Óthling sat on the skull of a whale, gaunt and pale enough to be part of it. A circlet rested above his brow, and he wore a pelt over chainmail, sword resting at his side. Though he shared the same thick hair as his uncle, it was short and brown, his prominent eyes the grey of steel. He was fine of features, mild of voice – yet no one had dared cross him since he buckled on his iron arm, a replacement for the one he had personally severed, the night he and his younger uncle had been taken captive. Einlek had been seven at the time. He had cut a hand off to escape a shackle, then run to safety, preventing Verthing Bloodblade from using him against Bardholt. Bloodblade had soon been defeated. If Bardholt had been the Hammer of the North, Einlek was the knife. That burnished limb was not the only reason people called him Ironside. ‘You are certain.’ Wulf leaned on a padded crutch in the firelight. Even though he was bundled in thick furs and stood as close to the hearth as he could bear, he could still feel the killing cold of the sea. ‘Certain,’ he rasped. Einlek pinched the bridge of his nose, which tilted up a little at the tip. Like his mother, he had a broad white streak in his hair, licking down on to his brow. Wulf waited in silence. They had taken him to a healer first. His soles had been frostbitten, hands bloated with blisters, skin peeling and saltworn. For a time, he had not been able to speak. His lips had bled. His throat had scorched. The healer had worked hard to save his life. Shivering and sleepless in the night, he had listened to her whispering forbidden songs, asking the ice spirits to stop tormenting him. She had slowly warmed his hands until the blisters receded, leaving black scabs on the back of his fingers. She had wicked the wetness from his skin and treated the salt wounds. She could not treat the scars the wyrm had gouged across his mind. ‘I didn’t believe it,’ Einlek said. ‘Even as the corpses came ashore, I refused to believe. I still feared as soon as my arse touched this throne, he’d walk in and throttle me for daring to take his place before my time.’ He blinked hard. ‘Tell me what happened out there. Was it the Ments?’ Wulf tried to swallow past the dusty coal that burned in his craw. He had drunk his weight in fresh water on the journey, but days of gulping brine


beasts out, the battering ram was wedged into the gap, and the people found barrels, even brought corpses, stacking up as much as they could from the ruins of their capital. Wulf grabbed whatever he could throw: weapons, two oars, a rack that must once have held meat, a table with a broken leg. With so many hands working together, the pile was soon high enough to give the creatures trouble breaking through. Fire archers came to set it ablaze. ‘It’s coming,’ a voice cried. The wyvern was back, and it had them all caught like fish in a net. Wulf looked up, his knees turning to slurry as he remembered Fýredel. A harpoon ripped into it. The sound of its screech jolted him free. He stared as it rolled, like a foundering ship, and crashed down on a line of houses, blood spraying from under its wing. A rain from above should have smothered the fires, but where the blood struck, flame sizzled and abounded. On the city walls, a giant of a man took up another harpoon, lips skinned back. ‘Slay it,’ Einlek bellowed, as howls of triumph shook the street. He thrust up his iron arm. ‘For the Saint!’ ‘The Saint,’ came the answering roar. With that command, the Hróthi fell upon their foe, hitting with hammers and stabbing with staves and swords and pitchforks, drunk on their rage and the taste of revenge. They sawed and prised away its scales to reach the sweltering flesh beneath. They swarmed, like the bees that had haunted Wulf for a lifetime. Yet it was not the bees he recalled as he climbed on to the wyvern. It was a tale he had once heard of needlers, fish that ate flesh, which lurked in certain Southern rivers. A single needler was no threat – but together, they could strip a lion to bone. **** After that, the fight was over, for a time. When a wyrm fell, it seemed to strike panic into its followers. By dawn, they had all disappeared from Eldyng. In their wake, they had left hundreds dead, and thousands more grievously wounded. The wyvern was decapitated, its head paraded through the streets and mounted on the gate of Bithandun. The king summoned his housecarls that night, along with those Hróthi who had shown the highest courage during the attack, including the whaler whose harpoon had struck the killing blow. They ate beneath the broken roof of Bithandun. It might have collapsed altogether if not for a bold group of carpenters, who had climbed up to smother the blaze using the heavy banners from its walls, desperate to save the hall Bardholt built. It was disquieting to see it without the royal heraldry, but at least some of the roof remained. Ash wafted like snowflakes across the tables, which had seen endless feasting not so long ago. By the light of the low-burning fires, they shared tales of their deeds, raising their cups to those who had ascended to Halgalant. Hunger was the unwelcome guest. Where food had once


flowers, and I after it, trying to get a shot at it. I clipped along, and all of a sudden I bounded right on to the ashes of a camp fire that was still smoking. My heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never waited for to look further, but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tiptoes as fast as ever I could. Every now and then I stopped a second amongst the thick leaves and listened, but my breath come so hard I couldn't hear nothing else. I slunk along an- other piece further, then listened again; and so on, and so on. If I see a stump, I took it for a man; if I trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a person had cut one of my breaths in two and I only got half, and the short half, too. When I got to camp I warn't feeling very brash, there warn't much sand in my craw; but I says, this ain't no time to be fooling around. So I got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of sight, and I put out the fire and scattered the ashes around to look like an old last year's camp, and then clumb a tree. I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn't see nothing, I didn't hear nothing -- I only THOUGHT I heard and seen as much as a thousand things. Well, I couldn't stay up there forever; so at last I got down, but I kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the time. All I could get to eat was berries and what was left over from breakfast. By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was good and dark I slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to the Illinois bank -- about a quarter of a mile. I went out in the woods and cooked a supper, and I had about made up my mind I would stay there all night when I hear a PLUNKETY- PLUNK, PLUNKETY-PLUNK, and says to myself, horses coming; and next I hear people's voices. I got everything into the canoe as quick as I could, and then went creeping through the woods to see what I could find out. I hadn't got far when I hear a man say: "We better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is about beat out. Let's look around." I didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up in the old place, and reckoned I would sleep in the canoe. I didn't sleep much. I couldn't, somehow, for thinking. And every time I waked up I thought somebody had me by the neck. So the sleep didn't do me no good. By and by I says to myself, I can't live this way; I'm a-going to find out who it is that's here on


for broke. I agreed to as many interviews as possible to talk about who Trump really was, detailing as much as I could to anyone who would listen. The growing media exposure led to a stream of angry messages from MAGA strangers. As a precaution, I went to the shooting range to practice with my concealed weapon. I didn’t think I was in imminent danger, but if someone broke in at night, the Sig Sauer pistol was the last line of defense. The firearm felt reassuring in my hand. Whenever I didn’t have it with me, I found myself imagining the weight of it and mentally arming the weapon as fast as I could. Inserting the loaded magazine into the grip… the satisfying click once it was locked in place… pulling back the slide to chamber a round. Now it was ready to fire. I used up my hollow-point ammunition at the range and found out that there wasn’t any left to buy. Anywhere. A pandemic shortage was affecting the whole country, which also meant Americans were armed to the teeth. A friend gave me a box of round-nose ammo as backup, the kind that might not be as effective at stopping an attacker. He didn’t want me guarding the house with an empty magazine. Better to have range ammo than nothing. I started drinking more to cope with the stress. Nothing too extreme, but I needed an escape from the mental noise. A bar down the street became my go-to spot for cocktails. Double gin martini, up, blue-cheese olives, filthy. The week I released my missives, a top Biden advisor texted. “Someone more senior than me is trying to reach you,” he wrote cryptically. The mystery caller could only be the Democratic candidate himself, Joe Biden. I told the advisor to pass along my number. I’d be waiting excitedly. Later that night, I saw the missed calls. I didn’t feel the ringing in my pocket while chatting with patrons at the neighborhood bar. At the end of August, a reporter called to say I was getting under Trump’s skin by not going away. Seeing me on TV was pissing him off. His associates were taking it up a notch. They started spreading rumors that I cheated on my wife the week of our wedding with a young personal assistant. Whoever was behind the whisper campaign clearly didn’t know that I had been in Latin America then, no one from work was there, and my DHS assistant was actually a man nearly the same age as me. No reporters took the bait. But it wouldn’t have mattered. My would-be tormentors were wasting their time if they wanted to start rumors or dig up dirt about my private life. I didn’t have one anymore. Amid the turmoil of the pandemic and the decision to come forward, Anabel and I had separated. “We cannot pretend they are not shouting from the rooftops.” Late August sun filled the living room, illuminating the dust suspended in dead air. The nondescript high-rise blended into a nondescript street


studied Hephzibah. Winnie felt her skin growing suddenly warm. “I...” she began. As the Janes steered the boat to the riverbank, Mrs. King’s voice cut through the air. “Winnie,” she said. “Get out.” Shame rose within her. “Hephzibah...” “Out,” said Mrs. King again. “You know the rules. If you need to make someone feel small, so that you can feel tall...” Mrs. Bone recited the rest. “Then, my goodness, my dear, you’re no person at all. Quite right. I taught you that myself. You should all listen to that, my girls.” Winnie rose from the boat. It rocked dangerously beneath her. It would have been better if she had fallen in the water. 20 The night before the ball 10:00 p.m. Shepherd had left orders for everyone to get to bed early, in anticipation of the ball. Hurry up, hurry up, Mrs. Bone thought, urging the house to go to sleep. Her first tranche of men were coming in tonight, an advance guard, ready for the main action. They’d be winched up to the roof, fully installed in the attics by dawn, their movements padded by Winnie’s Turkish carpets. She glanced at the ceiling and imagined how it would smell, forty men crouched and waiting: sweaty feet, the air thick with whisky, piss warming gently in buckets. She would have gone up there herself, if only they didn’t lock the doors at night. Mrs. Bone liked to inspect her troops before battle. It gave them a good kick. Sue was at the washbasin, picking dirt out of her nails. She did this in secret, when she assumed Mrs. Bone wasn’t looking, as if a little coal was something of which to be ashamed. “Hurry along, Sue,” Mrs. Bone said for the third time. “It’s hot,” whispered Sue. She was wiping her face with a damp flannel, over and over. “Better than the cold, my girl,” said Mrs. Bone. “Better than your toes falling off. Get into bed.” Sue was taking an age, and the air was curdling like milk. When the knock came, it startled her. A hard thump, fist against wood, not friendly. Sue froze, hands on the basin. “Who’s that, then?” said Mrs. Bone as she hurried to the door, swung it open. That boy was there, that weasel-faced little rat. “Whatchoo doing?” said Mrs. Bone. “Get away with you. Coming up here. These are the ladies’ quarters.” “You’re wanted, Sue,” he said, not looking at Mrs. Bone. And in that moment Mrs. Bone understood, and she was revolted. She had lived long enough to understand that look. Whether from an old man or a young one, a rich man or a poor one, there was a certain sort of summons you gave a girl that wasn’t right at all. Here, in Danny’s house? It wasn’t disbelief. It was something clicking into place. Here, same as everywhere. Mrs. Bone was always a very pragmatic sort of lady. She assessed trades coolly, dispassionately: she weighed them on the scales and picked the most lucrative ones every time. But there was one


with resolve. ‘I have left a warning for our sisters in the archives, telling them to be wary of strangers.’ ‘What of the Inysh matter?’ Tunuva asked. ‘Will you leave word of that in the archives, too?’ ‘Yes.’ Her gaze turned distant. ‘I will leave a tablet there, stating that the Queen of Inys is always to have a mage as her protector; that this is my ruling as Prioress of the Orange Tree – but I will allow our future sisters to interpret my reasons as they see fit.’ ‘Thank you,’ Tunuva said. ‘I do it to protect a part of you that will live on,’ Esbar told her, ‘but also because a position in Inys will always be of value to us. We can see into the land of the Deceiver.’ ‘I agree. Let our sisters know what he did to the Mother, so they might always guard the truth.’ The Red Damsels needed no flame to fight. Each sister was a living blade. They would hunt the wyrms now, to the same places they had forced humans into for almost a year. They would stalk them to the deepest caves, the highest roosts and farthest wastes, to ensure they never rose again. An ichneumon pup snuffled towards them. Esbar nudged Tunuva with her shoulder. ‘Go to the Mother,’ she said. ‘She must miss your voice.’ With her old smile, she took Tunuva by the chin and drew her in for a kiss. ‘And then come to my bed, my love, and warm me until dawn.’ **** The blood had been scrubbed off the floor, and the coffin sealed with a new lid. On top of it, a statue had been placed, watching over the burial chamber. Kediko had sent it himself, as a gift to the Priory – a standing effigy of Cleolind, based on a carving in his palace. It was, Tunuva had to admit, a reasonably close likeness. Still, the High Ruler would have to work for several more years – possibly for the rest of his life – before Esbar warmed to his overtures. Tunuva lit a tiny flame. She used it to light the lamps in the chamber, all one hundred and twenty of them. There were not enough candles in Lasia to mourn all those who had fallen in the slaughter that did not yet have a name. She knelt before the tomb of Cleolind, and she sang, as she had many times. She sang in love and worship. She sang of grief and fear and loss. She sang as if the Mother could hear every word – and perhaps she could, in her bed of stone. Perhaps she would smile in her sleep. When she could sing no more, Tunuva Melim rose and placed a kiss upon the coffin. ‘Mother, we are your daughters,’ she said softly. ‘We remember. We remain.’ Wulf A rooster crowed beyond the windows of Langarth. Unlike many Inysh buildings, the manor had withstood the devastation. The plague had never breached its walls; no flame had ever caught the


Tripp was in armor, but the kind that looked like it had never seen battle, enamel white, an ermine cape fastened over his left shoulder with an emerald brooch the size of a peach pit. The scholar, the priest, and the prince. Alex held out her arms. She was wearing armor too, but it was forged steel, made for warfare. The armor of a soldier. It should have felt heavy, but she might as well have been wearing a T-shirt for all she felt the weight of it. “Are we dead?” Tripp asked, his eyes so wide she could see a perfect white ring around his irises. “We have to be, right?” He wasn’t quite looking at her; in fact, no one was. None of them were making eye contact. They’d fallen through each other’s lives, seen the crimes they’d committed, big and small. No one should know another person that way, Alex thought. It’s too much. “Where are we?” Turner asked. “What is this place?” Dawes’s eyes were red, her mouth swollen from crying. She reached up to touch one of the branches, then thought better of it. “I don’t know. Some people think the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge was a pomegranate.” Turner raised a brow. “That doesn’t look like any pomegranate I ever saw.” “It looks pretty good,” said Tripp. “Do not eat anything,” Dawes snapped. Tripp scowled. “I’m not stupid.” Then his expression changed. He looked caught between wonder and fear. “Holy shit, Alex, you’re…” Dawes bit deep into her lip and Turner’s grim mouth flattened even more. “Alex,” whispered Dawes. “You’re … you’re on fire.” Alex looked down. Blue flame had ignited over her body, a low, shifting blaze, like the forest floor in a controlled burn. She touched her fingers to it, saw it move as if caught up by her touch. She remembered this flame. She’d seen it when she faced Belbalm. All worlds are open to us. If we are bold enough to enter. She reached beneath her breastplate, felt the cold shell of the Arlington Rubber Boots box tucked against her ribs. All she wanted was to lie down and grieve for Hellie, for Babbit Rabbit. She was crouched over a stranger’s body as the rain fell outside. She was perched at the rail of a ship, the sea rising and falling beneath her. She was standing at the top of the stairs at Il Bastone, feeling the weight of stone in her hands, the terrible power of decision. Alex gripped the box tighter. She hadn’t come this far to cry for past mistakes or tend to old wounds. She forced herself to meet their gazes— Turner, Tripp, Dawes. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go find Darlington.” Again the world shifted and Alex braced to be thrown into someone else’s head, into some other awful memory, like the world’s worst playlist. She hadn’t been a passenger or an observer. She had been Dawes, Tripp, Turner, and Hellie. Her Hellie. Who should have been the one to survive. But this time it was just


was apprenticing for a designer.” In the scheme of things, it’s not a salacious reveal, but it is disorienting. To realize the rift between us began even longer ago than I realized. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I don’t know. I was embarrassed.” “Embarrassed,” I repeat, like it’s my first introduction to the word. It might as well be. “What could possibly be embarrassing about this?” “I’ve never been like you,” he says. “I wasn’t brilliant. I wasn’t someone with a ton of goals. I’ve spent my first thirty years tripping through life.” “That’s not true,” I say. “Harriet.” He looks at me through his lashes, every variety of green and gray in his eyes on full display in the sunlight reflecting off the water below. “I barely got into college, and I barely graduated. And then I followed you out to San Francisco, and even with a degree, I managed to botch every interview I went to for jobs that would actually pay. If I fucked up the apprenticeship, I didn’t want you to watch it happen. Saying it was another upholstery job took the pressure off, because if I lost it, I could find another.” My nose burns. I drop my eyes back to the phone, the screen blurring. “He actually didn’t think I was any good,” he says. I look up. “The designer I apprenticed for,” he says. “He said I had no instincts.” I snort. “What, like you’re some kind of birding dog? What an asshole.” Wyn smiles faintly. “When I left that job and went home, I was pretty sure I was done even trying. Figured I’d stick with the repairs.” “What made you change your mind?” He eases onto the hot metal of the hood beside me. “It’s hard to explain.” We’re back to the push and pull, the little drips of him and then the droughts that follow. I’ve never known how to take him in small doses. One taste only ever makes the thirst worse. “Well, I’m proud of you,” I say thickly, folding my arms, barricading myself from him the same way he’s done to me. His eyes return to mine. “I could make you one, if you want.” “A table?” I ask. He nods. “I don’t have that kind of money, Wyn.” “I know,” he says. “That’s not what I meant.” “I couldn’t take something like that for free,” I say. “It’s going really well, Harriet,” he says. “And I hardly have any expenses right now—maybe you’ve heard: I live with my mom?” I laugh. “I think I remember reading that on TMZ.” He touches my hand against the hood, and god help me, I turn my palm up to his. I need to hold on to him right now, need to feel the calluses I’ve memorized on his palm. “I would love to make you one,” he murmurs. “I’ve got time, and I don’t need money.” Reading my expression, Wyn says, “Or if you don’t want one . . .” “It’s not that.” I shake my head. “It’s amazing. Seeing you


naught of it; for Manw had not revealed it to them. Bat Melkor spoke to them in secret of Mortal Men, seeing how the silence of the Valar might be twisted to evil. Little he knew yet concerning Men, for engrossed with his own thought in the Music he had paid small heed to the Third Theme of Ilvatar; but now the whisper went among the Elves that Manw held them captive, so that Men might come and supplant them in the kingdoms of Middle-earth, for the Valar saw that they might more easily sway this short-lived and weaker race, defrauding the Elves of the inheritance of Ilvatar. Small truth was there in this, and little have the Valar ever prevailed to sway the wills of Men; but many of the Noldor believed, or half believed, the evil words. Thus ere the Valar were aware, the peace of Valinor was poisoned. The Noldor began to murmur against them, and many became filled with pride, forgetting how much of what they had and knew came to them in gift from the Valar. Fiercest burned the new flame of desire for freedom and wider realms in the eager heart of Fanor; and Melkor laughed in his secrecy, for to that mark his lies had been addressed, hating Fanor above all, and lusting ever for the Silmarils. But these he was not suffered to approach; for though at great feasts Fanor would wear them, blazing on his brow, at other times they were guarded close, locked in the deep chambers of his hoard in Tirion. For Fanor began to love the Silmarils with a greedy love, and grudged the sight of them to all save to his father and his seven sons; he seldom remembered now that the light within them was not his own. High princes were Fanor and Fingolfin, the elder sons of Finw, honoured by all in Aman; but now they grew proud and jealous each of his rights and his possessions. Then Melkor set new lies abroad in Eldamar, and whispers came to Fanor that Fingolfin and his sons were plotting to usurp the leadership of Finw and of the elder line of Fanor, and to supplant them by the leave of the Valar; for the Valar were ill-pleased that the Silmarils lay in Tirion and were not committed to their keeping. But to Fingolfin and Finarfin it was said: 'Beware! Small love has the proud son of Mriel ever had for the children of Indis. Now he has become great, and he has his father in his hand. It will not be long before he drives you forth from Tna!' And when Melkor saw that these lies were smouldering, and that pride and anger were awake among the Noldor, he spoke to them concerning weapons; and in that time the Noldor began the smithying of swords and axes and spears. Shields also they made displaying the tokens of many houses and kindreds that vied one with another; and these only they wore abroad, and of other weapons they did not


the same--" "We don't want you," said Jack, flatly. "Three's enough." Piggy's glasses flashed. "I was with him when he found the conch. I was with him before anyone else was." Jack and the others paid no attention. There was a general dispersal. Ralph, Jack and Simon jumped off the platform and walked along the sand past the bathing pool. Piggy hung bumbling behind them. "If Simon walks in the middle of us," said Ralph, "then we could talk over his head." The three of them fell into step. This meant that every now and then Simon had to do a double shuffle to catch up with the others. Presently Ralph stopped and turned back to Piggy. "Look." Jack and Simon pretended to notice nothing. They walked on. "You can't come." Piggy's glasses were misted again--this time with humiliation. "You told 'em. After what I said." His face flushed, his mouth trembled. "After I said I didn't want--" "What on earth are you talking about?" "About being called Piggy. I said I didn't care as long as they didn't call me Piggy; an' I said not to tell and then you went an' said straight out--" Stillness descended on them. Ralph, looking with more understanding at Piggy, saw that he was hurt and crushed. He hovered between the two courses of apology or further insult. "Better Piggy than Fatty," he said at last, with the directness of genuine leadership, "and anyway, I'm sorry if you feel like that. Now go back, Piggy, and take names. That's your job. So long." He turned and raced after the other two. Piggy stood and the rose of indignation faded slowly from his cheeks. He went back to the platform. The three boys walked briskly on the sand. The tide was low and there was a strip of weed-strewn beach that was almost as firm as a road. A kind of glamour was spread over them and the scene and they were conscious of the glamour and made happy by it. They turned to each other, laughing excitedly, talking, not listening. The air was bright. Ralph, faced by the task of translating all this into an explanation, stood on his head and fell over. When they had done laughing, Simon stroked Ralph's arm shyly; and they had to laugh again. "Come on," said Jack presently, "we're explorers." "We'll go to the end of the island," said Ralph, "and look round the corner." "If it is an island--" Now, toward the end of the afternoon, the mirages were settling a little. They found the end of the island, quite distinct, and not magicked out of shape or sense. There was a jumble of the usual squareness, with one great block sitting out in the lagoon. Sea birds were nesting there. "Like icing," said Ralph, "on a pink cake." "We shan't see round this corner," said Jack, "because there isn't one. Only a slow curve--and you can see, the rocks get worse--" Ralph shaded his eyes and followed the jagged outline of the crags up toward the mountain.


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


Nobody else would come so early.' `Well,' said she, `it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' But then Patty came in, and said it was you. `Oh!' said I, `it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'-- `I can see nobody,' said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. `If you must go, my dear,' said I, `you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.'" Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible. "It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return." "So very kind! " replied Miss Bates. "But you are always kind." There was no bearing such an "always;" and to break through her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of-- "Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax going?" "To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have the charge of her three little girls--delightful children. Impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:--lives only four miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove." "Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--" "Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, `No;' for when Jane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell's return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at present--and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over again--and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her mind!--but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she positively declared she would not


and staying in school, I turn to my mother and grip her arm, hard. “Listen to me. Are you listening to me?” She nods, alarmed by my intensity. She must know what’s coming. “You can’t leave again,” I say. My mother’s eyes find the floor. “I know. I won’t. I couldn’t help what—” “Well, you have to help it this time. You can’t clock out and leave Prim on her own. There’s no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn’t matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you’ll fight through it!” My voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt at her abandonment. 36 She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself now. “I was ill. I could have treated myself if I’d had the medi- cine I have now.” That part about her being ill might be true. I’ve seen her bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness since. Perhaps it is a sickness, but it’s one we can’t afford. “Then take it. And take care of her!” I say. “I’ll be all right, Katniss,” says Prim, clasping my face in her hands. “But you have to take care, too. You’re so fast and brave. Maybe you can win.” I can’t win. Prim must know that in her heart. The competi- tion will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from wealthier dis- tricts, where winning is a huge honor, who’ve been trained their whole lives for this. Boys who are two to three times my size. Girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a knife. Oh, there’ll be people like me, too. People to weed out before the real fun begins. “Maybe,” I say, because I can hardly tell my mother to carry on if I’ve already given up myself. Besides, it isn’t in my nature to go down without a fight, even when things seem insur- mountable. “Then we’d be rich as Haymitch.” “I don’t care if we’re rich. I just want you to come home. You will try, won’t you? Really, really try?” asks Prim. “Really, really try. I swear it,” I say. And I know, because of Prim, I’ll have to. And then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time is up, and we’re all hugging one another so hard it hurts and all I’m saying is “I love you. I love you both.” And they’re say- 37 ing it back and then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes. I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole thing out. Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I’m sur- prised to see it’s the baker, Peeta Mellark’s father. I can’t be- lieve he’s come to visit me. After all, I’ll be trying to kill his son soon. But we do know each other a bit, and he knows Prim even better. When she sells her goat cheeses at


as if she’s an art scholar. “And this painting does make her look capable of murder, doesn’t it?” “So why wasn’t she arrested and put on trial?” “There wasn’t enough evidence,” Jessie says. “They dusted for fingerprints, but there were so many from every family member and servant that it was impossible to tell who was responsible. With the murder weapon missing, there was no way to prove Lenora was guilty.” “Or that she was innocent,” I say, fully understanding the hypocrisy of my counterargument. Lack of evidence is the only reason I wasn’t arrested and put on trial. “True. Then there’s the idea that maybe she lied to cover for someone else. Like him.” Jessie points to a signature in the bottom righthand corner of the portrait. I lean in and read the name scrawled in white paint. “Peter Ward?” “The artist. That’s Mary’s wild guess. She’s full of theories. Another one is that Hope’s End is haunted. She claims to have seen the ghost of Virginia Hope roaming the second floor.” The chill I’d felt the first time I was in this hallway returns. Definitely not a draft. It’s too cold, too unnatural. Even though I don’t believe in ghosts, I can understand why Mary thought one haunted Hope’s End. “Is that why she left?” “Yes,” Jessie says, her voice going quiet. “I think she was scared. Hope’s End isn’t a normal house. There’s a darkness here. I can feel it. Mary did. And I think she couldn’t take it anymore.” We head back down the hall, Jessie checking over her shoulder, as if something is lurking just behind us. At the Grand Stairs, I can’t help but take another morbid peek at the bloodstains in the carpet. From there, we move through the other side of the house, stopping at the set of double doors before the hall makes a right toward the kitchen. “The ballroom,” Jessie says solemnly before pushing open the doors. “Where Virginia Hope died.” She turns on the lights, which include sconces set between large mirrors on the walls and three chandeliers that droop from the ceiling. They’re enormous, with more than three dozen bulbs each. Half have burned out. Others buzz and flicker, giving the room a jittery feel. While Jessie roams freely, I remain on the edge of the parquet dance floor, knowing that wherever I step might be the spot where Virginia Hope’s body once lay. “Don’t worry,” Jessie says. “Virginia died up there.” She points to the chandelier in the center of the ballroom. It hangs lower than the others and at a slight angle, like the weight of Virginia’s body partially tugged it from the ceiling. “So the rhyme was right about that.” “Yup,” Jessie says. “Hung her sister with a rope.” I take a few cautious steps toward the center of the room to get a closer look at the chandelier. While it’s low enough to possibly reach with a rope while standing on a chair, I can’t picture a girl of seventeen doing it and then hoisting her


as when I rose, I could see it was in vain for me I could now see that he was a white man like myself and to contend in speed with such an adversary. From trunk to that his features were even pleasing. His skin, wherever it was trunk the creature flitted like a deer, running manlike on two exposed, was burnt by the sun; even his lips were black, and legs, but unlike any man that I had ever seen, stooping almost his fair eyes looked quite startling in so dark a face. Of all the double as it ran. Yet a man it was, I could no longer be in beggar-men that I had seen or fancied, he was the chief for doubt about that. raggedness. He was clothed with tatters of old ship’s canvas I began to recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork was all within an ace of calling for help. But the mere fact that he held together by a system of the most various and incongru- was a man, however wild, had somewhat reassured me, and ous fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry my fear of Silver began to revive in proportion. I stood still, gaskin. About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather therefore, and cast about for some method of escape; and as I belt, which was the one thing solid in his whole accoutre- was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed into my ment. mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenceless, cour- “Three years!” I cried. “Were you shipwrecked?” age glowed again in my heart and I set my face resolutely for “Nay, mate,” said he; “marooned.” this man of the island and walked briskly towards him. I had heard the word, and I knew it stood for a horrible He was concealed by this time behind another tree trunk; kind of punishment common enough among the buccaneers, but he must have been watching me closely, for as soon as I in which the offender is put ashore with a little powder and began to move in his direction he reappeared and took a step shot and left behind on some desolate and distant island. to meet me. Then he hesitated, drew back, came forward “Marooned three years agone,” he continued, “and lived again, and at last, to my wonder and confusion, threw himself on goats since then, and berries, and oysters. Wherever a man Contents on his knees and held out his clasped hands in supplication. is, says I, a man can do for himself. But, mate, my heart is At that I once more stopped. sore for Christian diet. You mightn’t happen to have a piece Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 122 123 of cheese about you, now? No? Well, many’s the long night further’n that; and so my mother told me, and predicked the I’ve dreamed of cheese—toasted, mostly—and woke up again, whole, she did, the pious woman! But it


distracted by their conversations to take note of the passersby, all of whom hurried past with stricken looks on their faces. We drove through the city center toward Genial’s mansion, Dexter doing something unknown and complex looking on his phone, Brianna watching with me as the city rolled past. Last time I’d been to Rezopol, it had been with Orson, so that Orson’s presence seemed somehow welded to its beauty—with him gone, there was no reason for the city to keep functioning. We stopped for a light on a corner where one of the fifteen NuLife centers had been built. This one had clearly been Molotov cocktailed, though not so much that it had lost its structural integrity, and draped over its sagging facade was a banner bearing a photorealistic drawing of Orson. He was looking upward and waving as though saying hello to angels. The Urmanese above his portrait had been translated into English below it: “Urmau, welcome to the New Life!” I was thinking about the fact that Genial was planning to kill his father, and that to get back in Dexter’s jet and return to America, which was what I wanted to do, would likely anger Genial, seriously jeopardize the health of NuLife in Urmau, and leave us to default on a $2 billion loan. There didn’t seem to be a correct way to proceed. Or there was, technically speaking, but I would lose money if I proceeded that way. When we had reached the outskirts of the city, Dexter looked up from his phone like a diver coming up for air and craned his neck to see out the window, which happened to frame an empty lot in which a group of shoeless and a few shirtless children were playing a game that involved pitching pebbles back and forth using palm fronds. “Stop here,” Dexter called to Genial’s driver. “Can you pull over?” “Is there a problem, Dexter?” Genial asked. “It’s just a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Dexter said, running his hand through his mealy hair. He turned to me and Brianna. “Do you guys want to get out with me?” We pulled over to the curb and Dexter emerged from the limo, followed by the rest of us. Genial surveyed the children with a sour look on his face, and when they caught sight of us and came running, he turned his chin up in disgust. They were screaming something that sounded like deener pourfair. They opened their palms at us, jockeying among themselves for the spots on the faded grass closest to us. The larger ones pushed the smaller ones down only for the smaller ones to stand right back up, their palms out again, completely undeterred. “They want money,” Genial said, looking defeated. “My apologies, really.” Brianna nodded at me pointedly so I opened my wallet, placing an Urmanese dynere in each child’s hand. They pocketed the money, murmuring a few eager fragments of thanks in English, and then outstretched their hands again. Genial groaned and spat on the ground. “Insatiable.” Dexter had extracted one of his


could have expected nothing else but what was befallen her. For a long while, she holds terror at bay by remembering what previous darkness she has endured and what truths have sustained her. Her seduction by Aleem, when she was sixteen, was not one sorry misstep by a girl who otherwise followed a safe and sensible path. She had begun to rebel against her parents when she was thirteen. Her father and mother, both gainfully employed, worked hard and lived frugally, paid their taxes, went to church, drank little, and were satisfied with simple pleasures like television, library books, and board games. They lived without complaint and by the rules, but to what avail? Money was a constant worry. Their only assets were a twenty-year-old Ford and a tiny blue house in a neighborhood where no one dwelt by choice. In the fever of adolescence, Nina came to see them as kindhearted fools whose contentment with their lot was in fact surrender to the meanness of the world. She saw others who were not so weak, who refused to accept what was ladled out to them, who went after what they wanted by whatever means necessary. They drove flashy cars and wore the latest styles, both men and women, some of them only a few years older than she was. She knew what they did, what they dealt in, and she knew it was wrong. But if poverty was the reward for doing right and success was the reward for doing wrong, then Earth had become so grievously distorted in its turning that no one possessed the power to restore it to its intended shape. In her daydreams, she became one of the fast crowd. And in her daily life, she indulged in petty rebellions—using language her parents would have found shocking if they’d heard it, taking a few tokes of a girlfriend’s joint, leaving home buttoned to the neck but showing cleavage when she got to school. All these years later, she can’t remember how all those little insubordinations abruptly became a revolution against the future that she saw her parents crafting for her, but it seemed to happen in a moment, and the moment’s name was Aleem. Her moral fiber had stretched with elastic ease, but it had not broken, and it snapped back into proper form when at last she came to understand the cruelty inherent in the life that the fast crowd lived. Aleem’s reaction to her pregnancy was cold, uncaring. Marry you? Only pussy-whipped feebs get married. Any fool gets married, he’s puttin’ some pump like you above his homeys. That don’t go down good. Not good at all. I got no time for daddyhood, sugar. Aleem Sutter, he’s on his way up. Ain’t nobody gonna hold me down. That thing in you, it just a tumor, that all it is to me. Your problem. Douche it out, use a coat hanger, whatever you got to do, just don’t come round to me no more. We done, you hear? The way you cling, a man got a