A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

said to have ended; even then, at the end of such a period, after that eon of time the mere thought of which makes our very brain reel dizzily, eternity would scarcely have begun. --A holy saint (one of our own fathers I believe it was) was once vouchsafed a vision of hell. It seemed to him that he stood in the midst of a great hall, dark and silent save for the ticking of a great clock. The ticking went on unceasingly; and it seemed to this saint that the sound of the ticking was the ceaseless repetition of the words--ever, never; ever, never. Ever to be in hell, never to be in heaven; ever to be shut off from the presence of God, never to enjoy the beatific vision; ever to be eaten with flames, gnawed by vermin, goaded with burning spikes, never to be free from those pains; ever to have the conscience upbraid one, the memory enrage, the mind filled with darkness and despair, never to escape; ever to curse and revile the foul demons who gloat fiendishly over the misery of their dupes, never to behold the shining raiment of the blessed spirits; ever to cry out of the abyss of fire to God for an instant, a single instant, of respite from such awful agony, never to receive, even for an instant, God's pardon; ever to suffer, never to enjoy; ever to be damned, never to be saved; ever, never; ever, never. O, what a dreadful punishment! An eternity of endless agony, of endless bodily and spiritual torment, without one ray of hope, without one moment of cessation, of agony limitless in intensity, of torment infinitely varied, of torture that sustains eternally that which it eternally devours, of anguish that everlastingly preys upon the spirit while it racks the flesh, an eternity, every instant of which is itself an eternity of woe. Such is the terrible punishment decreed for those who die in mortal sin by an almighty and a just God. --Yes, a just God! Men, reasoning always as men, are astonished that God should mete out an everlasting and infinite punishment in the fires of hell for a single grievous sin. They reason thus because, blinded by the gross illusion of the flesh and the darkness of human understanding, they are unable to comprehend the hideous malice of mortal sin. They reason thus because they are unable to comprehend that even venial sin is of such a foul and hideous nature that even if the omnipotent Creator could end all the evil and misery in the world, the wars, the diseases, the robberies, the crimes, the deaths, the murders, on condition that he allowed a single venial sin to pass unpunished, a single venial sin, a lie, an angry look, a moment of wilful sloth, He, the great omnipotent God could not do so because sin, be it in thought or deed, is a transgression of His law and God would not be God if He did not punish the transgressor. --A sin, an


shall take the cream and the muffings," added Amy, heroically giving up the article she most liked. Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate. "I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime." They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party. A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm. How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in. "Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman, crying for joy. "Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them to laughing. In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English. "Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as they ate and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a `Sancho' ever since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn't get any of it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning. "That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it," said Meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels. Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table. "She's coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to the seat of honor. Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled with her eyes


remem- bered Mr. Edgar's stern rebuke of my carrying tales, and I tried to smooth away all disquietude on the sub- ject by affirming, with frequent iteration, that that be- trayal of trust, if it merited so harsh an appellation, should be the last. Notwithstanding, my journey home- ward was sadder than my journey thither, and many misgivings I had ere I could prevail on myself to put the missive into Mrs. Linton's hand. But here is Kenneth. I'll go down and tell him how much better you are. My history is dree, as we say, and will serve to while away another morning. * * * * * Dree and dreary, I reflected, as the good woman de- scended to receive the doctor, and not exactly of the kind which I should have chosen to amuse me. But never mind. I'll extract wholesome medicines from Mrs. Dean's bitter herbs; and firstly, let me beware the fascination that lurks in Catherine Heathcliff's bril- liant eyes. I should be in a curious taking if I surren- dered my heart to that young person, and the daughter turned out a second edition of the mother. CHAPTER XV. Another week over, and I am so many days nearer health and spring! I have now heard all my neighbour's history, at different sittings, as the house- keeper could spare time from more important occupa- tions. I'll continue it in her own words, only a little condensed. She is, on the whole, a very fair narrator, and I don't think I could improve her style. In the evening, she said---the evening of my visit to the Heights---I knew, as well as if I saw him, that Mr. Heathcliff was about the place; and I shunned going out, because I still carried his letter in my pocket, and didn't want to be threatened or teased any more. I had made up my mind not to give it till my master went somewhere, as I could not guess how its receipt would affect Catherine. The consequence was that it did not reach her before the lapse of three days. The fourth was Sunday, and I brought it into her room after the family were gone to church. There was a manservant left to keep the house with me, and we generally made a prac- tice of locking the doors during the hours of service; but on that occasion the weather was so warm and pleas- ant that I set them wide open, and, to fulfil my engage- ment, as I knew who would be coming, I told my com- panion that the mistress wished very much for some oranges, and he must run over to the village and get a few, to be paid for on the morrow. He departed, and I went upstairs. Mrs. Linton sat in a loose, white dress, with a light shawl over her shoulders, in the recess of the open win- dow as usual. Her thick, long hair had been partly re- moved at the beginning of her illness, and now she wore it


and matrons she kept a private bottle of gin by her, and now and then took a drop overmuch. It is excusable, for she had a hard life of it: but still it was dangerous; for when Mrs. Poole was fast asleep, after the gin-and-water, the mad lady, who was as cunning as a witch, would take the keys out of her pocket, let herself out of her chamber, and go roaming about the house, doing any wild mischief that came into her head. They say she had nearly burned her husband in his bed once; but I don't know about that. However, on this night, she set fire first to the hangings of the room next her own; and then she got down to a lower story, and made her way to the chamber that had been the governess' (she was like as if she knew somehow how matters had gone on, and had a spite at her) and she kindled the bed there; but there was nobody sleeping in it, fortunately. The governess had run away two months before; and for all Mr. Rochester sought her as if she had been the most precious thing he had in the world, he never could hear a word of her; and he grew savage quite savage on his disappointment; he never was a wild man, but he got dangerous after he lost her. He would be alone, too. He sent Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance; but he did it handsomely, for he settled an annuity on her for life: and she deserved it for she was a very good woman. Miss Adle, a ward he had, was put to school. He broke off acquaintance with all the gentry, and shut himself up, like a hermit, at the Hall:"     "What! did he not leave England?"     "Leave England? Bless you, no! He would not cross the door-stones of the house, except at night, when he walked just like a ghost about the grounds and in the orchard as if he had lost his senses which it is my opinion he had; for a more spirited, bolder, keener gentleman than he was before that midge of a governess crossed him, you never saw, ma'am. He was not a man given to wine, or cards, or racing, as some are, and he was not so very handsome; but he had a courage and a will of his own, if ever man had. I knew him from a boy, you see; and for my part I have often wished that Miss Eyre had been sunk in the sea before she came to Thornfield Hall."     "Then Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke out?"     "Yes, indeed was he; and he went up to the attics when all was burning above and below, and got the servants out of their beds and helped them down himself and went back to get his mad wife out


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

I strode a distance from camp and found a tree large enough to crouch behind (we had left the forest, and all that remained of it were sad, mangy stands of birch here and there). I did my business quickly and hastened back over the snow. Looking back now, I wonder if I was observant enough. Certainly I was alert—I always am, during fieldwork—but I suspect that the unfamiliarity of the landscape, the high, dark mountains swaddled in snow, lulled me into a belief that no living thing could accost me here, certainly nothing fae, creatures I have spent my career associating with greenery and water and life. Fortunately, my reflexes are sharp. The instant the light flared through the trees, I halted and gripped my coin. It was a greyish light with no warmth in it, like a star. A wind moved through the trees, and there came a whisper of bells. Had I not been touching metal, I might have been bespelled, and as it was my head still spun a little, but I am used to brushing against faerie enchantments and stood my ground. They were trooping faeries, and when I did not fall under the spell of their music and move towards them, they grew intrigued and surrounded me. I knew instantly that I was in danger, for they were faeries of the bogle variety, a disputed categorization given to all those common fae with a deathly appearance, low intellect, and malevolent disposition. Bogles are universally and perpetually ravenous, yet they delight in desolate places, leading to theories that they enjoy the sensation of hunger. When they do encounter living beings, they have every manner of unpleasant means to devour them, usually by roasting them part by part in the little cook fires they carry with them everywhere. They were tall for common fae, though some are of human height, the tops of their heads nearing my shoulders. They were little more than bone with something resembling skin draped overtop, but everything about them was planed and angular like ice chipped into faerie shape. They did not let me see them clearly, melting in and out of the snowdrifts as easily as Poe did with his tree, but what I saw was pale and hoary with frost, with cloaks woven from moonlight, and they had Poe’s needle-fingers and matching teeth. Some carried bells, others carried their cook fires in little pots, greyblue flames fed by the twigs they snapped from the trees as they passed. They circled me a few times, getting my measure as they whispered to one another. Their voices were like the wind stirring the snow, and I could make no sense of them. It is not known if bogles have speech in the human sense; they are very close to animals. The scholar in me was already formulating questions in Faie; I wished to learn if they could understand me, and not only that, I wanted to draw out the encounter in order to study them. But then one of the bogles was suddenly


creeping back in. “You can crash with us,” Alex offered. “We have a couch in the common room.” “No, I’m cool. I’ve got my seabird, right?” “Check in on the chat,” said Turner. “And don’t go out if you don’t have to.” Tripp nodded and offered up his knuckles for a fist bump. Even Turner obliged. On the way down the stairs, Turner said, “I’m going to Black Elm when we’re done. I want to know Darlington is still corralled in his pen.” Alex nearly stumbled. “Why?” “Don’t act the fool with me. You saw Marjorie Stephen. She had the life drained right out of her. Nothing natural about it.” “That doesn’t mean Darlington had something to do with it.” “No, but he might know if one of his kind did. If there’s something running around out there wearing Marjorie Stephen’s face.” “He’s not a demon,” Alex said angrily. “Not like they are.” “Then call it a wellness check. I just want to know he’s contained.” They rode back to campus in silence, and Alex and Mercy said their goodbyes to the detective on York Street. “You sure you don’t want help with the salt and all that?” he asked. “No,” said Alex. “Our room is warded. We’ll do our entryway too, but I’m leaving the courtyard open. I need access to Grays. You know the knot pattern?” “Yeah.” Turner had said he could handle warding his place himself. Alex had the feeling he didn’t want her at his house or apartment or wherever he lived. He didn’t want Lethe and the uncanny bleeding into his real life. As if he could close the cover on this particular book when this ugly chapter was finished. “If Carmichael shows up, don’t listen to him. Don’t let him get in your head.” “Don’t coach me, Stern.” “Don’t get that fancy suit rumpled, Turner.” He gunned his engine. “See you tomorrow night.” They didn’t wait to watch his taillights disappear. They didn’t want to be outside longer than they had to be. The dorm felt strangely normal, every bedroom lit gold, music and talk filtering down to the courtyard. “How is life still just rolling along?” Mercy asked as they passed people bundled up in their scarves, cups of hot tea or coffee in their gloved hands. The trees seemed to have lost their summer green overnight, the yellow leaves curling like bright scraps of rind from a peeled moon. Usually Alex liked the feeling of the normal world, the sense that there was something to return to, that there was more than Lethe and magic and ghosts, that she might have a life waiting for her when this strange work was done. But tonight all she could think was that these people were easy prey. There was danger everywhere and they couldn’t see it. They didn’t have any idea what might be stalking them as they laughed, and argued, and made plans for a world they barely understood. Lauren was in the common room, tucked into the recliner with a problem set, Joy Division


actually spoke with the bomber, right before the last incident. The police made a sketch and ran it by me. It’s definitely the same guy.” “Well, I suppose that’s progress. Although I really don’t like you meddling in the investigation. Not one bit.” “I’m helping, not meddling. The police are saying that they believe the bomber might have worked for Met Power in the 1930s, something about his age and when the bombings started. I thought maybe your office could help them narrow down the suspect list.” “We’ve given them access to all the employee files we have. Unfortunately, they only go back as far as 1940.” He was trembling, even though the night air was warm and there wasn’t even a hint of wind. “Why is that?” “There was a warehouse fire that destroyed some of the records.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his cashmere overcoat. “I’m amazed we have as many as we do, to be honest. Judy and I had been working hard to create a system where employee information could be easily accessed, but it’s not easy when Met Power has been supplying electricity to New York since—” She finished the sentence for him. “Since 1882, when they served fifty-nine customers in a square-mile area in lower Manhattan.” Simon laughed. “I guess I’ve said that before?” “A few times.” “Did you know the Rockettes began in 1925 in Missouri?” His smile vanished. “That’s a new one for me.” “I love how proud you are of what you do,” said Marion. “And I feel the same way about being a Rockette.” “I understand your point. But it’s not safe. I’ve been getting all kinds of calls from reporters, from kooks, since it happened. They know who Judy was, who I am. I have no doubt they know who you are. Yet you’re out there on a stage in front of thousands of people, putting yourself completely at risk.” “I’m being careful. Hopefully there will be a break in the case soon.” “I hope so, Marion. I truly do.” “And I’m sorry for everything, I’m sorry for what we’re going through.” How insufficient the words were. * * * Marion slipped into the dining room of the Rehearsal Club right after the breakfast shift had ended and sweet-talked the cook into making her some scrambled eggs. Someone had left a New York Times on one of the tables, and Marion browsed the arts section while she ate, enjoying the quiet. The Rehearsal Club was rarely tranquil. Mornings were filled with the chatter of girls who worked day jobs rushing out the door, evenings with the revved-up howls of the actresses bursting with energy after taking their final bows on Broadway. It was the same at Radio City, where she was constantly surrounded by movement and sound, the high-flying energy of women who danced for thousands of people every day. The sisterhood was splendid when you were looking for a fun time, but these days Marion was more subdued, her thoughts haunted by the loss of Judy, the


is sit at the bar and read your book. What I do is best left undiscussed.” Andy’s going to have a stroke and then that’ll really ruin Nick’s evening. He tries to get some control over himself. Nick orders his usual Maker’s Mark, neat. And Andy, unable to force his mouth to make intelligent words, just mumbles “same” to the grumpy bartender, earning a confused and skeptical glance from Nick, who knows Andy prefers a gin and tonic, heavy on the tonic. “I need to know you aren’t going to panic if some man approaches you,” Nick says as they take seats at the bar, Andy’s back to the door. Andy will absolutely panic if some man approaches him, but not for the reasons Nick is worried about. “I’ll behave myself,” he assures Nick. “What are you reading?” Nick asks. Andy doesn’t know if it’s his imagination that Nick is leaning a little closer to him than usual. He can feel the heat radiating off of Nick, and Nick’s voice is quiet enough that it’s just this side of a breath. “What?” “Okay. So, you see how you have a book with you? It has words in it. I think you’ve even read some of them. What’s the book about?” “This book?” Andy can’t figure out why Nick is talking about books when he could be doing—his mind supplies images that it has no business thinking of. “Right, so, what I’m doing right now is called making conversation. We’ve done this before, you may remember. Every day, even. Multiple times a day.” “Uh.” “I’m waiting to see someone I like the looks of,” Nick murmurs. “Oh,” says Andy, feeling like a fool. Of course Nick isn’t going to grab the first man he sees by the collar and drag him off to the restroom. He needs to wait for someone he finds attractive, and Andy wonders who that will be, what kind of men Nick is drawn to. “And also I’m curious about the book because this is the fourth one I’ve seen you read by the same author,” Nick adds. So Andy tells him about the book, occasionally noticing Nick’s gaze stray toward the door. Until, finally, he holds up a finger for Andy to pause and then flashes a look over Andy’s shoulder. The look is—it isn’t anything Andy’s ever seen before. It’s almost a smile, if smiles were made of molten metal and bad intentions. Andy resists the urge to turn his head to see the recipient of this look. He doesn’t have to wait long. A moment later, a man appears at Nick’s side. He’s older, maybe in his early thirties, with blond hair, slicked fashionably back. He has on a suit that looks, to Andy’s eye, bespoke. Andy recognizes this as his sign to start reading. He opens the book to his bookmark—or, where his bookmark was before he lost it and replaced it with a matchbook. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nick and the stranger move further down the bar. Nick takes


like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had been having some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms. He turned round, and, leaning on his elbow, began to drink his chocolate. The mellow November sun was streaming into the room. The sky was bright blue, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost like a morning in May. Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent blood- stained feet into his brain, and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for Basil Hallward, that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair, came back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was! Such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day. He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken or grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself. He passed his hand across his forehead, and then got up hastily, and dressed himself with even more than his usual attention, giving a good deal of care to the selection of his necktie and scarf-pin, and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of [87] getting made for the servants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. Over some of the letters he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times over, and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face. "That awful thing, a woman's memory!" as Lord Henry had once said. When he had drunk his coffee, he sat down at the table, and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the other he handed to the valet. "Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell is out of town, get his address." As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette, and began sketching upon a piece of paper, drawing flowers, and


Creakle (at whom I now glanced for the first time, and who were, both, thin and quiet) were not disappointed. 'Come here, sir!' said Mr. Creakle, beckoning to me. 'Come here!' said the man with the wooden leg, repeating the gesture. 'I have the happiness of knowing your father-in-law,' whispered Mr. Creakle, taking me by the ear; 'and a worthy man he is, and a man of a strong character. He knows me, and I know him. Do YOU know me? Hey?' said Mr. Creakle, pinching my ear with ferocious playfulness. 'Not yet, sir,' I said, flinching with the pain. 'Not yet? Hey?' repeated Mr. Creakle. 'But you will soon. Hey?' 'You will soon. Hey?' repeated the man with the wooden leg. I afterwards found that he generally acted, with his strong voice, as Mr. Creakle's interpreter to the boys. I was very much frightened, and said, I hoped so, if he pleased. I felt, all this while, as if my ear were blazing; he pinched it so hard. 'I'll tell you what I am,' whispered Mr. Creakle, letting it go at last, with a screw at parting that brought the water into my eyes. 'I'm a Tartar.' 'A Tartar,' said the man with the wooden leg. 'When I say I'll do a thing, I do it,' said Mr. Creakle; 'and when I say I will have a thing done, I will have it done.' '- Will have a thing done, I will have it done,' repeated the man with the wooden leg. 'I am a determined character,' said Mr. Creakle. 'That's what I am. I do my duty. That's what I do. My flesh and blood' - he looked at Mrs. Creakle as he said this - 'when it rises against me, is not my flesh and blood. I discard it. Has that fellow' - to the man with the wooden leg -'been here again?' 'No,' was the answer. 'No,' said Mr. Creakle. 'He knows better. He knows me. Let him keep away. I say let him keep away,' said Mr. Creakle, striking his hand upon the table, and looking at Mrs. Creakle, 'for he knows me. Now you have begun to know me too, my young friend, and you may go. Take him away.' I was very glad to be ordered away, for Mrs. and Miss Creakle were both wiping their eyes, and I felt as uncomfortable for them as I did for myself. But I had a petition on my mind which concerned me so nearly, that I couldn't help saying, though I wondered at my own courage: 'If you please, sir -' Mr. Creakle whispered, 'Hah! What's this?' and bent his eyes upon me, as if he would have burnt me up with them. 'If you please, sir,' I faltered, 'if I might be allowed (I am very sorry indeed, sir, for what I did) to take this writing off, before the boys come back -' Whether Mr. Creakle was in earnest, or whether he only did it to frighten me, I don't know, but he made a


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don’t mean any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be indulged. I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to comfort my despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him. Bartleby, of his own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some decided line of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past twelve o’clock came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby remained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead-wall reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon I left the office without saying one further word to him. Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a little into “Edwards on the Will,” and “Priestly on Necessity.” Under the circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the scrivener, had been all predestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterious purpose of an all-wise Providence, which it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I know you are here. At last I see it, I feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose of my life. I am content. Others may have loftier parts to enact; but my mission in this world, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office-room for such period as you may see fit to remain. I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks obtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But thus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears out at last the best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure, when I reflected upon it, it was not strange that people entering my office should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable Bartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations concerning him. Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and calling at my office and finding no one but the scrivener there, would undertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him touching my whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby would remain standing immovable in the middle of the room. So after contemplating him in that position for a time, the attorney would depart, no wiser than he came. Also, when a Reference was going on, and the


the Sultana had not been conservative in her consumption of Omal’s wines. A second figure stepped forward, and I recognized the line of his broad shoulders before he spoke. “Watch your step,” Arin said. Vaida tripped over a chair leg, careening into the Heir. She caught herself on Arin’s chest and seemed baffled to find her wrists clasped in a gloved grip and held away. Vaida frowned. “Is this about yesterday? It was a misunderstanding. Don’t you believe me?” She arched up on her toes. I squinted, balanced precariously against the wardrobe doors. “Have you never wondered what we would be like, Arin?” she murmured. “Don’t you ever do anything for the pure pleasure of it? You must; no control is so perfect.” I could only see Arin’s profile, and I caught a glimpse of his implacable features. Unmoved by the most beautiful woman in all the kingdoms, the descendent of Baira herself. “My control is far from perfect,” he said. “But it is better than yours.” In a single motion, Arin pressed his fingers to a point on the Sultana’s neck and jerked her head to the side. Vaida’s eyes rolled back. I covered my mouth with both hands as he caught the Sultana’s limp body, depositing her on the bed. I let myself breathe when Vaida’s chest moved. He had only put her to sleep. Arin drew Vaida’s bedside dresser forward. He swept his hand over the back, pausing halfway down. Angled out of my sight, I saw him straighten and extract a small box from his pocket. He accomplished in a moment what you and your useless companion could not do in twenty, Hanim said. He found the seal. What was he doing to it? I mentioned the seal passingly the day I described Vaida’s offer to him. It should not have shocked me that even a brief mention served as a catalyst for Arin’s next plan. He tucked the box into his pocket again, returning the seal to the back of the dresser. Arin paused on his way to the door, tilting his chin. His hearing, you fool! Hanim reprimanded. I smothered Vaida’s gown over my nose and mouth. Arin skimmed over the wardrobe, lingering for a beat that sent panic coursing through me. I exhaled when he turned away and opened the chamber’s doors. “The Sultana took a tumble while removing her shoes and hit her head on the descent,” he said. “Oh no! Shall I fetch the palace physician?” the guard gasped. “The damage will only be a headache and a distorted memory of the evening,” Arin said. “I recommend you fetch ice. Immediately.” “Of course,” the guard fretted. The door slammed shut behind them. I counted to ten before bursting through the wardrobe doors. Sefa followed suit, slapping aside the clinging gowns. “Did you see what he did to the seal?” “He rolled it in some sort of molding material,” Sefa answered. “How did he know where Vaida hid it?” She yanked the table forward. I glanced at Vaida, checking that she slumbered deeply. “They


great sights of my life. I didn't think Miss Creakle equal to little Em'ly in point of beauty, and I didn't love her (I didn't dare); but I thought her a young lady of extraordinary attractions, and in point of gentility not to be surpassed. When Steerforth, in white trousers, carried her parasol for her, I felt proud to know him; and believed that she could not choose but adore him with all her heart. Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both notable personages in my eyes; but Steerforth was to them what the sun was to two stars. Steerforth continued his protection of me, and proved a very useful friend; since nobody dared to annoy one whom he honoured with his countenance. He couldn't - or at all events he didn't - defend me from Mr. Creakle, who was very severe with me; but whenever I had been treated worse than usual, he always told me that I wanted a little of his pluck, and that he wouldn't have stood it himself; which I felt he intended for encouragement, and considered to be very kind of him. There was one advantage, and only one that I know of, in Mr. Creakle's severity. He found my placard in his way when he came up or down behind the form on which I sat, and wanted to make a cut at me in passing; for this reason it was soon taken off, and I saw it no more. An accidental circumstance cemented the intimacy between Steerforth and me, in a manner that inspired me with great pride and satisfaction, though it sometimes led to inconvenience. It happened on one occasion, when he was doing me the honour of talking to me in the playground, that I hazarded the observation that something or somebody - I forget what now - was like something or somebody in Peregrine Pickle. He said nothing at the time; but when I was going to bed at night, asked me if I had got that book? I told him no, and explained how it was that I had read it, and all those other books of which I have made mention. 'And do you recollect them?' Steerforth said. 'Oh yes,' I replied; I had a good memory, and I believed I recollected them very well. 'Then I tell you what, young Copperfield,' said Steerforth, 'you shall tell 'em to me. I can't get to sleep very early at night, and I generally wake rather early in the morning. We'll go over 'em one after another. We'll make some regular Arabian Nights of it.' I felt extremely flattered by this arrangement, and we commenced carrying it into execution that very evening. What ravages I committed on my favourite authors in the course of my interpretation of them, I am not in a condition to say, and should be very unwilling to know; but I had a profound faith in them, and I had, to the best of my belief, a simple, earnest manner of narrating what I did narrate; and


like he was fifteen and looked fifty. “Where’s your mom?” “Off to the market. It’s the two of us in the apartment,” Nando said with a wink. A painting of the Santo Niño de Atocha surveyed her from above the couch, where Nando had plopped himself, patting the space next to him. Montserrat pulled up a chair instead. “How’s the job?” he asked. “Same old story. It’s a bit slow this month. I want to pick up my bonus tomorrow, and I’ll enjoy the quiet weeks until it picks up again.” What she wanted was for Mario to open the vault and let her grab the film she’d stored there, but the bonus would be as good an excuse as any. She might also be able to guilt Mario into throwing her a bunch of shifts in January. This whole magic business was leaving her life in disarray. “I heard Mario was cutting hours at Antares, and he chopped a bunch of yours.” “Who told you about the hours at Antares?” “Lalo Podesta was here a few days ago. We were playing cards. He says Samuel is bringing in a friend to replace you.” “How does he know what Samuel is doing?” “Lalo loves to gossip.” If Lalo was flapping his mouth there might be some truth to it, but she didn’t want to think about that right now, so she shook her head and glared at Nando. “Lalo should mind his own business and so should you. Anyway, I’m not here to discuss my job.” “Why are you here? You’re looking nice, Montserrat. I love the thing you did with your hair.” The only thing Montserrat had done with her hair was tie it into a ponytail, but Nando was a horny dog trying to butter her up like a succulent lobster. She’d dodged enough creeps to know how to deal with this one. “A while back you had a script for sale. It was by Romeo Donderis, and you said it could be authenticated by the writer himself because it was pricey.” “Sure, but that was a while back. It’s long gone.” “I’m not interested in the script. I want to know about Donderis. Do you have his phone number or home address?” “You’re going to go see him? Are you trying to cut out the middleman in these transactions? I won’t have that. How am I supposed to make a living?” Nando asked, spilling a little of his beer as he set the bottle down. “What? No. I’m doing research on something.” “Oh? What are you working on?” Nothing. The plan for a documentary piece was over. Maybe Tristán was correct, maybe they ought to cease their inquiries and pretend they had never heard of Ewers or his movie. But she couldn’t look away and must find out who had killed Abel. That she knew, like she knew when a musical cue was about to play on screen. She didn’t want to attribute any supernatural qualities to this feeling, but perhaps there was something of that to it. Abel


mouth of that quickly approaching wormhole, just as Adams had done previously. But my confidence in the whole process was giving me pause. This was little more than an unproven experiment—an experiment where there would be no redos, no second chances. Was I really willing to risk the lives of these crew members all on Coogong’s best-guess hunch? “Five … four … three …” The Ziu missiles were almost upon us. This was happening. “Two … one …” Adams, Portent, and Boundless Wrath jumped. I closed my eyes. I held my breath. The ship shook violently, and I was thrown to the deck; I heard a series of loud clangs and bangs. Someone yelped. Someone else cursed. The overhead crystal chandeliers swung and musically clinked like the highest piano notes. Realizing I’d bonked my head, I brought fingertips to my forehead; they came away bloody. Those around me were getting to their feet. I felt strong hands helping me up—it was Hardy. “You took quite a tumble there, Cap.” “I’m fine. How’d you stay on your feet?” “Internal stabilizing servos. That and I grabbed for your captain’s mount.” One glance told me the robot had severely bent and distorted the left armrest. “That’s coming out of your pay,” I said, deadpan. “Wait … I’m supposed to be getting paid?” Looking about the bridge, I saw the others situating themselves at their respective stations. “Situation report. Where are we?” I looked to where Coogong had been sitting, but it was now just an empty chair. “And somebody find Coogong.” “Uh, here he is,” Grimes said, bent over, looking beneath an adjacent console. With the helmsman’s help, Coogong got to his feet. We all saw it—the Thine alien’s helmet had a serious vertical crack running down the middle. That, and it was leaking Ambiogell goo. “I got this,” Hardy said, hurrying over to Coogong. In two long strides the ChronoBot swept Coogong up into his arms. A moment later, the two were hurrying off the bridge. Where Hardy had taken Coogong, I had no idea. Tapping at her board, Akari answered my original question. “I have no idea where we are.” She looked at me. “Most definitely not where we were … not in that same universe. If we’re home, we’ll need to reconfigure our sensors back to be sure.” Grimes said, “From a navigation standpoint, Captain … I have no reference for this star system. What I can tell you is EUNF US Space-Navy’s celestial database is coming up blank. I do have a rough idea of what direction home is.” I looked to Bosun Polk, who shrugged. “I’ve got nothing for you, sir. I can deploy a comms relay. Would increase our chances of making contact with the fleet.” “Yes, make that happen.” I stared at the halo display. “Seriously … we’re back inside another asteroid field?” “Technically, we weren’t in an asteroid field prior—” I cut Akari off with a stare. “Sir, your head. That’s quite a gash you got there. If I may suggest, a few minutes in HealthBay would


on the lips." "Did you, Tom, did you! I just forgive you everything for that!" And she seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the guiltiest of villains. --------------------------------------------------------- -183- "It was very kind, even though it was only a -- dream," Sid soliloquized just audibly. "Shut up, Sid! A body does just the same in a dream as he'd do if he was awake. Here's a big Milum apple I've been saving for you, Tom, if you was ever found again -- now go 'long to school. I'm thankful to the good God and Father of us all I've got you back, that's long-suffering and merciful to them that believe on Him and keep His word, though goodness knows I'm unworthy of it, but if only the worthy ones got His blessings and had His hand to help them over the rough places, there's few enough would smile here or ever enter into His rest when the long night comes. Go 'long Sid, Mary, Tom -- take yourselves off -- you've hendered me long enough." The children left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs. Harper and vanquish her realism with Tom's marvellous dream. Sid had better judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the house. It was this: "Pretty thin -- as long a dream as that, without any mistakes in it!" What a hero Tom was become, now! He did not go skipping and prancing, but moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the public eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see the looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food and drink to him. Smaller boys than himself flocked at his heels, as proud to be seen with him, and tolerated by him, as --------------------------------------------------------- -184- if he had been the drummer at the head of a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie into town. Boys of his own size pretended not to know he had been away at all; but they were consuming with envy, nevertheless. They would have given anything to have that swarthy suntanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and Tom would not have parted with either for a circus. At school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered such eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not long in becoming insufferably "stuck-up." They began to tell their adventures to hungry listeners -- but they only began; it was not a thing likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish material. And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely puffing around, the very summit of glory was reached. Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory was sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished, maybe she would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her -- she


pet cause—but mostly focused on the pile of evidence: The DNA, his pool access. His confession, even if retracted. That drawing in the directory. Even if he hadn’t been the “older guy” Thalia mentioned to her friends: Three skiers claimed they’d heard Omar joke about a fantasy of tying Thalia to the weight bench. “Omar was fun,” I told Britt. “He’d blast music in the weight room and then he’d run around holding his fist out like a microphone to get you to solo.” This wasn’t relevant to the timeline, but it felt important. “He didn’t have the same boundaries a teacher would have. I guess when you’re icing people’s groins things get a little personal.” Britt nodded as I talked. Then she said, “I was actually wondering about the timeline of that night.” “Oh.” I was relieved, because I hadn’t known what I’d say next. I wasn’t about to mention you—certainly not on the record—but my mental deck was getting shuffled in uncomfortable ways. Why, for instance, had I thought so much about Thalia over the years, but so little about Omar? I wanted to defend myself from the very question. I said, “Okay. That Friday. I was stage managing, we ended the show, I went back to my dorm, and I learned about everything the next evening. Which was Saturday.” “Right. But what do you remember? About Saturday?” One wall of the room we sat in was glass, and girls passed occasionally, still in sports gear or already wrapped in towels to grab the nighttime shower spots. They gazed in with mild curiosity. I said, “I had a single, senior year, and I would’ve slept in. This isn’t a major part of the story, but the dorm smoke alarm had gone off Friday around midnight, just a microwave incident, so we were all standing outside till pretty late. Are kids still burning popcorn?” Britt laughed. “Oh my God. I don’t understand why there’s a specific popcorn button on the microwave, when pressing it is, like, nuclear meltdown.” “Exactly! Okay, so—as you know, a bunch of kids were drinking in the woods Friday night at the mattresses off the Nordic trail. It was warmish for March, so they were taking advantage. I mean, it was probably thirty-three degrees, but you know that first day when the air doesn’t hurt your face?” Britt said, “I have so many notes on this. It was nineteen students total.” “I’m pretty sure it was all kids who’d been at the musical,” I said, “or in it. Not Thalia, but most of her friends, and her boyfriend, so it was a little odd she wasn’t there. My point is, a lot of kids were hungover Saturday. Not me—I mean, I wasn’t virtuous, but—that wasn’t my friend group. So between the smoke alarm and the drinking, people were tired, sleeping in. And Thalia had a single, so no one missed her for a while.” What had happened was that Jenny Osaka, our senior class president, had been invited to the mattress party—she played flute in the pit


requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other. The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma only occasionally joining in one or the other. The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative, and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness. While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter. "My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five children--"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel." Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection, "It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air." "Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat,-- both sea air and bathing." "Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very


I want that to --" "It don't make no difference what you want it for -- you just shell it out." He took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was going down town to get some whisky; said he hadn't had a drink all day. When he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, and cussed me for putting on frills and trying to be better than him; and when I reckoned he was gone he come back and put his head in again, and told me to mind about that school, because he was going to lay for me and lick me if I didn't drop that. Next day he was drunk, and he went to Judge Thatcher's and bullyragged him, and tried to make him give up the money; but he couldn't, and then he swore he'd make the law force him. The judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me away from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a new judge that had just come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said courts mustn't interfere and separate families if they could help it; said he'd druther not take a child away from its father. So Judge Thatcher and the widow had to quit on the business. That pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. He said he'd cowhide me till I was black and blue if I didn't raise some money for him. I borrowed three dollars from Judge Thatcher, and pap took it and got drunk, and went a-blowing around and cussing and whooping and carrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till most midnight; then they jailed him, and next day they had him before court, and jailed him again for a week. But he said HE was satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make it warm for HIM. When he got out the new judge said he was a-going to make a man of him. So he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean and nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the family, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. And after supper he talked to him about temperance and such things till the old man cried, and said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-going to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't be ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down on him. The judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his wife she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that had always been misunderstood before, and the judge said he believed it. The old man said that what a man wanted that was down was


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

have told us prefects, at least." "And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed. Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words. "Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!" And the school bellowed: "Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, Teach us something please, Whether we be old and bald Or young with scabby knees, Our heads could do with filling With some interesting stuff, For now they're bare and full of air, Dead flies and bits of fluff, So teach us things worth knowing, Bring back what we've forgot, Just do your best, we'll do the rest, And learn until our brains all rot." Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest. "Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!" The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Harry's legs were like lead again, but only because he was so tired and full of food. He was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases, yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just wondering how much farther they had to go when they came to a sudden halt. A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair ahead of them, and as Percy took a step toward them they started throwing themselves at him. "Peeves," Percy whispered to the first years. "A poltergeist." He raised his voice, "Peeves -- show yourself." A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered. "Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?" There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross-legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks. "Oooooooh!" he said, with an evil cackle. "Ickle Firsties! What fun!" He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked. "Go away, Peeves, or the Baron'll hear about this, I mean it!" barked Percy. Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on Neville's head. They heard him zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he passed. "You want to watch out for Peeves," said Percy, as they set off again. "The Bloody Baron's the only one who can control him, he won't even listen to us prefects. Here we are." At


followed by Jack Lovejoy, Janice and Geoff from next door with a plate of meringues from Susan and Mrs B’Gurk’s eggs. Lin was the perfect host, serving everyone with rum punch that Linval swore was exactly as his mother had made it years ago. The conversation subsided as everyone started to eat; chatter was replaced with sounds of pleasure, compliments to Lin and Odile and the other cooks on the delicious dishes they’d made. Gerald and Margaret arrived, eagerly sampling the Caribbean fare and exclaiming that they enjoyed it so much, they’d make it themselves at home. ‘Margaret’s marvellous in the kitchen too,’ Gerald beamed and Josie was sure she saw him pinch her bottom before she glowed with delight. Neil moved to Lin and kissed her, whispering in her ear, ‘I married the most gorgeous person in the world – and a wonderful cook.’ Lin kissed him back. ‘So did I.’ Minnie stood by herself sipping rum punch when Cecily touched her elbow and whispered, ‘How’s Tina doing?’ ‘She’s making progress. A taxi is picking her up from physio later. I’ll have to be back in Oxford to meet her at the house. She’s very positive and chirpy.’ ‘And what about you?’ Cecily’s eyes were full of concern. ‘Are you managing all the extra work?’ ‘I’m doing all right.’ ‘You gave up that wonderful man we met at Lin’s anniversary lunch.’ ‘I did.’ Minnie clamped her lips together. ‘But I have Tina, my home, my friends, and my books. I’ll be just fine.’ She sipped from a tall glass. ‘Besides, Jensen calls me from time to time. We’re still in touch. Who knows which way it will go?’ ‘Oh…’ Cecily’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m just so proud of everybody. You, Lin, Josie, Fergal – you’ve turned out so well.’ She waved a hand around the room. ‘Look at you all here – and Neil and Jimmy, Kenny, Dickie. I’m so glad I was your teacher. It was just the best job in the world…’ Minnie wrapped an arm around her, then everyone turned in unison as Florence came in, holding baby Elsie. Adam was a step behind her, smiling, carrying a bag stuffed with nappies and spare clothes. Florence was surrounded by cooing voices and she looked happy and relaxed. Then Odile called, ‘Anyone for Jamaican rum cake?’ and there was a clamour of eager voices. Florence turned to Lin as the baby wriggled in her arms. ‘Can I just pop upstairs? Elsie needs a feed.’ ‘Use our bedroom.’ Lin suddenly recalled the warm maternal feelings she’d had with Debbie. They’d spoken on the phone earlier – Debbie had promised to ring at least once a week. ‘Top of the stairs, go left.’ ‘Thanks, Lin.’ Adam was by her side. ‘Shall I come with you?’ ‘No, you stay, have some cake… I’ll be down soon.’ Florence heaved the bag onto her shoulder, adjusting the baby’s position to make her more comfortable. She’d almost reached the bottom of the stairs when someone appeared at the front door – Lin had left


as before, by whom they could be written. While she mused, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the building, and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she found in a little path that wound along the sides of the glen. Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlooking the vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf; and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaled the sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emily played and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacy of expression in which she so much excelled. Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till the sun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glided beneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and the gloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but not unpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the place with regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever. When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and recollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had left it on the table when she went to walk. After a long search, in which Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to the loss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her was a miniature of her daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a striking resemblance, and which had been painted only a few months before. When Emily was convinced that the bracelet was really gone, she blushed, and became thoughtful. That some stranger had been in the fishing-house, during her absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had already informed her: from the purport of these lines it was not unreasonable to believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief were the same person. But though the music she had heard, the written lines she had seen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination of circumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from mentioning them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit the fishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert. They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incident which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude, on the blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed, and perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's picture. As they drew near the house, they observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voices was distinctly heard, servants and horses were seen passing between the trees, and, at length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having come within view of the front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking horses, appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the liveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and Madame Quesnel already entered. They


only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it shall be until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my friend whose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on hopeless and work. Work! Work! If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good, unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness. MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL 26 July.--I am anxious,and it soothes me to express myself here. It is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned, but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy , although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit, that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her. She will be all right when he arrives. 27 July.--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him, though why I should I do not


give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world. ``'Tis too much!'' she added, ``by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?'' Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said for the present. ``I must go instantly to my mother;'' she cried. ``I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!'' She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. ``And this,'' said she, ``is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!'' In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. ``Where is your sister?'' said he hastily, as he opened the door. ``With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.'' He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed how really happy he was. Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

giving it a try. Our deepest debt of gratitude goes to our Chinese American pre-readers: Jennifer Yuen, Patty Lai, Eileen Ho, Kayla Lee, and Sandria Wong. These women answered every question we had and read through multiple versions of this book. They shared their time, their memories, and most importantly, themselves. Jen, Patty, Eileen, Kayla, and Sandria: We are forever thankful. We hope we made you proud. Anything that we got wrong is entirely on us. By now, our families know almost as much about publishing as we do. They have seen us through the drafting, editing, and publishing of over two dozen books, hundreds of events, and countless flails and celebrations. We couldn’t do any of this without them. Thank you, K and R, for celebrating our victories with gusto, commiserating through the struggles, and being proud, feminist husbands to your exuberant, fangirl wives. And thank you, C, O, and V, for being truly the most amazing kids, but thank you most of all for knowing how to make your own dinners when required. We love you more than words. In case you couldn’t tell, Fizzy is obsessed with her readers, and so are we. Our characters rarely speak for us, but when Fizzy talks about seeing her books impact people, watching their TikToks and Reels, and seeing all their beautiful photos? That’s straight from us. We are nothing without all of you, and whether you found us at book one or book twenty-nine, whether you’re a reader, a blogger, a BookTokker, a Bookstagrammer, or a podcaster, or you just love shouting into our DMs about our stories, we are so grateful. If you are a bookseller or a librarian, we love the hell out of you. May your skin always look great, and may you always fly through the Ticketmaster queue. Thank you for all your work and for helping our books find new readers. If you follow us, have met us, or attended one of our events, you know that we treat fangirling like a professional sport. It runs in our (purple) blood, and when we love something, we love it with every fiber of our being. Fizzy and Stevie’s favorite band isn’t officially BTS, but the euphoric joy they bring people was absolutely inspired by them. We’ve thanked BTS in four books now, but the happiness and inspiration they give us could fill every one of these pages. Kim Namjoon, Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, and Jeon Jungkook, you inspire us to love better, to be kinder, to collaborate with passion, and to grow as individuals. Thank you for your hard work, for your dedication to each other, and for sharing your boundless talent with the world. BTS and ARMY may be apart for a little while, but we will always be here, ARMY bombs ready for whatever comes next. Christina, sunshine in human form. You are the glaze to my doughnut, the dimple to my smile, the Namjoon to my Jungkook, the exclamation point at the end of every one of my


sought to mold and interpret her environment. That which she silences or deletes, similarly, is all that her readership would draw upon to delimit or pigeonhole her life as a synecdoche of “the race problem,” an exceptional part standing for the debased whole. Hurston’s achievement in Dust Tracks is twofold. First, she gives us a writer’s life, rather than an account, as she says, of “the Negro problem.” So many events in this text are figured in terms of Hurston’s growing awareness and mastery of books and language, language and linguistic rituals as spoken and written both by masters of the Western tradition and by ordinary members of the black community. These two “speech communities,” as it were, are Hurston’s great sources of inspiration not only in her novels but also in her autobiography. The representation of her sources of language seems to be her principal concern, as she constantly shifts back and forth between her “literate” narrator’s voice and a highly idiomatic black voice found in wonderful passages of free indirect discourse. Hurston moves in and out of these distinct voices effortlessly, seamlessly, just as she does in Their Eyes to chart Janie’s coming to consciousness. It is this usage of a divided voice, a double voice unreconciled, that strikes me as her great achievement, a verbal analogue of her double experiences as a woman in a male-dominated world and as a black person in a nonblack world, a woman writer’s revision of W. E. B. Du Bois’s metaphor of “double-consciousness” for the hyphenated African-American. Her language, variegated by the twin voices that intertwine throughout the text, retains the power to unsettle. There is something about poverty that smells like death. Dead dreams dropping off the heart like leaves in a dry season and rotting around the feet; impulses smothered too long in the fetid air of underground caves. The soul lives in a sickly air. People can be slave-ships in shoes. Elsewhere she analyzes black “idioms” used by a culture “raised on simile and invective. They know how to call names,’ she concludes, then lists some, such as ‘gator-mouthed, box- ankled, puzzle-gutted, shovel-footed: “Eyes looking like skint- ginny nuts, and mouth looking like a dishpan full of broke-up crockery!” Immediately following the passage about her mother’s death, she writes: The Master-Maker in His making had made Old Death. Made him with big, soft feet and square toes. Made him with a face that reflects the face of all things, but neither changes itself, nor is mirrored anywhere. Made the body of death out of infinite hunger. Made a weapon of his hand to satisfy his needs. This was the morning of the day of the beginning of things. Language, in these passages, is not merely “adornment,” as Hurston described a key black linguistic practice; rather, manner and meaning are perfectly in tune: she says the thing in the most meaningful manner. Nor is she being “cute,” or pandering to a condescending white readership. She is “naming” emotions, as she says, in a language both deeply personal and culturally specific. The


I wanted to know who it was and why my father did it. “Don’t you love Mother?” I said, trying hard to halt my tears. “I do,” my father said. “In a very complicated way. Do you love her?” “Of course.” “Then it’s best not to tell her about this. It would kill her. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?” “No, sir,” I replied, my eyes downcast because I couldn’t stand to look at him. He chucked my chin like I was a baby. Or, worse, a dog. “That’s my good girl.” As my father turned and left the ballroom, I almost called out that he was the parent I wanted dead. After all, he deserved it. I didn’t because I felt the need to behave like the good girl he expected me to be. But here’s the thing--I wasn’t a good girl. Not in the least. You’ll see for yourself very soon. ELEVEN Sleep doesn’t come easy. Granted, I never sleep well the first few nights with a new patient. Different room. Different bed, some more comfortable than others. Different house, with all its unique nocturnal sounds. At Hope’s End, the dominant night noises are the ocean and the wind—a discordant duet that keeps me awake. The waves are low and steady, crashing into the cliff below with a rhythm that would be soothing if not for the wind, which hits the house in irregular gusts. Each blow rattles the windows and shimmies the walls, which in turn creak and groan, reminding me where I am. A mansion teetering on the edge of the ocean. Inside of which is a woman most people assume murdered her family. A woman who has now offered to tell me everything. The pattern repeats itself. Thinking about Lenora, being lulled to sleep by the waves, then startled awake by the wind. Every time it hits, I grip the edge of the mattress, certain I can feel the house leaning toward the sea. But then the wind calms, my thoughts roll, the waves continue, and the whole process starts anew. This goes on until I hear another noise. Not the wind. Not the waves. It sounds like a floorboard, emitting the faintest of creaks. I sit up and scan the room, looking for—well, I don’t know what to expect. An intruder? A burglar? The mansion beginning its inevitable slide into the Atlantic? But there’s nothing to see. I’m the only person in the room, making me conclude it was just the wind causing Hope’s End to creak in a way I hadn’t yet heard. I crawl out of bed, crack open the door to my room, and peer into the hallway. Right now, it’s empty. Knowing I could have just missed someone passing by, I step into the hall and listen for the sound of departing footsteps or a door closing. “Hello?” I say, my voice hushed. “Is someone out here?” No one answers. Not another sound is heard. Until I return to my bedroom. When the creaking resumes, I realize exactly where it’s coming


with his teeth when it collected between his toes; and when he was thirsty and there was a thick scum of ice over the water hole, he would break it by rearing and striking it with stiff fore legs. His most conspicuous trait was an ability to scent the wind and forecast it a night in advance. No matter how breathless the air when he dug his nest by tree or bank, the wind that later blew inevitably found him to leeward, sheltered and snug. And not only did he learn by experience, but instincts long dead became alive again. The domesticated generations fell from him. In vague ways he remembered back to the youth of the breed, to the time the wild dogs ranged in packs through the primeval forest and killed their meat as they ran it down. It was no task for him to learn to fight with cut and slash and the quick wolf snap. In this manner had fought forgotten ancestors. They quickened the old life within him, and the old tricks which they had stamped into the heredity of the breed were his tricks. They came to him without effort or discovery, as though they had been his always. And when, on the still cold nights, he pointed his nose at a star and howled long and wolflike, it was his ancestors, dead and dust, pointing nose at star and howling down through the centuries and through him. And his cadences were their cadences, the cadences which voiced their woe and what to them was the meaning of the stiffness, and the cold, and dark. Thus, as token of what a puppet thing life is, the ancient song surged through him and he came into his own again; and he came because men had found a yellow metal in the North, and because Manuel was a gardener's helper whose wages did not lap over the needs of his wife and divers small copies of himself. Chapter III The Dominant Primordial Beast The dominant primordial beast was strong in Buck, and under the fierce conditions of trail life it grew and grew. Yet it was a secret growth. His newborn cunning gave him poise and control. He was too busy adjusting himself to the new life to feel at ease, and not only did he not pick fights, but he avoided them whenever possible. A certain deliberateness characterized his attitude. He was not prone to rashness and precipitate action; and in the bitter hatred between him and Spitz he betrayed no impatience, shunned all offensive acts. On the other hand, possibly because he divined in Buck a dangerous rival, Spitz never lost an opportunity of showing his teeth. He even went out of his way to bully Buck, striving constantly to start the fight which could end only in the death of one or the other. Early in the trip this might have taken place had it not been for an unwonted accident. At the end of this day they made a bleak and miserable camp on


a choreographer but from kind of like, I guess he was an image consultant. He recommended I perform shirtless and in leather pants.” “Oh, that’s perfect. But let’s make the pants into shorts. Shorts are even better. Or what if you’re the one who suggests this, and it’s the pivot at the end? So up ’til now, it seems like you’re so resistant to these silly ideas, but you’re just resistant to their silly ideas. And you’re wearing tear-away clothes that you pull off, and you say something like ‘I’m confident that audience engagement will be enhanced by my beautifully sculpted body.’ ” Noah shook his head good-naturedly, and his blond surfer hair shifted a little. “I’m starting to feel like I just dug my own grave. And I’m still with the same label I signed with in 1999. That’s the irony here, as I vilify them in public.” “If it reassures you, there’s no guarantee any sketch will get picked for the live show.” When our eyes met, I said, “But I bet this one will.” “I guess I’m a winner either way,” he said. “Or a loser?” I scrolled through the document, making the changes we’d discussed. When we got to the third page, I said, “This chunk can go because it doesn’t establish anything new. It’s kind of filler.” I could tell he was reading the lines onscreen, then he said, “No, you’re right.” At the end, I inserted the stage directions for him to rip off his clothes then I glanced at him once more. “Want to read it through out loud? You can do the you part, and I’ll be the execs and the choreographer.” We both laughed a few times as we read. When Noah said, “Because my beautifully sculpted body will enhance audience engagement,” I realized it unintentionally echoed the earlier line about cutting-edge choreography enhancing his live performances. I cut the second enhance and replaced it with increase. In general, word repetition worked only when it seemed intentional. “We need a title,” I said. “But just as a placeholder, so don’t overthink it. Something like Choreographer.” “Done,” he said. “Choreographer.” He pointed down at the elastics on my desk. “Is it when you pull your hair back that your magical editing powers kick in?” I laughed. “I’ve heard of novelists who are very precious about their writing rituals, like they have to light a candle or drink herbal tea first, but TNO beats that out of you.” “Well, I feel like I just took a master class in comedy writing. I seriously can’t thank you enough.” “Again, it still has to make it past the table read and rehearsals, but I actually think it’s really fun.” “The way you keep saying actually,” he said. “It’s like you’re surprised.” “Sorry. It’s just that very few hosts write sketches, and even if they do, a writer probably drafted it. And honestly, for a musician host, it’s almost unheard of.” “Do you know I write my own songs?” “But don’t you think songs and sketches are different


the afternoon? “With submission, sir,” said Turkey on this occasion, “I consider myself your right-hand man. In the morning I but marshal and deploy my columns; but in the afternoon I put myself at their head, and gallantly charge the foe, thus!”—and he made a violent thrust with the ruler. “But the blots, Turkey,” intimated I. “True,—but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting old. Surely, sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not to be severely urged against gray hairs. Old age—even if it blot the page—is honorable. With submission, sir, we both are getting old.” This appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. At all events, I saw that go he would not. So I made up my mind to let him stay, resolving, nevertheless, to see to it, that during the afternoon he had to do with my less important papers. Nippers, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the whole, rather piratical-looking young man of about five and twenty. I always deemed him the victim of two evil powers—ambition and indigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the duties of a mere copyist, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly professional affairs, such as the original drawing up of legal documents. The indigestion seemed betokened in an occasional nervous testiness and grinning irritability, causing the teeth to audibly grind together over mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary maledictions, hissed, rather than spoken, in the heat of business; and especially by a continual discontent with the height of the table where he worked. Though of a very ingenious mechanical turn, Nippers could never get this table to suit him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts, bits of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite adjustment by final pieces of folded blotting paper. But no invention would answer. If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table lid at a sharp angle well up towards his chin, and wrote there like a man using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk:—then he declared that it stopped the circulation in his arms. If now he lowered the table to his waistbands, and stooped over it in writing, then there was a sore aching in his back. In short, the truth of the matter was, Nippers knew not what he wanted. Or, if he wanted any thing, it was to be rid of a scrivener’s table altogether. Among the manifestations of his diseased ambition was a fondness he had for receiving visits from certain ambiguous-looking fellows in seedy coats, whom he called his clients. Indeed I was aware that not only was he, at times, considerable of a ward-politician, but he occasionally did a little business at the Justices’ courts, and was not unknown on the steps of the Tombs. I have good reason to believe, however, that one individual who called upon him at my chambers, and who, with a grand air, he insisted was his


me that I said it was Mary before, so I didn't look up -- seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the woman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier I was. But now she says: "Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?" "Oh, yes'm, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's my first name. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary." "Oh, that's the way of it?" "Yes'm." I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway. I couldn't look up yet. Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned the place, and so forth and so on, and then I got easy again. She was right about the rats. You'd see one stick his nose out of a hole in the corner every little while. She said she had to have things handy to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no peace. She showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and said she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true now. But she watched for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said "Ouch!" it hurt her arm so. Then she told me to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting away before the old man got back, but of course I didn't let on. I got the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and if he'd a stayed where he was he'd a been a tolerable sick rat. She said that was first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the next one. She went and got the lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she wanted me to help her with. I held up my two hands and she put the hank over them, and went on talking about her and her husband's matters. But she broke off to say: "Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap, handy." So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and I clapped my legs together on it and she went on talking. But only about a minute. Then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and very pleasant, and says: "Come, now, what's your real name?" "Wh -- what, mum?" "What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob? -- or what is it?" I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know hardly what to do. But I says: "Please to don't poke fun


tell them what. I've got them running. And sometimes, I tell them, I like to put my head back, like this, and let the rain fall into my mouth. It tastes just like wine. Have you ever tried it?" "No I--" "You HAVE forgiven me, haven't you?" "Yes." He thought about it. "Yes, I have. God knows why. You're peculiar, you're aggravating, yet you're easy to forgive. You say you're seventeen?" "Well-next month." "How odd. How strange. And my wife thirty and yet you seem so much older at times. I can't get over it." "You're peculiar yourself, Mr. Montag. Sometimes I even forget you're a fireman. Now, may I make you angry again?" "Go ahead." "How did it start? How did you get into it? How did you pick your work and how did you happen to think to take the job you have? You're not like the others. I've seen a few; I know. When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon, last night. The others would never do that. The others would walk off and leave me talking. Or threaten me. No one has time any more for anyone else. You're one of the few who put up with me. That's why I think it's so strange you're a fireman, it just doesn't seem right for you, somehow." He felt his body divide itself into a hotness and a coldness, a softness and a hardness, a trembling and a not trembling, the two halves grinding one upon the other. "You'd better run on to your appointment," he said. And she ran off and left him standing there in the rain. Only after a long time did he move. And then, very slowly, as he walked, he tilted his head back in the rain, for just a few moments, and opened his mouth.... The Mechanical Hound slept but did not sleep, lived but did not live in its gently humming, gently vibrating, softly illuminated kennel back in a dark corner of the firehouse. The dim light of one in the morning, the moonlight from the open sky framed through the great window, touched here and there on the brass and the copper and the steel of the faintly trembling beast. Light flickered on bits of ruby glass and on sensitive capillary hairs in the nylon-brushed nostrils of the creature that quivered gently, gently, gently, its eight legs spidered under it on rubber-padded paws. Montag slid down the brass pole. He went out to look at the city and the clouds had cleared away completely, and he lit a cigarette and came back to bend down and look at the Hound. It was like a great bee come home from some field where the honey is full of poison wildness, of insanity and nightmare, its body crammed with that over-rich nectar and now it was sleeping the evil out of itself. "Hello," whispered Montag, fascinated as always with the dead beast, the living beast. At night when things got dull,


lines at the same time by the post, stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that period to her at--: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge's, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to threaten me.--Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.-- What was to be done?--One thing only.--I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.-- I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.--I felt that it would be of a different sort.--Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?--No; do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.--I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her alone.--I was not disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment's uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself, Your obliged and affectionate Son, F. C. WESTON


not there, which is fine, because I want to talk to Sam. “How’s your chef?” “I am not discussing that with you.” “Come on, Sam, it’s just small talk before I ask you what you really don’t want to talk about with me.” “She’s fine, Cal. She has doubts about me as a long-term partner.” “I don’t.” “Well, that’s great, let’s get hitched right away.” “Come work with me. That gets you away from Victor’s. You can bootstrap to respectable security professional.” “Yeah, sure, because just everyone thinks you’re respectable.” “Athena does and that’s all that matters.” “So I hear. Also that you keep stepping back, which I understand conceptually but for the record: you’re an idiot.” That is probably true. * * * — “Sam, if you were going to make a first-dose Titan put a gun to his own head, how would you do it?” “I got an alibi.” “And what is that exactly?” “If I’d killed your guy you’d have never found the body.” “Not really how those work.” “Yeah, also I was here.” He shrugs. “What do you want?” “I want to know—” “First thing people think of is knock him out. Drugs, obviously.” “Tranquilisers.” “Sure. An absolute shitload of them, maybe, and even then it would not be my first choice.” “Why not?” “Because of what’s happening right now. You’d find it and then you would go: ‘Huh, this guy was unconscious when he shot himself, I wonder if that’s legit?’ And then you would go ‘what the fuck am I saying, of course that’s not legit, it’s fucking ridiculous.’ But also: why not just overdose him on ketamine? He’ll be just as dead.” “So you would go with—?” “If I wanted to make it personal—which I assume is the point of the whole drug-and-shoot thing—maybe with the right person and the right information you can use a hostage.” “Nasty.” “And unreliable.” “What else?” “If it was a proper covert operation I’d go with carbon dioxide. You leave him breathe a while after, there’s not much left to find in the body. Then he’s unconscious, you pull the trigger. Fine line, but it’s conceivable no one would ever know.” “And physical force?” He shrugs. “Maybe, Cal. I mean seriously maybe, not anything like a certainty. Someone like me. I could maybe do it.” “That’s why I’m asking how.” “Well, you know this, maybe not consciously but you’ve scrapped with a couple of first-dosers in your time. It’s not even that different from your match the other night, just more extreme. Titans have big muscles and big bones, but the nervous system isn’t any different. You hit it right, you still get a knockout. Multiple inputs in short succession. Rotation, disorientation, shock, and…Blammo. Out he goes and down. Figure if you got it just right, you wouldn’t even leave bruises, or they’d be real faint. Covered up by pooling. Maybe figure them for perimortem.” “Look at you with the lingo.” “I watch TV.” “Could I do it?” “You mean could I show you how?” I think of Mini


and splutter, “For God’s sake. What do you want?” “What’s your room like?” he asks. “Shitty. Why?” He sighs, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “I was hoping yours might be better so we could swap.” This is so outrageous it quite literally steals my breath. He continues to talk while I quietly asphyxiate. “Anyway, I wanted to talk about your roommate. You guys made friends?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just nods. “That’s good. She can keep an eye on you.” My breath comes back all at once. “I beg your pardon?” He shrugs. He’s wearing a Nike tracksuit, powder pink on the right side and baby blue on the left. “I made friends, too, so they can keep an eye on me.” Okay, that’s making even less sense. “Once again,” I say, folding my arms over my chest, “I am forced to beg your pardon.” “Aw, Celine,” he replies sunnily. “You don’t have to beg.” This is the thing people don’t get about Bradley: he makes these earnest, slightly dim comments, and they genuinely do not realize he is being a total cow. I narrow my eyes. “You know what? Since we’re talking, let’s make one thing clear.” “Oh good,” he murmurs, “she’s making things clear.” “While we’re here, Bradley Graeme, I do not know you.” He arches an eyebrow. “Well, that’s gonna be awkward. I already told Thomas you were my cousin.” “What?! Who the hell is— Why would you tell someone I’m your cousin?” “He’s my roommate,” Bradley says, “and I told him that to explain why he should not ask you out.” “What?” The word is so high-pitched, it’s possible I shatter my own eardrums. Bradley winces. “What? We’re supposed to be looking out for each other!” “What the fuck, Bradley?” “You basically are my cousin!” “I’m not your cousin, Bradley!” He has the audacity to look annoyed, with his arms folded and this crease between his eyebrows that says I’m being unreasonable. “Well, whoever you are, you don’t want some guy chatting you up while you’re busy impressing Katharine Breakspeare!” He is technically right—I can’t be bothered with distractions right now—but that just pisses me off more, because how dare he accurately guess what I do or don’t want?! “You do realize Katharine isn’t going to be here, right?” “Fine,” he huffs. “Then you don’t want him chatting you up while you’re impressing Katharine’s holy representatives on earth.” “That is not funny.” That was very funny. I hate him. “You are the most unbelievably arrogant—” Someone clears their throat. Loudly. We both whip around to find the Energizer Bunny, Zion, waiting for us by the door with a disappointed expression and a leather-encased tablet. “You’re missing the introductory meeting, guys.” Oh shit. First day, first meeting, and one of the supervisors catches me wasting time with Bradley Goddamn Graeme. Perfect. Just perfect. I am going to eat at least five sticks of broccoli at dinner as penance. “Gosh, sorry,” Bradley says in the kind of sweet, genuine apology I have never managed to achieve