him and Mary from finding that out. “Miss Baker wrote to me a few weeks after the murders,” Lenora says. “She’d heard what happened and said that, under the circumstances, it would be best if she continued to raise the child as her own. I didn’t protest.” I stare at her, shocked. “But he was your nephew.” “What do you think I should have done?” “Kept him!” I cry. “Raised him. Loved him. And you damn well should have let Virginia love him.” “And what kind of life would that have been? For both Virginia and the child? She couldn’t hold him, let alone feed him. She couldn’t talk to him or play with him or do anything for him.” “You would have figured out a way.” “How?” Lenora says. “I was seventeen. I knew nothing about taking care of a baby.” “That’s still no reason to keep your sister and her child apart!” Anger churns in my chest, crashing inside me like the waves smashing against the cliff directly below us. “How could you be so cruel?” “Cruel?” Lenora says. “It’s quite the opposite, I assure you. Keeping that child away from this family was the ultimate act of kindness. Because of me and Miss Baker, that child grew up never knowing that his real mother was a murderer.” “And you’re punishing Virginia because of that fact.” “She deserves punishment! After what she did, a price needed to be paid. But I’m protecting her, too. I always have. Think about what would happen to a woman in her condition if the police learned what she’d done.” I shake my head. That’s not a good enough reason. Especially when, other than trying to hang herself, there’s nothing to suggest Virginia killed her parents. “Why are you so certain she did it? What about Ricardo Mayhew?” “What about him?” “He and Virginia were having an affair,” I say. “He was the baby’s father. And Berniece Mayhew followed him here that night.” Lenora laughs. The last reaction I’d expected. There’s nothing remotely funny about the fact that she’s blamed her sister for murders she might not have committed. Yet Lenora keeps laughing, a low chuckle that’s more disbelieving than amused. “That’s impossible,” she says. “Why?” I hear footsteps on the service stairs. A second later, Archie emerges into the kitchen. I have no idea how long he’s been there or how much he’s heard. All I know is it was long enough for him to answer my question. “Because Ricardo was with me that night.” It takes me a second to understand what he’s getting at. When I do, all I can say is, “Oh. The two of you were—” “Lovers,” Archie says, sparing me from having to say it. In the span of seconds, I think of a dozen follow-up questions. Archie doesn’t give me time to ask a single one. “I was as surprised as you are now,” he says. “For one, he was married, although in those days and in my limited experience, that was usually the case. It’s not like


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

being of clay, should possess the inheritance which he by his sin had forfeited for ever. He came to the woman, the weaker vessel, and poured the poison of his eloquence into her ear, promising her--O, the blasphemy of that promise!--that if she and Adam ate of the forbidden fruit they would become as gods, nay as God Himself. Eve yielded to the wiles of the archtempter. She ate the apple and gave it also to Adam who had not the moral courage to resist her. The poison tongue of Satan had done its work. They fell. --And then the voice of God was heard in that garden, calling His creature man to account: and Michael, prince of the heavenly host, with a sword of flame in his hand, appeared before the guilty pair and drove them forth from Eden into the world, the world of sickness and striving, of cruelty and disappointment, of labour and hardship, to earn their bread in the sweat of their brow. But even then how merciful was God! He took pity on our poor degraded parents and promised that in the fullness of time He would send down from heaven One who would redeem them, make them once more children of God and heirs to the kingdom of heaven: and that One, that Redeemer of fallen man, was to be God's only begotten Son, the Second Person of the Most Blessed Trinity, the Eternal Word. --He came. He was born of a virgin pure, Mary the virgin mother. He was born in a poor cowhouse in Judea and lived as a humble carpenter for thirty years until the hour of His mission had come. And then, filled with love for men, He went forth and called to men to hear the new gospel. --Did they listen? Yes, they listened but would not hear. He was seized and bound like a common criminal, mocked at as a fool, set aside to give place to a public robber, scourged with five thousand lashes, crowned with a crown of thorns, hustled through the streets by the jewish rabble and the Roman soldiery, stripped of his garments and hanged upon a gibbet and His side was pierced with a lance and from the wounded body of our Lord water and blood issued continually. --Yet even then, in that hour of supreme agony, Our Merciful Redeemer had pity for mankind. Yet even there, on the hill of Calvary, He founded the holy catholic church against which, it is promised, the gates of hell shall not prevail. He founded it upon the rock of ages, and endowed it with His grace, with sacraments and sacrifice, and promised that if men would obey the word of His church they would still enter into eternal life; but if, after all that had been done for them, they still persisted in their wickedness, there remained for them an eternity of torment: hell. The preacher's voice sank. He paused, joined his palms for an instant, parted them. Then he resumed: --Now let us try for a


hands around his mouth. “Hello?” he yells. “Shhhhhut uuuppp!” Javier whisper-screams. “If there’s somebody down here, you just announced our presence.” Kyle’s face twists into an angry scowl. “I think hearing you fall through the hatch and the whole-ass conversation we just had already did that.” Javier huffs as I lead us down the cramped tunnel in the direction of the boathouse. It’s damp and musty and the ceiling is too low. My heartbeat creeps up. I don’t like the confined space. I have to keep telling myself that the walls are probably not closing in on me, but I don’t know if I actually believe it. Everything suddenly feels too close, too dark. It takes about ninety seconds to walk from one end of the tunnel to the other, and when we get to the hatch under the boathouse, we don’t find some shadowy figure lurking in the dark or a raccoon. Just the hatch, and the slide bolt that keeps it locked, open. “Didn’t we lock this?” Kyle asks. I nod. “Yeah. We always do. And look.” Scattered on the ground are little pieces of glass and black plastic. I take out my phone, turn on the flashlight, and sweep the column of light up to the security camera. The entire housing has been crushed, and what’s left of it is hanging from its exposed wiring. “Oh shit,” Javier says. “It’s broken.” It’s not just broken. It’s completely destroyed. Bezi grips my arm. “I think we should get out of here.” A chill runs up my back, and it’s not from the dank air sweeping through the underground tunnel. I grab Bezi’s hand and go to push the hatch open when Javier yanks me back. Kyle puts his hand on my shoulder and presses his finger to his lips. His eyes are like empty sockets in the dark. My heart thuds in my chest, but as I quiet myself, I hear a noise. The creak of a board just over my head. Someone is standing directly on top of the hatch. CHAPTER 10 I don’t even breathe as the boards continue to creak. Bezi’s fingertips dig into the skin on my forearm as a terrified grimace carves its way across her face. I press myself closer to her as we stare up through the boards. Dust from the floor above filters down. Suddenly, Javier steps on the back of my heel as he shoves past me and takes off in the direction of the lodge. I grab Bezi by the hand and pull her along behind me as I race after him. “Kyle!” I yell without looking back. “C’mon!” I sprint down the tunnel, bumping my shoulder on the wall as I flail in the dark. I shove Bezi up the ladder and turn to see Kyle barreling toward me. I scramble up the ladder and Kyle follows. As soon as Kyle clears the hatch, I slam it closed. Kyle stumbles to his feet while Javier and Bezi drag a bunch of chairs and the coffee table over the top


and teaches high school English. “You’ll meet him in a few weeks, too.” “I can’t wait. I hope he has embarrassing stories.” “Too many, probably.” “What does Finnegan Walsh do when he’s not filming or on the road?” I ask. “What’s real life like for you?” “This is my real life,” he says, matter-of-fact. I shake my head. “No, no, no. Real life is when you’re at home and no one else is around, so you lick the sauce off a plate of spaghetti or walk around naked or pee in the shower. That’s what readers want.” “They want me to pee in the shower?” “Metaphorically, yes.” Finn takes a moment to consider this as the music changes to Dolly Parton. “It’s very boring, actually. A lot of cooking. A lot of reading. Sometimes I’ll video-chat with my mom or Krishanu.” He shrugs. “I shot another Hallmark movie that’ll be out in December, but I wanted to focus on the book, so I don’t have anything else in development right now. It’s funny—when I’m home, I miss being on the road. And of course, when I’m on the circuit, all I want is to go home.” There’s a heartbreak carved into those words, intentional or not. Both options seem deeply lonely: at home by himself or on the road surrounded by people who know his character but not him. “That’s exactly why I took this job.” I take the most heavenly bite of pulled pork. “Because I’ve never really left Seattle.” “Ah, so you’d have said yes to anyone who asked you to write a book for them if it meant following them around the country.” He slices off a piece of corn bread, and now that I know the reason for it, I do my best not to stare. “How’d you get into ghostwriting?” “Sort of stumbled into it, really,” I say, explaining the job posting, finding Stella, writing Amber Y’s book, and the other two that were less than satisfying. How, because of the secrecy surrounding it, I was worried at the beginning that someone might discover who I was and I’d get in trouble, somehow. My anxiety wouldn’t let me exhale until I was halfway through my second book. Once I even found a Reddit thread where people were trying to unmask the identity of Amber Y’s ghostwriter and I spent a solid hour raking through my social media, even though I was certain nothing could trace her book back to me. No stray pieces of paper or corners of my laptop screen where someone could zoom in and find a paragraph from Don’t Ask Y. Still, even looking at the thread felt like hovering over a paper shredder with my NDA. “When I first met you,” he says, as though it’s just occurring to him, “you said you were having some kind of career crisis. This isn’t your dream job, I’m guessing?” I’d kind of been hoping he’d forget about that. “That night . . . well, I was there for Maddy DeMarco’s book, which I’m guessing you


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

is gay; but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad fancyings—chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and silly brain—led on to other and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The scrivener’s pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers, in its shivering winding sheet. Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby’s closed desk, the key in open sight left in the lock. I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity, thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the files of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt something there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings’ bank. I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I remembered that he never spoke but to answer; that though at intervals he had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him reading—no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand looking out, at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick wall; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating house; while his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went any where in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk, unless indeed that was the case at present; that he had declined telling who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives in the world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill health. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of pallid—how shall I call it?—of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from his long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his. Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in proportion as the forlornness of Bartleby grew and grew to my imagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into repulsion. So true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err


Atticus's voice was flinty. "I've no intention of getting rid of her, now or ever. We couldn't operate a single day without Cal, have you ever thought of that? You think about how much Cal does for you, and you mind her, you hear?" I returned to school and hated Calpurnia steadily until a sudden shriek shattered my resentments. I looked up to see Miss Caroline standing in the middle of the room, sheer horror flooding her face. Apparently she had revived enough to persevere in her profession. "It's alive!" she screamed. The male population of the class rushed as one to her assistance. Lord, I thought, she's scared of a mouse. Little Chuck Little, whose patience with all living things was phenomenal, said, "Which way did he go, Miss Caroline? Tell us where he went, quick! D.C.-" he turned to a boy behind him- "D.C., shut the door and we'll catch him. Quick, ma'am, where'd he go?" Miss Caroline pointed a shaking finger not at the floor nor at a desk, but to a hulking individual unknown to me. Little Chuck's face contracted and he said gently, "You mean him, ma'am? Yessum, he's alive. Did he scare you some way?" Miss Caroline said desperately, "I was just walking by when it crawled out of his hair... just crawled out of his hair-" Little Chuck grinned broadly. "There ain't no need to fear a cootie, ma'am. Ain't you ever seen one? Now don't you be afraid, you just go back to your desk and teach us some more." Little Chuck Little was another member of the population who didn't know where his next meal was coming from, but he was a born gentleman. He put his hand under her elbow and led Miss Caroline to the front of the room. "Now don't you fret, ma'am," he said. "There ain't no need to fear a cootie. I'll just fetch you some cool water." The cootie's host showed not the faintest interest in the furor he had wrought. He searched the scalp above his forehead, located his guest and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Miss Caroline watched the process in horrid fascination. Little Chuck brought water in a paper cup, and she drank it gratefully. Finally she found her voice. "What is your name, son?" she asked softly. The boy blinked. "Who, me?" Miss Caroline nodded. "Burris Ewell." Miss Caroline inspected her roll-book. "I have a Ewell here, but I don't have a first name... would you spell your first name for me?" "Don't know how. They call me Burris't home." "Well, Burris," said Miss Caroline, "I think we'd better excuse you for the rest of the afternoon. I want you to go home and wash your hair." From her desk she produced a thick volume, leafed through its pages and read for a moment. "A good home remedy for- Burris, I want you to go home and wash your hair with lye soap. When you've done that, treat your scalp with kerosene." "What fer, missus?" "To get rid of the- er,


my thumb and moved on to the fries at a more sedate pace. “How are you holding up?” he asked. “I hate that question slightly less than I hate being asked if I’m okay,” I told him. “You don’t like answering questions at all, do you?” He quirked an eyebrow at me. “That’s another question,” I pointed out. I took the lid off the milkshake so I could attack it with a spoon. “I surrender,” he said. He threw up his hands. “I’m sorry I barged in here.” “No, it’s fine,” I said quickly. Alone, my thoughts had scrabbled through my skull like panicked rats. With him here, they’d settled to faint, anxious scurrying. “I’m not … good at being alone,” I confessed. He gave me a sidelong look, considering. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. You have a loner vibe.” “No, I have an asshole vibe. Which just means that I end up spending all my time with other assholes,” I said. “Does that include me?” I shrugged. “Haven’t decided.” He watched me as I skinned a spoonful off the top of the milkshake. The pause had a tender quality I knew all too well—that moment where you were trying to decide whether to address the obvious subject or skirt around it. He was going to ask me about Liv. His lips parted, the words starting to form. “Maybe you can help me with something,” I said quickly, groping for a distraction. “What sort of something?” he asked. I shifted in my seat. Ethan Schreiber, it occurred to me, was exactly the person to ask about how to track down a missing woman. If I could do it without revealing too much. “I’m working on this project,” I said. “Just a personal thing. And I’m trying to do some research, but I don’t really know how to start.” “I am good at research,” he conceded. “I know,” I said. He gave me a curious look. “I sort of looked up your podcast. I only listened to a minute of it, but it seemed like it was … good.” “Not our best review ever, but I’ll take it,” Ethan said. “So that’s what you’re working on here? An episode of Aftershocks about Stahl?” I said. I wondered what the episode titles would be. The Survivor. The Families. The Son. “No. This is a new project. It’s still in development. I haven’t quite found the right format yet.” He considered me, like he could tell I was stalling. I didn’t know how to ask what I needed to without raising suspicion. “What is it I can help you with, Naomi?” No more stalling, then. “Right. So. If you were trying to find a missing person, how would you start?” I asked in a rush. He stared at me for a beat. “Does this have something to do with Liv?” “Liv isn’t missing, is she?” I said sharply. “Okay,” he said, drawing out the word. “Then why are you asking about missing persons?” “I told you. It’s personal,” I said. He rubbed a hand over


feel in every cell of my body. A moan slips from my lips as I clutch the pillow beneath me. “You like that?” “Yes.” The next one, he moans right along with me. And god, that’s even better, knowing he’s loving this, too. “Harder? Softer?” “Harder,” I beg, and the next time he spanks me, I gasp out, my legs turning liquid, pleasure curling hot and low in my core. I’m certain sex has never been this freeing. In between spanks, he smooths circles on my cheeks while filth falls from his mouth. “Lift up. I want to see that gorgeous pussy.” I lean forward, pushing up on my elbows, raising my hips. “Jesus, this view.” He slides a finger beneath me, runs it through my slickness. Drops a few taps where I’m most sensitive. I’m no longer sure I’m breathing. Then he repositions my hips, the night breeze blowing against my dampest parts as he gives my pussy a gentle spank. “Fucking hell,” I manage through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna die.” He alternates between my pussy and my ass, each spank stealing more air from my lungs. “Let it out, sweetheart,” he says when I’m moments from shattering, his fingers relentless and greedy and perfect. “Be loud.” The orgasm crashes through me, a shivering, shuddering earthquake that leaves me weightless, his name on my tongue as he wraps his arms around me, his mouth pressed to the nape of my neck. Once I recover, I shift so I can see his face, the heat in his gaze. “That was—fucking incredible,” I manage. His cock is straining against his boxers and I need to see him lose control, need to be the reason he cries out into the night. “What do you want?” I ask. “Your mouth. Please.” The urgency in his voice is a delicious, decadent thing. I shove down his boxers, overcome with the desire to taste him. He’s already rock hard, hot velvet as I wrap my lips around him, holding him steady with my fist, swirling my tongue across the tip. He whispers my name like a curse. Like a promise. His fingertips are soft but desperate in my hair, and I suck him deeper as he drags his hand lower to cup my breast, thumb rubbing my nipple. “I want to come on your tits,” he says on a growl. “If that’s—” “Please. Yes.” I remove my mouth just as he starts to tremble, and he gives one more thrust against my chest before he falls apart, warmth slicking my breasts. He reaches beneath the chair for a towel before he draws me back on top of him, and I’m limp and spent and indescribably happy. Several minutes pass before he rolls over to get his phone. When the familiar opening of “Whoomp! (There It Is)” starts up, I can’t help laughing. “I’m sorry,” he says, laughing along with me as he smooths my hair. “I had to.” “Can we stay here forever?” I murmur against his chest. Because despite having sex in our real relationship for


all over your lap. It’s the ideal lunch sandwich.” It’s safe, taunts a stupid little voice in Andy’s head. Andy tells that voice to get lost. At home, Nick begins chopping onions and garlic and threatening Andy with a wooden spoon when he gets underfoot. “Come on, you can’t expect me to lounge around all afternoon while you make dinner.” “You can go next door and ask Linda if she wants to come over for supper at about eight or so.” Nick layers flat noodles in a pan the approximate size of a Major League infield. “Tell her to bring whoever she has lying around the place. And then tell Mrs. Martelli in 3A that I’ll bring down a plate for her, so she shouldn’t bother making herself any supper. After that, you can go to that bakery on Cornelia Street and get a loaf of bread. You can pick up a bottle of wine somewhere, too, because I just used up the last of this in the sauce.” He holds up an empty bottle of Chianti. “You’re making up jobs to get me out of the house.” Nick grins into the pot of sauce. “My dad used to send me out to buy cigarettes and to place a bet with Gino.” “Gino?” This is maybe the third time Nick has ever mentioned his father, so Andy is curious. “The numbers runner.” Nick’s smile is gone, replaced by something hard but a little wistful. Andy knocks on Linda’s door and reintroduces himself even though they’ve run into one another half a dozen times in the past week. She’s wearing overalls and is covered in paint and what looks like plaster dust. Her long dark hair is in a braid. “Yeah, yeah, you’re Nick’s . . .” She waves her cigarette vaguely in the air. “Friend.” The implication is clear, but Andy doesn’t know how to correct her without seeming like a jackass. She’s the second person this week to assume that he’s Nick’s—whatever—and the idea makes his face heat with something he tells himself is plain embarrassment. “And you were also Emily Warburton’s friend,” Linda adds. “Busy, busy.” Andy tries to fight back his blush and that works about as well as it ever does, which is to say not at all. “Nick’s making lasagna and says you should come over for dinner. He says the invitation extends to any of your guests.” That isn’t exactly how Nick phrased it, but Andy isn’t going to say whoever you have lying around. “Any of my guests?” she repeats wryly. She opens the door a bit wider, and Andy gets a glimpse of a half-nude woman lying on what looks like a row of pickle barrels. It takes him a minute to see the easel and understand that he’s looking at an artist’s model. “Yeah, we’ll be there. Thanks.” Andy waves awkwardly at both Linda and the model, then goes downstairs and knocks on Mrs. Martelli’s door. Mrs. Martelli is, for all intents and purposes, identical to Nick’s aunts who Andy met last week.


the sound. Seeing it is Brody, she swipes Ignore. Her heart pounds, making a mental note to block his number. It’s the first time he’s tried to contact her since Chelsea died. What the hell is he doing calling me when he’s under investigation for murder? Sloane lifts her gaze to Ethan’s, who is still staring at her phone, feeling suddenly exposed. She blinks back the tears that invade her eyes. She feels sick. She needs to lie down. But she can’t fall apart in front of Ethan. When Ethan’s eyes meet hers, there is no trace of the pain that filled them last night. Only a malice-laced suspicion. He interlaces his fingers. “I got the medical report from Bayside Hospital and saw you were the doctor who pronounced Chelsea dead.” Sloane swallows. “Yes, I—I told you last night.” “Yeah, I know.” He leans forward. “Was there any indication that Chelsea had drugs in her system? Like opiates?” Her chest wall freezes as she starts to inhale. The room spins. She recounts yelling at Logan when he asked about giving Narcan. “No. Why?” A shiver runs down her arms as her husband stares at her in silence. She jumps at the chime of Ethan’s ringtone. He keeps his eyes on her while he pulls the phone out of his suit jacket pocket. “Ethan—” He raises a finger in the air as he puts the phone to his ear. “Hey, Jonah.” Ethan slides off the barstool and moves into the living room to take the call. Looking at her phone, Sloane swears under her breath. She grabs another bunch of roses and arranges them in the vase, trying to look busy while she strains to hear what Ethan is saying. But Jonah is doing most of the talking. Brody’s phone records. They would prove she and Brody were having an affair. And that she lied to Ethan about it being over before Chelsea died. She remembers Brody’s text only hours before Chelsea was brought to the ER. When can I see you again? Had Ethan already seen the phone records? Is that why he came home? To confront her? Sloane feels a prick in her finger when she lifts the last bunch of roses from the counter. As soon as Ethan’s off the phone, she’ll convince him she was telling the truth. That she already ended things with Brody, which was why she didn’t reply when he texted her hours before Chelsea died. She has to get him on her side. “Okay, I’ll be right there,” she hears Ethan say. He could be going to interview Brody right now. She’s frozen in place as she watches Ethan move across the room, keeping his phone to his ear. Blood drips onto the white quartz from her finger. She swears, remembering the prick from the rose, and runs her hand under cold water from the sink. “Sloane, I gotta go!” Ethan calls from the hallway to their garage. “Don’t wait up, I’ll be home late.” “Ethan, wait!” She hears the door to the garage close


for the first time, the wickedness of my promise burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race. I trembled and my heart failed within me, when, on looking up, I saw by the light of the moon the daemon at the casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress and claim the fulfillment of my promise. As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my promise of creating another like to him, and trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew. I left the room, and locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own heart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate the gloom and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries. Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea; it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence, although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my ear was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a person landed close to my house. In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a presentiment of who it was and wished to rouse one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot. Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he approached me and said in a smothered voice, "You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery; I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its


of me

for something I’d done or accomplished. I’d smile, place it under my pillow,

but also wonder why he hadn’t said this moments ago, while seated directly

across from me.

Thus the prospect of days and days of unrestricted Pa time was

exhilarating.

Then came the reality. This was a work trip for Pa. And for me. The Spice

Girls concert represented my first public appearance since the funeral, and I

knew, through intuition, through bits of overheard conversations, that the

public’s curiosity about my welfare was running high. I didn’t want to let

them down, but I also wanted them all to go away. I remember stepping onto

the red carpet, screwing a smile onto my face, suddenly wishing I was in my

bed at St. James’s Palace.

Beside me was Baby Spice, wearing white plastic shoes with chunky

twelve-inch platform heels. I fixated on those heels while she fixated on my

cheeks. She kept pinching them. So chubby! So cute! Then Posh Spice

surged forward and clutched my hand. Farther down the line I spied Ginger

Spice, the only Spice with whom I felt any connection—a fellow ginger.

Also, she was world-famous for recently wearing a minidress made of the

Union Jack. Why's there a Union Jack on the coffin? She and the other

Spices were cooing at me, saying things I didn’t understand, while bantering

with the journalists, who were shouting at me. Harry, over here, Harry,

Harry, how are you doing, Harry? Questions that weren’t questions.

Questions that were traps. Questions that were flung at my head like

cleavers. The journalists didn’t give a toss how I was doing, they were trying

to get me to say something messy, newsy.

I gazed into their flashes, bared my teeth, said nothing.

36

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

If I was intimidated by the flashes, the Spice Girls were intoxicated. Yes,

yes, a thousand times yes, that was their attitude every time another flash

went off. Fine by me. The more out-front they were, the more I could fade

into the woodwork. I remember they talked to the press about their music


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

her since that day when she’d emerged from the dark into a world she didn’t know. They’d protected her and given her purpose, even when it was a risk. Even when the effects of her strange childhood had manifested in terrifying ways. None of them talked about that, though. Val snorted and straightened her arms, hands still on Lore’s shoulders. Her gaze had always cut like a scalpel, and now was no different. “I’m pulling you out,” she said with no preamble. Lore’s brow knit. “What?” “We have all the info we need on Gilbert’s outfit; if he’s moving as much contraband this week as you say, he won’t be running poison for much longer, anyway. There’s always a rush of religious feeling after a royal Consecration. The Presque Mort might be distracted now, but after that ceremony, they’ll have their noses to the ground like you won’t believe.” For all that Lore loved her surrogate mothers, there was no denying that they were cutthroat. Val and Mari had visions of being the only poison suppliers in Dellaire—once they were, they’d be nigh untouchable. Bloodcoats took any bribe you threw at them, and even the Presque Mort and the rest of the Church turned their backs sometimes. The criminal underbelly of Auverraine was only criminal until the right amount of gold crossed the right palm. Still, Lore shook her head, telling herself that her reluctance to leave was a business decision that had nothing to do with Michal. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s still more I can learn.” One pale eyebrow rose. Val cocked her head, that scalpel look delving deeper. “You like him.” “No.” Yes. “That doesn’t have anything to do with it.” “Oh, mouse.” Val sighed. “I’ve told you before. You have to keep yourself apart.” But she was always apart. The power in her veins, the awful things she was capable of kept her always, always apart. And it was nice to let the pieces of herself that could be liked—loved, even—have just a little comfort, sometimes. Val patted her on the shoulder again. “It’s for the best, Lore. Trust me.” A pause, her teeth digging into the corner of her bottom lip. “It’s all for the best.” And she was right. Val always was. Lore sighed, nodded. It wouldn’t be difficult. She had scripts for this, lists of excuses she’d given other lovers over the years, lovers she’d similarly been cautioned against taking when she infiltrated their lives to find the secrets of their employers. There was the sick aunt she had to tend, the jealous spouse who’d finally found her, the sudden desire to move to a new city and start over. Typically, the excuses weren’t questioned, and Dellaire was big enough that she rarely saw those people again. On the rare occasions she did, they didn’t notice her. Lore kept her affairs quick, and poison runners moved on even quicker. “Tell me about this drop,” Lore said, eager to change the subject. “It’s simple.” Val’s eyes flicked away from Lore’s. “Normally, I wouldn’t


kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. `Oh no, they wouldn't like me,' `e says. " `Ow yes, they would,' says I, a-imitatin'of him.`They always like a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea time, which you `as a bagful.' "Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin' they lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears same as ever. That there man kem over, and blessed but if he didn't put in his hand and stroke the old wolf's ears too! " `Tyke care,' says I. `Bersicker is quick.' " `Never mind,' he says. I'm used to `em!' " `Are you in the business yourself?" I says, tyking off my `at, for a man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers. " `Nom' says he, `not exactly in the business, but I `ave made pets of several.' and with that he lifts his `at as perlite as a lord, and walks away. Old Bersicker kep' a-lookin' arter `im till `e was out of sight, and then went and lay down in a corner and wouldn't come hout the `ole hevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was hup, the wolves here all began a-`owling. There warn't nothing for them to `owl at. There warn't no one near, except some one that was evidently a-callin' a dog somewheres out back of the gardings in the Park road. Once or twice I went out to see that all was right, and it was, and then the `owling stopped. Just before twelve o'clock I just took a look round afore turnin' in, an', bust me, but when I kem opposite to old Bersicker's cage I see the rails broken and twisted about and the cage empty. And that's all I know for certing." "Did any one else see anything?" "One of our gard`ners was a-comin' `ome about that time from a `armony, when he sees a big gray dog comin' out through the garding `edges. At least, so he says, but I don't give much for it myself, for if he did `e never said a word about it to his missis when `e got `ome, and it was only after the escape of the wolf was made known, and we had been up all night a-huntin' of the Park for Bersicker, that he remembered seein' anything. My own belief was that the `armony `ad got into his `ead." "Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of the wolf?" "Well, Sir," he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, "I think I can, but I don't know as `ow you'd be satisfied with the theory." "Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals from experience, can't hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even to try?" "well then, Sir, I accounts for it this way. It seems to me that `ere wolf escaped--simply because he wanted to


middle of the street, fearless, in a bikini top and tiny shorts, her skin gleaming against the blue night. This was their dream time, the magical early days of fall semester, the happy haze of meeting once again, old friendships rekindling in firefly sparks before the real work of the year began. Alex wanted to wallow in it too, to remember that she was safe, she was okay. But there wasn’t time. The Hutch was only a few blocks away, and she stopped to try to get her head together, leaning against the low wall in front of Sterling Library. How had that Gray overtaken her? She knew her connection to the dead had been deepened by what she’d had to do in her fight with Belbalm. She’d called them to her and offered them her name. They’d answered. They’d saved her. And of course rescue had come at a price. All her life, she’d been able to see Grays; now she could hear them too. They were that much closer, that much harder to ignore. But maybe she hadn’t really understood what salvation would cost her at all. Something very bad had happened in Oddman’s house, something she couldn’t explain. She was meant to control the dead, to use them. Not the other way around. She pulled out her phone and saw two texts from Dawes, both exactly fifteen minutes apart and in all caps. URGENT CALL IN. Alex ignored the messages and scrolled down, then typed out a quick It’s done. The reply was immediate: When I have my money She really hoped Oddman got his house in order. She deleted Eitan’s messages, then called Dawes. “Where are you?” Dawes answered breathlessly. Something big must be happening if Dawes was ignoring protocol. Alex could picture her pacing the parlor at Black Elm, her knot of red hair sliding to one side, headphones clamped around her neck. “Sterling. On my way back to the Hutch.” “You’re going to be late to—” “If I stand here talking to you, I will be. What’s up?” “They’ve selected a new Praetor.” “Damn. Already?” The Praetor was the faculty liaison for Lethe, who served as a go-between with the university administration. Only Yale’s president and dean knew about the real activities of the secret societies, and it was Lethe’s job to make sure it stayed that way. The Praetor was a kind of den mother. The responsible adult in the room. At least he was supposed to be. Dean Sandow had turned out to be a murderer. Alex knew a Lethe Praetor had to be a former Lethe deputy and had to be a member of the Yale faculty or at least reside in New Haven. That couldn’t be easy to find. Alex and Dawes had assumed it would take the board at least another semester to find someone to replace the very dead Dean Sandow. They’d counted on it. “Who is he?” Alex asked. “It could be a woman.” “Is it?” “No. But Anselm didn’t give me a name.” “Did you ask?” Alex pushed.


caravan toward the United States. The president reacted to the group as if it were a foreign army slowly marching on U.S. territory, rather than what it was—a loosely organized group of civilians, mostly women and children. Amid the situation, Trump tested the White House and DHS like never before. In a series of phone calls, Oval Office meetings, Situation Room discussions, Air Force One flights, and directives, the president made outrageous demands to stop the civilians, which included: Shutting off all U.S. financial assistance to countries on the caravan route Sealing the entire Southern Border and turning away all the asylum-seekers (“Don’t let a single fucking one into the country!”) Deploying armed soldiers to intimidate and block the migrants Launching tear gas at anyone headed toward the border (aides inquired about using new technology—heat-ray devices—to make people in the caravan feel like their skin was on fire) Painting the border wall black and adding sharp spikes at the top (so it would scorch the hands of anyone who touched it in the hot sun and impale climbers) Shooting migrants to stop them from getting too close (when he was told that using deadly force against unarmed civilians was illegal: “Then shoot them in the legs if you have to!”) Border policy wasn’t supposed to be my focus, but the subject consumed the administration as Trump unspooled. White House lawyers rejected the majority of the president’s demands, though I wasn’t sure they’d be able to keep him at bay much longer. Panicked press aides inquired about whether TV outlets could stop airing footage of migrants rushing the border because it was whipping Trump into a frenzy. “This is getting really fucked up,” I told Kirstjen and Chief Kelly after another round of bad ideas during an October meeting in the Oval Office. “I know,” the secretary replied. “That’s why Mattis is ready to leave. And we have to make a decision about whether we are, too.” “Among us friends, let’s be honest,” Kelly said. “About a third of the things the president wants us to do are flat-out stupid. Another third would be impossible to implement and wouldn’t even solve the problem. And a third of them would be flat-out illegal.” On October 18, the chief went to the Oval and unloaded on Trump, telling the president he simply didn’t have the legal authority to do what he wanted to at the border. The best option was to focus on getting Congress to reform our broken immigration system. Trump was unmoved. If his people were going to defy him, he’d empower new ones. The president tapped his son-in-law to take on immigration. Jared was in charge, Trump said. Kirstjen and I were sitting in Kelly’s office when the chief came back from down the hall. I’d never seen him so mad. “Fuck him,” Kelly roared. “I’m done here. I’m leaving, going home, and quitting this job.” He walked into the hallway to tell his Secret Service agents to get his motorcade ready. “I quit.” Back in the office again for a brief


to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation between them.     The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for it has been accustomed to blend them, finding it convenient to make external show pass for sterling worth to let whitewashed walls vouch for clean shrines. It may hate him who dares to scrutinize and expose to raise the gilding, and show base metal under it to penetrate the sepulcher, and reveal charnel relics; but hate as it will, it is indebted to him.     Ahab did not like Micaiah, because he never prosphesied good concerning him, but evil; probably he liked the sycophant son of Chenaanah better; yet might Ahab have escaped a bloody death had he but stopped his ears to flattery, and opened them to faithful counsel.     There is a man in our own days whose words are not framed to tickle delicate ears; who, to my thinking, comes before the great ones of society much as the son of Imlah came before the throned kings of Judah and Israel; and who speaks truth as deep, with a power as prophet-like and as vital a mien as dauntless and as daring. Is the satirist of "Vanity Fair" admired in high places? I cannot tell; but I think if some of those among whom he hurls the Greek fire of his sarcasm, and over whom he flashes the levin-brand of his denunciation, were to take his warnings in time, they or their seed might yet escape a fatal Ramoth-Gilead.     Why have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him, reader, because I think I see in him an intellect profounder and more unique than his contemporaries have yet recognized; because I regard him as the first social regenerator of the day as the very master of that working corps who would restore to rectitude the warped system of things; because I think no commentator on his writings has yet found the comparison that suits him, the terms which rightly characterize his talent. They say he is like Fielding; they talk of his wit, humor, comic powers. He resembles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture. Fielding could stoop on carrion, but Thackeray never does. His wit is bright, his humor attractive; but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that the mere lambent sheet-lightning, playing under the edge of the summer cloud, does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb. Finally, I have alluded to Mr. Thackeray because to him if he will accept the tribute of a total stranger I have dedicated this second edition of "JANE EYRE."     CURRER BELL.     DECEMBER, 1847.               Jane Eyre     Charlotte Bront           1873 Press          About this Title


the sunlight’s slid off the mattress and onto the floor in a tidy rectangle. Lenora eyes it from her wheelchair as I check her vitals and make sure the bruise on her forearm continues to heal. When that’s over, her gaze slips to the typewriter. She remembers last night. Part of me thought she’d forgotten. A bigger part of me wishes she had. Because whatever she intends to type, I still haven’t decided if I want to see it. Lenora’s mind, though, is made up. She moves her gaze from the typewriter to me, giving me a look that’s half anxious, half hopeful. One without the other probably wouldn’t have been able to sway me. But the combination of the two makes me realize this has nothing to do with what I want. It’s what Lenora wants. And right now, she wants to type. I still have no idea why. I can’t think of any reason she’d wait so long to talk about that night. If she was innocent, she would have told her story decades ago. Unless she thought no one would believe her. Yesterday, Mrs. Baker told me Hope’s End was a place where young women are given the benefit of the doubt. That’s not true everywhere. It’s true hardly anywhere. Perhaps Lenora tried to tell her story all those years ago and no one believed her. Or, worse, no one even listened. Maybe she thinks I will. And that I’ll believe she’s innocent. Because she thinks the same of me. That idea—that Lenora’s urge to talk stems not from shared guilt but possibly shared innocence—is ultimately why I wheel her to the desk, where the page from last night sits next to the typewriter. Even though I don’t remember removing it, I must have. I wrack my brain, trying to recall the events of last night. Lenora offering to tell me everything. Finding Mary’s belongings. The wind and the waves and the creaking floorboards. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that I left that page in the typewriter. “Lenora, was someone in here last night?” She responds with a single-tap no against the wheelchair armrest. “Are you sure?” Two taps. I stare at Lenora. She stares back, looking utterly guileless. If she’s lying—and I see no reason why she would be—she hides it well. And even though I’m close to certain I didn’t move that page, I’m also aware someone else could have done it while Lenora was asleep. Mrs. Baker slipping in to do some snooping, for instance. Or Jessie coming in bright and early to tidy up. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, because it truly doesn’t. What matters is that Lenora is about to reveal all. And my job is to help her do it. In a desk drawer, I find a partial ream of paper and insert a new page into the carriage. I then place Lenora’s left hand on the typewriter, wondering if this is the start of something wonderful or something I’ll regret. Or if it will end up


girl. But Anne didn't wish to sleep alone in her corner, and she looked so beseechingly at George that the bigger girl smiled at her and made no objection. Anne thought that George was getting nicer and nicer! "Well, now we'll get down to business," said Julian, and he pulled out his map. "We must study this really carefully, and find out exactly under what spot the entrances to the dungeons are. Now- come around and let's do our best to find out! It's up to us to use our brains- and beat that man who's bought the island!" They all bent over the traced map. It was quite dry now, and the children looked at it earnestly. It was plain that in the old days the castle had been a very fine place. "Now look," said Julian, putting his finger on the plan of the dungeons. "These seem to run all along under the castle- and here- and here- are the marks that seem to be meant to represent steps or stairs." "Yes," said George. "I should think they are. Well, if so, there appear to be two ways of getting down into the dungeons. One lot of steps seems to begin somewhere near this little room- and the other seems to start under the tower there. And what do you suppose this thing is here, Julian?" She put her finger on a round hole that was shown not only in the plan of the dungeons, but also in the plan of the ground floor of the castle. "I can't imagine what that is," said Julian, puzzled. "Oh yes, I know what it might be! You said there was an old well somewhere, do you remember? Well, that may be it, I should think. It would have to be very deep to get fresh water right under the sea- so it probably goes down through the dungeons too. Isn't this thrilling?" Everyone thought it was. They felt happy and excited. There was something to discover- something they could and must discover within the next day or two. They looked at one another. "Well," said Dick, "what are we going to start on? Shall we try to find the entrance to the dungeons- the one that seems to start round about this little room? For all we know there may be a big stone we can lift that opens above the dungeon steps!" This was a thrilling thought, and the children jumped up at once. Julian folded up the precious map and put it into his pocket. He looked round. The stone floor of the little room was overgrown with creeping weeds. They must be cleared away before it was possible to see if there were any stones that looked as if they might be moved. "We'd better set to work," said Julian, and he picked up a spade. "Let's clear away these weeds with our spades- scrape them off, look, like this- and then examine every single stone!" They all picked up spades and soon the little stone room was full


face until the feeling passed. The same would happen while driving on busy highways, forcing me to pull over. Other than a Xanax prescription, alcohol was the only medicine that took the edge off. After a few glasses of whiskey, I’d head over to a nearby strip mall bar, where I posted up each night. I befriended the staff and a handful of regulars, some of whom were proud Trumpers. A few wore their red caps into the bar, but we didn’t talk politics. We swapped drunk stories and island gossip. One night the bartenders gave me an honorary staff T-shirt. I put on the long-sleeved tee, hopped behind the counter, and went to work selling drinks. They laughed. We closed down with a pitcher full of tips and decided to head to a cheap bar across the island. I took the crew in my car, telling them I was good to drive when I probably wasn’t. When we got there, I lifted the trunk door and popped open the briefcase. I fetched cash from inside the zipper pocket. “Whoa,” one of my passengers exclaimed. She’d probably seen the weapons, too. “Drinks are on me,” I told her with a smile and shut the trunk. We entered the sticky dive bar and ordered a round of flaming shots. The night evaporated like the torched liquor. The next morning I woke up with a headache spanning my skull. I opened an eye to scan the nightstand for the usual checklist. Keys, wallet, phones. Neither of my devices were there, or in the condo. Maybe they were in the car. In flip-flops, with a baseball cap on my head, I crossed the lobby downstairs and out to the parking lot. My spot was empty, and I felt a jolt of panic. Where the fuck was the car? I thought back to the night before but couldn’t piece together what had happened. Tequila shots under the yellow lights of the bar. The rest was spotty. I remembered opening the trunk in front of other people. Back in the lobby, I rushed to the elevator. The front desk attendant hollered at me. “Your girlfriend called!” That was a weird thing to say, I thought. “Excuse me?” I asked. “I got it this morning when I came in. ‘Anna Bell’ called for you. She left a voicemail message.” “Oh, yeah. Thank you. I lost my phone.” “You lose your mind, too? You can’t park in the loading zone, sweetie.” The car was on the other side of the building. I wanted to hug her. “Yes, sorry. I wasn’t sure which one was mine.” It was a stupid lie. The unit numbers were spray-painted in each parking spot. “All right, well just be careful out there. Take care of yourself, and make sure you’re watching out for others. Okay?” “Always,” I replied, my cheeks filling with hot shame. She knew I’d driven drunk. Out in the car, everything was there, untouched. Personal phone. Burner phone. Briefcase. I was relieved, but I lost a day of writing. I was


which he then gave to her. Around eight or nine, he said that he was tired. He went to bed early in their little guest room, where he’d been sleeping for the past few nights so he wouldn’t keep her awake with his coughing. She heard him clear his throat and cough a few times, but then he fell silent, and she assumed he’d finally gotten to sleep. When she went in to check on him later— “He was so cold.” She said his name, and then she called out for him, and then she shook him. She repeated these steps, over and over. He didn’t wake. She called 911, and paramedics arrived within five minutes. As she speaks, I try to picture the uniformed strangers who tried to save my father; who climbed onto the mattress, pushed up their sleeves, and pushed down on his chest so hard that the wooden slats of the antique bed frame snapped beneath their efforts. They worked diligently, efficiently, taking turns with air and compressions while my mother sobbed and prayed. It will be weeks before it occurs to either of us that Dad had a do-not-resuscitate order in his advance directives, filled out the year before and forgotten in the crisis. When the paramedics stopped, they did so as one, as if they knew, in the same moment, that it was time to let him go. One of them turned to my mother. I’m sorry. He’s gone. My parents’ priest came to their house and sat up with Mom for the rest of the night. A few friends came to help wash and prepare the body, according to their custom, and then he was taken away. My mother’s sister, who had moved to southern Oregon the year I left, came over and began calling family—she’d tried me twice, then left a message. Exhausted, Mom sent everyone home before dawn, knowing that soon the entire parish would know and more people would be arriving to help. She went to lie down, though not to sleep. She couldn’t stay upright any longer. Thousands of miles away, I slept on, beside my silenced phone. When I ask what I can do, she tells me there is nothing she needs yet. Friends have already brought food, and she is never alone unless she wants to be. She says that the funeral will be on Thursday or Friday; I should start looking for flights. She has to go, some friends want her for something, but she will call me later. I tell her that I love her. There is nothing more to say. After we hang up, I shout for my husband in a voice I have never used before. I don’t know how long I have been crying. Maybe I have been all along. He runs to our room, and I say the words, the words I still can’t believe, for the first time. * * * Stable was what my mother would say, when I asked her how he was doing. Dad would tell me that he


The man smiled grimly, and brought a hatchet and a club. "You ain't going to take him out now?" the driver asked. "Sure," the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for a pry. There was an instantaneous scattering of the four men who had carried it in, and from safe perches on top the wall they prepared to watch the performance. Buck rushed at the splintering wood, sinking his teeth into it, surging and wrestling with it. Wherever the hatchet fell on the outside, he was there on the inside, snarling and growling, as furiously anxious to get out as the man in the red sweater was calmly intent on getting him out. "Now, you red-eyed devil," he said, when he had made an opening sufficient for the passage of Buck's body. At the same time he dropped the hatchet and shifted the club to his right hand. And Buck was truly a red-eyed devil, as he drew himself together for the spring, hair bristling, mouth foaming, a mad glitter in his blood-shot eyes. Straight at the man he launched his one hundred and forty pounds of fury, surcharged with the pent passion of two days and nights. In mid air, just as his jaws were about to close on the man, he received a shock that checked his body and brought his teeth together with an agonizing clip. He whirled over, fetching the ground on his back and side. He had never been struck by a club in his life, and did not understand. With a snarl that was part bark and more scream he was again on his feet and launched into the air. And again the shock came and he was brought crushingly to the ground. This time he was aware that it was the club, but his madness knew no caution. A dozen times he charged, and as often the club broke the charge and smashed him down. After a particularly fierce blow, he crawled to his feet, too dazed to rush. He staggered limply about, the blood flowing from nose and mouth and ears, his beautiful coat sprayed and flecked with bloody slaver. Then the man advanced and deliberately dealt him a frightful blow on the nose. All the pain he had endured was as nothing compared with the exquisite agony of this. With a roar that was almost lionlike in its ferocity, he again hurled himself at the man. But the man, shifting the club from right to left, coolly caught him by the under jaw, at the same time wrenching downward and backward. Buck described a complete circle in the air, and half of another, then crashed to the ground on his head and chest. For the last time he rushed. The man struck the shrewd blow he had purposely withheld for so long, and Buck crumpled up and went down, knocked utterly senseless. "He's no slouch at dog-breakin', that's wot I say," one of the men on the wall cried enthusiastically. "Druther break cayuses any day, and twice on Sundays," was the


questioned whether his life's quest would ever be rewarded. Now those doubts were gone forever. He could hear the ancient words... the foundation of the Grail legend: Vous ne trouvez pas le Saint-Graal, c'est le Saint-Graal qui vous trouve. You do not find the Grail, the Grail finds you. And tonight, incredibly, the key to finding the Holy Grail had walked right through his front door. While Sophie and Teabing sat with the cryptex and talked about the vinegar, the dials, and what the password might be, Langdon carried the rosewood box across the room to a well-lit table to get a better look at it. Something Teabing had just said was now running through Langdon's mind. The key to the Grail is hidden beneath the sign of the Rose. Langdon held the wooden box up to the light and examined the inlaid symbol of the Rose. Although his familiarity with art did not include woodworking or inlaid furniture, he had just recalled the famous tiled ceiling of the Spanish monastery outside of Madrid, where, three centuries after its construction, the ceiling tiles began to fall out, revealing sacred texts scrawled by monks on the plaster beneath. Langdon looked again at the Rose. Beneath the Rose. Sub Rosa. Secret. A bump in the hallway behind him made Langdon turn. He saw nothing but shadows. Teabing's manservant most likely had passed through. Langdon turned back to the box. He ran his finger over the smooth edge of the inlay, wondering if he could pry the Rose out, but the craftsmanship was perfect. He doubted even a razor blade could fit in between the inlaid Rose and the carefully carved depression into which it was seated. 184 Opening the box, he examined the inside of the lid. It was smooth. As he shifted its position, though, the light caught what appeared to be a small hole on the underside of the lid, positioned in the exact center. Langdon closed the lid and examined the inlaid symbol from the top. No hole. It doesn't pass through. Setting the box on the table, he looked around the room and spied a stack of papers with a paper clip on it. Borrowing the clip, he returned to the box, opened it, and studied the hole again. Carefully, he unbent the paper clip and inserted one end into the hole. He gave a gentle push. It took almost no effort. He heard something clatter quietly onto the table. Langdon closed the lid to look. It was a small piece of wood, like a puzzle piece. The wooden Rose had popped out of the lid and fallen onto the desk. Speechless, Langdon stared at the bare spot on the lid where the Rose had been. There, engraved in the wood, written in an immaculate hand, were four lines of text in a language he had never seen. The characters look vaguely Semitic, Langdon thought to himself, and yet I don't recognize the language! A sudden movement behind him caught his attention. Out of nowhere, a crushing blow to the


would give her away; he’d know something was wrong. She had no idea what to do. Then a screech from the back garden pulled her from her thoughts and she dashed outside. Janice Lovejoy was standing by the hedge, screaming like she had been bitten. Geoff and Jack had rushed out too, both looking horrified. Lin gazed over the fence. ‘What’s the matter?’ Then she saw it: the hen house had been destroyed, the chicken wire pulled down, a post snapped. Janice was shrieking. ‘They’ve gone – where are my hens?’ She waved her arms. ‘Susan? Mrs B’Gurk? Where are my babies? They’ve been eaten – look – feathers.’ ‘It’s all right, Mum.’ Jack picked up a speckled hen, handing it over gently. ‘Susan’s okay.’ ‘And there you are, Janice.’ Geoff pointed to several chickens. ‘There’s Mrs B’Gurk – and look, here are the others – four, five – they’re all fine.’ ‘Thank goodness.’ Janice hugged the hen against her face. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Susan.’ Geoff swept up another hen and stroked the fluffy feathers. ‘Don’t worry, love. You’re all right now.’ Lin wasn’t sure if he was talking to the hen or to Janice. Then Janice’s face crumpled angrily. ‘It’s Nadine – George’s pig. She’ll have been here and knocked down the hen house – it’s a wonder she didn’t eat the chickens.’ ‘It’s all cool, Mum…’ Jack said calmly. ‘No, your mother has a point,’ Geoff snapped. ‘That pig wanders everywhere. It needs to be kept under control.’ ‘Penny is always saying it should go to the abattoir,’ Janice grunted. ‘I’ll tell her, I’m on her side. We’ll get the village to sign a petition.’ She rocked the chicken. ‘Oh, Susan, that horrible pig might have killed you.’ ‘It was probably the wind blew the henhouse down…’ Jack suggested. ‘In August?’ Geoff retorted. ‘It will be that bloody pig. Your mum’s right.’ Lin tried to look sympathetic, but her mind was elsewhere. Geoff was still ranting. ‘I’m going to tell George exactly what I think of him and that animal, coming onto our land.’ ‘I agree.’ Janice folded her arms. ‘It ate Neil’s potatoes, slept right there on the veg patch, didn’t it, Lin? Right under your nose…’ ‘Right under my nose…’ Lin agreed sadly. ‘It shouldn’t be allowed,’ Geoff agreed. ‘It shouldn’t.’ Janice turned to Lin. ‘What do you think, Lin? That sort of behaviour is intolerable, running around the village, doing just as it pleases. The pig can’t be trusted. It should be stopped.’ ‘It probably should,’ Lin agreed, but her thoughts were not on Nadine, they were on the man she had loved for over fifty years. She rushed inside, so that her neighbours would not see her cry. Josie stood on the Toomeys’ red and white barge, a wide smile on her face; she’d just hidden the packages to be brought up later. She and Cecily had planned the baby shower, collecting many wonderful presents, clothes, a little hairbrush, nappies, a teddy bear, all wrapped in tissue. Florence would be delighted.


“It’s a little like that, yeah,” Tyrell said. “But better.” “Who wants to try it?” I asked. “It’s painless, and Tyrell here is one of the most gifted Synthesizers I’ve ever met.” A few raised hands. I waited long enough to elicit a few more. “Great,” I said. “We’ll just collect whatever you got.” I walked up and down the aisles and they palmed me their contraband, some of which I tucked into the waistband of my uniform, some of which I swallowed on the spot. Then I nodded to Tyrell, who arranged two of the folding chairs across from each other and invited one of the willing to sit in the chair opposite him. I took a seat in the back row as he Synthesized them, watching their trembling smiles and tears, applauding as each sprang from his seat to announce he’d been changed forever. Tyrell could elicit this kind of reaction without fail—he was better at it than me, even. But Orson had been the best at it. The way he’d lean forward and lace his fingers together, smile when the Synthesized smiled and sigh when the Synthesized sighed. He’d put a finger to his lips in thought and then say something spellbinding, something that could echo in your ears for hours or even days afterward. There was nothing like it. There was no one like him. PART I ONE IT WAS DIFFICULT TO BE me in 2007. I was, to my disappointment, much shorter than the average height. Our finances forced my parents to choose between a pediatrician and a dentist, which meant that I never got braces to correct the space between my front teeth or my right-side snaggletooth. I was desperately addicted to the internet, from the edgelording of 4Chan to the privilege-checking of Tumblr (though we didn’t have names for edgelording or privilege-checking back then) to the unremitting capitalism of YouTube (we’ve always had a name for that). I made very little eye contact, preferring instead to study the textures of the ground and my shoes. This wasn’t because I was shy—I actually could start a conversation with anyone willing to talk to me—but because my eyesight was so bad that at seventeen, I was halfway to being legally blind, and making eye contact meant showing whomever I was looking at the disturbing degree to which the lenses of my glasses magnified my eyes. The glasses were the worst thing about me, possibly the worst thing about anyone. I had begun wearing them at age two, and my eyesight had deteriorated in the intervening fifteen years so that I had 20/100 vision by the time I was a junior in high school and reading was only possible with bifocals. Pretty girls in ribboned pigtails and Aéropostale approached me in the hallway, asking with polite concern how I’d done on some trigonometry quiz or AP US history test. They did this as if being kind to me would guarantee them entry into a top-tier college. I told them—truthfully—that I’d received a 98 or 99 (I’d always received


he said, mumbling something about planning permission. Neither should I, I thought to myself. It felt surreal and as though I were strangely removed from myself; a baffled spectator wondering what would happen next. The crossing to Ireland had taken all day and most of the night. As there was no passenger ferry, I’d had to travel on a mail and goods boat that took me to Cork. Once again, I was on a boat with my small carpet bag, running towards freedom. I tried to sleep on a makeshift bed that was in reality just a bench with a thin cushioning on top. I vomited into a bucket and cried into it too. It was nothing like crossing the Channel. This sea was rough and unforgiving. When the boat moored at the harbour in Rosslare, the rain pelted down and the wind threatened to separate me from my bag as it attacked in gusts. One of the boat hands guided me to a small bed and breakfast nearby where I was able to freshen up before taking the train to Dublin. Matthew Fitzpatrick was a pleasant man who spoke few words, something for which I was grateful at that moment. I was not at my most sociable. I was tired and hungry and homesick for the kind of home I had never known. Any display of kindness might have resulted in an outburst of tears, so I was glad to keep things perfunctory. I gave the narrow facade another appraising look. On the ground floor there was just room for one panelled glass window, which bowed outwards, and an identical yet smaller window on the first floor and a tiny, diamond-shaped window on the top floor which seemed to taper into a point, like the hat of a wizard. The sign above the window was in the art nouveau style, so popular in Paris, with its swirls and flourishes. Mr Fitzpatrick’s Nostalgia Shop. The door gave way with a sigh, followed by an elongated creak. Matthew turned to offer an apologetic smile and I waited on the threshold for a moment, giving him time to switch the lights on inside. I heard a click and caught my first glimpse of the shop by the warm glow of a yellow lampshade. The chequer-tiled floor welcomed my feet as I entered the topsy-turvy world of the nostalgia shop. The dark green walls gave one the impression of entering a thick forest, with wooden shelves stretching around the entire room like branches. There were all types of knick-knacks and ornaments, with everything from soaps and hand mirrors to toy soldiers and candelabras. Yet they were of a variety I had never laid my eyes on before – brightly painted and ornately decorated, the gold and silvers glimmering in the soft light. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, and meant it. ‘Like walking inside a fairy tale.’ He regarded me strangely and it seemed for a moment as though I were looking into the face of a young boy. Gone was the harried man with the hat


offering both Bastian and Olivier a sip of her flask. Olivier accepted, but Bastian declined, the dark glitter of his eyes arcing to Lore across the green. The game ended quickly, with Bastian taking the winning hoop. Cecelia and Olivier excused themselves quickly, saying they had a dinner to attend. As they were leaving, Cecelia glanced over her shoulder at Lore. “If you change your mind,” she said with a wave, “let me know! We can make a party of it!” Lore’s hand pulled into a fist at her side, hidden in the billowing lavender skirts of her gown. Bastian walked over with his mallet swung across his shoulders, frowning after Cecelia and her brother. “What would you be changing your mind about, Lore?” “It doesn’t matter.” She focused on releasing her fists. On taking in deep breaths and letting them out. “I won’t be changing my mind.” He arched a dark brow. “It wouldn’t be about poison, would it?” Lore said nothing. “I wish she wouldn’t,” Alie said softly. She’d crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers picking anxiously at the embroidery on her sleeves. “I know she has a good reason—as much as one can—but I still wish she wouldn’t.” “There’s no good reason to poison yourself.” Gabe stood dour and looming at the edge of the group, mallet held in his hand like a cudgel. “Intentionally altering the balance of Spiritum and Mortem within a human body goes against the Tracts.” “There’s more to right and wrong than what’s in the Tracts, Gabe.” Alie didn’t snap, not really, but her voice had an edge in it that Lore hadn’t heard before. Gabe noticed. Surprise flickered across his face. “I was unaware Cecelia was partial to poisoning until the night of the masque,” Bastian said, taking hold of the conversation and steering it back in the direction he wanted. “She just started.” Alie sighed. “And she has her reasons.” “The high being first among them, I assume,” Bastian said drily. “It’s not that. Or not just that, anyway.” Alie shook her head. “She’s sick. It’s not hugely aggressive, the physicians say, but enough that her life expectancy is… lessened. Cecelia started taking the belladonna in the hope it would add some years.” She rubbed at her forehead. “Now, she certainly shouldn’t be taking as much as she did the night of your masquerade, Bastian, but she’s scared.” Angry heat raised color in Lore’s cheeks; she glanced away so none of them would see. Regardless of Cecelia’s reasons, it was still true that her noble privilege kept her from facing the same consequences as someone outside the Citadel. Lore had known more than one person who’d taken poison because of illness, needing it to extend their lives so they could take care of loved ones. There were some deathdealers who only served such clients—Val and Mari did their running for free, charging the other deathdealers more to make up for it. But when those clients were caught, no one cared about their reasons. It was the Burnt Isles for them


his mailed shirt soaked red. The corpse's cloak was grey wool trimmed with white satin, she saw with sudden terror. She could not tell who he was. "No, " she whispered. What was happening? Where was her father? Why had the red cloaks come for her? She remembered what the man with the yellow beard had said, the day she had found the monsters. If one Hand can die, why not a second? Arya felt tears in her eyes. She held her breath to listen. She heard the sounds of fighting, shouts, screams, the clang of steel on steel, coming through the windows of the Tower of the Hand. She could not go back. Her father . . . Arya closed her eyes. For a moment she was too frightened to move. They had killed Jory and Wyl and Heward, and that guardsman on the step, whoever he had been. They could kill her father too, and her if they caught her. "Fear cuts deeper than swords, " she said aloud, but it was no good pretending to be a water dancer, Syrio had been a water dancer and the white knight had probably killed him, and anyhow she was only a little girl with a wooden stick, alone and afraid. She squirmed out into the yard, glancing around warily as she climbed to her feet. The castle seemed deserted. The Red Keep was never deserted. All the people must be hiding inside, their doors barred. Arya glanced up longingly at her bedchamber, then moved away from the Tower of the Hand, keeping close to the wall as she slid from shadow to shadow. She pretended she was chasing cats . . . except she was the cat now, and if they caught her, they would kill her. Moving between buildings and over walls, keeping stone to her back wherever possible so no one could surprise her, Arya reached the stables almost without incident. A dozen gold cloaks in mail and plate ran past as she was edging across the inner bailey, but without knowing whose side they were on, she hunched down low in the shadows and let them pass. 472 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN Hullen, who had been master of horse at Winterfell as long as Arya could remember, was slumped on the ground by the stable door. He had been stabbed so many times it looked as if his tunic was patterned with scarlet flowers. Arya was certain he was dead, but when she crept closer, his eyes opened. "Arya Underfoot," he whispered. "You must . . . warn your . . . your lord father . . ." Frothy red spittle bubbled from his mouth. The master of horse closed his eyes again and said no more. Inside were more bodies; a groom she had played with, and three of her father's household guard. A wagon, laden with crates and chests, stood abandoned near the door of the stable. The dead men must have been loading it for the trip to the docks when they were attacked. Arya snuck


my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created. I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it loved and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into which I now sank refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the words of the fiend rang in my ears like a death-knell; they appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality. The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet; it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval entreating me to join him. He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where he was, that letters from the friends he had formed in London desired his return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for his Indian enterprise. He could not any longer delay his departure; but as his journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now conjectured, by his longer voyage, he entreated me to bestow as much of my society on him as I could spare. He besought me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed southwards together. This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days. Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to reflect; I must pack up my chemical instruments, and for that purpose I must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must handle those utensils the sight of which was sickening to me. The next morning, at daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

But not until the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room,--she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey,--when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said. She was certain, with a marked coldness. "I should explain," he added, "what I was really too cold and fatigued to do before, that I am an experimental investigator." "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Hall, much impressed. "And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances." "Very useful things indeed they are, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And I'm naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries." "Of course, sir." "My reason for coming to Iping," he proceeded, with a certain deliberation of manner, "was--a desire for solitude. I do not wish to be disturbed in my work. In addition to my work, an accident--" "I thought as much," said Mrs. Hall to herself. "--necessitates a certain retirement. My eyes--are sometimes so weak and painful that I have to shut myself up in the dark for hours together. Lock myself up. Sometimes--now and then. Not at present, certainly. At such times the slightest disturbance, the entry of a stranger into the room, is a source of excruciating annoyance to me--it is well these things should be understood." "Certainly, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And if I might make so bold as to ask--" "That, I think, is all," said the stranger, with that quietly irresistible air of finality he could assume at will. Mrs. Hall reserved her question and sympathy for a better occasion. After Mrs. Hall had left the room, he remained standing in front of the fire, glaring, so Mr. Henfrey puts it, at the clock- mending. Mr. Henfrey not only took off the hands of the clock, and the face, but extracted the works; and he tried to work in as slow and quiet and unassuming a manner as possible. He worked with the lamp close to him, and the green shade threw a brilliant light upon his hands, and upon the frame and wheels, and left the rest of the room shadowy. When he looked up, coloured patches swam in his eyes. Being constitutionally of a curious nature, he had removed the works--a quite unnecessary proceeding--with the idea of delaying his departure and perhaps falling into conversation with the stranger. But the stranger stood there, perfectly silent and still. So still, it got on Henfrey's nerves. He felt alone in the room and looked up, and there, grey and dim, was the bandaged head and huge blue lenses staring fixedly, with a mist of green spots drifting in front of them. It was so uncanny-looking to Henfrey that for a minute they remained staring blankly at one another. Then Henfrey looked down again. Very uncomfortable position! One would like to say something. Should


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

I sat back, my mind wheeling. I have long suspected that Bambleby is part of the faerie aristocracy. That he is—or was—in line for one of their thrones is something I had not guessed, though that was not what alarmed me. What does he want with faerie doors? Are his questions mere academic curiosity? “Did he ask you anything else?” Poe shook his head, and my suspicion grew. “What did you tell him?” The faerie was almost sitting in my lap now, his long fingers curled possessively about my cloak. “That there are no doors here, in this forest. I’ve never seen one. Maybe the doors move with the snows, with the high ones. Maybe they carry them hither and thither as the wind blows down from the north.” He frowned. “They will be here soon.” My hands tightened on the grass. “How did my friend react to this information?” “I don’t know. He left after. I am glad he’s gone.” As the brownie seemed distressed, I reminded him of the chocolates I had given him. In truth, my kindness was partly out of concern for my cloak— now striped with holes from Poe’s touch—as well as the leg underneath it. He hastened to check on his little hoard and then disappeared into the forest, returning with a loaf of bread still warm to the touch. He seemed calmed by the ritual, and by my appreciation of him. I promised to return on the morrow —alone. I spent the next hour wandering the forest. I told myself that I was conducting a survey of the possible faerie paths I had noted during a previous wandering; but in truth, I needed the walk. What on earth was I to make of this revelation regarding Bambleby? Not all Folk have grand designs in their interactions with mortals, and I had come to think of him as an aristocratic dilettante. Yet did he have other reasons for cultivating a career chasing stories of his kindred? More important, did it matter? I had my book to worry about, a book that could make my career, and why should I care about Bambleby’s intentions, provided he did not get in my way? I was distantly aware that most people would have a different reaction to the discovery of a faerie prince in their midst, but I paid this little heed. Shadow was before me, his head down as he sniffed at a jumble of mushrooms. Upon consulting my map, I noted these seemed to have moved from their previous location some yards away. Now, it is possible they were formed during the most recent deluge, but I thought not. They had a shape about them that my trained eye recognized, something twisted from its natural pattern and purpose. Perhaps it was a gathering place. I grew calmer as I sank into my work, and the next few miles passed pleasantly enough. If anyone were to claim greater happiness in their careers than I do in poking about sunlit wildwoods for faerie footprints, I should not believe it.


join in, weaving through the dancers’ legs. The crowd cheered and clapped as Nadine rushed into the centre of the Morris dancers, a bright ribbon caught around her neck, and she sat stubbornly down in the centre just as a somersaulting Bobby Ledbury leaped into the air and fell across the pig to land flat on his face. Lin gazed at the dancers who tumbled on top of Bobby like a shuffling pack of cards, sprawling across the grass: she was sure Nadine was smiling. 17 As Florence watched Natalie rush off to join her fiancé at the beer stall, she noticed her father scrutinising all the eligible men at the May Day celebrations. She knew him so well, how his mind worked, how protective he was, and it troubled her. He was examining every face for a shadow of guilt – a sudden shifty glance would prove certain paternity. She hoped he wouldn’t accost random young men and start asking questions. He clutched his glass of cider furiously; he’d had one too many and might feel prompted to find things out for himself. Florence was suddenly shaking: he was here now, inches from her. She recognised the scent of him first, and it took her straight back to their brief encounter. He’d just walked past and ignored her – he hadn’t even made eye contact. After everything that happened between them, he’d pretended she wasn’t there. She caught her breath; what could she say to him now? She looked away, embarrassed. Soon the pregnancy would be noticeable and people would ask questions. She glanced back to her father, who was talking to Fergal Toomey, to Lin and Josie. Then she felt a movement next to her and there was Cecily, pursing her red lips ready for conversation. ‘Florence, I’m glad to see you,’ she said happily. ‘Why aren’t you May Queen?’ ‘I was May Queen two years ago.’ Florence smiled shyly, then she added, ‘Pregnant women don’t make good May queens.’ ‘You look a million dollars,’ Cecily retorted. ‘Besides which, the baby doesn’t show yet and when he or she does, you’ll be positively glorious.’ ‘I don’t feel very glorious.’ Florence gazed down at her feet. ‘Are you looking forward to bringing the little one into the world?’ Cecily didn’t hesitate to ask the question uppermost in her mind. ‘To tell the truth, I’m terrified.’ ‘Of what exactly?’ Cecily’s eyes were small and inquisitive. ‘Take your pick…’ Florence breathed in raggedly. ‘Childbirth. Coping with feeding, sleepless nights. And that’s before we get to the wagging tongues and village gossip.’ ‘That’s quite a list,’ Cecily agreed. ‘Yet you still want the baby?’ ‘I do.’ ‘Then make your mind up to enjoy every moment. It’s your party – you own it. Besides, your father will help. Have you told him the good news yet?’ ‘I told him last night, when I got in. He was wonderful,’ Florence said. ‘Florence, don’t you think the baby’s father should take some responsibility?’ Cecily’s voice was low. ‘He should at least offer you money. Doesn’t he want


He drew himself up. "--I apologize." The buzz from the hunters was one of admiration at this handsome behavior. Clearly they were of the opinion that Jack had done the decent thing, had put himself in the right by his generous apology and Ralph, obscurely, in the wrong. They waited for an appropriately decent answer. Yet Ralph's throat refused to pass one. He resented, as an addition to Jack's misbehavior, this verbal trick. The fire was dead, the ship was gone. Could they not see? Anger instead of decency passed his throat. "That was a dirty trick." They were silent on the mountain-top while the opaque look appeared in Jack's eyes and passed away. Ralph's final word was an ingracious mutter. "All right. Light the fire." With some positive action before them, a little of the tension died. Ralph said no more, did nothing, stood looking down at the ashes round his feet. Jack was loud and active. He gave orders, sang, whistled, threw remarks at the silent Ralph--remarks that did not need an answer, and therefore could not invite a snub; and still Ralph was silent. No one, not even Jack, would ask him to move and in the end they had to build the fire three yards away and in a place not really as convenient. So Ralph asserted his chieftainship and could not have chosen a better way if he had thought for days. Against this weapon, so indefinable and so effective, Jack was powerless and raged without knowing why. By the time the pile was built, they were on different sides of a high barrier. When they had dealt with the fire another crisis arose. Jack had no means of lighting it. Then to his surprise, Ralph went to Piggy and took the glasses from him. Not even Ralph knew how a link between him and Jack had been snapped and fastened elsewhere. "I'll bring 'em back." "I'll come too." Piggy stood behind him, islanded in a sea of meaningless color, while Ralph knelt and focused the glossy spot. Instantly the fire was alight, Piggy held out his hands and grabbed the glasses back. Before these fantastically attractive flowers of violet and red and yellow, unkindness melted away. They became a circle of boys round a camp fire and even Piggy and Ralph were half-drawn in. Soon some of the boys were rushing down the slope for more wood while Jack hacked the pig. They tried holding the whole carcass on a stake over the fire, but the stake burnt more quickly than the pig roasted. In the end they skewered bits of meat on branches and held them in the flames: and even then almost as much boy was roasted as meat. Ralph's mouth watered. He meant to refuse meat, but his past diet of fruit and nuts, with an odd crab or fish, gave him too little resistance. He accepted a piece of halfraw meat and gnawed it like a wolf. Piggy spoke, also dribbling. "Aren't I having none?" Jack had meant to leave him in


short while. “I’ll leave in the morning, as early as I can. All of this will simply be a beautiful dream. And you—” “I want to go with you.” Lucy frowned at her friend. “I don’t know where I’ll go,” she warned again. “I’m sure we’ll find somewhere to start over,” Rebecca said, sounding so convinced that Lucy almost smiled. “I’m sure we will,” she agreed. She pulled Rebecca into an embrace that was long overdue. “I’m glad I’ve had you here with me. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.” “You might have become friends with the Calloways differently without me,” Rebecca argued with a sad little laugh. “It’s my fault you’re in this mess with Lord Calloway, and I’m right sorry about it.” “I don’t blame you.” She really didn’t. She had grown so much during her time at Calloway Park that she almost thought she should thank Rebecca. She would have been content to remain a governess for the rest of her life, but now she knew there was so much more out there. She would never find herself a baron or his brother; perhaps she would find a kind tradesman to marry if she did not remain alone, but at least she knew what love felt like. Yes, she had fallen in love with Simon. There was no way to argue that. Now she knew why her father had always wanted to stay close to where Mother was buried. Leaving Calloway Park was going to be more difficult than anything she’d done. “You should get some rest,” she told Rebecca. “The sooner we can leave in the morning, the sooner we can put all of this behind us.” She just wanted to fall asleep and wake up in the next phase of her life, whatever that would look like. “I’ll see you in the morning, Lucy.” Giving her one last embrace, Rebecca slipped away and left her on her own. Before Lucy had found the energy to undress—she would have to send this gown back to Olivia as soon as she procured her own—and go to bed, a soft knock sounded on the door. For a brief moment, she thought perhaps Simon had come to reconcile, but she tossed that ridiculous notion aside and rose to see who had come to offer pity. Most likely Olivia or Nick. To her surprise, William stood on the other side of the door. He already looked better than he had this morning, his face less gaunt and his eyes a little brighter. He was coming back to life, and Lucy felt like she was dying. “I saw Simon,” he said with a frown. “He refused to talk to me, but from the looks of things . . .” Lucy bit back her tears before they resurfaced. “He wants me to leave. I can’t say I blame him.” “Might we sit?” “What? Here?” Lucy glanced behind her. Surely he did not intend to enter her bedchamber. But William shrugged. “I’m not sure I have the energy to go somewhere else.


Galaxy. Human beings are great adaptors, and by lunchtime life in the environs of Arthur's house had settled into a steady routine. It was Arthur's accepted role to lie squelching in the mud making occasional demands to see his lawyer, his mother or a good book; it was Mr Prosser's accepted role to tackle Arthur with the occasional new ploy such as the For the Public Good talk, the March of Progress talk, the They Knocked My House Down Once You Know, Never Looked Back talk and various other cajoleries and threats; and it was the bulldozer drivers' accepted role to sit around drinking coffee and experimenting with union regulations to see how they could turn the situation to their financial advantage. The Earth moved slowly in its diurnal course. The sun was beginning to dry out the mud Arthur lay in. A shadow moved across him again. "Hello Arthur," said the shadow. Arthur looked up and squinting into the sun was startled to see Ford Prefect standing above him. "Ford! Hello, how are you?" "Fine," said Ford, "look, are you busy?" "Am I busy?" exclaimed Arthur. "Well, I've just got all these bulldozers and things to lie in front of because they'll knock my house down if I don't, but other than that ... well, no not especially, why?" They don't have sarcasm on Betelgeuse, and Ford Prefect often failed to notice it unless he was concentrating. He said, "Good, is there anywhere we can talk?" "What?" said Arthur Dent. For a few seconds Ford seemed to ignore him, and stared fixedly into the sky like a rabbit trying to get run over by a car. Then suddenly he squatted down beside Arthur. "We've got to talk," he said urgently. "Fine," said Arthur, "talk." "And drink," said Ford. "It's vitally important that we talk and drink. Now. We'll go to the pub in the village." He looked into the sky again, nervous, expectant. "Look, don't you understand?" shouted Arthur. He pointed at Prosser. "That man wants to knock my house down!" Ford glanced at him, puzzled. "Well he can do it while you're away can't he?" he asked. "But I don't want him to!" "Ah." "Look, what's the matter with you Ford?" said Arthur. "Nothing. Nothing's the matter. Listen to me - I've got to tell you the most important thing you've ever heard. I've got to tell you now, and I've got to tell you in the saloon bar of the Horse and Groom." "But why?" "Because you are going to need a very stiff drink." Ford stared at Arthur, and Arthur was astonished to find that his will was beginning to weaken. He didn't realize that this was because of an old drinking game that Ford learned to play in the hyperspace ports that served the madranite mining belts in the star system of Orion Beta. The game was not unlike the Earth game called Indian Wrestling, and was played like this: Two contestants would sit either side of a table, with a glass in front of each of