prayer book. She peered at the dress from afar, almost with suspicion. “Will it be ready in time?” she asked. That was the worst question, the one Alice feared the most. She considered telling the truth, discarded it. “Of course,” she said, trying to make her voice bright. It sounded more like a caw. Madam put a hand to her jaw, prodding it, as if testing the weight and pressure of her cheeks underneath her veil. “Come with me to chapel,” she said, “if you like.” She gave Alice a dry look. “You can pray to the patron saint of seamstresses, if there is one.” Alice felt herself reddening at this, and she hesitated. Then she lifted her chin. “Very well, Madam.” Her skin skittered as she said it. Winnie and Mrs. King would approve of this, she told herself. She was simply keeping Madam under closer observation. Although she wondered, sometimes, why Mrs. King was so intent on tracking Miss de Vries. There was something bloodthirsty about it, like stalking a fox or a deer. It was the reason she’d rejected the dress, when Madam offered it to her. It was one thing to watch the mistress. To sew for her, dress her. It was a different thing altogether to take gifts, slip into her clothes, try on her skin. Alice would have accepted Madam’s entire wardrobe with pleasure. Her things were sumptuous, exquisitely crafted. But something had made Alice hesitate. Now Alice and Miss de Vries sat together in the chapel, candles flickering, brass fixtures swinging gently from the ceiling. The chaplain had gone long ago: they were left to their own private prayers. The light was golden and hazy, wisped with smoke. It felt to Alice that they were sitting in a dark jewel box: onyx pillars, creamy marble edged with gilt, arched and pointed like blades. Golden angels glared down from the walls. Alice wound her hands together, closed her eyes. Lord, she prayed, You must protect me. She was a whole week late to repay her debt. What did it mean, if you ignored a debt collector’s summons, if you simply buried your head in the sand? Did the interest accumulate by the hour or by the minute? She pictured the debt collectors trailing her, extending a length of wire from their sleeves, ready to slice her throat... Pull yourself together, she ordered herself. All she needed to do was make it through tomorrow and to the end of the week. Then she’d earn her fee and have enough to pay her debt and any interest on top. Surely they wouldn’t exact any further punishment against her. Going out on the boat had shaken her. She’d tried to hide behind Hephzibah’s parasol. Chin up, she told herself. Men couldn’t simply come and snatch her off the street. But her whole body had been on alert. She wanted this job done, finished forever. She wanted to eradicate this constant, creeping sense of dread. Miss de Vries shifted in her tiny pew. “How’s the mood below stairs?” she asked.


upward. The whole place could go up in flames. After mass she changed her clothes. “Alice can do it,” she said when Iris came up to help her with her dress. Alice looked scared, but she nodded, and dressed Miss de Vries gently, barely touching her skin. Miss de Vries put on her deepest mourning, layering herself in serge and black taffeta, her waist strapped with black velveteen. Her veil was thickly embroidered and came all the way down to her waist. She felt the heat rising in her skin as she descended to the garden, white lilies in her hand. “Dear Papa,” she said so that the gaggle of newspapermen could hear her. “How we miss you.” She knelt outside the mausoleum, and laid the lilies at his grave. The flashbulbs burned the air, shocking the pigeons into flight. The picture would make the papers. She’d counted on that. Virtue displayed, she went back upstairs and put on her tea gown. “Good, Alice,” she said, inspecting her buttons, her clasps. The girl hadn’t missed a single one. “That will be all.” Alice gave her a long, pale stare—and went away. The late-afternoon post was due. Miss de Vries was hungry for it, couldn’t bear to wait any longer. Slowly, slowly, hour by hour, cards had begun landing in the front hall. First the Rutlands. Then Lady Tweedmouth. Lady Londonderry’s circle was quick to follow. Mr. Menzies sent his thanks. So did Lady Fitzmaurice and Lord Athlumney. It was happening. Apparently, the Duchess of Montagu had done her best work. They were coming. From her bedroom she could hear the distant, whispering sound of the girls rubbing the parquet, could smell the wafts of vinegar coming from the glass in the ballroom. She kept the door open. She would have ordered up a cigarette if she didn’t fear fouling her breath. There was a knock at the door. She heard William’s voice, right on schedule. “Post, Madam.” “Come,” she said. He was tense—she knew that. There had been a shift in his mood in recent days. He’d been keeping his distance. She could always sense these things. He laid the platter on the table. She could see one of the envelopes bore a dark red crest. Her heart started beating faster. Papa had always taught her the art of patience. Of suppressing one’s whims, curtailing one’s deepest desires. I would make a fine ascetic, she thought dryly. I would make a splendid nun. “William,” she said. “You must tell me. Was there something between you and Mrs. King?” The air tilted. His expression became guarded. People said that William was very beautiful. They praised her for it, as if she had something to do with it, as if she’d won him at an auction. Perhaps she had. But his eyes had no effect on her. “I only ask,” she said, “for the sake of the household. I am accountable for its reputation.” He stood there, trussed up in cream silk and his afternoon livery, groomed and manicured. He flushed. “Do you mind,


he's still around. Doubt if you'll find him now, but I'd like to see him if you do. Got to go now. Thanks, Heck." "Atticus, is Jem dead?" "No, Scout. Look after her, sister," he called, as he went down the hall. Aunt Alexandra's fingers trembled as she unwound the crushed fabric and wire from around me. "Are you all right, darling?" she asked over and over as she worked me free. It was a relief to be out. My arms were beginning to tingle, and they were red with small hexagonal marks. I rubbed them, and they felt better. "Aunty, is Jem dead?" "No- no, darling, he's unconscious. We won't know how badly he's hurt until Dr. Reynolds gets here. Jean Louise, what happened?" "I don't know." She left it at that. She brought me something to put on, and had I thought about it then, I would have never let her forget it: in her distraction, Aunty brought me my overalls. "Put these on, darling," she said, handing me the garments she most despised. She rushed back to Jem's room, then came to me in the hall. She patted me vaguely, and went back to Jem's room. A car stopped in front of the house. I knew Dr. Reynolds's step almost as well as my father's. He had brought Jem and me into the world, had led us through every childhood disease known to man including the time Jem fell out of the treehouse, and he had never lost our friendship. Dr. Reynolds said if we had been boil-prone things would have been different, but we doubted it. He came in the door and said, "Good Lord." He walked toward me, said, "You're still standing," and changed his course. He knew every room in the house. He also knew that if I was in bad shape, so was Jem. After ten forevers Dr. Reynolds returned. "Is Jem dead?" I asked. "Far from it," he said, squatting down to me. "He's got a bump on the head just like yours, and a broken arm. Scout, look that way- no, don't turn your head, roll your eyes. Now look over yonder. He's got a bad break, so far as I can tell now it's in the elbow. Like somebody tried to wring his arm off... Now look at me." "Then he's not dead?" "No-o!" Dr. Reynolds got to his feet. "We can't do much tonight," he said, "except try to make him as comfortable as we can. We'll have to X-ray his arm- looks like he'll be wearing his arm 'way out by his side for a while. Don't worry, though, he'll be as good as new. Boys his age bounce." While he was talking, Dr. Reynolds had been looking keenly at me, lightly fingering the bump that was coming on my forehead. "You don't feel broke anywhere, do you?" Dr. Reynolds's small joke made me smile. "Then you don't think he's dead, then?" He put on his hat. "Now I may be wrong, of course, but I think he's very alive.


may be used to indicate hypertext links; OR [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent form by the program that displays the etext (as is the case, for instance, with most word processors); OR [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC or other equivalent proprietary form). [2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this "Small Print!" statement. [3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the gross profits you derive calculated using themethod you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to let us know your plans and to work out the details. WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? Chapter 1 Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine readable form. The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. Money should be paid to the: "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: hart@pobox.com [Portions of this header are copyright (C) 2001 by Michael S. Hart and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.] [Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or software or any other related product without express permission.] *END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.07/27/01*END* Created by Judith Boss, Omaha, Nebraska Tarzan of the Apes By Edgar Rice Burroughs CONTENTS I Out to Sea II The Savage Home III Life and Death IV The Apes V The White Ape VI Jungle Battles VII The Light of Knowledge VIII The Tree-top Hunter IX Man and Man X The Fear-Phantom XI "King of the Apes" XII Man's Reason XIII His Own Kind XIV At the Mercy of the Jungle XV The Forest God XVI "Most Remarkable" XVII Burials XVIII The Jungle Toll XIX The Call of the Primitive XX Heredity XXI The Village of Torture XXII The Search Party XXIII Brother Men XXIV Lost Treasure XXV The Outpost of the World XXVI The Height of Civilization XXVII The Giant Again XXVIII Conclusion Chapter 1 Out to Sea I had this story from one who had no business to tell it to me, or to any other. I may credit the seductive influence of an old vintage upon the narrator for the beginning of it, and my own skeptical incredulity during the days that followed for the balance of the strange tale.


matter of the bride-price. I want you to be there." Just then Obierika's son, Maduka, came into the obi from outside, greeted Okonkwo and turned towards the compound, "Come and shake hands with me," Okonkwo said to the lad. "Your wrestling the other day gave me much happiness." The boy smiled, shook hands with Okonkwo and went into the compound. "He will do great things," Okonkwo said. "If I had a son like him I should be happy. I am worried about Nwoye. A bowl of pounded yams can throw him in a wrestling match. His two younger brothers are more promising. But I can tell you, Obierika, that my children do not resemble me. Where are the young suckers that will grow when the old banana tree dies? If Ezinma had been a boy I would have been happier. She has the right spirit." "You worry yourself for nothing," said Obierika. "The children are still very young." "Nwoye is old enough to impregnate a woman. At his age I was already fending for myself. No, my friend, he is not too young. A chick that will grow into a cock can be spotted the very day it hatches. I have done my best to make Nwoye grow into a man, but there is too much of his mother in him." "Too much of his grandfather," Obierika thought, but he did not say it. The same thought also came to Okonkwo's mind. But he had long learned how to lay that ghost. Whenever the thought of his father's weakness and failure troubled him he expelled it by thinking about his own strength and success. And so he did now. His mind went to his latest show of manliness. "I cannot understand why you refused to come with us to kill that boy," he asked Obierika. "Because I did not want to," Obierika replied sharply. "I had something better to do." "You sound as if you question the authority and the decision of the Oracle, who said he should die." "I do not. Why should I? But the Oracle did not ask me to carry out its decision." "But someone had to do it. If we were all afraid of blood, it would not be done. And what do you think the Oracle would do then?" "You know very well, Okonkwo, that I am not afraid of blood and if anyone tells you that I am, he is telling a lie. And let me tell you one thing, my friend. If I were you I would have stayed at home. What you have done will not please the Earth. It is the kind of action for which the goddess wipes out whole families." "The Earth cannot punish me for obeying her messenger," Okonkwo said. "A child's fingers are not scalded by a piece of hot yam which its mother puts into its palm." "That is true," Obierika agreed. "But if the Oracle said that my son should be killed I would neither dispute it nor be the one to do it." They would


I mouth: Must be nice. Then say, “Shouldn’t the flight have been paid for since it’s your job?” “Yeah, it was, but I spent too much. I wish I was good with money like you.” “I don’t really have much choice.” I keep my tone light, but I’m not happy. Not so much at the empty money promises, but because I’m reminded he can get away with it. If he says he has no money, short of stealing from his wallet, I have to accept that. He knows I’ll pay the council tax because I’m living here and can’t just sit back as bills pile up. “I know that,” he says, “but I live on my own. My rent’s not cheap like yours. Mum has you payin’ only four fifty. Mine’s over a grand ’cos it’s Putney. Just use a bit of your savings and hit me up next month to replace it. You all right, though, yeah?” he asks. “You heard Mum’s comin’ back soon?” “Yes, she told me last week,” I say. “She hasn’t booked her flight yet.” “Let me know when she does. I’m not tryna be around too much when she’s here.” Shouldn’t be too difficult. “Okay.” He laughs but doesn’t mean it. “I forgot you’re on her side.” “I don’t take either of your sides. I’m neutral. Like—” “Yeah, Spain. I know, I know.” I smile. “Switzerland.” “Close enough, no?” he asks. “But yeah, you know I don’t like the way she moves or acts with Dad. Your husband is here sick so what are you doin’ in Ghana all the time? She leaves you to deal with everything.” Something you two have in common. “She’s running Grandad’s hostel,” I say. “You know Uncle doesn’t help much, so it’s only her, really.” James presses his lips together and shakes his head. “What?” I ask. “Nothin’,” he says. “You just don’t know Mum like I do, Mads. When I went to Ghana to check up on things, she was movin’ a bit mad.” I look away from the camera. “Yeah,” James says, “I can tell you don’t wanna hear it and that’s why I don’t say nothin’. Anyway, listen, I gotta go, but I’ll come to the house soon, yeah? Bye, Mads.” “Bye, James. Love you.” “Love you too, sis.” I put my phone down and turn off the light. James says he knows Mum better than I do, but I’m the one who saw her phone messages the last time she was here; messages about missing and loving each other to and from an unsaved number beginning in “+233.” Maybe that’s what James saw in Ghana. I’m glad I had the excuse of looking after Dad to avoid that trip. It’s easy to throw a phone back onto a bedside table and pretend as if nothing’s changed—maybe harder if you see it with your own eyes. I think of what Mum may be doing right now. If she’s alone. Betraying Dad seems a cruel act on her behalf, but although I’ve never been one of those children


as the other patrons, reading posters about term deposits and mortgage rates. When it is my turn, I approach a young woman with smooth skin, smooth hair, a hip but professional outfit. She looks straight out of college, a girl with her whole future ahead of her. “I’d like to make a cash advance on this card please.” I slide my credit card across the counter. “You’re aware of the interest rate on cash withdrawals?” I’m not. “Yes.” “How much would you like?” “The maximum amount, please.” She nods, her eyes on the screen. She clicks her mouse a few times, taps at the keyboard before she speaks. “I can give you seven thousand dollars on this card.” “That’s it?” I blurt, and then lower my voice. “But the credit limit is eighty thousand dollars.” “Yes, but there’s an outstanding balance of twenty-two thousand. And you’ve made several cash withdrawals at various ATMs over the past few months.” “But I haven’t.” Benjamin explicitly forbade it. And he checked all my credit card bills for complete compliance. She shrugs. “Someone using your card did.” My brow furrows. Could Jesse have taken my card without me knowing? Or Lee? But they don’t know my PIN code. My husband does. He knows every password, every security code. But why would he take cash out on my card when he was expecting me to be dead? “If you’re sure that you didn’t make the withdrawals, you can file a report.” She doubts me, I can tell. She thinks I’m a spoiled, scatterbrained housewife who’s forgotten about her trips to the ATM. “How much was taken out in cash?” I ask. She clicks her mouse again, eyes roving over the screen. “Fifty thousand dollars.” Fifty grand. It’s so much money. And such a precise figure. I wonder if this was Benjamin’s backup plan. If his plot to kill me failed, if somehow I survived, he knew I would do this. I would try to access money on this card. And Benjamin wants me to have nothing. He wants me to suffer. “Anything else?” She sounds slightly irritated by my questions and confusion. Fishing in my wallet, I slide her another card. A black one this time. “How much can I get on this?” “This isn’t a credit card, it’s a charge card,” she says. “The borrowing fees can be as high as five percent. You can take out as much as you like but you’ll have to pay it back in full on your next bill.” Not my problem. I smile at her. “I’d like a hundred grand, please.” * * * As the officer drives me home, I check my phone. I’m not sure of the time difference between Seattle and Poland, but I pray that Karolina saw the message, that she responded, that she is willing to talk to me. There is no response, and my mood sinks. But it is still early. There is still a chance. When I enter my silent house, I go straight to the kitchen. I don’t feel hungry, but


doubt. His hair shone like onyx and it was all I could do not to reach out and touch it. ‘I’m here to view some illustrations for a client. However, I am attending an auction in Sotheby’s tomorrow afternoon if that is of interest to you.’ ‘Sotheby’s!’ I repeated, failing to keep the excitement from my voice. I couldn’t possibly go. It was too risky to go to London. My smile crumpled. ‘No, I must return to Ireland.’ He looked at me as though he was searching for memories in my eyes. I looked away. ‘You still wear my necklace, I see.’ My hand instinctively went to touch the golden hamsa pendant he had given me on my departure from Paris. A brief smile came to my lips unbidden. Of course, I should have refused him. But I told myself that I needed news of Paris and Sylvia. That he was one of the few friends I had left, that without his help I would probably be back in London now and trapped in an arranged marriage. ‘Well, maybe it wouldn’t hurt,’ I said. How wrong I was. He held open the door of a gleaming black car. If I didn’t know better, I would say that he had come into some money, but it was too vulgar to ask. ‘My client,’ he said, replying to my unspoken question. ‘She is quite generous.’ She. I looked out of the window, concealing the prickle of jealousy that pierced me. It had been several months since our time together in Paris; how could I still feel this way? ‘I am so very glad to see you, Opaline. Many times I have wondered about you.’ And yet he had never sent a letter. ‘Are you still in Dublin?’ ‘Of course,’ I replied, quite terse. Where else would I be? Did he expect me to have travelled the world, finding a lover in every port, like him? I sulked for much of the journey and wondered why I had bothered to go at all. We pulled up on a busy and grimy street full of eighteenth-century houses and shops, with trams trundling past at one end and the buses of High Holborn at the other. ‘I thought we were going to Sotheby’s,’ I said, looking around and pulling my cap down to hide my face. I had decided to dress head to toe in men’s clothing, with my giant overcoat concealing my form. ‘Just a quick stop, I think you’ll enjoy it.’ ‘Are you always so enigmatic?’ I asked, as if I wasn’t charmed by it. He knew how to reel people in. Women, more specifically. We stood in front of a tiny bookshop, with the usual dusty barrows of unsellable stock outside. Next door to a junkshop, it had an old-style window divided into tiny square panes. There I spotted a sign: THESE ARE THE ONLY DIRTY BOOKS WE HAVE. PLEASE DO NOT WASTE TIME ASKING FOR OTHERS. ‘What in heaven’s—’ I looked up and saw the name printed above the door: The Progressive Bookshop,


it had all been! She had often mimicked death on the stage, and at last Death himself had touched her, and brought her with him. How had she played that dreadful scene? Had she cursed him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything, by the sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what she had made him go through, that horrible night at the theatre. When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure to show Love had been a great reality. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her child-like look and winsome fanciful ways and shy tremulous grace. He wiped them away hastily, and looked again at the picture. He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him,-- life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins,--he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all. A feeling of pain came over him as he thought of the desecration that was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which he yielded? Was it to become a hideous and loathsome thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of the hair? The pity of it! the pity of it! For a moment he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged. And, yet, who, that knew anything about Life, would surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its [52] influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom, in secret love or strange affinity? But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. If the picture was


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

led you to the catacombs tonight, before the eclipse ball. So that you could take control of the armies of the dead before August could.” CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN Curdled love is the most bitter medicine. —Caldienan proverb No,” Lore said. Even Gabe, still stricken with the revelation of her past and Anton’s vision, looked almost proud of her for that. Almost. “No?” Anton said mildly. “I won’t do it. I won’t raise them.” Her eyes swung from Anton to Bellegarde to Malcolm, looking for a sign that this would work, that her refusal would mean something. “I won’t raise them, I won’t control them. I won’t do anything for August, or for you.” Anton sighed. “My dear,” he murmured, “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” The sun rising in the window beat heat onto the back of her neck, a burn mirrored by the moon-shaped scar on her palm. “What do you mean?” The Priest Exalted sighed again, as if this pained him. He raised a brow, a teacher urging along a particularly reluctant student. But Lore didn’t want his gentle prodding. She wanted fucking answers. “What do you mean, dammit, tell me what—” “Lore.” Gabe’s voice was hoarse. Still, it made her own vanish. Bastian lifted his head, staring daggers at the other man. Gabe didn’t pay him any attention. He looked only at Lore. “Do you remember what happened with Horse? Why we had to go check on the body in the vaults, that night Bastian found us?” Her brows drew together, unsure what to make of the sudden swerve in conversation. “Of course,” she said slowly. “I raised him, and then he—” And he stayed raised. She raised him, and he stayed raised, just like the body of the child in the vault. Anton said that the corpses from the villages were bound together—what happened to one, happened to all of them. Lore lurched from her seat, the weight of the iron manacles pulling painfully at her shoulders. “I can fix it. I did once before.” “You can’t this time,” Anton said gently. “It’s hundreds of bodies. Lore—even for you, channeling that much Mortem would be nearly impossible.” “You have to let me try!” She didn’t want to cry here, not in front of them, but she was so angry and overwhelmed and crying was always hardest to fight off when she was overwhelmed, thinking of the catacombs beneath them, full of screaming corpses who’d been people, just people— “So this is why you led us down there.” Bastian’s voice, calm and cold and cutting through her panic. His gaze was squared on Gabe. “This is why you came back and helped us. So that Lore would raise the dead, and there’d be no way to undo it.” Gabe didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look on his face proved the accusation true. Bastian sat back, casual as if the chair and chains were a gilded throne. “Why are we supposed to believe you aren’t working with my father, again? After you just made us start up


now." She always ended, at these moments, by getting possession of my hand, and in this manner she could at present still stay me. But after gasping an instant at my sudden resignation, "Because of your letter?" she eagerly brought out. I quickly, by way of answer, felt for my letter, drew it forth, held it up, and then, freeing myself, went and laid it on the great hall table. "Luke will take it," I said as I came back. I reached the house door and opened it; I was already on the steps. My companion still demurred: the storm of the night and the early morning had dropped, but the afternoon was damp and gray. I came down to the drive while she stood in the doorway. "You go with nothing on?" "What do I care when the child has nothing? I can't wait to dress," I cried, "and if you must do so, I leave you. Try meanwhile, yourself, upstairs." "With THEM?" Oh, on this, the poor woman promptly joined me! XIX We went straight to the lake, as it was called at Bly, and I daresay rightly called, though I reflect that it may in fact have been a sheet of water less remarkable than it appeared to my untraveled eyes. My acquaintance with sheets of water was small, and the pool of Bly, at all events on the few occasions of my consenting, under the protection of my pupils, to affront its surface in the old flat-bottomed boat moored there for our use, had impressed me both with its extent and its agitation. The usual place of embarkation was half a mile from the house, but I had an intimate conviction that, wherever Flora might be, she was not near home. She had not given me the slip for any small adventure, and, since the day of the very great one that I had shared with her by the pond, I had been aware, in our walks, of the quarter to which she most inclined. This was why I had now given to Mrs. Grose's steps so marked a direction--a direction that made her, when she perceived it, oppose a resistance that showed me she was freshly mystified. "You're going to the water, Miss?--you think she's IN--?" "She may be, though the depth is, I believe, nowhere very great. But what I judge most likely is that she's on the spot from which, the other day, we saw together what I told you." "When she pretended not to see--?" "With that astounding self-possession? I've always been sure she wanted to go back alone. And now her brother has managed it for her." Mrs. Grose still stood where she had stopped. "You suppose they really TALK of them?" "I could meet this with a confidence! "They say things that, if we heard them, would simply appall us." "And if she IS there--" "Yes?" "Then Miss Jessel is?" "Beyond a doubt. You shall see." "Oh, thank you!" my friend cried, planted so firm that, taking it in, I went straight


know that before I invited Detective Vick up to her room. Now that I do know—and now that I’ve completely blown my chance of him ever believing me about anything—I feel compelled to ask the same questions I think he would have posed. “Did Mary tell you she was leaving?” Lenora taps once on the keyboard. “The last time you saw her, how did she act?” Lenora starts typing, stops to give it some thought, starts over. The result is a strange beast of a word. weirnervous I study the word, which is a pretty accurate summation of my own current state. “Which is it? Weird or nervous?” both, Lenora types. “Had she been acting this way for a while?” Lenora taps the keyboard twice. Yes. “Did Mary ever mention hearing strange noises at night?” She gives the keyboard two more taps. Another yes. I’m hit with a memory of what Jessie told me my first night here. I think she was scared. Hope’s End isn’t a normal house. There’s a darkness here. I can feel it. Mary did. Even though Jessie assured me it was a joke, I’m now starting to think it wasn’t. Not entirely. “Do you know if she ever found out what they were?” I say. Rather than tap, Lenora types out her answer. no “And that’s what made her weird and nervous?” Lenora bangs out two more words. and scared My heart hiccups in my chest. So it is true. Maybe Jessie knew because Mary told her or maybe she just subconsciously suspected something was amiss. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that something at Hope’s End frightened Mary Milton. “What was she scared of, Lenora?” I watch Lenora’s hand slide over the keyboard in a way similar to the planchette on Jessie’s Ouija board. Eight keys and one press of the space bar later, I see the answer I’d been expecting all along. my sister My sister knew I was in love. Sisters can tell such things. Even ones who never get along, which certainly was the case for the two of us. “Who is it?” she asked on one of those rare occasions we found ourselves in the same room at the same time. Usually we managed to steer clear of each other. But that night we both chose to occupy ourselves in the library. “I have no idea who you’re referring to,” I replied as I sat by the fireplace, reading one of my mother’s romance novels that I ordinarily would have found beneath me. I wanted to write serious literature and normally read only that. I started to feel differently once I fell in love with Ricky. And it was love. Love at first sight, to use the cliche. In my case, though, it was true. The moment I saw Ricky, I knew I was in love with him. It was impossible not to feel that way. Not only was he the most handsome man I’d ever seen, but he understood me in a way no one else did. I could tell


for yourself, one for the ship, that was the rule, same as the life vest—make himself keep smiling, and pray he wouldn’t vomit, because he’d never hear the end of it. Spenser hadn’t been fooled. “Shit your pants yet, pussy?” he said with a grin. “Try to keep up.” Tripp wanted to scream at him to fuck off and leave him alone. But that would only make things worse. Can’t you take a joke, Tripp? Jesus. His only hope was to keep pretending that he was in on it, that he loved Spenser the way everyone else did, that it was all good fun. It was pathetic to be scared of a little storm, or his stupid, cocky cousin. Except he had every reason to be terrified of them both. The storm, at least, was just being a storm. It wasn’t out to hurt him. Spenser was something different. When Tripp was eight, the whole family had gathered at his family’s house for his birthday. Spenser was a jerk even back then, but Tripp hadn’t cared about Spenser that day. It was his birthday and that meant his friends, and a new PlayStation, and the ice cream he liked even though Spenser had shoved his bowl of cookies and cream away and snapped, “I hate this shit.” Tripp had eaten cake and opened his presents and played in the pool until his friends had gone home and it was just family. He had a sunburn. They were going to cook out that night. He felt lazy and happy, and when he thought about the fact that he didn’t have school tomorrow, that he still had the rest of the weekend to do nothing, it was like he was taking in big gulps of sunshine with every breath. He’d been swimming around in the shallow end with his new snorkel when he’d emerged to see Spenser standing at the edge of the pool in his long board shorts, his blond hair hanging in a sun-streaked sheaf over his eyes so that Tripp couldn’t quite make out his expression. Tripp had scanned the yard. He’d learned Spenser doled out fewer pinches and punches when someone else was around. But Tripp’s dad and his younger brother were setting up a volleyball net on the other side of the grass. His mother and the other cousins must have already gone inside. “What’s up?” he’d squeaked, already moving for the steps. But Spenser was faster. He was always faster. He dropped into the water with barely a splash and slapped his hand against Tripp’s chest, shoving him backward. “You have a good day?” Spenser asked. “Sure,” Tripp had said, unsure of why he was suddenly so frightened, struggling not to cry. There was no reason to cry. “You need your birthday dunking. Twenty seconds underwater. That’s nothing. Even for a little bitch like you.” “I’m ready to go in.” “Are you serious?” Spenser said in disbelief. “Dude, just when I thought you were being cool. You’re telling me you can’t handle a few seconds underwater?” Tripp knew


of bird. eze-agadi-nwayi: the teeth of an old woman. iba: fever. ilo: the village green, where assemblies for sports, discussions, etc., take place. inyanga: showing off, bragging. isa-ifi: a ceremony. If a wife had been separated from her husband for some time and were then to be re-united with him, this ceremony would be held to ascertain that she had not been unfaithful to him during the time of their separation. iyi-uwa: a special kind of stone which forms the link between an ogbanje and the spirit world. Only if the iyi-uwa were discovered and destroyed would the child not die. jigida: a string of waist beads. kotma: court messenger. The word is not of Ibo origin but is a corruption of "court messenger." kwenu: a shout of approval and greeting. ndichie: elders. nna ayi: our father. nno: welcome. nso-ani: a religious offence of a kind abhorred by everyone, literally earth's taboo. nza: a very small bird. obi: the large living quarters of the head of the family. obodo dike: the land of the brave. ochu: murder or manslaughter. ogbanje: a changeling,- a child who repeatedly dies and returns to its mother to be reborn. It is almost impossible to bring up an ogbanje child without it dying, unless its iyi-uwa is first found and destroyed. ogene: a musical instrument; a kind of gong. oji odu achu-ijiji-o: (cow i. e., the one that uses its tail to drive flies away). osu: outcast. Having been dedicated to a god, the osu was taboo and was not allowed to mix with the freeborn in any way. Oye: the name of one of the four market days. ozo: the name of one of the titles or ranks. tufia: a curse or oath. udu: a musical instrument; a type of drum made from pottery. uli: a dye used by women for drawing patterns on the skin. umuada: a family gathering of daughters, for which the female kinsfolk return to their village of origin. umunna-: a wide group of kinsmen (the masculine form of the word umuada). Uri: part of the betrothal ceremony when the dowry is paid. The End ABOUT THE AUTHOR Chinua Achebe was born in Nigeria in 1930. He was raised in the large village of Ogidi, one of the first centres of Anglican missionary work in Eastern Nigeria, and is a graduate of University College, Ibadan. His early career in radio ended abruptly in 1966, when he left his post as Director of External Broadcasting in Nigeria during the national upheaval that led to the Biafran War. He was appointed Senior Research Fellow at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, and began lecturing widely abroad. From 1972 to 1976, and again in 1987 to 1988, Mr. Achebe was Professor of English at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, and also for one year at the University of Connecticut, Storrs. Cited in the London Sunday Times as one of the "1,000 Makers of the Twentieth Century" for defining "a modern African literature that was truly African" and thereby making "a major contribution to world literature," has


and I was lucky to be hers. I won’t have to wonder if she understood or forgave me. I’m not holding on to anything I wish I’d told her. In the end, there was nothing broken or left unsaid between us. While my mother sleeps, my daughter and I sit side by side, our faces half-lit by the westward-facing windows, watching the sun creep down to the edge of the mountains my parents and I have known and loved in every season. We talk about the evening ahead: When Mom wakes up from her nap, we’ll ask what she wants for dinner, burgers or tacos. Maybe we’ll watch a movie, or play a game of cards—she is teaching my daughter how to play rummy—or maybe we’ll just sit and talk until it’s time for us to go to bed. We have to leave in the morning, but we still have one more night. I keep my arm around my daughter, and together we wait for my mom to wake. Notes & Acknowledgments I am deeply grateful to Marie Howe, whose words have long been a source of solace and inspiration, for permitting me to title this book with a phrase from her poem “For Three Days” and excerpt “What the Living Do” within. The quotations from Saint John Climacus’s The Ladder of Divine Ascent are from the 2012 Revised Edition by the Holy Transfiguration Monastery in Brookline, Massachusetts, translated by Father Lazarus Moore. A Living Remedy exists thanks to the skill and abiding faith of Ecco publisher Helen Atsma, my editor and fellow Oregonian. From our first conversation, it was clear how much she believed in and understood this book, two things that remained true even as the story I thought I would write gave way to something new and far more arduous. Thank you, Helen, for helping to make this the book it needed to be, and for the abundant grace and care you’ve shown me. Warmest gratitude to my agent, Maria Massie, source of so much compassionate advice, whose dedication and thoughtfulness has made all the difference in my career: how lucky I am to have you in my corner. To Carrie Frye, who’s had to listen to me talk about this book for longer than anyone else, and whom I was thrilled to collaborate with after years of trading editorial quips and metaphors: thank you for believing when I didn’t, seeing what I couldn’t, and not letting me go onstage with my kilt on my head. I have the most brilliant and supportive publishing team, and am forever indebted to the all-star crew at Ecco Books, including Sonya Cheuse, Jin Soo Chun, Meghan Deans, Caitlin Mulrooney-Lyski, Miriam Parker, and Rachel Sargent. Many thanks to Michael Taeckens of Broadside PR. And Vivian Rowe, your cover is a dream—a poem in and of itself. Heartfelt thanks to Julie Buntin, Kat Chow, Yuka Igarashi, Megha Majumdar, Imani Perry, and Bryan Washington for their generosity, care, and early reads. Jasmine Guillory, I treasure our friendship and genuinely don’t know where I’d be without


horrible." Other boats had now put off from the cruiser, and Clayton, having pointed out the harbor's entrance to the officer, entered the boat with him and its nose was turned toward the little landlocked bay, into which the other craft followed. Soon the entire party had landed where stood Professor Porter, Mr. Philander and the weeping Esmeralda. Among the officers in the last boats to put off from the cruiser was the commander of the vessel; and when he had heard the story of Jane's abduction, he generously called for volunteers to accompany Professor Porter and Clayton in their search. Not an officer or a man was there of those brave and sympathetic Frenchmen who did not quickly beg leave to be one of the expedition. The commander selected twenty men and two officers, Lieutenant D'Arnot and Lieutenant Charpentier. A boat was dispatched to the cruiser for provisions, ammunition, and carbines; the men were already armed with revolvers. Then, to Clayton's inquiries as to how they had happened to anchor off shore and fire a signal gun, the commander, Captain Dufranne, explained that a month before they had sighted the Arrow bearing southwest under considerable canvas, and that when they had signaled her to come about she had but crowded on more sail. They had kept her hull-up until sunset, firing several shots after her, but the next morning she was nowhere to be seen. They had then continued to cruise up and down the coast for several weeks, and had about forgotten the incident of the recent chase, when, early one morning a few days before the lookout had described a vessel laboring in the trough of a heavy sea and evidently entirely out of control. As they steamed nearer to the derelict they were surprised to note that it was the same vessel that had run from Chapter 19 107 them a few weeks earlier. Her forestaysail and mizzen spanker were set as though an effort had been made to hold her head up into the wind, but the sheets had parted, and the sails were tearing to ribbons in the half gale of wind. In the high sea that was running it was a difficult and dangerous task to attempt to put a prize crew aboard her; and as no signs of life had been seen above deck, it was decided to stand by until the wind and sea abated; but just then a figure was seen clinging to the rail and feebly waving a mute signal of despair toward them. Immediately a boat's crew was ordered out and an attempt was successfully made to board the Arrow. The sight that met the Frenchmen's eyes as they clambered over the ship's side was appalling. A dozen dead and dying men rolled hither and thither upon the pitching deck, the living intermingled with the dead. Two of the corpses appeared to have been partially devoured as though by wolves. The prize crew soon had the vessel under proper sail once more and the living members of the ill-starred company


and all the traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. Right in the middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from being seen. We made an extra steering-oar, too, because one of the others might get broke on a snag or something. We fixed up a short forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because we must always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats unless we see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always run the channel, but hunted easy water. This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current that was making over four mile an hour. We catched fish and talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, lay- ing on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed -- only a little kind of a low chuckle. We had mighty good weather as a general thing, and noth- ing ever happened to us at all -- that night, nor the next, nor the next. Every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you see. The fifth night we passed St. Louis, and it was like the whole world lit up. In St. Petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty thousand people in St. Louis, but I never believed it till I see that wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still night. There warn't a sound there; everybody was asleep. Every night now I used to slip ashore towards ten o'clock at some little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or bacon or other stuff to eat; and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn't roosting comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said, take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him yourself you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot. I never see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but that is what he used to say, anyway. Mornings before daylight I slipped into cornfields and borrowed a watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things of that kind. Pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if you was meaning to pay them back some time; but the widow said it warn't anything but a


will sound plausible." "Difficult," said Frankie. He thought. "How about What's yellow and dangerous?" Benji considered this for a moment. "No, no good," he said. "Doesn't fit the answer." They sank into silence for a few seconds. "Alright," said Benji. "What do you get if you multiply six by seven?" "No, no, too literal, too factual," said Frankie, "wouldn't sustain the punters' interest." Again they thought. Then Frankie said: "Here's a thought. How many roads must a man walk down?" "Ah," said Benji. "Aha, now that does sound promising!" He rolled the phrase around a little. "Yes," he said, "that's excellent! Sounds very significant without actually tying you down to meaning anything at all. How many roads must a man walk down? Forty-two. Excellent, excellent, that'll fox 'em. Frankie baby, we are made!" They performed a scampering dance in their excitement. Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been hit about the head with some heavy design awards. Half a mile away, four figures pounded up a corridor looking for a way out. They emerged into a wide open-plan computer bay. They glanced about wildly. "Which way do you reckon Zaphod?" said Ford. "At a wild guess, I'd say down here," said Zaphod, running off down to the right between a computer bank and the wall. As the others started after him he was brought up short by a Kill-O-Zap energy bolt that cracked through the air inches in front of him and fried a small section of adjacent wall. A voice on a loud hailer said, "OK Beeblebrox, hold it right there. We've got you covered." "Cops!" hissed Zaphod, and span around in a crouch. "You want to try a guess at all, Ford?" "OK, this way," said Ford, and the four of them ran down a gangway between two computer banks. At the end of the gangway appeared a heavily armoured and space- suited figure waving a vicious Kill-O-Zap gun. "We don't want to shoot you, Beeblebrox!" shouted the figure. "Suits me fine!" shouted Zaphod back and dived down a wide gap between two data process units. The others swerved in behind him. "There are two of them," said Trillian. "We're cornered." They squeezed themselves down in an angle between a large computer data bank and the wall. They held their breath and waited. Suddenly the air exploded with energy bolts as both the cops opened fire on them simultaneously. "Hey, they're shooting at us," said Arthur, crouching in a tight ball, "I thought they said they didn't want to do that." "Yeah, I thought they said that," agreed Ford. Zaphod stuck a head up for a dangerous moment. "Hey," he said, "I thought you said you didn't want to shoot us!" and ducked again. They waited. After a moment a voice replied, "It isn't easy being a cop!" "What did he say?" whispered Ford in astonishment. "He said it isn't easy being a cop." "Well surely that's his problem isn't it?" "I'd have thought so." Ford shouted out, "Hey listen! I think we've got


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 reply of the driver, as he climbed on the wagon and started the horses. Buck's senses came back to him, but not his strength. He lay where he had fallen, and from there he watched the man in the red sweater. " 'Answers to the name of Buck,' " the man soliloquized, quoting from the saloon-keeper's letter which had announced the consignment of the crate and contents. "Well, Buck, my boy," he went on in a genial voice, "we've had our little ruction, and the best thing we can do is to let it go at that. You've learned your place, and I know mine. Be a good dog and all 'll go well and the goose hang high. Be a bad dog, and I'll whale the stuffin' outa you. Understand?" As he spoke he fearlessly patted the head he had so mercilessly pounded, and though Buck's hair involuntarily bristled at


hope. Each one was a girl of fair common sense, and she did not delude herself with any vain conceits, or deny her love, or give herself airs, in the idea of outshining the others. The full recognition of the futility of their infatuation, from a social point of view; its purposeless beginning; its self-bounded outlook; its lack of everything to justify its existence in the eye of civilization (while lacking nothing in the eye of Nature); the one fact that it did exist, ecstasizing them to a killing joy; all this imparted to them a resignation, a dignity, which a practical and sordid expectation of winning him as a husband would have destroyed. They tossed and turned on their little beds, and the cheese-wring dripped monotonously downstairs. "B' you awake, Tess?" whispered one, half-an-hour later. It was Izz Huett's voice. Tess replied in the affirmative, whereupon also Retty and Marian suddenly flung the bedclothes off them, and sighed-- "So be we!" "I wonder what she is like--the lady they say his family have looked out for him!" "I wonder," said Izz. "Some lady looked out for him?" gasped Tess, starting. "I have never heard o' that!" "O yes--'tis whispered; a young lady of his own rank, chosen by his family; a Doctor of Divinity's daughter near his father's parish of Emminster; he don't much care for her, they say. But he is sure to marry her." They had heard so very little of this; yet it was enough to build up wretched dolorous dreams upon, there in the shade of the night. They pictured all the details of his being won round to consent, of the wedding preparations, of the bride's happiness, of her dress and veil, of her blissful home with him, when oblivion would have fallen upon themselves as far as he and their love were concerned. Thus they talked, and ached, and wept till sleep charmed their sorrow away. After this disclosure Tess nourished no further foolish thought that there lurked any grave and deliberate import in Clare's attentions to her. It was a passing summer love of her face, for love's own temporary sake--nothing more. And thorny crown of this sad conception was that she whom he really did prefer in a cursory way to the rest, she who knew herself to be more impassioned in nature, cleverer, more beautiful than they, was in the eyes of propriety far less worthy of him than the homelier ones whom he ignored. XXIV Amid the oozing fatness and warm ferments of the Froom Vale, at a season when the rush of juices could almost be heard below the hiss of fertilization, it was impossible that the most fanciful love should not grow passionate. The ready bosoms existing there were impregnated by their surroundings. July passed over their heads, and the Thermidorean weather which came in its wake seemed an effort on the part of Nature to match the state of hearts at Talbothays Dairy. The air of the place, so fresh in the spring and early summer, was stagnant


into her room. He smiled when he heard her lock the door loudly. The next few days passed without incident. Mildred settled down in her new surroundings. When Philip hurried off after breakfast she had the whole morning to do the housework. They ate very simply, but she liked to take a long time to buy the few things they needed; she could not be bothered to cook anything for her dinner, hut made herself some cocoa and ate bread and butter; then she took the baby out in the gocart, and when she came in spent the rest of the afternoon in idleness. She was tired out, and it suited her to do so little. She made friends with Philip's forbidding landlady over the rent, which he left with Mildred to pay, and within a week was able to tell him more about his neighbours than he had learned in a year. "She's a very nice woman," said Mildred. "Quite the lady. I told her we was married." "D'you think that was necessary?" "Well, I had to tell her something. It looks so funny me being here and not married to you. I didn't know what she'd think of me." "I don't suppose she believed you for a moment." "That she did, I lay. I told her we'd been married two years--I had to say that, you know, because of baby--only your people wouldn't hear of it, because you was only a student"--she pronounced it stoodent--"and so we had to keep it a secret, but they'd given way now and we were all going down to stay with them in the summer." "You're a past mistress of the cock-and-bull story," said Philip. He was vaguely irritated that Mildred still had this passion for telling fibs. In the last two years she had learnt nothing. But he shrugged his shoulders. "When all's said and done," he reflected, "she hasn't had much chance." It was a beautiful evening, warm and cloudless, and the people of South London seemed to have poured out into the streets. There was that restlessness in the air which seizes the cockney sometimes when a turn in the weather calls him into the open. After Mildred had cleared away the supper she went and stood at the window. The street noises came up to them, noises of people calling to one another, of the passing traffic, of a barrel-organ in the distance. "I suppose you must work tonight, Philip?" she asked him, with a wistful expression. "I ought, but I don't know that I must. Why, d'you want me to do anything else?" "I'd like to go out for a bit. Couldn't we take a ride on the top of a tram?" "If you like." "I'll just go and put on my hat," she said joyfully. The night made it almost impossible to stay indoors. The baby was asleep and could be safely left; Mildred said she had always left it alone at night when she went out; it never woke. She was in high spirits when she came


knew his mouth had only moved to say hello, and then when she seemed hypnotized by the salamander on his arm and the phoenix-disc on his chest, he spoke again. "Of course," he said, "you're a new neighbour, aren't you?" "And you must be"-she raised her eyes from his professional symbols-"the fireman." Her voice trailed off. "How oddly you say that." "I'd-I'd have known it with my eyes shut," she said, slowly. "What-the smell of kerosene? My wife always complains," he laughed. "You never wash it off completely." "No, you don't," she said, in awe. He felt she was walking in a circle about him, turning him end for end, shaking him quietly, and emptying his pockets, without once moving herself. "Kerosene," he said, because the silence had lengthened, "is nothing but perfume to me." "Does it seem like that, really?" "Of course. Why not?" She gave herself time to think of it. "I don't know." She turned to face the sidewalk going toward their homes. "Do you mind if I walk back with you? I'm Clarisse McClellan." "Clarisse. Guy Montag. Come along. What are you doing out so late wandering around? How old are you?" They walked in the warm-cool blowing night on the silvered pavement and there was the faintest breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air, and he looked around and realized this was quite impossible, so late in the year. There was only the girl walking with him now, her face bright as snow in the moonlight, and he knew she was working his questions around, seeking the best answers she could possibly give. "Well," she said, "I'm seventeen and I'm crazy. My uncle says the two always go together. When people ask your age, he said, always say seventeen and insane. Isn't this a nice time of night to walk? I like to smell things and look at things, and sometimes stay up all night, walking, and watch the sun rise." They walked on again in silence and finally she said, thoughtfully, "You know, I'm not afraid of you at all." He was surprised. "Why should you be?" "So many people are. Afraid of firemen, I mean. But you're just a man, after all..." He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and hold him intact. Her face, turned to him now, was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity but-what? But the strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering light of the candle. One time, when he was a child, in a power-failure, his mother had found and lit a last candle and there had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transformed, hoping that the power might not


would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message. The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital. CHAPTER IV A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began: "Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it will be over." Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary. "It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered creature in one respect, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me." "Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do." "How I could so long a time be fancying myself! . . ." cried Harriet, warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the two I had rather not see him-- and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept-- I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it all--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?" said


chest, cupping, lifting me to his mouth. The bed creaks as we move together. He shifts onto one elbow, his other hand grating down my ribs and waist until it reaches the side of my underwear. He jerks them down my hip, and his hand skims my thigh. “I miss hearing you,” he whispers against my ear. “All the little sounds you make.” Just by saying it, he’s coaxed out a few more. “We should fight more often,” I say. “I agree.” He jerks my underwear down over my other thigh. I reach for the buttons of his pants, and his head lolls against mine on a groan as I slip my hand into his waistband. “Did you find condoms?” I whisper. “Before dinner.” He fishes a strip of three out of his pocket and tosses them beside us. “I’ve been carrying them around all night, like some fucking teenager hoping to sneak into the bathroom at prom.” “If I’d known,” I say, “we could’ve skipped the fight entirely.” He grabs my thigh and places it against the outside of his hip. “Please don’t leave,” he says in a low grate. “When this is over, don’t go sleep in another room. Stay with me all night.” “I won’t leave,” I promise, sliding his pants down, kissing the jut of his hip. His arm straps around my low back, and he rolls us again so that I’m on top of him. He lifts his hips enough to push his briefs down, and then I fold over him, nothing separating us now. Nothing has ever felt so blissfully good as this simple contact. He grasps my hips, sliding me over him, our breath shallowing. He pulls my wrists above his head, stretching me over him, and drags his parted lips, his tongue, over my chest. I search through the bedding for the condoms, tear open the first one, and work it onto him. As I lift up, he takes hold of my hips, his eyes heavy and dark, guiding me onto him. His head tips back, a throaty sound emanating from him as I rise up and sink lower. He feels so familiar, so right, but after all this time, strangely new. Our movement is slow but urgent, so intense I keep forgetting to breathe for a second too long, like nothing else is quite so necessary for my survival as this. His hands are careful on my jaw, his lips soft on mine, his tongue skimming into my mouth almost tentatively until I can barely take any more gentleness, any more restraint. I’m tired of him holding back any piece of himself. When I tell him so, he flips us over one more time, my arms pinned above my head. Sweat slicks our skin as we become feverish, wild. I bow up under him, meeting his rhythm, trying not to come apart, not yet. I say his name like it’s a spell. Or a goodbye and I love you, a promise. I just know my heart agrees: You, you, you. • • •


My brain helpfully informs me that I could easily fall and crack my head open and die right now. (My brain, in case I failed to mention this before, is kind of a dick.) Yeah, okay, thanks, I tell it. Then I kick away the mental image of my own unfortunate demise and finally head down. The bannister is metal, painted a cheerful yellow, but overuse has left thirty-six tiny chips in the paint, and I count them as they pass under my hand. Celine’s waiting for me at the bottom, but she doesn’t say a word. Not until we reach the hallway that leads to the Little Library’s closed door, the fluorescent lights harsh and the blue-gray carpet threatening to unravel. “Do you think someone’s already in there?” she asks. “A class or something?” “Why would there be a class in there?” “Well, why’s the door shut?” I don’t want to admit it, but that’s a good question. Rosewood Academy has an open-door policy, so either something serious is going down in the Little Library, or a group of year elevens is camped out in there doing homework, eating KitKats, and getting crumbs all over the Bible. There’s only one way to tell. I step forward and put my ear to the door. Celine moves at the exact same time and I freeze—but I’m not about to jump away from her like I’m scared. Which is how we end up both pressed against the door, basically face to face. Straight away, I realize she’s…shorter than me. What the hell? Celine Bangura is taller than me. She always has been. But now I’m close to her for the first time in almost four years and it turns out she stopped growing a few inches ago. Weird. “Move,” she mutters. “You move.” I’m not usually this annoying, but she’s infectious. Like the flu. Celine rolls her eyes. “Your grace and maturity continue to astound me.” “Give me five synonyms for hypocrite, and yes, you’re allowed to use your own name.” Watching this girl screw up her face before she insults me is like watching a striker run up to take a penalty. “Has anyone ever told you—” she begins with more acidity than the average lemon tree. But she’s interrupted by a raised voice through the door. “I’m sorry,” someone says crisply, “but you can’t be serious right now.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” a second voice demands. This one I recognize: it’s Coach, who is totally sweet and makes us Rocky Road on game days whether we win or lose. She’s also what Dad would call emotionally unyielding, and her biceps are so huge she could crush your skull like an egg, but I think that’s part of her charm. “What, exactly, are you confused about?” the first voice asks, accent bobbing up and down like the actors on Derry Girls. “We can’t make the children do push-ups as a punishment—” “Of course we can! They’re an able-bodied class! It’s motivational! Find your arsehole, Gallagher.” (There’s that unyielding thing I mentioned.) “Mr.


text from Peter. Can you get Ella? And another text, a half-hour later. I’ll do it. Sorry I missed your messages, she texted them both. Working. Peter replied. We’re home. I was in a meeting. Have to leave ASAP. You coming? Driving back, Maud thought about Alice’s romantic arrangement. A lover and other lovers. She’d never considered talking to Peter about an open marriage, even though each of them had opened the door on their own. An open marriage had worked well for Virginia and Leonard Woolf—she used to marvel at their partnership—but they hadn’t had children. And Peter was nothing like Leonard. When she arrived at the house, he came down the steps as she came up. “Hoping I’ll make it,” he said and yanked open his car door. Inside, Ella sat in bed with a popsicle. Maud put her hand on her forehead, which didn’t feel too hot. “My throat’s on fire and Dad’s pissed,” Ella said. Ignoring the comment, Maud plumped the pillows. “I thought I was going to sit in the nurse’s office all day,” Ella said. “It was only an hour,” Maud said. “It turned out okay, didn’t it?” Going back down the hall, she was annoyed with Peter, with both of them, really, for acting as if she’d done something wrong by being caught up in her work, as Peter always was. She measured out a capful of cold medicine and brought Ella a glass of orange juice. When Ella’s fever rose again, she took her to the doctor’s office for a strep test. The test positive, she ran to the pharmacy for antibiotics after dropping Louise at soccer practice. Standing in line for the bottle of pink medicine, she thought about Juana Briones losing three of her children in the same month, one after the other, from illnesses that Ella and Louise were vaccinated against. She let her ruminations about open marriage go. Gratitude, she thought, handing over the prescription slip, as if the word itself were a dose of medicine. Ella stayed in bed during dinner. Two bites into her meat loaf, Louise asked if she could play sick with her sister, so the two of them cuddled up to watch a movie on Maud’s laptop. Tie still on, flipped over his shoulder, Peter barely spoke as they ate, though he kept clinking his fork on the plate. “What?” Maud said as they cleared the table. “What what?” “Why are you mad?” “You know that I have a standing meeting on Wednesdays.” “Yes, I know. And I have a standing job. For my benefactor.” “You said you’d be done by noon.” “It took longer.” Why hadn’t she said that she’d stayed an extra hour eating lunch with Alice? Then again, why did she have to account for her time? Peter was scrubbing his plate as if trying to remove a layer of porcelain. “You know Ella’s not out of the woods,” he said. “She has strep. Strep has nothing to do with the other issue. What are you talking about?” “I’m not talking about


falls, darkness deepens, and Michael races south toward an interstate exit, a lonely state highway, a quiet valley, and a dead orchard, where Nina and her son need the kind of help he can provide only with the AR-15. Earlier he retrieved it from the compartment under the back seat. It’s now wedged barrel up between the passenger seat and the dashboard. One extended magazine with twenty rounds has been inserted in the rifle. The three spares lay on the seat. As a security specialist and licensed bodyguard, he is trained in the use of various firearms, including this one. But he’s never shot anyone. He’s never killed anyone. He is highly skilled with the AR-15, and he knows full well that Aleem and his crew are killers who give nothing to the world but misery and grief. But he has never killed anyone. BEING PREPARED The chaise longue is low to the floor, which facilitates the transfer of the unconscious attorney onto it, where he lies faceup in the center of the former gym as well as in countless reflections of reflections, like an army of sleeping clones. His arms trail off the furniture, hands resting palms up on the floor. His wrists are secured to the legs of the chaise with long, plastic zip ties. He is murmuring, muttering, a few minutes from regaining consciousness. Calaphas is never without his Springfield Armory .45 Tactical Response Pistol, a second pistol that can’t be traced to him, an aerosol can of chloroform provided by the agency, and a combat knife with a spring blade. He also always carries four zip ties; during his lifetime, the world has become a place where such convenient instruments of restraint are ever more frequently essential to the conduct of business. Since childhood, Durand Calaphas has believed in being prepared for unexpected opportunities. He was thirteen when he began to carry a knife, a simple switchblade. A week past his fifteenth birthday, he put it to interesting use. For the month of July, he was staying with his grandmother, Jane Jones, in rural Ohio. Jane was a twinkly-eyed white-haired cookie-baking pie-making apron-wearing cliché whose unvarying and tedious daily routine confirmed what Calaphas sometimes believed back then—that he was the only real person in the world and that everyone else was a product of his imagination. His grandmother lived in a Victorian house with much ornamental millwork, a grandfather clock swinging its pendulum in the front hall, the arms and headrests of furniture protected by antimacassars that she crocheted, and sweet aphorisms rendered in needlepoint framed on the walls. The house backed up to a woods where Calaphas, during one of his explorations, encountered a sixteen-year-old boy, Bill Smith, who possessed no more depth than a walk-on character in a thinly written TV show, just like Grandma Jane. Bill wore chunky hiking shoes, kneesocks, khaki shorts with patch pockets, a sweat-stained white T-shirt, braces to straighten his teeth, and horn-rimmed glasses with tortoiseshell frames. He carried a book about mushrooms, with full-color illustrations of a hundred seventy common


sore for him, wicked as he was, to think on the dark perils that I WAS wakened—indeed, we were all wakened, for I could environed and the shameful gibbet that awaited him. see even the sentinel shake himself together from where he had fallen against the door-post—by a clear, hearty voice hail- ing us from the margin of the wood: “Block house, ahoy!” it cried. “Here’s the doctor.” And the doctor it was. Although I was glad to hear the sound, yet my gladness was not without admixture. I re- membered with confusion my insubordinate and stealthy con- duct, and when I saw where it had brought me—among what companions and surrounded by what dangers—I felt ashamed Contents to look him in the face. He must have risen in the dark, for the day had hardly come; and when I ran to a loophole and looked out, I saw him Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 248 249 standing, like Silver once before, up to the mid-leg in creep- with one grim nod to me proceeded with his work among the ing vapour. sick. He seemed under no apprehension, though he must “You, doctor! Top o’ the morning to you, sir!” cried Silver, have known that his life, among these treacherous demons, broad awake and beaming with good nature in a moment. depended on a hair; and he rattled on to his patients as if he “Bright and early, to be sure; and it’s the early bird, as the were paying an ordinary professional visit in a quiet English saying goes, that gets the rations. George, shake up your tim- family. His manner, I suppose, reacted on the men, for they bers, son, and help Dr. Livesey over the ship’s side. All a-doin’ behaved to him as if nothing had occurred, as if he were still well, your patients was—all well and merry.” ship’s doctor and they still faithful hands before the mast. So he pattered on, standing on the hilltop with his crutch “You’re doing well, my friend,” he said to the fellow with under his elbow and one hand upon the side of the log-house the bandaged head, “and if ever any person had a close shave, —quite the old John in voice, manner, and expression. it was you; your head must be as hard as iron. Well, George, “We’ve quite a surprise for you too, sir,” he continued. how goes it? You’re a pretty colour, certainly; why, your liver, “We’ve a little stranger here—he! he! A noo boarder and man, is upside down. Did you take that medicine? Did he lodger, sir, and looking fit and taut as a fiddle; slep’ like a take that medicine, men?” supercargo, he did, right alongside of John—stem to stem we “Aye, aye, sir, he took it, sure enough,” returned Morgan. was, all night.” “Because, you see, since I am mutineers’ doctor, or prison Dr. Livesey was by this time across the stockade and pretty doctor as I prefer to call it,” says Doctor Livesey in his near the cook, and I could hear


man as long as you can git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good morals. Ain't I right?" "Yes, I reck'n you are. But s'pose she DON'T break up and wash off?" "Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can't we?" "All right, then; come along." So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled forward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "Jim !" and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a moan, and I says: "Quick, Jim, it ain't no time for fooling around and moaning; there's a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don't hunt up their boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can't get away from the wreck there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix. But if we find their boat we can put ALL of 'em in a bad fix -- for the sheriff 'll get 'em. Quick -- hurry! I'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard. You start at the raft, and --" "Oh, my lordy, lordy! RAF'? Dey ain' no raf' no mo'; she done broke loose en gone I -- en here we is!" CHAPTER XIII. WELL, I catched my breath and most fainted. Shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that! But it warn't no time to be sentimentering. We'd GOT to find that boat now -- had to have it for ourselves. So we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow work it was, too -- seemed a week be- fore we got to the stern. No sign of a boat. Jim said he didn't believe he could go any further -- so scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said. But I said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled again. We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. When we got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In another second I would a been aboard of her, but just then the door opened. One of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says: "Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!" He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill HE come out and got in. Packard says, in a low voice: "All ready -- shove off!" I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill says: "Hold on -- 'd you


I knocked gently and rang as quietly as possible, for I feared to disturb Lucy or her mother, and hoped to only bring a servant to the door. After a while, finding no response, I knocked and rang again, still no answer. I cursed the laziness of the servants that they should lie abed at such an hour, for it was now ten o'clock, and so rang and knocked again, but more impatiently, but still without response. Hitherto I had blamed only the servants, but now a terrible fear began to assail me. Was this desolation but another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing tight round us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I had come, too late? I know that minutes, even seconds of delay, might mean hours of danger to Lucy, if she had had again one of those frightful relapses, and I went round the house to try if I could find by chance an entry anywhere. I could find no means of ingress. Every window and door was fastened and locked, and I returned baffled to the porch. As I did so, I heard the rapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven horse's feet. They stopped at the gate, and a few seconds later I met Van Helsing running up the avenue. When he saw me, he gasped out, "Then it was you, and just arrived. How is she? Are we too late? Did you not get my telegram?" I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got his telegram early in the morning, and had not a minute in coming here, and that I could not make any one in the house hear me. He paused and raised his hat as he said solemnly, "Then I fear we are too late. God's will be done!" With his usual recuperative energy, he went on, "Come. If there be no way open to get in, we must make one. Time is all in all to us now." We went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen window. The Professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and handing it to me, pointed to the iron bars which guarded the window. I attacked them at once and had very soon cut through three of them. Then with a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and opened the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed him. There was no one in the kitchen or in the servants' rooms, which were close at hand. We tried all the rooms as we went along, and in the dining room, dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters, found four servant women lying on the floor. There was no need to think them dead, for their stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the room left no doubt as to their condition. Van Helsing and I looked at each other, and as we moved away he said, "We can


sweeping sound over the wood-tops;--now it dies away;--how solemn the stillness that succeeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like the voice of some supernatural being--the voice of the spirit of the woods, that watches over them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now it gleams again, near the root of that large chestnut: look, sir!' 'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so little acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow- worm? But come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and we shall see fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends his light, and they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do you see nothing tripping yonder?' Emily laughed. 'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of this alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost dare venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very woods.' 'Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; let us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If she has given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the fairies.' 'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily, 'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in a sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject well enough, but I fear they are too irregular.' THE GLOW-WORM How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er; When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade, And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar! But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest, And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest, Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play. To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour, Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves, And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r, The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves. Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done, But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend; And often as her dying notes their pity have won, They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend. When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star, And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere, How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, came not near! Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love! For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way, And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove, They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray; And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out, While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground, And, afar in the woods,


a drunkenlooking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes. "Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair. "What is it?" "It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or what I ended by doing." "I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler." "Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsy men. Be one of them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back. but built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else of interest. "I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half and half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighborhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to listen to." "And what of Irene Adler?" I asked. "Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See


what common people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me, whatever the personality chooses to do is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Shakespeare, and proposes to marry her. Why not? If he wedded Messalina he would be none the less interesting. You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colorless. They lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more highly organized. Besides, every experience is of value, and, whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one else. He would be a wonderful study." "You don't mean all that, Harry; you know you don't. If Dorian Gray's life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than yourself. You are much better than you pretend to be." Lord Henry laughed. "The reason we all like to think so well of others is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbor with those virtues that are likely to benefit ourselves. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest contempt for optimism. And as for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have merely to reform it. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I can." "My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!" said the boy, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings, and shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. "I have never been so happy. Of course it is sudden: all really delightful things are. And yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my life." He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked extraordinarily handsome. "I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian," said Hallward, "but I don't quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement. You let Harry know." "And I don't forgive you for being late for dinner," broke in Lord [34] Henry, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder, and smiling as he spoke. "Come, let us sit down and try what the new chef here is like, and then you will tell us how it all came about." "There is really not much to tell," cried Dorian, as they took their seats at


see the bus eventually pulling up. My whole body felt numb, but when I slid off the stone wall, my ribs complained. Still, I wouldn’t let my thoughts go back there. Not yet. Even when the driver got down to help me with my suitcase and looked at me as though I had just escaped from a secure facility, I wouldn’t let my thoughts go back there. ‘Where to?’ he asked. Anywhere but here. ‘Dublin,’ I answered. Dublin might be far enough. I watched the countryside slide past my window. I fucking hated those fields, the small towns with a school, a church and twelve pubs. The greyness of it, pressing in on me. I must’ve started to doze off, because I jumped, thinking he was on top of me again – my hands protecting my face. I didn’t know what to protect. He was too quick. And when he found the poker, it all fell away from me. Everything. Every hope I had. Every naive, stupid hope. I learned something in that moment; you’re on your own in this world. No one is coming to save you. People don’t suddenly change, say they’re sorry and begin to treat you with respect. They are a jumble of hurt and pain and they will take it out on whomever they can. I had to save myself. ‘Just a coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich please,’ I said to the waiter, picking the cheapest item on the menu. I’d had no luck online, so I grabbed a local newspaper and began searching for jobs. One week staying in a hostel and I was already running out of money. That’s when I saw it: Housekeeper. Live-in. I dialled the number and the very next day found myself on the steps of a very grand-looking house, knocking on the glossy black door. Madame Bowden, as I was told to address her, was like no one I had ever met. Like a character from some historical TV drama, she wore a feather boa and diamond earrings. Within five minutes, she had already regaled me with stories of her days in the Theatre Royal, dancing with the Royalettes and acting in some old plays I’d never heard of. ‘People call me eccentric, but then I call them boring, so it’s all relative. What’s your name again?’ ‘Martha,’ I repeated for the third time, following her down the stairs to the basement. She had a walking stick and while she made a big production of it, she seemed agile enough. I guessed that she was probably in her eighties, but she also seemed timeless – an actress who had chosen a character to be frozen in time. ‘Now, the last girl was very happy here,’ she remarked in a tone that warned me I should feel likewise. It was so dark, I couldn’t make anything out, save for the half window close to the ceiling, where I could see people’s feet walking past at street level. She flicked a switch using her cane and, following a moment’s blindness from


Tomorrow is my birthday, so to celebrate I spend the entire morning in bed with a blanket over my face and a fan blowing directly on me, then I get up and decide that to celebrate for real, I would like to spend forty-five-ish minutes driving to Grand Rapids to get a gyro from this good-ass Bosnian restaurant there called Bosna Express. I don’t know what the hell they do to make the food so good but GODDAMN. I like to order an O.G., which is gyro meat and tomatoes and onions stuffed into lepinja bread and a side of special fries, which are seasoned and served with tons of chopped herbs and fresh garlic on top. I’m never trying to eat forty-five-minute-old fries, so my lady and I split the order in the car in the parking lot, wolfing them down like animals as people walk by watching us in horror, then kill the sandwiches while they’re still hot. I also get a salad for dinner later because, surprisingly, lettuce with a bunch of shit on it is the only thing that will still be good after touring southwest Michigan in the back seat of my car. I wake up screaming at 3:00 a.m. with a charley horse from hell in my left calf, and I roll out of bed and hobble gingerly to the kitchen to get a glass of water. A long time ago my friend Melissa told me about this stuff called DripDrop that you can get at Walgreens that turns a regular glass of water into nutrient-rich, less-gross Gatorade. You just pour this little flavored powder (I’m partial to mango) into your water, stir it up, then drink it without gagging because it doesn’t taste like salted asshole like every other sports drink. I had to fly to New York a few months ago, and since I only feel comfortable traveling when I am dehydrated and starving, I brought a bunch of DripDrops in my carry-on to make my mini plane waters more hydrating. The box says it has three times the electrolytes and half the sugar of regular drinks, which legally makes it health food. I perform some chemistry—stir the powder in cold water until it mostly dissolves—and drink the whole thing, including the unincorporated silt at the bottom of the glass, while checking my text messages to see if anyone texted me at midnight since it’s officially my birthday. No one has. Sunday, February 13 Today is the Super Bowl. I’m too old to need a whole lot of birthday fuss, so this year I took it easy and demanded that Kirsten make an array of dips and assorted dip vessels, oh, and also a cheesecake to celebrate my many years cheating death on this rotten planet. I start the day doing a yoga sun salute, then drink a liter of warm lemon water, thanking God for allowing me to see another sunrise. I follow that by feeding myself some avocado on sprouted grain bread with fermented sprouts; which is to say that I drink