he admired Norah. In the old days they had often talked of the men who wanted to flirt with her and had laughed at them together. Philip tried to bring back the conversation to matters which only he and Norah knew about, but each time the journalist broke in and succeeded in drawing it away to a subject upon which Philip was forced to be silent. He grew faintly angry with Norah, for she must see he was being made ridiculous; but perhaps she was inflicting this upon him as a punishment, and with this thought he regained his good humour. At last, however, the clock struck six, and Kingsford got up. "I must go," he said. Norah shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the landing. She shut the door behind her and stood outside for a couple of minutes. Philip wondered what they were talking about. "Who is Mr. Kingsford?" he asked cheerfully, when she returned. "Oh, he's the editor of one of Harmsworth's Magazines. He's been taking a good deal of my work lately." "I thought he was never going." "I'm glad you stayed. I wanted to have a talk with you." She curled herself into the large arm-chair, feet and all, in a way her small size made possible, and lit a cigarette. He smiled when he saw her assume the attitude which had always amused him. "You look just like a cat." She gave him a flash of her dark, fine eyes. "I really ought to break myself of the habit. It's absurd to behave like a child when you're my age, but I'm comfortable with my legs under me." "It's awfully jolly to be sitting in this room again," said Philip happily. "You don't know how I've missed it." "Why on earth didn't you come before?" she asked gaily. "I was afraid to," he said, reddening. She gave him a look full of kindness. Her lips outlined a charming smile. "You needn't have been." He hesitated for a moment. His heart beat quickly. "D'you remember the last time we met? I treated you awfully badly--I'm dreadfully ashamed of myself." She looked at him steadily. She did not answer. He was losing his head; he seemed to have come on an errand of which he was only now realising the outrageousness. She did not help him, and he could only blurt out bluntly. "Can you ever forgive me?" Then impetuously he told her that Mildred had left him and that his unhappiness had been so great that he almost killed himself. He told her of all that had happened between them, of the birth of the child, and of the meeting with Griffiths, of his folly and his trust and his immense deception. He told her how often he had thought of her kindness and of her love, and how bitterly he had regretted throwing it away: he had only been happy when he was with her, and he knew now how great was her worth. His voice was hoarse with emotion. Sometimes he was so


eager and clumsy and hungry. But now, in the shadows of night, they were languid and thorough and curious. She was bold in the darkness. She drew her lips across his jaw; she pressed her mouth to his throat, to the wild beat of his pulse. She drank the scent of his skin; she slid her tongue along his, tasting his sighs. She noticed how he touched her in return—reverently, mindfully. His hands would come to rest on the front of her ribs, his fingers splayed as if yearning for more, and yet they didn’t rise any higher or slide any lower. Iris wanted his touch. She didn’t know why he was hesitating until she felt his fingers find the top button of her jumpsuit, and he whispered, “May I?” “Yes, Kitt,” she said, shivering as he began to unbutton them, one by one, in the dark. She felt the cool air wash over her as he slid her jumpsuit down, off her shoulders. The fabric gathered at her waist, and she waited. She waited for him to touch her, and he took his time, tracing the dip of her collarbone, the curve of her bare back, the straps of her bra. His hands came to rest on her ribs again. She was trembling with the anticipation. “Is this all right, Iris?” he asked. “Yes,” she said, and she closed her eyes as his hands began to learn the shape of her. No one had ever worshipped her like this. She felt his breath on her skin, his lips hovering above her heart. He kissed her once, twice, softly and then roughly, and she reached up, to remove the flowers, the pearls, and the braids from her hair. It fell free in long waves down her back, still damp and fragrant, and Roman’s fingers instantly wove within it. “You’re beautiful, Iris,” he said. She began to unfasten his jumpsuit, desperate to feel his skin against hers. One of the buttons tore loose, tumbling to the blankets at their knees. Roman chuckled. “Careful. This is the only jumpsuit I have.” “I’ll repair it tomorrow,” Iris promised, even though she didn’t know what would come at sunrise. She cast those worries aside, though, as she undressed Roman. They were both anxious to be free of the garments that had held them through countless troubles. Once liberated, they tossed their raiment across the room with hushed laughter. And the world melted into something new and molten. Iris couldn’t see him with her eyes, but she did with her hands. With her fingertips and her lips. She explored every dip and hollow of his body, claiming it as her own. He is mine, she thought, the words a pleasant shock to her soul. I am his. Iris laid him down beneath her, mindful of his leg, even if he swore his wounds weren’t hurting him. She didn’t know what to fully expect—nor did he—and it was awkward for a moment until Roman’s hands touched her—a warm reassurance on her hips—and she held her breath deep in


I clung, in a transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope. But my heart sank within me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel." Chapter 16 "Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed? I know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my feelings were those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants and have glutted myself with their shrieks and misery. "When night came I quitted my retreat and wandered in the wood; and now, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my anguish in fearful howlings. I was like a wild beast that had broken the toils, destroying the objects that obstructed me and ranging through the wood with a staglike swiftness. Oh! What a miserable night I passed! The cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees waved their branches above me; now and then the sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst the universal stillness. All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment; I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me, and finding myself unsympathized with, wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin. "But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure; I became fatigued with excess of bodily exertion and sank on the damp grass in the sick impotence of despair. There was none among the myriads of men that existed who would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies? No; from that moment I declared everlasting war against the species, and more than all, against him who had formed me and sent me forth to this insupportable misery. "The sun rose; I heard the voices of men and knew that it was impossible to return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly I hid myself in some thick underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours to reflection on my situation. "The pleasant sunshine and the pure air of day restored me to some degree of tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed at the cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty in my conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent that my conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children. I ought to have familiarized the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to have discovered myself to the rest of his family, when they should have been prepared


to go elsewhere. On the evening preceding their removal it was getting dark betimes by reason of a drizzling rain which blurred the sky. As it was the last night they would spend in the village which had been their home and birthplace, Mrs Durbeyfield, 'Liza-Lu, and Abraham had gone out to bid some friends goodbye, and Tess was keeping house till they should return. She was kneeling in the window-bench, her face close to the casement, where an outer pane of rain-water was sliding down the inner pane of glass. Her eyes rested on the web of a spider, probably starved long ago, which had been mistakenly placed in a corner where no flies ever came, and shivered in the slight draught through the casement. Tess was reflecting on the position of the household, in which she perceived her own evil influence. Had she not come home her mother and the children might probably have been allowed to stay on as weekly tenants. But she had been observed almost immediately on her return by some people of scrupulous character and great influence: they had seen her idling in the churchyard, restoring as well as she could with a little trowel a baby's obliterated grave. By this means they had found that she was living here again; her mother was scolded for "harbouring" her; sharp retorts had ensued from Joan, who had independently offered to leave at once; she had been taken at her word; and here was the result. "I ought never to have come home," said Tess to herself, bitterly. She was so intent upon these thoughts that she hardly at first took note of a man in a white mackintosh whom she saw riding down the street. Possibly it was owing to her face being near to the pane that he saw her so quickly, and directed his horse so close to the cottage-front that his hoofs were almost upon the narrow border for plants growing under the wall. It was not till he touched the window with his riding-crop that she observed him. The rain had nearly ceased, and she opened the casement in obedience to his gesture. "Didn't you see me?" asked d'Urberville. "I was not attending," she said. "I heard you, I believe, though I fancied it was a carriage and horses. I was in a sort of dream." "Ah! you heard the d'Urberville Coach, perhaps. You know the legend, I suppose?" "No. My--somebody was going to tell it me once, but didn't." "If you are a genuine d'Urberville I ought not to tell you either, I suppose. As for me, I'm a sham one, so it doesn't matter. It is rather dismal. It is that this sound of a non-existent coach can only be heard by one of d'Urberville blood, and it is held to be of ill-omen to the one who hears it. It has to do with a murder, committed by one of the family, centuries ago." "Now you have begun it, finish it." "Very well. One of the family is said to


express!" "Is the lady anybody?" said I. "No," returned Wemmick. "Only his game. (You liked your bit of game, didn't you?) No; deuce a bit of a lady in the case, Mr. Pip, except one - and she wasn't of this slender ladylike sort, and you wouldn't have caught her looking after this urn - unless there was something to drink in it." Wemmick's attention being thus directed to his brooch, he put down the cast, and polished the brooch with his pocket-handkerchief. "Did that other creature come to the same end?" I asked. "He has the same look." "You're right," said Wemmick; "it's the genuine look. Much as if one nostril was caught up with a horsehair and a little fish-hook. Yes, he came to the same end; quite the natural end here, I assure you. He forged wills, this blade did, if he didn't also put the supposed testators to sleep too. You were a gentlemanly Cove, though" (Mr. Wemmick was again apostrophizing), "and you said you could write Greek. Yah, Bounceable! What a liar you were! I never met such a liar as you!" Before putting his late friend on his shelf again, Wemmick touched the largest of his mourning rings and said, "Sent out to buy it for me, only the day before." While he was putting up the other cast and coming down from the chair, the thought crossed my mind that all his personal jewellery was derived from like sources. As he had shown no diffidence on the subject, I ventured on the liberty of asking him the question, when he stood before me, dusting his hands. "Oh yes," he returned, "these are all gifts of that kind. One brings another, you see; that's the way of it. I always take 'em. They're curiosities. And they're property. They may not be worth much, but, after all, they're property and portable. It don't signify to you with your brilliant look-out, but as to myself, my guidingstar always is, "Get hold of portable property"." When I had rendered homage to this light, he went on to say, in a friendly manner: "If at any odd time when you have nothing better to do, you wouldn't mind coming over to see me at Walworth, I could offer you a bed, and I should consider it an honour. I have not much to show you; but such two or three curiosities as I have got, you might like to look over; and I am fond of a bit of garden and a summer-house." I said I should be delighted to accept his hospitality. "Thankee," said he; "then we'll consider that it's to come off, when convenient to you. Have you dined with Mr. Jaggers yet?" "Not yet." "Well," said Wemmick, "he'll give you wine, and good wine. I'll give you punch, and not bad punch. and now I'll tell you something. When you go to dine with Mr. Jaggers, look at his housekeeper." "Shall I see something very uncommon?" "Well," said Wemmick, "you'll see a wild beast tamed. Not so


work. The Teacher said he would protect me. Silas felt the biting warmth spreading across his back and shoulders and could picture his own blood, spilling out over his flesh. A piercing pain cut through his thighs now, and he felt the onset of that familiar undertow of disorientation-the body's defense mechanism against the pain. As the biting heat tore through all of his muscles now, Silas clenched his eyes tighter, determined that the final image of his life would not be of his own killer. Instead he pictured a younger Bishop Aringarosa, standing before the small church in Spain... the church that he and Silas had built with their own hands. The beginning of my life. Silas felt as if his body were on fire. "Take a drink," the tuxedoed man whispered, his accent French. "It will help with your circulation." Silas's eyes flew open in surprise. A blurry image was leaning over him, offering a glass of liquid. A mound of shredded duct tape lay on the floor beside the bloodless knife. "Drink this," he repeated. "The pain you feel is the blood rushing into your muscles." Silas felt the fiery throb transforming now to a prickling sting. The vodka tasted terrible, but he drank it, feeling grateful. Fate had dealt Silas a healthy share of bad luck tonight, but God had solved it all with one miraculous twist. God has not forsaken me. 236 Silas knew what Bishop Aringarosa would call it. Divine intervention. "I had wanted to free you earlier," the servant apologized, "but it was impossible. With the police arriving at Chteau Villette, and then at Biggin Hill airport, this was the first possible moment. You understand, don't you, Silas?" Silas recoiled, startled. "You know my name?" The servant smiled. Silas sat up now, rubbing his stiff muscles, his emotions a torrent of incredulity, appreciation, and confusion. "Are you... the Teacher?" Rmy shook his head, laughing at the proposition. "I wish I had that kind of power. No, I am not the Teacher. Like you, I serve him. But the Teacher speaks highly of you. My name is Rmy." Silas was amazed. "I don't understand. If you work for the Teacher, why did Langdon bring the keystone to your home?" "Not my home. The home of the world's foremost Grail historian, Sir Leigh Teabing." "But you live there. The odds..." Rmy smiled, seeming to have no trouble with the apparent coincidence of Langdon's chosen refuge. "It was all utterly predictable. Robert Langdon was in possession of the keystone, and he needed help. What more logical place to run than to the home of Leigh Teabing? That I happen to live there is why the Teacher approached me in the first place." He paused. "How do you think the Teacher knows so much about the Grail?" Now it dawned, and Silas was stunned. The Teacher had recruited a servant who had access to all of Sir Leigh Teabing's research. It was brilliant. "There is much I have to tell you," Rmy said, handing Silas the loaded Heckler Koch


we were in the yard, while I was sitting on a bench staring in the direction of the barbed wire fence, listening to the noise of my fellow inmates heaving barbells and covertly dealing drugs around me. An arsonist who had figured out that I was blind and took pity on me had afforded me a few bumps of poor-quality coke that morning, and I was feeling a little buzzed, wishing I’d done enough to be truly high, to feel my heart slamming against the wall of my chest. A heart attack: I should be so lucky. The COs began herding us inside and we streamed listlessly back to our cells to kill time before lunch. My old cellmate had recently been transferred after inciting a fight, so I’d had the place to myself for a few days. But I’d been warned it wouldn’t be for long. “These transfers are from another max facility, a worse one than this,” one of the many COs who hated me reassured me. “You’re gonna get your fag ass kicked, 31151.” But when the door to my cell opened that afternoon, it wasn’t by one of the usual COs who patrolled my cell block. This one had a lighter touch with the lock, a kinder way of opening the door, and the shackled shape who walked in ahead of him thanked him politely. The CO relieved the shackled shape of his shackles and told him it was his pleasure. And then I realized I recognized one of the voices. The formerly shackled shape—lanky, cheerful—sat down on the ground in front of me. I could feel his face angled at mine. “Ez,” the shape said. I felt like my head had come unscrewed. I grabbed my chest as if I’d just witnessed my own death. “Ez,” the shape said, and put his hand on my knee. “It’s me.” I’m not sure how—maybe out of terror, maybe out of love—my junk eyes focused perfectly. There he was: clean-shaven, short-haired, bruised and a little anemic but still him, still grinning like he had on the first day of Last Chance. “How did you…?” I asked, not knowing how to finish the sentence. Orson laughed and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Point is, I’m here.” He squeezed my knee. “I made it.” My eyes unfocused and it was just his voice, the warmth of his hands on my face, his lips on mine. It was the kiss equivalent of birdsong. It was impossible to forget. He pulled away and sat back on his heels. “I’m here,” he said again. “Now how about we make some money?” ACKNOWLEDGMENTS THIS IS A PANDEMIC BOOK, and pandemic books require a lot of support to get written. I’m grateful to my immune system, the robustness of which allowed me to keep writing even after I got COVID. I’m deeply indebted to Ross Harris, without whose input (and sales acumen) this book would never have seen the light of day. I’m so lucky to be working with Barbara Jones, who has lifted some


was walking in the shade of the canoe that he was carrying over his head. “There are more interesting places to go,” Maud told Louise, then said to Ella, “Maybe you won’t like the folly, but you’ll like canoeing.” “I hate canoeing,” Ella said. “You’ve never been canoeing.” “I’ve been rowboating. Same thing.” “I thought you loved going to Stowe Lake.” When they’d lived in England and visited her parents, she used to take the girls to Golden Gate Park, as she’d once done with her favorite grandmother. They tossed pink popcorn to passing ducks on Stowe Lake, held their breath under the bridge with the troll living under it, and then strolled from the lake to the Japanese Tea Garden for sesame cookies and sencha served in thimble-like cups. But Ella wasn’t buying nostalgia. “Follies are fake history in history,” she said. “That’s all I’m saying.” “My parents wouldn’t even let us get the Disney Princesses,” Louise told Gabriel as she carefully matched his pace to stay out of the sun. “Everyone had them but us.” “Help,” Maud said to Gabriel. “Mutiny.” “Drop the canoe and run,” Gabriel said. “Yeah, do that,” Ella said. “Then we won’t have to get in it.” But her grumpiness this morning was almost playful. The woods moved over them and, with them, mosquitoes. “Shithead,” Ella said. She stopped to stomp a mosquito off her leg, and Maud almost dropped her half of the canoe. “Ella,” she said. “Well, they are. And I can’t use my hands because I’m carrying this stupid canoe.” “Yes, yes, we know the canoe is stupid.” “They bite me too,” Gabriel said. “We let off a lot of carbon dioxide, you and me. Let’s move faster, maybe that’ll help.” He started to run, and Ella ran with him, pulling Maud down the hill. At the river, Louise stood on the shore and surveyed the water skeptically before stepping into the canoe. “This river is pretty,” she said, “but it kinda smells like poop.” “It’ll smell better when we get out of the algae,” Maud said, handing her an oar. They rowed through the chartreuse blanket. Ella and Gabriel were in the canoe ahead, Ella paddling hard, jerking her oar through the water. “Who are you trying to impress?” Maud called. “I want to get it over with,” Ella said. “You’re making me look bad,” Gabriel said. Maud had a vague idea of where to find the ruins of the folly. She and Gabriel had figured it out two nights before, during one of those conversations where they got lost in their back-and-forth about her knowledge of Romanticism and the obsession with ruins and jungles and his knowledge of those jungles themselves and the real ruins being replicated. But a problem emerged as they approached the island. The shore was a marsh. When Gabriel got out of the canoe, his feet disappeared to the ankles in muck. “Is this quicksand?” Louise peered over the edge of the canoe. They tried paddling farther down the shore but were met by impenetrable creepers. “I


It is a little significant, that while one sperm whale only fights another sperm whale with his head and jaw, nevertheless, in his conflicts with man, he chiefly and contemptuously uses his tail. In striking at a boat, he swiftly curves away his flukes from it, and the blow is only inflicted by the recoil. If it be made in the unobstructed air, especially if it descend to its mark, the stroke is then simply irresistible. No ribs of man or boat can withstand it. Your only salvation lies in eluding it; but if it comes sideways through the opposing water, then partly owing to the light buoyancy of the whaleboat, and the elasticity of its materials, a cracked rib or a dashed plank or two, a sort of stitch in the side, is generally the most serious result. These submerged side blows are so often received in the fishery, that they are accounted mere child's play. Some one strips off a frock, and the hole is stopped. Third: I cannot demonstrate it, but it seems to me, that in the whale the sense of touch is concentrated in the tail; for in this respect there is a delicacy in it only equalled by the daintiness of the elephant's trunk. This delicacy is chiefly evinced in the action of sweeping, when in maidenly gentleness the whale with a certain soft slowness moves his immense flukes from side to side upon the surface of the sea; and if he feel but a sailor's whisker, woe to that sailor, whiskers and all. .. <p 375 > What tenderness there is in that preliminary touch! Had this tail any prehensile power, I should straightway bethink me of Darmonodes' elephant that so frequented the flower-market, and with low salutations presented nosegays to damsels, and then caressed their zones. On more accounts than one, a pity it is that the whale does not possess this prehensile virtue in his tail; for I have heard of yet another elephant, that when wounded in the fight, curved round his trunk and extracted the dart. Fourth: Stealing unawares upon the whale in the fancied security of the middle of solitary seas, you find him unbent from the vast corpulence of his dignity, and kitten-like, he plays on the ocean as if it were a hearth. But still you see his power in his play. The broad palms of his tail are flirted high into the air; then smiting the surface, the thunderous concussion resounds for miles. You would almost think a great gun had been discharged; and if you noticed the light wreath of vapor from the spiracle at his other extremity, you would think that that was the smoke from the touch-hole. Fifth: As in the ordinary floating posture of the leviathan the flukes lie considerably below the level of his back, they are then completely out of sight beneath the surface; but when he is about to plunge into the deeps, his entire flukes with at least thirty feet of his body are tossed erect in the air,


saying them. It’s gotta be this Owl Society, right?” Bezi nods as she circles the room. “It’s a secret society?” “Looks like it. But what are—were they doing?” It occurs to me in that moment that maybe this so-called Owl Society isn’t some relic of the long-forgotten past. Somebody hurt Tasha, and Porter and Paige are missing. On the wall next to the large photograph, there are smaller portraits in heavy brass and silver frames. Individuals in the same seated pose, all of them wearing black cloaks. The photos go from black-and-white to sepia to full color. Each portrait adorned with a small plaque. Henry Woodsworth Hayward Grand Owl, 1856 Johnathan Laurens Montevallo Grand Owl, 1867 Lawrence Ulrich Davis Grand Owl, 1872 More portraits ring the room, each of them featuring a man in the same pose, the same steely look in his eyes. “What’s a Grand Owl?” Bezi asks. “I don’t like the way that sounds at all.” I’m not sure, but it looks like each of the men was a leader of this Owl Society at some point. The newest portrait is dated 1973. “I wonder what happened after 1973,” Bezi says. “They just disappeared?” I think about Tasha and about what Ms. Keane said. Is it possible they’re still here? I suddenly feel the urge to bolt from the lodge and run as fast as I can back to the camp. I take Bezi’s hands and prepare to do just that when something stops me. A sound. I hold my breath and angle my head toward the hall. “Do you hear that?” Bezi stares at me wide-eyed, listening. A muffled shriek sounds from somewhere nearby. I glance toward the window, still not daring to breathe. It sounds again and sends a bolt of unfiltered terror straight through me. It is the sound a person makes when they’re in pain—when they’re terrified. Tasha had made that noise when I approached her in the lodge, and someone else is making it now. I glance down at my feet. The sound bleeds out of the cracks between the wooden floorboards, as if the house itself is screaming. Bezi takes out her phone, glances at the screen, and shakes her head. Still no signal. We are alone and I have to make another snap decision. Everything in me is telling me to run away from this place as fast as I can and never look back, but the scream sounds again, and I swear there are words mixed in with the agonized cries. Help me. I take a deep breath and try to put my thoughts together. “I need to find a way downstairs. Let’s look for some stairs or a door or something.” Bezi nods, but I can see the hesitation in her pinched expression. I lead her out into the hall and tiptoe through the corridor, looking for a way to the lower levels of the lodge. We move silently past a dated kitchen and I stop. “What’s wrong?” Bezi asks. I duck inside the kitchen and approach the center island.


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

A great fire, banked high and red, flamed in the grate and under the ivy-twined branches of the chandelier the Christmas table was spread. They had come home a little late and still dinner was not ready: but it would be ready in a jiffy his mother had said. They were waiting for the door to open and for the servants to come in, holding the big dishes covered with their heavy metal covers. All were waiting: uncle Charles, who sat far away in the shadow of the window, Dante and Mr Casey, who sat in the easy-chairs at either side of the hearth, Stephen, seated on a chair between them, his feet resting on the toasted boss. Mr Dedalus looked at himself in the pierglass above the mantelpiece, waxed out his moustache ends and then, parting his coat-tails, stood with his back to the glowing fire: and still from time to time he withdrew a hand from his coat-tail to wax out one of his moustache ends. Mr Casey leaned his head to one side and, smiling, tapped the gland of his neck with his fingers. And Stephen smiled too for he knew now that it was not true that Mr Casey had a purse of silver in his throat. He smiled to think how the silvery noise which Mr Casey used to make had deceived him. And when he had tried to open Mr Casey's hand to see if the purse of silver was hidden there he had seen that the fingers could not be straightened out: and Mr Casey had told him that he had got those three cramped fingers making a birthday present for Queen Victoria. Mr Casey tapped the gland of his neck and smiled at Stephen with sleepy eyes: and Mr Dedalus said to him: --Yes. Well now, that's all right. O, we had a good walk, hadn't we, John? Yes... I wonder if there's any likelihood of dinner this evening. Yes... O, well now, we got a good breath of ozone round the Head today. Ay, bedad. He turned to Dante and said: --You didn't stir out at all, Mrs Riordan? Dante frowned and said shortly: --No. Mr Dedalus dropped his coat-tails and went over to the sideboard. He brought forth a great stone jar of whisky from the locker and filled the decanter slowly, bending now and then to see how much he had poured in. Then replacing the jar in the locker he poured a little of the whisky into two glasses, added a little water and came back with them to the fireplace. --A thimbleful, John, he said, just to whet your appetite. Mr Casey took the glass, drank, and placed it near him on the mantelpiece. Then he said: --Well, I can't help thinking of our friend Christopher manufacturing... He broke into a fit of laughter and coughing and added: --...manufacturing that champagne for those fellows. Mr Dedalus laughed loudly. --Is it Christy? he said. There's more cunning in one of those warts on his bald head than in a pack


might have been rich with all good gifts, beneath this unfortunate exterior, and still, so long as she wore the guise of woman, she would have shocked Clifford, and depressed him by her lack of beauty. But nothing more beautiful --nothing prettier, at least--was ever made than Phoebe. And, therefore, to this man,--whose whole poor and impalpable enjoyment of existence heretofore, and until both his heart and fancy died within him, had been a dream,--whose images of women had more and more lost their warmth and substance, and been frozen, like the pictures of secluded artists, into the chillest ideality,--to him, this little figure of the cheeriest household life was just what he required to bring him back into the breathing world. Persons who have wandered, or been expelled, out of the common track of things, even were it for a better system, desire nothing so much as to be led back. They shiver in their loneliness, be it on a mountain-top or in a dungeon. Now, Phoebe's presence made a home about her,--that very sphere which the outcast, the prisoner, the potentate,--the wretch beneath mankind, the wretch aside from it, or the wretch above it, --instinctively pines after,--a home! She was real! Holding her hand, you felt something; a tender something; a substance, and a warm one: and so long as you should feel its grasp, soft as it was, you might be certain that your place was good in the whole sympathetic chain of human nature. The world was no longer a delusion. By looking a little further in this direction, we might suggest an explanation of an often-suggested mystery. Why are poets so apt to choose their mates, not for any similarity of poetic endowment, but for qualities which might make the happiness of the rudest handicraftsman as well as that of the ideal craftsman of the spirit? Because, probably, at his highest elevation, the poet needs no human intercourse; but he finds it dreary to descend, and be a stranger. There was something very beautiful in the relation that grew up between this pair, so closely and constantly linked together, yet with such a waste of gloomy and mysterious years from his birthday to hers. On Clifford's part it was the feeling of a man naturally endowed with the liveliest sensibility to feminine influence, but who had never quaffed the cup of passionate love, and knew that it was now too late. He knew it, with the instinctive delicacy that had survived his intellectual decay. Thus, his sentiment for Phoebe, without being paternal, was not less chaste than if she had been his daughter. He was a man, it is true, and recognized her as a woman. She was his only representative of womankind. He took unfailing note of every charm that appertained to her sex, and saw the ripeness of her lips, and the virginal development of her bosom. All her little womanly ways, budding out of her like blossoms on a young fruit-tree, had their effect on him, and sometimes caused his very heart to tingle


for it. What can I do to serve you?' 'Nothing,' replied Nancy. 'You will not persist in saying that,' rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart. 'Think now. Tell me.' 'Nothing, sir,' rejoined the girl, weeping. 'You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed.' 'You put yourself beyond its pale,' said the gentleman. 'The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!' 'She will be persuaded now,' cried the young lady. 'She hesitates, I am sure.' 'I fear not, my dear,' said the gentleman. 'No sir, I do not,' replied the girl, after a short struggle. 'I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back,--and yet I don't know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But,' she said, looking hastily round, 'this fear comes over me again. I must go home.' 'Home!' repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word. 'Home, lady,' rejoined the girl. 'To such a home as I have raised for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you leave me, and let me go my way alone.' 'It is useless,' said the gentleman, with a sigh. 'We compromise her safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she expected already.' 'Yes, yes,' urged the girl. 'You have.' 'What,' cried the young lady. 'can be the end of this poor creature's life!' 'What!' repeated the girl. 'Look before you, lady. Look at that dark water. How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide, and leave no living thing, to care for,


guide him; and thus they passed westward over Sirion and came at length to Eithel Ivrin, the springs whence Narog rose beneath the Mountains of Shadow. There Gwindor spoke to Trin, saying: 'Awake, Trin son of Hrin Thalion! On Ivrin's lake is endless laughter. She is fed from crystal fountains unfailing, and guarded from defilement by Ulmo, Lord of Waters, who wrought her beauty in ancient days.' Then Trin knelt and drank from that water; and suddenly he cast himself down, and his tears were unloosed at last, and he was healed of his madness. There he made a song for Beleg, and he named it Laer C Beleg, the Song of the Great Bow, singing it aloud heedless of peril. And Gwindor gave the sword Anglachel into his hands, and Trin knew that it was heavy and strong and had great power; but its blade was black and dull and its edges blunt. Then Gwindor said: 'This is a strange blade, and unlike any that I have seen in Middle-earth. It mourns for Beleg even as you do. But be comforted; for I return to Nargothrond of the house of Finarfin, and you shall come with me, and be healed and renewed.' 'Who are you?' said Trin. 'A wandering Elf, a thrall escaped, whom Beleg met and comforted,' said Gwindor. 'Yet once I was Gwindor son of Guilin, a lord of Nargothrond, until I went to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and was enslaved in Angband.' 'Then have you seen Hrin son of Galdor, the warrior of Dor-lmin?' said Trin. 'I have not seen him,' said Gwindor. 'But rumour of him runs through Angband that he still defies Morgoth; and Morgoth has laid a curse upon turn and all his kin.' 'That I do believe,' said Trin. And now they arose, and departing from Eithel Ivrin they journeyed southward along the banks of Narog, until they were taken by scouts of the Elves and brought as prisoners to the hidden stronghold. Thus did Trin come to Nargothrond. At first his own people did not know Gwindor, who went out young and strong, and returned now seeming as one of the aged among mortal Men, because of his torments and his labours; but Finduilas daughter of Orodreth the King knew him and welcomed him, for she had loved him before the Nirnaeth, and so greatly did Gwindor love her beauty that he named her Faelivrin, which is the gleam of the sun on the pools of Ivrin. For Gwindor's sake Trin was admitted with him into Nargothrond, and he dwelt there in honour. But when Gwindor would tell his name, Trin checked him, saying: 'I am Agarwaen the son of marth (which is the Bloodstained, son of Ill-fate), a hunter in the woods'; and the Elves of Nargothrond questioned him no more. In the time that followed Trin grew high in favour with Orodreth, and well-nigh all hearts were turned to him in Nargothrond. For he was young, and only now reached his full manhood; and he was in truth the son of Morwen


but never, as now, had he faced the possibility of it, the eyes of a dozen men fixed upon him, silent and waiting. Further, he had no thousand dollars; nor had Hans or Pete. "I've got a sled standing outside now, with twenty fiftypound sacks of flour on it," Matthewson went on with brutal directness; "so don't let that hinder you." Thornton did not reply. He did not know what to say. He glanced from face to face in the absent way of a man who has lost the power of thought and is seeking somewhere to find the thing that will start it going again. The face of Jim O'Brien, a Mastodon King and old-time comrade, caught his eyes. It was as a cue to him, seeming to rouse him to do what he would never have dreamed of doing. "Can you lend me a thousand?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "Sure," answered O'Brien, thumping down a plethoric sack by the side of Matthewson's. "Though it's little faith I'm having, John, that the beast can do the trick." The Eldorado emptied its occupants into the street to see the test. The tables were deserted, and the dealers and gamekeepers came forth to see the outcome of the wager and to lay odds. Several hundred men, furred and mittened, banked around the sled within easy distance. Matthewson's sled, loaded with a thousand pounds of flour, had been standing for a couple of hours, and in the intense cold (it was sixty below zero) the runners had frozen fast to the hard-packed snow. Men offered odds of two to one that Buck could not budge the sled. A quibble arose concerning the phrase "break out." O'Brien contended it was Thornton's privilege to knock the runners loose, leaving Buck to "break it out" from a dead standstill. Matthewson insisted that the phrase included breaking the runners from the frozen grip of the snow. A majority of the men who had witnessed the making of the bet decided in his favor, whereat the odds went up to three to one against Buck. There were no takers. Not a man believed him capable of the feat. Thornton had been hurried into the wager, heavy with doubt; and now that he looked at the sled itself, the concrete fact, with the regular team of ten dogs curled up in the snow before it, the more impossible the task appeared. Matthewson waxed jubilant. "Three to one!" he proclaimed. "I'll lay you another thousand at that figure, Thornton. What d'ye say?" Thornton's doubt was strong in his face, but his fighting spirit was aroused--the fighting spirit that soars above odds, fails to recognize the impossible, and is deaf to all save the clamor for battle. He called Hans and Pete to him. Their sacks were slim, and with his own the three partners could rake together only two hundred dollars. In the ebb of their fortunes, this sum was their total capital; yet they laid it unhesitatingly against Matthewson's six hundred. The team of ten dogs was unhitched,


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

names?” “Evan and Isaac.” “Do you like one of them more than the other?” Her very normal question makes me sad again. “Isaac, I guess.” “What’s he like?” “Nice,” I say, and look up to the ceiling, thinking. “Attractive.” God, pull it together, Felicity. Isaac is an amazing man and you’re describing him the way you would a new couch. I look at Juno and take a deep breath, trying to infuse some enthusiasm into my words. “He’s a scientist, just like your dad.” “He’s a geneticist, too?” she asks, squinting skeptically. She’s smarter than I am. “No, I think he makes robots or makes sure robots don’t take over the world or something related to the reason I’m nice to my Alexa.” Juno laughs. “That’s not the same thing as genetics, Auntie Fizzy.” I throw a wadded-up napkin at her. She ducks out of the way and the flash of her laughter propels her question out, so sneakily: “Do you think Mr. Prince wants Isaac to win?” I hold on to my smile, leaning closer. Juno is a worthy sparring partner. Pride and unease battle it out in my pulse. “I don’t think Mr. Prince cares who wins as long as the show is successful.” “I think he cares who wins.” She goes for broke: “I think he likes you.” “Yeah?” “Mm-hmm. Like at the concert? I could tell he liked you. He stared at you the whole time.” “That’s because I’m fascinating, Juno. Keep up.” She giggles. “I bet he doesn’t like seeing other boys on dates with you.” I hum, studying her. She doesn’t flinch or shrink at all. “And—okay, you know Aiden R.?” she continues. I nod, because there are, like, four Aidens in her class. “He likes Stevie, and they always sit together at lunch, but today Stevie was assigned to Indonesia for World Cultures Day with Eric, and Aiden was quiet-sad the same way Mr. Prince was tonight.” “Oh yeah? How’s that?” She points to her face. “You know how boys clench their jaw like this?” She does a pretty solid impression. “He was doing that and just, like, ignoring her at lunch. But it wasn’t like Stevie had a choice about who she does World Cultures Day with. It’s assigned.” “Right,” I agree sympathetically. Ugh, this metaphor is pretty great. I redirect: “Who did you get assigned to work with?” “Kyle Pyun,” she says, and gives a vague grimace. “He’s really hyper but at least he gets good grades.” “Totally.” I lean in, grinning. “Is he cute?” Juno looks genuinely disgusted. “Auntie Fizzy, we’re in fifth grade.” “I’m not asking if you’re engaged, Junebug, just whether he’s got potential.” “Mom says boys are dumb until high school.” “Wow, that’s generous.” “So if Isaac wins,” Juno says, doing her own redirection, “does he get money or something?” “In theory he gets me.” She laughs like this is funny. “Yeah but… you know. Like a real prize.” Pressing my lips together, I give her a flat “I get to choose who I’m taking to Fiji, and there’s


for a moment with his eyes the waning of the long summer daylight above the roofs or the slow deft movements of the priestly fingers. The priest's face was in total shadow, but the waning daylight from behind him touched the deeply grooved temples and the curves of the skull. Stephen followed also with his ears the accents and intervals of the priest's voice as he spoke gravely and cordially of indifferent themes, the vacation which had just ended, the colleges of the order abroad, the transference of masters. The grave and cordial voice went on easily with its tale and in the pauses Stephen felt bound to set it on again with respectful questions. He knew that the tale was a prelude and his mind waited for the sequel. Ever since the message of summons had come for him from the director his mind had struggled to find the meaning of the message; and, during the long restless time he had sat in the college parlour waiting for the director to come in, his eyes had wandered from one sober picture to another around the walls and his mind wandered from one guess to another until the meaning of the summons had almost become clear. Then, just as he was wishing that some unforeseen cause might prevent the director from coming, he had heard the handle of the door turning and the swish of a soutane. The director had begun to speak of the dominican and franciscan orders and of the friendship between saint Thomas and saint Bonaventure. The capuchin dress, he thought, was rather too... Stephen's face gave back the priest's indulgent smile and, not being anxious to give an opinion, he made a slight dubitative movement with his lips. --I believe, continued the director, that there is some talk now among the capuchins themselves of doing away with it and following the example of the other franciscans. --I suppose they would retain it in the cloisters? said Stephen. --O certainly, said the director. For the cloister it is all right but for the street I really think it would be better to do away with it, don't you? --It must be troublesome, I imagine. --Of course it is, of course. Just imagine when I was in Belgium I used to see them out cycling in all kinds of weather with this thing up about their knees! It was really ridiculous. LES JUPES, they call them in Belgium. The vowel was so modified as to be indistinct. --What do they call them? --LES JUPES. --O! Stephen smiled again in answer to the smile which he could not see on the priest's shadowed face, its image or spectre only passing rapidly across his mind as the low discreet accent fell upon his ear. He gazed calmly before him at the waning sky, glad of the cool of the evening and of the faint yellow glow which hid the tiny flame kindling upon his cheek. The names of articles of dress worn by women or of certain soft and delicate stuffs used


weapon and returned it to Barbara’s knife rack. Here’s a fun fact Dane Rubra does not include: It’s not always the boyfriend. The actual statistic, if you care, is that worldwide, 38.6 percent of murdered women are killed by intimate partners. In some countries that’s much higher. But if you’re looking at a young woman who wasn’t involved in illegal activities, who wasn’t on the streets, who wasn’t involved in sex work, had a support system, wasn’t robbed outside a nightclub on vacation, who had a serious boyfriend, or two—yes, someone she was sleeping with did it. Which is why it’s important for the police to know who she was sleeping with. But in none of the State Police interviews did anyone suggest this might have been you. Your name comes up as one of the last two adults to see her, as a teacher she was close to. The police took little enough note that they consistently spelled your name “Block.” And then they interviewed you, for all of seven minutes. You said the blandest, vaguest things possible. They did ask where you were that night, but only in the most perfunctory way, and after all you had your alibi—you cleaned up, you talked to me (there was my name even, from your mouth), you got straight home to your wife and kids. They were more interested in whether Thalia’s grades had been sliding, whether she’d seemed distressed. You said, four different times, “She was a great kid.” Dane Rubra says, “Let’s grant that Crocker’s boyfriend kills her in a crime of passion. But Granby doesn’t want a crime scene messing up their reputation. What gets into the papers is the body being found in the New Hampshire woods. Eventually it comes out that it’s near campus.” Dane shows a series of maps and argues the body was found on campus, that the school got the DA and coroner to move the official location fifty yards. “What I’m saying,” he says, and he should wipe the sweat off his forehead, “is the pockets are deep, and the conspiracies run deeper.” #6: ARI HUTSON We all know there’s a man who lurks at the edge of the campus, who lives in a lacrosse goal in the woods. Everyone knows someone who’s seen him, and we’ve assigned him various names—Lurch, the Hermit. Fran and I joke he’s the one adding notes to the Kurt shrine. According to one story, he’s a Granby student who left school one credit shy of graduation. Geoff Richler says, “He’s out there trapping raccoons. Them’s good eats.” The story that sticks: He’s Barbara Crocker’s convicted boyfriend, out of prison, returning to the scene of the crime. He has an apartment in Kern but camps out at Granby in warmer months. Ari Hutson was released in 1989; it isn’t impossible. I’ve found photos of him online, featuring a mop of friendly hair and a scraggly beard. In one, he wears a striped turtleneck and laughs with someone at a party. To be honest, I can see the appeal. In


don’t care so we aren’t disappointed? Is it some sad, unexamined misogyny that we as a culture really, really need to work on? I think love stories are deeply misunderstood—in part, at least, because they don’t work like other stories. Love stories don’t have happy endings because their authors didn’t know any better. They have happy endings because those endings let readers access a rare and precious kind of emotional bliss that you can only get from having something that matters to look forward to. Yes, misery is important. But joy is just as important. The ways we take care of each other matter just as much as the ways we let each other down. Light matters just as much as darkness. Play matters as much as work, and kindness matters as much as cruelty, and hope matters as much as despair. More so, even. Because tragedy is a given, but joy is a choice. Romantic fiction thrived during the pandemic, and there were lots of theories about why. People thought we were lonely. We needed escape. We wanted some laughs. All true. But I think, more than that, it’s because love is a form of hope. We all sense it deep down, I suspect—past the snark and the tough-guy exteriors. Love is healing. It’s nourishing. It’s unapologetically optimistic. It’s the thing that leads us back to the light. So I write stories about how love does that—about people healing from hard things, and trying to connect, and working like hell to become the best versions of themselves, despite it all. About the genuine emotional courage it takes to love other people, and about the joy that courage can offer us. I hope this story made you laugh. And swoon. I hope it kept you up way too late reading and gave you that blissed-out, longing-laden, tipsy feeling that all the best love stories create. I hope it gave you something to think about, and maybe a new perspective. But what I know for sure is that reading love stories is good for you. That believing in love is believing in hope. And doing that—choosing in this cynical world to be a person who does that—really is doing something that matters. Acknowledgments I always panic when it’s time to write acknowledgments because I’m terrified of leaving someone out. Let me not forget to thank my friend Dale Andrews—founding member of our legendary Romantic Book Club of Two—for reading (and loving) early drafts of both The Bodyguard and Hello Stranger. Many grateful thanks also to my friend of many years Karen Walrond, who so joyfully took the time to teach me about the culture of her home country of Trinidad—even helping me think through Dr. Nicole’s wardrobe and baking me some homemade coconut bread. So much gratitude, also, to my dear friend Sue Sim, for consulting with me on the Korean American character of Sue Kim (who I wound up naming after her). The real-life Sue is one of my all-time favorite people, and she graciously met me for coffee many times—even though


I've overindulged in your wines. You serve potent drink at table, and I'm not accustomed to it." Jessica heard the venom beneath his tone, spoke sweetly: "When strangers meet, great allowance should be made for differences of custom and training." "Thank you, my Lady," he said. The dark-haired companion of the stillsuit manufacturer leaned toward Jessica, said: "The Duke spoke of our being secure here. I do hope that doesn't mean more fighting." She was directed to lead the conversation this way, Jessica thought. "Likely this will prove unimportant," Jessica said. "But there's so much detail requiring the Duke's personal attention in these times. As long as enmity continues between Atreides and Harkonnen we cannot be too careful. The Duke has sworn kanly. He will leave no Harkonnen agent alive on Arrakis, of course." She glanced at the Guild Bank agent. "And the Conventions, naturally, support him in this." She shifted her attention to Kynes." Is this not so, Dr. Kynes?" "Indeed it is," Kynes said. The stillsuit manufacturer pulled his companion gently back. She looked at him, said: "I do believe I'll eat something now. I'd like some of that bird dish you served earlier." Jessica signaled a servant, turned to the banker: "And you, sir, were speaking of birds earlier and of their habits. I find so many interesting things about Arrakis. Tell me, where is the spice found? Do the hunters go deep into the desert?" "Oh, no, my Lady," he said. "Very little's known of the deep desert. And almost nothing of the southern regions." "There's a tale that a great Mother Lode of spice is to be found in the southern reaches," Kynes said, "but I suspect it was an imaginative invention made solely for purposes of a song. Some daring spice hunters do, on occasion, penetrate into the edge of the central belt, but that's extremely dangerous--navigation is uncertain, storms are frequent. Casualties increase dramatically the farther you operate from Shield Wall bases. It hasn't been found profitable to venture too far south. Perhaps if we had a weather satellite . . ." Bewt looked up, spoke around a mouthful of food: "It's said the Fremen travel there, that they go anywhere and have hunted out soaks and sip-wells even in the southern latitudes." "Soaks and sip-wells?" Jessica asked. Kynes spoke quickly: "Wild rumors, my Lady. These are known on other planets, not on Arrakis. A soak is a place where water seeps to the surface or near enough to the surface to be found by digging according to certain signs. A sip-well is a form of soak where a person draws water through a straw . . . so it is said." There's deception in his words, Jessica thought. Why is he lying? Paul wondered. "How very interesting," Jessica said. And she thought. "It is said . . ." What a curious speech mannerism they have here. If they only knew what it reveals about their dependence on superstitions. "I've heard you have a saying," Paul said, "that polish comes from the cities, wisdom from


gaze on Ricky. “Tell him! Tell him you love me and that we’re going to run away and find our baby and have a happy family.” “But he doesn’t want that,” my father said. “Do you, son?” “You’re lying.” I turned to Ricky. “Tell me he’s lying!” Ricky’s gaze also skipped about. To the unlit fireplace, to his hands, to the zebra rug under his feet. Anywhere but at me. “It’s true, Ginny,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.” “See?” My father’s tone was shockingly boastful. He was, I realized, enjoying the worst moment of my life. “I know you’re hurt now, but it’s for the best. You don’t want trash like him dragging you down for the rest of your life.” “But--” It was all I could muster. Shock and heartbreak had silenced me. But I knew I could still speak volumes with the knife in my hand. I tried to rush at both of them, not caring which one I hurt just as long as I inflicted pain on someone. But before I could take a step, I was halted by a gentle grip on the arm that held the knife. My mother. No doubt summoned by my sister. Although I was surprised to see her out of bed and walking around on her own, my mother barely seemed fazed by the sight of me holding a knife. Alert for the first time in weeks, she knew exactly what was transpiring in that billiard room. “Don’t, my darling,” she said, her hands disconcertingly strong as she wrested the knife from my grip. “They’re not worth destroying your young life over.” I let her take the knife from my hand and collapsed against her, weeping. With the knife in one hand and stroking my hair with the other, she addressed my father. “Fifty thousand dollars, Winston? Your price has gone up. If I recall, you only offered twenty-five thousand to make the man I loved go away.” “That didn’t stop him from taking it,” my father said with not an ounce of softness in his voice. “You can judge me for it all you want--and you certainly have--but it was the best thing to happen to you. It allowed you to get married, pretend that Lenora was my child, and keep your precious reputation intact.” His words caused something inside my mother to break. I watched it happen. Her eyes went dark and her body still. Standing silent and motionless, she reminded me of a clock unnervingly stopped at midnight. Yet one small part of her continued to tick. I saw that, too. Something coiled around the gears of her mind, ready to spring. And spring she did. Toward my father. Knife in hand. Not stopping until the blade was deep in his side. My father didn’t scream when the knife plunged into him. I did that for him, letting out a sharp cry that pinged around the room in an infernal echo. I could still hear it when my mother yanked the knife from my father’s gut. He clutched at the wound,


Isaac’s dazzling charm. Or maybe it’s fine. Maybe the room isn’t cold at all, and Connor isn’t weird with Isaac in the slightest, even though one of my favorite parts of Connor’s body was inside my body one week plus forty-eight hours ago and a casual observer would say that we were both being pretty dramatic about our big emotions. But I’ve never been in love, so I’ve never fallen out of it before. Maybe it does happen like that for some people—a switch flipped down, a match blown out. There’s a shuffle behind me and I notice the crew start packing up gear. My heart feels like a mallet behind my sternum. Any second now one of the sweet PAs will call me in for my interview. I’ll recap the date, talk about what I liked, what didn’t feel right—even though I barely remember it, and I’m sure I’ll be a monotonic, yearning mess, but I don’t care, at least I’ll be near him. It was the only thing that made last week bearable, even though he made eye contact for approximately fifty milliseconds in the entire ten minutes. I’m going through withdrawals; I want to be alone with Connor so bad it feels like a vine of thorns wrapped around my heart. It’s Brenna who comes over, eyes downward on her phone. “Looks like you’re free to go home!” I shake my head. “I haven’t done my confessional yet.” She recites from the text in front of her. “Connor says we’re skipping you tonight and covering both dates tomorrow.” “Wait—why?” On my call sheet it had a confessional for each night this week. She only shrugs. “It’s what he said.” She scrolls back through her messages. “Looks like he’s already left.” * * * Sleep is a fickle mistress. It probably doesn’t help that I spend most of Monday night cheating on her with a neurosis named One Thousand Things I Did to Fuck Things Up. I forget to set an alarm, so it’s a good thing I fall asleep with my phone under my pillow (in case Connor calls me in the middle of the night because he changed his mind and loves me, too) and that it starts vibrating beneath me. It’s Jess. I answer with whatever sound it makes when my mouth is pressed directly on the receiver. “Well, good morning,” she says back. “Time is it?” “Just after eight.” I push to sit up in my too-bright room. I hadn’t bothered to close the curtains last night, and sunlight streams in like there’s something to celebrate. “Shit.” “What time do you have to be on set today?” I squint at the wall, thinking. “Ten, I think.” “You have plenty of time.” “I know.” I reach up, rubbing my face. “I meant Shit, I have to pretend to be fine again today.” “You’re forgetting something.” “What’s that?” Jess whisper-squeals through the phone: “Who’s joining you for today’s date with Evan?” With a relieved groan I collapse back onto the bed. “Ohthankgod, that’s right.” Despite the dark cloud


bed with her hand—a gesture made all the more important because of the effort it takes. “As you know, it is the last copy in existence. Study my notebooks, which are filled with my best treatments—” “Grandmother, please. Let us have more days together.” She shakes her head. “I wish I could give you that, but death is coming.” My eyes tell me she’s right even as my heart struggles to accept it. I offer to get Grandfather. “No,” she says, grabbing my hand and holding it with surprising vigor. “Just women…” Before I can protest, she goes on. “If you memorize my formulas—as I taught you to do when you were a girl—I will die content.” She tells me of one notebook in particular in which she’s recorded her best successes. “Keep that one extra safe.” I bow my head and promise to do her bidding. A few minutes later, Miss Zhao returns. She pulls a chair next to mine, and we sit together in silence. My father was gone for Respectful Lady’s final hours, just as Grandfather is away from us now, which makes me wonder if a death vigil is something we women are compelled to do. I would not want Maoren to watch my final attempts at breath or see the messy things that happen as my soul departs my body. I have witnessed many people die, but in Grandmother’s last hours, her terrible mask of pain disappears, and a golden hue infuses her cheeks as though she’s lit from within. Her breathing slows, but it isn’t labored. She doesn’t seem frightened. She presses my hand over her heart, and even in the final minutes I can feel her strength. And then she’s gone. Miss Zhao goes outside to inform Inky. Immediately, the sounds of lamentations rise throughout the compound. Miss Zhao brings Grandfather. Tears trickle down his aged face as he stands next to the bed gazing at his wife. I remove myself so I can change into mourning clothes made of the coarsest raw linen. Miss Zhao and Inky help me wash Grandmother’s body and dress her in her burial garments. The next day, Grandfather meets with the geomancer, who chooses a date and place for Grandmother’s burial. My brother is in the capital for his final studies to take the imperial exams, but my father comes to Wuxi to attend his mother’s funeral rites. He brings with him Respectful Lady, who performs her duties well with Miss Zhao’s assistance. As for my father, I had not thought I would see him again, let alone so soon after the re-inquest. He holds me when I weep tears of loss. On the day of Grandmother’s interment, a delegation that includes Master Yang, Lady Kuo, my husband, his uncles, and my two oldest daughters arrives from the Garden of Fragrant Delights. What seems like hundreds of others whom Grandmother treated over the years also come to venerate her and make offerings. I see Midwife Shi, Meiling and her husband. Every mourner wears a shade of white—like the autumn


eyes peeled for onlookers, she opened the mews door, and backed out into the lane. “Mrs. Bone.” Mrs. Bone’s heart jumped. “Christ alive.” Winnie Smith was hidden in the ivy. “I beg your pardon. Did I startle you?” Winnie peered at her, her cabbage-colored dress covered in detritus from the wall. “Nobody startles me,” said Mrs. Bone, catching her breath. “What d’you want?” “I come here to collect Alice’s daily report. I thought you might wish to share your first remarks.” “Oh, it’s remarks you want, is it? Heavens, let me just fetch my magnifying glass and look at my notes.” Mrs. Bone tutted. “I’ve only been here five minutes. Give me a whole day at least.” Winnie frowned, and Mrs. Bone sighed, lowering her voice. “Look, the way I see it, I’m going to be cooped up in the kitchens, shoved up the back stairs, or locked in the attics. If I’m going to assess this place, then you need to find me a reason to get into the good part of the house.” Winnie hesitated. “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” she said. Mrs. Bone gripped Winnie’s wrist. “I’m not going to be boiled like a load of old petticoats in the laundry room. You can find the way.” Winnie shook her off. “Very well,” she said, voice hardening. She paused to consider it. “They’d allow the daily woman upstairs if there was a cleaning job that the other girls couldn’t manage. Rough work, you know.” “I’m not doing anything with blood. And nothing in the privy. Don’t even ask.” “Look in the dining room. It always gets the worst of the grime—the motor cars are parked right outside the front windows. Find something filthy, and then tell them you’ll clean it.” Mrs. Bone sucked in her cheeks. “Simple as that, is it?” “It’ll work, Mrs. Bone.” “Hmm. Now, you can do something else for me. Have you got the local bobby’s name?” “What do you need that for?” asked Winnie, dubiously. “Have you got it or not?” Winnie frowned. “Not his name. But naturally I’ve kept his beat under observation.” She hesitated, then drew out a notebook from her pocket. Flipped the pages. “He comes around at these times, without fail.” She tore out the piece of paper for Mrs. Bone. “Hmm,” Mrs. Bone said, approving. “You’re on top of the detail, I’ll grant you that.” Winnie looked pleased, but made her expression grave. “You really oughtn’t to see a policeman by yourself, Mrs. Bone. Something might go seriously awry. Alice can keep an eye on the mews yard, if you like. The second you go and see him, she’ll hurry down and give you some support. Will that suit?” “Support? I don’t need support from the sewing maid.” Then Mrs. Bone pondered it. “Scrap that, she’ll be very useful. Tell her to bump into us in the yard.” Mrs. Bone waved Winnie away. “Now, clear off before they see you.” She hurried as fast as she could back across the mews yard. She was preoccupied, and so she


it was dawn - about five o'clock, Bond guessed - and he reflected that a mile or two on was the turning to Le Chiffre's villa. He had not thought that they would take Vesper there. Now that he realized that Vesper had only been a sprat to catch a mackerel the whole picture became clear. It was an extremely unpleasant picture. For the first time since his capture, fear came to Bond and crawled up his spine. Ten minutes later the Citron lurched to the left, ran on a hundred yards up a small side-road partly overgrown with grass and then between a pair of dilapidated stucco pillars into an unkempt forecourt surrounded by a high wall. They drew up in front of a peeling white door. Above a rusty bell-push in the door-frame, small zinc letters on a wooden base spelled out 'Les Noctambules' and, underneath, 'Sonnez SVP'. From what Bond could see of the cement frontage, the villa was typical of the French seaside style. He could imagine the dead blue-bottles being hastily swept out for the summer let and the stale rooms briefly aired by a cleaning woman sent by the estate agent in Royale. Every five years one coat of whitewash would be slapped over the rooms and the outside woodwork, and for a few weeks the villa would present a smiling front to the world. Then the winter rains would get to work, and the imprisoned flies, and quickly the villa would take on again its abandoned look. But, Bond reflected, it would admirably serve Le Chiffre's purpose this morning, if he was right in assuming what that was to be. They had passed no other house since his capture and from his reconnaissance of the day before he knew there was only an occasional farm for several miles to the south. As he was urged out of the car with a sharp crack in the ribs from the thin man's elbow, he knew that Le Chiffre could have them both to himself, undisturbed, for several hours. Again his skin crawled. Le Chiffre opened the door with a key and disappeared inside. Vesper, looking incredibly indecent in the early light of day, was pushed in after him with a torrent of lewd French from the man whom Bond knew to himself as 'the Corsican'. Bond followed without giving the thin man a chance to urge him. The key of the front door turned in the lock. Le Chiffre was standing in the doorway of a room on the right. He crooked a finger at Bond in a silent, spidery summons. Vesper was being led down a passage towards the back of the house. Bond suddenly decided. With a wild backward kick which connected with the thin man's shins and brought a whistle of pain from him he hurled himself down the passage after her. With only his feet as weapons, there was no plan in his mind except to do as much damage as possible to the two gunmen and be able to exchange a few


moving family at whose house they had lodged. "Are you house-ridding today, like everybody else?" They were, they said. It had been too rough a life for them at Flintcomb-Ash, and they had come away, almost without notice, leaving Groby to prosecute them if he chose. They told Tess their destination, and Tess told them hers. Marian leant over the load, and lowered her voice. "Do you know that the gentleman who follows 'ee--you'll guess who I mean--came to ask for 'ee at Flintcomb after you had gone? We didn't tell'n where you was, knowing you wouldn't wish to see him." "Ah--but I did see him!" Tess murmured. "He found me." "And do he know where you be going?" "I think so." "Husband come back?" "No." She bade her acquaintance goodbye--for the respective carters had now come out from the inn--and the two waggons resumed their journey in opposite directions; the vehicle whereon sat Marian, Izz, and the ploughman's family with whom they had thrown in their lot, being brightly painted, and drawn by three powerful horses with shining brass ornaments on their harness; while the waggon on which Mrs Durbeyfield and her family rode was a creaking erection that would scarcely bear the weight of the superincumbent load; one which had known no paint since it was made, and drawn by two horses only. The contrast well marked the difference between being fetched by a thriving farmer and conveying oneself whither no hirer waited one's coming. The distance was great--too great for a day's journey--and it was with the utmost difficulty that the horses performed it. Though they had started so early it was quite late in the afternoon when they turned the flank of an eminence which formed part of the upland called Greenhill. While the horses stood to stale and breathe themselves Tess looked around. Under the hill, and just ahead of them, was the half-dead townlet of their pilgrimage, Kingsbere, where lay those ancestors of whom her father had spoken and sung to painfulness: Kingsbere, the spot of all spots in the world which could be considered the d'Urbervilles' home, since they had resided there for full five hundred years. A man could be seen advancing from the outskirts towards them, and when he beheld the nature of their waggon-load he quickened his steps. "You be the woman they call Mrs Durbeyfield, I reckon?" he said to Tess's mother, who had descended to walk the remainder of the way. She nodded. "Though widow of the late Sir John d'Urberville, poor nobleman, if I cared for my rights; and returning to the domain of his forefathers." "Oh? Well, I know nothing about that; but if you be Mrs Durbeyfield, I am sent to tell 'ee that the rooms you wanted be let. We didn't know that you was coming till we got your letter this morning--when 'twas too late. But no doubt you can get other lodgings somewhere." The man had noticed the face of Tess, which had become ash-pale at his intelligence. Her mother looked hopelessly at fault.


past with us. And, mother mine, there's a thing you don't know and should--we are Harkonnens." Her mind did a terrifying thing: it blanked out as though it needed to shut off all sensation. But Paul's voice went on at that implacable pace, dragging her with it. "When next you find a mirror, study your face--study mine now. The traces are there if you don't blind yourself. Look at my hands, the set of my bones. And if none of this convinces you, then take my word for it. I've walked the future, I've looked at a record, I've seen a place, I have all the data. We're Harkonnens." "A . . . renegade branch of the family," she said. "That's it, isn't it? Some Harkonnen cousin who--" "You're the Baron's own daughter," he said, and watched the way she pressed her hands to her mouth. "The Baron sampled many pleasures in his youth, and once permitted himself to be seduced. But it was for the genetic purposes of the Bene Gesserit, by one of you." The way he said 'you' struck her like a slap. But it set her mind to working and she could not deny his words. So many blank ends of meaning in her past reached out now and linked. The daughter the Bene Gesserit wanted--it wasn't to end the old Atreides-Harkonnen feud, but to fix some genetic factor in their lines. What? She groped for an answer. As though he saw inside her mind, Paul said: "They thought they were reaching for me. But I'm not what they expected, and I've arrived before my time. And they don't know it." Jessica pressed her hands to her mouth. Great Mother! He's the Kwisatz Haderach! She felt exposed and naked before him, realizing then that he saw her with eyes from which little could be hidden. And that, she knew, was the basis of her fear. "You're thinking I'm the Kwisatz Haderach," he said. "Put that out of your mind. I'm something unexpected." I must get word out to one of the schools, she thought. The mating index may show what has happened. "They won't learn about me until it's too late," he said. She sought to divert him, lowered her hands and said: "We'll find a place among the Fremen?" "The Fremen have a saying they credit to Shai-hulud, Old Father Eternity," he said. "They say: 'Be prepared to appreciate what you meet.' " And he thought: Yes, mother mine--among the Fremen. You'll acquire the blue eyes and a callus beside your lovely nose from the filter tube to your stillsuit . . . and you'll bear my sister: St. Alia of the Knife. "If you're not the Kwisatz Haderach," Jessica said, "what--" "You couldn't possibly know," he said. "You won't believe it until you see it." And he thought: I'm a seed. He suddenly saw how fertile was the ground into which he had fallen, and with this realization, the terrible purpose filled him, creeping through the empty place within, threatening to choke him with grief. He


And thoughtful. And so sexy.” “What’s his last name? Have you googled him?” Without a smartphone or a computer, that simple universal background check has become a hassle for me. And I never thought to ask his last name. “Not yet,” I say. “You need to be careful, Lee.” Hazel’s pretty face is dark. “Sometimes people aren’t who they say they are. I should know.” This isn’t about me. And this isn’t about Jesse. “What happened with you and Benjamin?” I ask. Her head is lowered, eyes fixed on the rocky beach. “Do you know what Total Power Exchange is?” “No.” “Neither did I.” She looks at me then, her dark eyes shiny. “It’s a type of dominant/submissive relationship. Normally, couples have scenes, you know, moments where they play those roles. With TPE, it’s twenty-four seven.” “God…” “It’s usually consensual. If it works for both partners, then great. But it stopped working for me a long time ago. And Benjamin stopped caring what I wanted.” I’m without words, still unsure of what it all means, but Hazel continues. “When we first got together, we had a Master/slave contract. I outlined my limits, things that I would and wouldn’t do. He agreed to keep me safe, to never go too far. Aftercare was important to me. Cuddles and reassurance. But then… Benjamin broke the rules. He hurt me out of anger. He manipulated me and bullied me. And there was nothing I could do about it. My lack of consent made it more exciting for him.” My throat feels swollen, the words come out a croak. “Does he abuse you?” In response, she pulls down the back of her pants. I can just see the black and blue lashings on her buttocks. “Oh god, Hazel. I’m so sorry.” “The physical abuse isn’t the worst of it. It’s the mental torture. The constant fear. If he saw me right now… talking to you. I’d be locked up.” “Locked up where? How?” “There’s a soundproof room in our basement. It has no windows and a fortified door. That’s where he puts me when I’ve displeased him. That’s where he flogs me.” “That’s horrific! You have to leave!” “I can’t. He’d kill me. And our house is a fortress. There are cameras everywhere. He watches me all day from the office; he controls everything I do. I’m allowed to go for a run each day. To the gym or yoga a few times a week. Sometimes he lets me go for lunch with friends. But only women he approves of.” “You should go to the police, then.” She snorts. “Benjamin is powerful and connected. The police won’t take my side in this.” She swivels toward me, her eyes searching mine. “How did you do it? How did you disappear?” For me, there was no forethought or strategy. And it’s simple when no one cares about you. “I just… walked away.” “It’s not going to be that easy for me.” She reaches for my hand, grasps it so tightly it hurts. “Will you help me?” “Of course,”


withdraw and cross her arms over her chest. “That guy is so weird,” she said when, out of earshot, they were walking along the drive. “Don’t say that, Ella,” Maud said. “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Louise singsonged and waved her bouquet. “I know that,” Ella said. “It’s just—he kind of freaks me out. The way he looks without looking.” “I see what you mean,” Maud said. “But he’s nice. I promise. He’s just different.” Chris had looked at Ella the same way he looked at Louise, which was the same way that he sometimes looked at Maud or Gabriel or his father. There was nothing sexual to the gaze. But maybe it was enough to be stared at by a man for Ella to feel uncomfortable. As they took the shortcut through the orchard, Maud remembered visiting a public pool with her friend when she was eleven. There was one man on a plastic lounger who, every time they passed, would inspect them from head to toe with a half-smile on his face. She’d felt exposed, embarrassed, felt something was wrong, although she wasn’t sure what. Thirty years later, she could still see it clearly: the Coke balanced on the man’s hirsute belly, his thick purple lips and hungry eyes. At five o’clock, as she skewered chicken and peppers on kebab sticks in the kitchen, she listened tensely while Louise told Peter about how Gabriel had helped her and Ella catch a frog in the pond the previous night. “We let him go,” she said. “Because, you know, freedom and liberty.” Things with Gabriel and Ella had improved since Maud’s conversation with him at lunch. He’d eaten dinner with them several more times over the past week and had taken Maud’s advice, bringing no gifts and no longer trying to joke with Ella. Last night, when Louise asked Gabriel to help them catch the frog, Ella jumped up and said she’d get a jar from the house, and the four of them went to the pond until dark. “Sounds like your charming neighbor has become a regular,” Peter said when Maud took the phone back from Louise. “I hope you’re collecting rent.” She went out to the porch, shutting the door behind her. “He likes the girls,” she said, “and the girls like him.” “Clearly, you like him too.” “We’re friends,” she said. She noticed a wasp nest tucked under an eave, like a gray papier-mâché outcrop of coral. “Anyway, Peter. We’re separated.” “It’s a trial separation.” “It’s a separation.” The phone weighed down her hand. “And my feelings haven’t changed.” “Have you figured out how I’m going to support two households on my salary in the Bay Area?” Peter asked. “I’ll get a full-time job.” “That’s been going well.” It was the first time he’d struck out at her in months, and she almost enjoyed the blow, because it was real. “I’ll stop looking for historical work. I’ll be more open. I’ll do landscaping.” “You’d hate that.” “Then I’ll hate it.” “Is something going on with that


out a floor-length long-sleeved dress, her mother shook her head. “No way, this one would look like you’re coming from a convent.” “I think it will be nice.” “You’re a sisí, there is no reason to dress like an old woman. Look good o, there will be many eligible bachelors at that party, Láyí is inviting many of his friends from Lagos. Show your legs or your shoulders, this thing would cover your whole body.” “What about Kúnlé? Your good boy from a good family? You don’t like him again?” Wúràọlá asked. “I like him,” Yèyé said, “but this one, that after one year, you people are still doing boyfriend and girlfriend, maybe he is not your destined husband.” “Seriously? Destined?” Wúràọlá laughed. “Àfi destined husband, Yèyé o.” “Boyfriend and girlfriend when you people are not fifteen. I like him o, but he has not married you yet, he has not even engaged you, so we must keep our options open. Àbí, he has spoken to you about marriage, ni? Let me know quickly o, so I can plan.” Wúràọlá picked up another magazine and angled it towards the kerosene lantern. Kúnlé had talked about marriage a few times, but she was not about to tell her mother that just yet. She could do without the swarm of advice that would come first in person, then via text messages and phone calls that would wake her up at dawn. When she’d turned twenty-three and was, thanks to various university strikes, still in her third year of medical school, her mother had gone from telling her to face her books and not follow any foolish boys to being interested in every detail of her romantic life. It was one of the reasons she’d felt confident about allowing Nonso to come over. Wúràọlá was twenty-eight now, and though her mother had so far not talked to her about how thirty was looming, her aunties exercised no such restraint. Some of them had made it clear that Wúràọlá was already doing overtime as a single woman, twenty-five was the prime marriageable age, and after that she was past her sell-by date, might end up with a widower or worse a divorcé or, nightmare of all nightmares, alone. She had stopped picking up their calls more than a year ago, but most were undeterred and would often call her from an unknown number. It was disconcerting. To feel that she was already failing at something she did not even know until recently mattered so much to anyone. She had thought she knew what was required of her. Get good grades and become a doctor. But the closer she had gotten to earning a medical degree, the more it seemed to pale into nothingness in their estimation, since she didn’t have a man waiting to marry her when she was done. At her induction party, she had felt bewildered when her mother’s sisters told her to wait in the house until Kúnlé arrived so they could emerge to greet guests together. Two aunts had scrutinised the dress


very girly?” “Oh.” I frown. “I’m not actually sure.” Jo tilts her head, and I wonder if I’ve failed the interview. She smiles. “Still finding out who you are?” she asks. I consider her question. “I think I’m just starting to learn, actually.” * * * On my way home, Jo messages to say that after a phone call with Cam, they’ve decided the room is mine if I want it. And I do—the only problem is, they need someone ASAP. My options are to miss out on the room or start paying rent in a week’s time. Although it’s a great flat, this isn’t a decision to take lightly. I really have to consider whether— Mum Ghana Maddie a friend of mine has a son who is now single. His girlfriend died enough time ago. I’ll give him your number so the 2 of you can talk. Thanks. I send Jo the deposit straight from my savings account. * * * It’s not my day to give Dad his dinner and medication, but I text Dawoud that I will tonight, though if he can still come to put Dad to bed that would be great. Even with the prescription painkillers, my back still pinches slightly when I reach down. I make lasagna from scratch, taking out the cooked beef mince I made yesterday and layering the pasta with it, alternating with yogurt-based white sauce. I plate up a piece and add the usual side salad. “Time for dinner, Dad!” I gently kick the door open since my hands are full. “I made lasagna.” “Oh, goody,” Dad says. He smiles widely but isn’t looking directly at me. I feed him small bites and we watch a football match. I say, “Mum’s back on Thursday. Hopefully she’ll cook all your favorites.” I feed him another forkful and take a deep breath. “So I’m going to be moving out soon.” He continues to chew his food and watch the TV. “I’m going to be leaving home, Dad,” I say. “To live somewhere else? Is that okay?” Then I feel mean, as if I’m tricking him with the word “okay.” He says, “Hmmm,” but chews a little slower. I lower the fork I was going to offer him. My heart gently beats. “Can I?” I ask quietly. “Can I go, Dad?” He stops chewing and frowns. He’s trying to speak, but as usual right before his meds, his brain won’t allow him to form the words that must be on the tip of his tongue. “It’s a flat in Wandsworth,” I say, offering him more food. My eyes are suddenly stinging and my voice is a touch deeper. “Remember our first house in Battersea? Well, it’s walking distance from there.” I give him some salad and a player on the TV scores a goal. “I’m not leaving until Mum’s back, but you’ll hardly notice I’m gone!” His face is blank. “I’ll be coming to see you lots, to check up on you, okay?” He nods. There’s something about a penalty, but I have no idea


own. She was asking other people to put their lives on the line. Turner thought this was a holy war. Mercy wanted to wield the weapon that had been used against her. Tripp needed spending cash. And Dawes loved Darlington. He’d been her friend, one of the few who had bothered to take the time to know her and too dear to lose because of that. But what was Darlington to Alex? A mentor? A protector? An ally? None of those words seemed sufficient. Had some soft-boiled part of her fallen for the golden boy of Lethe? Or was this something less easily named than love or desire? “Do you remember when you walked me through the ingredients for Hiram’s elixir?” she asked. She could still see him standing over the golden crucible in the armory, his graceful hands moving in clean precision. He’d been lecturing her on the duties of Lethe, but she’d barely been listening. His sleeves were rolled up, and she’d been uncomfortably distracted by the shift of muscles in his forearms. She’d done her best to inoculate herself against Darlington’s beauty, but sometimes she still got caught off guard. “We stand between the living and the dead, Stern. We wield the sword no one else dares lift. And this is the reward.” “A chance at a painful death?” she’d asked. “Heathen,” he’d said with a shake of his head. “It’s our duty to fight, but more than that, it’s our duty to see what others won’t and never avert our eyes.” Now, standing in the ballroom, she said, “You didn’t turn away. Even when you didn’t like what you saw in me. You kept looking.” Darlington’s gaze shifted and flickered like firelight. Gold and then amber. Bright and then shadowed. “Maybe I know a fellow monster when I see one.” It felt like a cold hand shoving her away. Like a warning. She wasn’t stupid enough to ignore it. “Maybe,” Alex whispered. She made herself turn, leave the ballroom, walk down that dark hall. She forced herself not to run. Maybe they were just two killers, cursed to endure each other’s company, two doomed spirits trying to find their way home. Maybe they were monsters who liked the feeling of another monster looking back at them. But enough people had abandoned them both. She wasn’t going to be the next. Matching luminaries Provenance: Aquitaine, France; 11th century Donor: Manuscript, 1959 Believed to have been invented by heretical monks to hide forbidden texts. The glamour will remain strong for as long as the lanterns are lit. Those outside of the light’s reach will find their fear increasing as they draw closer. Ordinary candles may be used and refreshed accordingly. Donation made after storage above the Manuscript nexus created some kind of disturbance in the enchantment and two members of the 1957 delegation were lost for over a week in shadow. —from the Lethe Armory Catalogue as revised and edited by Pamela Dawes, Oculus Halloween is an evangelical holiday. If you don’t celebrate, you’re forced to hide from those who


a nutty chocolate protein bar and shape it using a hair dryer on a low setting), a hot dude bends down to pet him. As she does that thing where you have to turn the bag inside out so you don’t get any of the shit on your hand, she sees the hot dude and registers that it’s BRANDON (description: 20S, TALL, BLACK, MUSCULAR, and uhhhhhh, HOT). Sam stares up at him for too long without saying anything, which is exactly what I do: become fully paralyzed while in the proximity of a handsome person. But the hot dude isn’t important, he’s basically in here as an avatar for every single one of my high school classmates who I’d run into while they were home from college to passively remind me of my ongoing failure to fully realize my potential. Sam asks Brandon what he’s doing on this sad, regular-person street, and he goes into a whole thing about college, but here’s the main point of this Brandon character: to introduce the idea that Sam is a “writer” into the show. I really wrestled with the idea of my writing being a part of this show, and if it were up to just me, I don’t know that it would be. I mean, practically speaking, writing is boring. On the one hand, the only writing I was doing when I worked at the bakery was at night, after we closed, on the little computer in the upstairs office while the overnight crew was down in the kitchen making Danish and bread for the morning rush. I didn’t write anything of consequence, just elaborate romantic fantasies written as short stories featuring thinly veiled versions of myself. On the other, if you tune into a show about me (in hindsight, an absolute nightmare possibility!), you’re probably doing so because you’ve read something I’ve written, and it would be super weird if the writing went unacknowledged on the show. We reached a kind of compromise that is hard to explain, please bear with me as I struggle through the vision: TV Sam would be a mixture of nineteen-, twenty-five-, and thirty-two-year-old Actual Sam, working nineteen-year-old Sam’s job and boning twenty-five-year-old Sam’s sex partners and having thirty-two-year-old Sam’s burgeoning writing/performing career. Does that makes sense? I shudder thinking about walking people who’ve actually lived this life with me through their real-time fact-checking of all the events I creatively maneuvered into this show: “Dude, we were twenty-five at the same time and I know for a fact you did not [verb] [human male name] in the back of [type of vehicle] while wearing [unflattering article of clothing] after we left [nightclub name] high on [street drug]! Why are you lying on basic cable?” INT. PHARMACY—DAY Do you remember that old show Herman’s Head? As a kid I was obsessed with it, and as an old kid, I’m still fascinated by people’s interior monologues, all the little shit that runs through your mind as you go about your day. I thought it would be fun, especially in this


soak in the bathroom sink. Then, remembering the bloodstains on his own sleeve, he quickly strips off his shirt and puts it in there, too. He braces his hands on the edges of the sink and looks at his reflection, surprised to see that he looks normal, almost calm. He feels as if he’s been turned inside out, as if he just learned that a part of his heart is on the outside of his body, in the possession of somebody else entirely. * * * When he goes back out to the kitchen, Nick is still sitting on the edge of the table, staring at an empty spot on the wall. “Did you at least have dinner?” Andy asks. Nick cracks a smile, but stops with a wince. “No. I’m not hungry anyway, and I don’t think I could eat without messing my mouth up even more.” “Do you want to tell me what happened?” “Not really.” It looks like Nick’s mouth hurts when he talks, so Andy doesn’t pursue the topic. Instead he gestures to the couch. “Television?” He checks his watch. “The Tonight Show’s on.” Nick sits on the couch while Andy looks for an ice tray in the freezer. There isn’t one, which stands to reason since he doubts any part of this refrigerator gets below freezing. He takes out a cold bottle of beer and hands it to Nick. “Put this on your face. You’re already going to have a black eye and a fat lip.” Again, Nick does as he’s told, almost as if he’s glad to have someone fuss over him and boss him around a little. Andy likes it himself when Nick looks after him, but the shoe has never really been on the other foot. He doesn’t think he’s ever looked after anyone in his life, probably because someone who needed looking after would go to anyone in the world before they went to Andy. After turning on the television, Andy sits beside Nick. Usually he keeps to one side of the sofa, because it isn’t terribly large and it seems only polite not to crowd its actual owner. But today he plants himself right next to Nick, maybe because he wants to reassure himself that Nick is all right, maybe for other reasons. Maybe he just isn’t going to look too closely into any of his thoughts right now and instead watch some television. Nick falls asleep almost right away, promptly tipping over onto Andy’s shoulder. That can’t be comfortable, so Andy tugs him lower, until Nick is using Andy’s lap as a pillow. Andy doesn’t even try to pay attention to what’s happening on the television. Instead he brushes Nick’s hair off his forehead, and then—God, he hopes he isn’t being a creep—combs his fingers through Nick’s hair. Nick’s eyes blink open and Andy goes still. “No, keep doing that,” Nick mumbles into the fabric of Andy’s trousers. “Feels good.” And so Andy keeps doing it, careful to avoid any cuts or bruises, and lets his other hand rest on Nick’s


to be a while” with “I’m so excited about it.” Nat tells her all about walking in on me that first day mid–Fizzy googling before Ella interrupts to breathlessly explain that she isn’t a big reader but knows everything about every dating show ever and cannot wait for the show to start tonight. Ash mostly stands off to the side smiling at the countertop and trying not to make direct eye contact. I’ve been so wrapped up in the Fizzyness of the situation tonight I’ve barely let myself think about the show. But when it’s time and everyone crowds into my living room, the nerves finally kick in. Likewise, Fizzy declines food or a glass of wine, saying she’s not sure it will stay down. Everyone tries to get Fizzy to sit on the couch in the center of the room—she is the star, after all—but she insists it will only make her more anxious. She needs space to pace and possibly escape if needed. Everyone laughs, and that’s how Fizzy ends up standing in the back with me. The room falls into silence as the opening notes of the theme song play. The glossy True Love Experiment logo appears on the screen, followed by our host. Just as we hoped, Lanelle Turner is the perfect amount of funny and relatable as she introduces herself and explains the premise of the show. We’ll meet our Heroine, and her eight Heroes. Along with Fizzy, each contestant has undergone the popular DNADuo screening, and the results have been sealed. Not even the producers know the outcome. It will be up to the audience to follow each date and vote for who they think is Fizzy’s soulmate. Each week the votes will be tallied, and two Heroes will be eliminated. In the final episode, the DNADuo scores will be revealed, and we’ll see if the audience or science has been a better predictor of Fizzy’s soulmate. The Hero chosen by the audience will win a $100,000 cash prize, and, after the scores are revealed, Fizzy will have the chance to choose who she takes along for an all-expenses-paid trip to Fiji. Hopefully, the audience correctly chooses her true love and happily ever after. But first, the audience gets to meet River. When Lanelle mentions his name, the room around me fills with applause, the loudest—including a few catcalls and whistles—from Nat and Fizzy. When I asked Fizzy how she managed to convince him, she first told me she used nature’s credit card. When I didn’t get it— Sex, Connor. Oh my God, a dirty joke doesn’t work if I have to explain it! —she said she told him that by laying out the science himself, he controlled the narrative, and therefore how people would see it. It didn’t mean he was necessarily backing the show, only his technology. Now, footage of River walking through the halls of the Salk and working in a lab fills the screen, followed by a voiceover of him explaining the initial idea, and the years and years of research that