was homeless, on the run, he’d want nothing to do with me. I couldn’t blame him for it. And Hazel’s words of warning had sifted through my thoughts. Perhaps Jesse wasn’t the tender, considerate guy I thought he was. Maybe he didn’t care about me, after all. My friend had planted a seed of doubt, and Jesse’s failure to appear had let it fester. Every day I’d made the effort to shower and apply the makeup Hazel had given me, for nothing. But now he is here, looking casual and sexy and happy to see me. “Hey,” he says, sliding onto a stool at the bar. “Are you off at midnight?” I tell him I am. “Want to grab something to eat? There’s a great late-night ramen bar a few blocks from here. Or we could go somewhere closer to your place?” “Ramen sounds great.” Jesse orders a coffee, nurses it as I finish my shift with one eye trained on the clock. A table of drunk college kids is rude to me, and I see Jesse’s posture stiffen, feel him watching the situation. It’s nothing I can’t handle, but his protectiveness warms me. It’s been a long time since someone looked out for me. I drop off their bill, jittery with anticipation. We’re about to go on a real date. A date-date. With food. And I’m not going to nod off on him this time. If I end up back at Jesse’s apartment, it will be because I choose to go. When I’ve clocked out, Jesse suggests we walk. “It’s a nice night. And I’ll walk you back to your car after.” It’s respectful, even chivalrous, but part of me is hoping I’ll spend the night with him. His soft bed, the coffee and muffins. And now that I’m feeling better, I can’t deny my attraction to him. My sex drive had been extinguished by the stress of running away, of surviving without a home. But as I stroll the streets with Jesse’s body mere inches away, it returns with a vengeance. Pheromones are at work. And I’m hungry for physical affection, starved for that connection. The restaurant is tiny with rough-hewn wooden booths, the windows coated with steam from the boiling vats of soup. We are led to a cramped table near the kitchen where we order two bowls of the special and two frosty Japanese beers. As our waitress leaves, Jesse speaks. “I would have come to see you sooner, but I knew you were sick. I thought I should let you recover. Did you take some time off?” So, he hadn’t forgotten about me. “I bounced back pretty quickly,” I say. “Thanks to that orange.” He chuckles, though the joke is overdone now. Two brown bottles of beer are plunked on the table. We clink them together and drink. The liquid is cold and sharp and delicious. The first sip of alcohol settles my nerves, but I must take it in slowly. “Where did you grow up, Lee?” It’s a normal first- or sort of second-date question, but


side of the center with deadly accuracy. The perimeters of my vision blurred. When I opened my eyes, the fake sky greeted me. Arin’s head moved over the sun. He glowered at me. “I’ll need a moment,” I said casually. “You need more than a moment.” He reached down, and the room spun again as I was hauled upright. My traitorous legs buckled. Arin caught me with an arm around my waist, his frown deepening. Plastered to his side and weightless, I opened my mouth to shriek obscenities directly into his ear, then reconsidered. Why bother? I didn’t have the energy for a respectable tantrum. His body was a solid line against my own. This was the closest I’d been to a man I wasn’t trying to stab. The closest I had been to anyone not actively trying to kill me, actually. How depressing. I waited for the swell of panic to hit at his touch. I had chalked up its absence the last time he touched me as a fluke. I was too distracted wondering if he would snap my neck to consider panicking. But he was touching me now and—nothing. No panic. Still plenty of discomfort, though. The moment we were near enough, I wriggled away, stumbling toward my bed. Arin did not prevaricate. “Wes and Jeru will accompany you to Mahair. They will be nearby throughout the day, but I will instruct them to give you your privacy.” “Mahair? I’ve been asking you to let me visit for weeks, and you choose now? We cannot afford the time.” “It is less than half a day’s ride away. I had them prepare the horses.” My jaw dropped. I had been less than half a day’s ride away from Mahair this entire time? I stared at Arin until it hit me. “You feel guilty.” I burst into laughter, which promptly devolved into hacking coughs. “The famed Commander feels guilty for nearly killing a village girl. Don’t worry, I don’t think Sefa is upset with you.” “Are you quite finished?” “Are you?” I countered. “My magic is weak and uncertain. We finally have an advantage, and the Champions’ Banquet is in two weeks. We should be capitalizing on this.” I formed a circle around my wrists, kneading my cuffs. A vein in Arin’s forehead jumped. “Don’t misunderstand me. I wasn’t offering. You will be going to Mahair tomorrow. If I discover you attempted to practice on your own—” “If this is about Sefa—” “I don’t give a damn about the girl!” Arin shouted, shocking me into silence. The outburst clearly took him by surprise as well. He locked his jaw. I had never seen the Nizahl Heir struggle to express himself—I’d venture few had. The tips of his gloved fingers formed a steeple on the table’s surface. “Martyrs don’t survive the Alcalah.” “Can’t you tell the difference between a martyr and a mercenary?” “I thought I had employed the latter. You have proven me wrong.” I rubbed my temples, blocking out the incoming migraine and the tantalizing pillows in my periphery. “How?


might have been 'What's the matter?' 'I dreamt--' he began, and stopped short. It was too complex to be put into words. There was the dream itself, and there was a memory connected with it that had swum into his mind in the few seconds after waking. He lay back with his eyes shut, still sodden in the atmosphere of the dream. It was a vast, luminous dream in which his whole life seemed to stretch out before him like a landscape on a summer evening after rain. It had all occurred inside the glass paperweight, but the surface of the glass was the dome of the sky, and inside the dome everything was flooded with clear soft light in which one could see into interminable distances. The dream had also been comprehended by--indeed, in some sense it had consisted in--a gesture of the arm made by his mother, and made again thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the news film, trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets, before the helicopter blew them both to pieces. 'Do you know,' he said, 'that until this moment I believed I had murdered my mother?' 'Why did you murder her?' said Julia, almost asleep. 'I didn't murder her. Not physically.' In the dream he had remembered his last glimpse of his mother, and within a few moments of waking the cluster of small events surrounding it had all come back. It was a memory that he must have deliberately pushed out of his consciousness over many years. He was not certain of the date, but he could not have been less than ten years old, possibly twelve, when it had happened. His father had disappeared some time earlier, how much earlier he could not remember. He remembered better the rackety, uneasy circumstances of the time: the periodical panics about air-raids and the sheltering in Tube file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (88 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt stations, the piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible proclamations posted at street corners, the gangs of youths in shirts all the same colour, the enormous queues outside the bakeries, the intermittent machine-gun fire in the distance--above all, the fact that there was never enough to eat. He remembered long afternoons spent with other boys in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps, picking out the ribs of cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes even scraps of stale breadcrust from which they carefully scraped away the cinders; and also in waiting for the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were known to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted over the bad patches in the road, sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake. When his father disappeared, his mother did not show any surprise or any violent grief, but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have become completely spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for something that she knew must happen. She did everything that was needed--cooked, washed, mended, made the bed, swept the floor,


rose. I wished I hadn't laughed so much. I feel all wet. --O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing! And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly. By Cantwell's offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi's virgins, bright of their oils. Nannetti's father hawked those things about, wheedling at doors as I. Religion pays. Must see him for that par. Eat first. I want. Not yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing. Clockhands turning. On. Where eat? The Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I net five guineas with those ads. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet. The sweets of sin. Flushed less, still less, goldenly paled. Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips off one of his rocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled. --O, welcome back, miss Douce. He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays? --Tiptop. He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor. --Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am. Lying out on the strand all day. Bronze whiteness. --That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed her hand indulgently. Tempting poor simple males. Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away. --O go away! she said. You're very simple, I don't think. He was. --Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they christened me simple Simon. --You must have been a doaty, miss Douce made answer. And what did the doctor order today? --Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I'll trouble you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky. Jingle. --With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed. With grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane's she turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold whisky from her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalus brought pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky fifenotes. --By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must be a great tonic in the air down there. But a long threatening comes at last, they say. Yes. Yes. Yes. He fingered shreds of hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid's, into the bowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute. None nought said nothing. Yes. Gaily miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling: --O, IDOLORES, QUEEN OF THE EASTERN SEAS! --Was Mr Lidwell in today? In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. Mr Bloom reached Essex bridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write. Buy paper. Daly's. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue bloom is on the rye. --He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce said. Lenehan came forward. --Was Mr Boylan looking for me? He asked. She answered: --Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs? She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised, her gaze upon a page: --No. He was not. Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the sandwichbell wound his round body round. --Peep! Who's in the corner? No


jerkin and the white flesh of his belly and came out between his shoulder blades. The boy dropped the pitchfork and made a soft noise, something between a gasp and a sigh. His hands closed around the blade. "Oh, gods," he moaned, as his undertunic began to redden. "Take it out." When she took it out, he died. The horses were screaming. Arya stood over the body, still and frightened in the face of death. Blood had gushed from the boy's mouth as he collapsed, and more was seeping from the slit in his belly, pooling beneath his body. His palms were cut where he'd grabbed at the blade. She backed away slowly, Needle red in her hand. She had to get away, someplace far from here, someplace safe away from the stableboy's accusing eyes. She snatched up the bridle and harness again and ran to her mare, but as she lifted the saddle to the horse's back, Arya realized with a sudden sick dread that the castle gates would be closed. Even the postern doors would likely be guarded. Maybe the guards wouldn't recognize her. If they thought she was a boy, perhaps they'd let her . . . no, they'd have orders not to let anyone out, it wouldn't matter whether they knew her or not. But there was another way out of the castle . . . The saddle slipped from Arya's fingers and fell to the dirt with a thump and a puff of dust. Could she find the room with the monsters again? She wasn't certain, yet she knew she had to try. She found the clothing she'd gathered and slipped into the cloak, concealing Needle beneath its folds. The rest of her things she tied in a 474 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN roll. With the bundle under her arm, she crept to the far end of the stable. Unlatching the back door, she peeked out anxiously. She could hear the distant sound of swordplay, and the shivery wail of a man screaming in pain across the bailey. She would need to go down the serpentine steps, past the small kitchen and the pig yard, that was how she'd gone last time, chasing the black tomcat . . . only that would take her right past the barracks of the gold cloaks. She couldn't go that way. Arya tried to think of another way. If she crossed to the other side of the castle, she could creep along the river wall and through the little godswood . . . but first she'd have to cross the yard, in the plain view of the guards on the walls. She had never seen so many men on the walls. Gold cloaks, most of them, armed with spears. Some of them knew her by sight. What would they do if they saw her running across the yard? She'd look so small from up there, would they be able to tell who she was? Would they care? She had to leave now, she told herself, but when the moment came, she was


her foot. "My Ayah did it," answered Mary, staring. "It was the custom." She said that very often--"It was the custom." The native servants were always saying it. If one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, "It is not the custom" and one knew that was the end of the matter. It had not been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her--things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking up things she let fall. If Martha had been a well-trained fine young lady's maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away. She was, however, only an untrained Yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things. If Mary Lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would perhaps have laughed at Martha's readiness to talk, but Mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner. At first she was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered, homely way, Mary began to notice what she was saying. "Eh! you should see 'em all," she said. "There's twelve of us an' my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell you my mother's put to it to get porridge for 'em all. They tumble about on th' moor an' play there all day an' mother says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em. She says she believes they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponies do. Our Dickon, he's twelve years old and he's got a young pony he calls his own." "Where did he get it?" asked Mary. "He found it on th' moor with its mother when it was a little one an' he began to make friends with it an' give it bits o' bread an' pluck young grass for it. And it got to like him so it follows him about an' it lets him get on its back. Dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes him." Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one. So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. When she went into the room which had


bag which hung upon her arm by a heavy chain, and shut up like a bite. I had never, at that time, seen such a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone was. She was brought into the parlour with many tokens of welcome, and there formally recognized my mother as a new and near relation. Then she looked at me, and said: 'Is that your boy, sister-in-law?' My mother acknowledged me. 'Generally speaking,' said Miss Murdstone, 'I don't like boys. How d'ye do, boy?' Under these encouraging circumstances, I replied that I was very well, and that I hoped she was the same; with such an indifferent grace, that Miss Murdstone disposed of me in two words: 'Wants manner!' Having uttered which, with great distinctness, she begged the favour of being shown to her room, which became to me from that time forth a place of awe and dread, wherein the two black boxes were never seen open or known to be left unlocked, and where (for I peeped in once or twice when she was out) numerous little steel fetters and rivets, with which Miss Murdstone embellished herself when she was dressed, generally hung upon the looking-glass in formidable array. As well as I could make out, she had come for good, and had no intention of ever going again. She began to 'help' my mother next morning, and was in and out of the store-closet all day, putting things to rights, and making havoc in the old arrangements. Almost the first remarkable thing I observed in Miss Murdstone was, her being constantly haunted by a suspicion that the servants had a man secreted somewhere on the premises. Under the influence of this delusion, she dived into the coal-cellar at the most untimely hours, and scarcely ever opened the door of a dark cupboard without clapping it to again, in the belief that she had got him. Though there was nothing very airy about Miss Murdstone, she was a perfect Lark in point of getting up. She was up (and, as I believe to this hour, looking for that man) before anybody in the house was stirring. Peggotty gave it as her opinion that she even slept with one eye open; but I could not concur in this idea; for I tried it myself after hearing the suggestion thrown out, and found it couldn't be done. On the very first morning after her arrival she was up and ringing her bell at cock-crow. When my mother came down to breakfast and was going to make the tea, Miss Murdstone gave her a kind of peck on the cheek, which was her nearest approach to a kiss, and said: 'Now, Clara, my dear, I am come here, you know, to relieve you of all the trouble I can. You're much too pretty and thoughtless' - my mother blushed but laughed, and seemed not to dislike this character - 'to have any duties imposed upon you that can be undertaken by me. If you'll be so good as give me your keys, my


so it made the cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. I got so down-hearted and scared I did wish I had some company. Pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled up. I didn't need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn't no confidence. You do that when you've lost a horseshoe that you've found, instead of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you'd killed a spider. I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn't know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go boom -- boom -- boom -- twelve licks; and all still again -- stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees -- something was a stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could just barely hear a "me-yow! me- yow!" down there. That was good! Says I, "me- yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me. CHAPTER II. WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then he says: "Who dah?" He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right between us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. There was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but I


you really want. I’ll support you in any way I can.” Chapter 44 I reached the captain’s mount and took a seat, eyes locked onto the halo display. “We’re just entering the asteroid field, Captain,” Grimes said. “Yeah, well, there’s no clear path to Adams,” Akari added. “This field has obviously moved, drifted, since Lincoln traversed this rocky maze almost a decade ago. I’ll try to use rail guns sparingly.” A sudden burst of rail spikes eviscerated an asteroid the size of the Hub Gunther, clearing their slow, methodical progression deeper into the field. Seeing Akari’s profile, I glimpsed a smile—at least someone still loved her job here. Bosun Polk joined me at the captain’s mount. “Sitrep, Bosun?” “The crew is … begrudgingly making preparations to abandon ship. Only what someone can carry with them on their person goes onboard Lincoln.” “Let’s dedicate extra resources to HealthBay … kid gloves when it comes to moving the patients—” “Met with Doc Viv an hour ago; we’ll be using hovercarts to move the patients. They’ll hardly know they’re being moved.” I looked over to Polk. “Wait, she didn’t have a problem with moving them?” Polk hitched a shoulder. “I guess, but no more than anyone else has a problem with the move.” Viv’s vehement reaction earlier … What was all that about? “Just make sure anything she wants to take with her, MediBots, specialized equipment, her medication stores; hell, if she wants the deck plates—make sure it’s moved over.” “Don’t worry, Cap … We’ll take care of your … um, Doc Viv.” Polk’s cheeks flushed, catching herself misspeaking. Another burst of rail spikes shattered an even larger asteroid, Adams’ shields coming alive as an influx of gravel pieces peppered the protective barrier. I let Polk’s comment go unanswered but was curious as to what she’d almost said. My what? My main squeeze? My girlfriend? Perhaps that was the problem. Hell, if I didn’t know … Chen said, “I have confirmation both Portent and Wrath have entered the asteroid field behind us.” The halo display segmented, Hardy’s form now prominent. “My sensors are tingling.” “Okay, not sure what we’re supposed to do with that bit of news?” I said. “Liquilids are on the move. Not slow and unhurried like before. They’re making a mad dash for us.” Akari stole a quick look back at me. “He’s not wrong. Sir Calvin just pinged an alert … realizing the same thing.” “That’s all we need, to come under attack just as we’re jumping ship.” “The good news is those red ships are way too big to navigate this field,” Akari said, firing another burst of rail spikes. “Frigates are another story, though,” Hardy said. “Our timetable just narrowed. Substantially.” I looked over to the helm station. “Mr. Grimes, any possibility we can kick up our speed?” He looked to Akari; her ability to clear the way dictated much of Adams’ progress. She nodded. “Pedal to the metal. I can handle it.” I turned my attention back to Hardy. “What’s the situation with the quantum flux reverser?” “Coogong


to leak. I pull myself up on the arm of a chair. “I’m not a cop,” I say, because it was ready in my mouth and I have to say something. “I know,” Maurice says, and punches me in the face. His fist is like a solid block of stone. Of course it is. There’s only one way he’s mobile right now. He’s been in a T7 suite: bone surgery, muscle graft, and a few microdoses to join it all together. He’s probably only about seventy-five percent healed, but he’s also an extra twenty kilos of bone and muscle already, maybe the new carbon tube bone struts. And he got the first shot in. Sam would say this is what happens when you’re not professional about everything. I wish he was here. * * * — I can’t fight a two-dose Titan bare-handed from a standing start. I need an edge. I’ve always known that. I fight fast, smart and hard, because the longer it goes on and the fairer it is, the more likely I am to lose. This isn’t even fair; it’s tilted the other way already. I let Maurice’s next punch throw me across the room. I lose track for a moment in mid-air, fight to stay conscious, then come back to a big-style tumble with lots of furniture. A table smashes under me, thank god not made of glass, just old dry wood, local work. I could die here. Hell, maybe I already have and I’m just catching up. I go into my pocket and hope like hell what I’m looking for hasn’t fallen out in all the commotion: the folding corkscrew Athena gave me on our first anniversary. In my pocket, with my left hand, I flip it open, then grip it as if I’m going to uncork something two and a half metres tall and north of two hundred kilos. I don’t want Maurice to see it before I’m ready. He’s having a fine old time stalking me through the mess in Elaine’s living room. She’s saying something, but he’s ignoring her, because he has a plan. I’m pretty sure it goes: kill Cal in front of Elaine, receive her eternal gratitude and admiration. I’m pretty sure his whole thing this last while has been covering for Elaine. He knew she killed Roddy and everything he did was to keep that from everyone else. I’m pretty sure she never asked him to. As if she’d need him to cover for her: Elaine Tonfamecasca, killing the man who almost murdered her, who came back into her life under another name. I doubt it would even go to trial. “Get up,” he tells me, “I want you to see this one coming.” I get to my feet slowly, as if I’m worse off than I am. It’s not hard, because I’m worse off than I want to believe. There’s a lot of blood coming down out of the bullet wound. I already know it’s going to get worse. I need him to overcommit. Trouble is, he doesn’t have


it did, the body slowly sank back down, the unnatural bend of the waist lessening by incremental degrees. She fed death to the corpse and laid it slowly to rest again. Lore slumped on the floor, pins and needles sweeping down her whole body as her blood quickened again, itchy and uncomfortable. Her breath heaved, her heart working overtime after tithing its beat. Gabe came to her. Knelt before her, pulled her up by the shoulders, stared into her face. “I’m fine,” Lore rasped, an answer to the question Gabe hadn’t asked. Not quite true, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. “It worked, and I’m fine.” The vault door opened, like Bastian somehow knew it was done. He walked in, stopped when he saw Lore and Gabe on the floor. He didn’t ask her if she was fine. Didn’t show any kind of concern. Because he knows exactly what you are. He knew channeling Mortem was as familiar to her hands as their heartlines. Light filtered in through the now-open door, dawn blushing the sky beyond the glass-domed roof. They needed to get out of here. She’d done what she had to do. But Gabe didn’t move, still holding her shoulders, eyes moving from her face to the body on the slab. “What did he mean?” he asked quietly. “When he said find the others, that they weren’t destroyed?” “He had to be talking about the other bodies from the villages,” she murmured, voice hoarse. She knew she was right, knew it with the same celldeep awareness that pulled her to Gabe, pulled her to Bastian. “They weren’t burned. August and Anton are keeping them somewhere.” Footnotes 1 Earliest Compendium translation. Modern Compendiums have eliminated Tracts 690–821; these Tracts can only be found in Compendiums made immediately after being dictated by Apollius (1 AGF). CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Catastrophes come in waves. —Auverrani proverb Sleep clawed at the corners of Lore’s eyes, but she didn’t let them droop. At least she tried not to; every few moments, her view of the sitting room in her and Gabe’s apartments would dim, and she had to remind herself to stay awake. They’d parted ways with Bastian after the vaults; even he was yawning by then. The Sun Prince hadn’t said anything to them, just split off in the opposite direction as they turned toward the southeast turret. Both of them had been too tired to comment then, but apparently the climb up to the apartment had reinvigorated Gabe. “It doesn’t make sense.” Gabe ran his hands over his shorn hair, elbows on his knees. He was too large for their couch, really, and angry confusion only made him seem larger. “There’s no reason for Anton or August to lie about what they’re doing with the bodies.” Lore shrugged, seated cross-legged in front of the fire, slumped over and propping her chin on her hand. “So you think I’m wrong?” “I didn’t say that.” Gabe looked up, flames reflecting in his one visible eye. She watched him toss words back and forth in his


says suddenly, and grabs the sleeve of my coat. There’s that zing again, that crackle like a sparkler on Bonfire Night. I thought I understood it, but now I’m officially confused. I don’t have time to overthink, though, because Celine is dragging me to a pair of chairs at the edge of a back row. There’s more space in this section, probably because the view of the room’s stage isn’t great. “Here?” I wrinkle my nose. “How are we supposed to make friends and influence people if we sit all by ourselves?” I think Celine shudders in disgust. “We’re here to listen, not to talk.” Actually, I’m always ready to talk. “If you say so.” We sink into our seats and I squint at the stage. “Can you see?” “Do you care?” she shoots back with faux sweetness. Honestly, it’s like blood from a stone. “No.” I turn firmly away from her bullshit, craning my neck to see past the hair of the guy in front of me. There’s a blank screen above the stage, and as I watch, the lights lower and the words Breakspeare Enrichment Program rise. Then a lady in a slick, peacock-blue suit strides onto the stage, all swishy hair and piercing dark eyes. She raises the mic and says, “Good afternoon, guys. I’m Katharine—” There’s a cheer. A literal cheer, like she’s a rock star. I slide a look at Celine; she’s not making a sound, but she is watching Katharine Breakspeare with a bright nervousness I haven’t seen in years, all her attention (and let me tell you, Celine’s attention is intense) trained toward that stage like a spotlight. She sits up straight like there’s a rod against her spine. I used to think it was cute, how she took everything so seriously. Until I decided I wanted to make new friends and do new things and be someone other than Bradley of Bradley-and-Celine, and she very seriously dropped me like a hot potato. I really need to change seats in Philosophy. Celine’s always smelled like vanilla cocoa butter, and scents trigger memory. “Wow,” Katharine is saying with a muted aw-shucks vibe that feels a bit too on-the-nose, “I take it you’ve heard of me.” A completely unreasonable amount of laughter floods the room. I roll my eyes and glance at Celine, Queen of Interpersonal Skepticism. She analyzes every single thing I do and say with grave suspicion, but right now, she’s eating this crap up. Katharine Breakspeare must be a wizard. “But this isn’t about me,” Katharine goes on. Then she clicks something in her hand and the slide behind her displays a list of her latest and greatest accomplishments, plus a giant picture of her face. “Or rather,” she corrects, “it’s not just about me—it’s about all of us. Everyone, past and present and future, who dares to dream bigger than the world around us. When I was at school, no one ever believed I could make something of myself.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. I wonder what she gets out of this, besides the PR


but I told him I fell in the river, and that was what made me so long. I knowed he would see I was wet, and then he would be asking questions. We got five catfish off the lines and went home. While we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of us being about wore out, I got to thinking that if I could fix up some way to keep pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer thing than trust- ing to luck to get far enough off before they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might happen. Well, I didn't see no way for a while, but by and by pap raised up a minute to drink another barrel of water, and he says: "Another time a man comes a-prowling round here you roust me out, you hear? That man warn't here for no good. I'd a shot him. Next time you roust me out, you hear?" Then he dropped down and went to sleep again; but what he had been saying give me the very idea I wanted. I says to myself, I can fix it now so nobody won't think of following me. About twelve o'clock we turned out and went along up the bank. The river was coming up pretty fast, and lots of driftwood going by on the rise. By and by along comes part of a log raft -- nine logs fast together. We went out with the skiff and towed it ashore. Then we had dinner. Anybody but pap would a waited and seen the day through, so as to catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. Nine logs was enough for one time; he must shove right over to town and sell. So he locked me in and took the skiff, and started off towing the raft about half- past three. I judged he wouldn't come back that night. I waited till I reckoned he had got a good start; then I out with my saw, and went to work on that log again. Before he was t'other side of the river I was out of the hole; him and his raft was just a speck on the water away off yonder. I took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid, and shoved the vines and branches apart and put it in; then I done the same with the side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. I took all the coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; I took the wadding; I took the bucket and gourd; I took a dipper and a tin cup, and my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. I took fish-lines and matches and other things -- everything that was worth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I wanted an axe, but there wasn't any, only the one out at the woodpile, and I knowed why I was going to leave that. I


lowest days of that addiction had been erratic; there had been moments when he said he could feel bugs under his skin, and one time when he saw flashing lights. He’d kicked the habit, but there had been one relapse a few years ago. “Okay, look, come with me,” Tristán said, grabbing Montserrat by the arm and pulling her with him. They stood next to the bathroom’s doorway and looked inside. Folded towels were stacked on a shelf, and there was a wicker hamper for the dirty laundry and a fluffy bathroom mat by the sliding shower door. “What?” Montserrat asked, unable to discern an oddity. If anything, Tristán could be accused of being a little too neat. “When I left my house the taps were closed. But look now.” Montserrat starred at the thin trickle of water going down the sink’s drain. “You probably left the tap open when you left.” “I did not. Someone was in this apartment.” Montserrat stepped into the bathroom, taking one more look around, then reached for the tap and closed it. She glanced at the mirror and saw Tristán’s troubled face reflected there. “I’m not lying, Momo,” he said. “I know,” she said, turning around and clutching his hand between hers. 10 “Have a drink,” Urueta told them, his hands flying toward the bottle and the glass. But Tristán shook his head. “You need to tell us what this is about,” he said, brandishing the envelope, which the director had simply tossed aside on one of the couches and Tristán had snatched up immediately. “It’s nothing bad. A protective spell.” “You order them from a catalogue or what?” Urueta laughed. One of the feathers from the envelope had adhered to his shirt, and he carefully removed it. “I became uninterested in magic practices after Ewers’s death, but others continued their studies. My friend José López was one of them. I mentioned we cast a spell, and he sent this as a gift. It’s no different than buying a bracelet against the evil eye.” “Why would you want a bracelet against the evil eye? You didn’t say that would be necessary,” he said and extended his hand, holding out the envelope. Urueta took it, peering into its interior. He set it down on the bar cart and continued mixing his drink, his brow furrowed. “It’s not. What’s wrong?” Urueta asked. “Tristán saw something,” Montserrat said. “Can you be more specific?” Tristán was a bit of a coward, always had been, and he was not ashamed to admit it. That was why, when they were kids, he’d depended on Montserrat. Even with her limp and her small stature she’d had no qualms about standing up to the other kids or engaging in mischief. She was the one who invited him to run past the train tracks and break into the grain storage facilities. Therefore, it was hardly surprising that he merely stared at Abel, not wishing to say it out loud. “Tell him,” Montserrat whispered. Tristán licked his lips. “I saw my girlfriend standing in my apartment.


world leaders would travel in armoured motorcades with scores of protection officers, each of the senators was accompanied by two cold-survival specialists, men and women who carried tents, ropes, distress flares, ice axes, food rations – bodyguards against the cold, experts on the dangers of the Antarctic winds and the trickery of the snows. On duty they never took their backpacks off, even when they were inside, as if as fearful of being separated from their equipment as they were of being separated from their senator. President Mues had visited these chambers hundreds of times, holding discussions with the project leaders, studying the progress of these ice-adapted species. She’d never been able to call them people. She didn’t want to befriend them or feel close to them – it was essential she remain objective. She was here to answer a series of questions. What could they do to help ordinary-born people survive? Could they mine the Transantarctic Mountains or master the art of ice architecture? Embedded in her thinking was a reluctance to see them as equals: it was hard for her to shake the desire for an Antarctic servant. An intelligent, dutiful and hard-working class of citizen, impervious to the cold and steady-minded during the winter darkness, a labourer who could toil the year round with no need to shelter during the coldest months so that when humankind emerged from its annual hibernation it would discover all the things that had been built during its absence. For years the creatures had been held in limbo under the ice, studied and scrutinized, a drain on humanity’s dwindling resources, species that to date had provided nothing but scientific curiosity in return. As someone who hated making rash decisions, President Mues doubted her suitability as leader for this moment, her mind drifting back to when she’d been a little girl, swimming in the lakes of Berlin during the long hot summers, joyously simple childhood years, growing up with a love of literature and no aspirations for power. That it was she who’d end up at the helm of humankind was unfathomable. Of course, it would never have happened if the world hadn’t been turned upside down. Nonetheless, here she was, watching as Yotam Penzak entered the creature’s enclosure. MCMURDO CITY FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS EITAN’S ENCLOSURE SAME DAY NO LONGER TRUSTED TO ACT independently, Yotam was flanked by six security officers. At the bottom of the ladder, he unlocked the cage and turned around, looking up at the line of senators judging him. He felt an irrational impulse to wave at them as though they were his friends. Perhaps he was going mad. It was possible; it happened like this, suddenly and without warning, eccentricities and unexplained gestures. He needed to hold his composure. He’d promised Song Fu that he’d protect her creation at all costs. She’d been right: ordinary people did fear them. They despised this species for the very same reason they’d made them – because they were different. Of course, he appreciated the complexity of the president’s predicament and the simplicity of


hints. He reproached Philip for laziness, asked him when he was going to start work, and finally began telling everyone he met that Philip was going to paint him. At last there came a rainy day, and after breakfast Mr. Carey said to Philip: "Now, what d'you say to starting on my portrait this morning?" Philip put down the book he was reading and leaned back in his chair. "I've given up painting," he said. "Why?" asked his uncle in astonishment. "I don't think there's much object in being a second-rate painter, and I came to the conclusion that I should never be anything else." "You surprise me. Before you went to Paris you were quite certain that you were a genius." "I was mistaken," said Philip. "I should have thought now you'd taken up a profession you'd have the pride to stick to it. It seems to me that what you lack is perseverance." Philip was a little annoyed that his uncle did not even see how truly heroic his determination was. "'A rolling stone gathers no moss,'" proceeded the clergyman. Philip hated that proverb above all, and it seemed to him perfectly meaningless. His uncle had repeated it often during the arguments which had preceded his departure from business. Apparently it recalled that occasion to his guardian. "You're no longer a boy, you know; you must begin to think of settling down. First you insist on becoming a chartered accountant, and then you get tired of that and you want to become a painter. And now if you please you change your mind again. It points to..." He hesitated for a moment to consider what defects of character exactly it indicated, and Philip finished the sentence. "Irresolution, incompetence, want of foresight, and lack of determination." The Vicar looked up at his nephew quickly to see whether he was laughing at him. Philip's face was serious, but there was a twinkle in his eyes which irritated him. Philip should really be getting more serious. He felt it right to give him a rap over the knuckles. "Your money matters have nothing to do with me now. You're your own master; but I think you should remember that your money won't last for ever, and the unlucky deformity you have doesn't exactly make it easier for you to earn your living." Philip knew by now that whenever anyone was angry with him his first thought was to say something about his club-foot. His estimate of the human race was determined by the fact that scarcely anyone failed to resist the temptation. But he had trained himself not to show any sign that the reminder wounded him. He had even acquired control over the blushing which in his boyhood had been one of his torments. "As you justly remark," he answered, "my money matters have nothing to do with you and I am my own master." "At all events you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I was justified in my opposition when you made up your mind to become an


raised his voice and shook his fist. "_Mais, nom de Dieu_, I can't teach you. I could more easily teach a camel." He turned to Mrs. Otter. "Ask her, does she do this for amusement, or does she expect to earn money by it?" "I'm going to earn my living as an artist," Miss Price answered. "Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time. It would not matter that you have no talent, talent does not run about the streets in these days, but you have not the beginning of an aptitude. How long have you been here? A child of five after two lessons would draw better than you do. I only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt. You're more likely to earn your living as a _bonne a tout faire_ than as a painter. Look." He seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it to the paper. He cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines. He drew rapidly and spoke at the same time, spitting out the words with venom. "Look, those arms are not the same length. That knee, it's grotesque. I tell you a child of five. You see, she's not standing on her legs. That foot!" With each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the drawing upon which Fanny Price had spent so much time and eager trouble was unrecognisable, a confusion of lines and smudges. At last he flung down the charcoal and stood up. "Take my advice, Mademoiselle, try dressmaking." He looked at his watch. "It's twelve. _A la semaine Prochaine, messieurs_." Miss Price gathered up her things slowly. Philip waited behind after the others to say to her something consolatory. He could think of nothing but: "I say, I'm awfully sorry. What a beast that man is!" She turned on him savagely. "Is that what you're waiting about for? When I want your sympathy I'll ask for it. Please get out of my way." She walked past him, out of the studio, and Philip, with a shrug of the shoulders, limped along to Gravier's for luncheon. "It served her right," said Lawson, when Philip told him what had happened. "Ill-tempered slut." Lawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid it, never went to the studio when Foinet was coming. "I don't want other people's opinion of my work," he said. "I know myself if it's good or bad." "You mean you don't want other people's bad opinion of your work," answered Clutton dryly. In the afternoon Philip thought he would go to the Luxembourg to see the pictures, and walking through the garden he saw Fanny Price sitting in her accustomed seat. He was sore at the rudeness with which she had met his well-meant attempt to say something pleasant, and passed as though he had not caught sight of her. But she got up at once and came towards him. "Are you trying to cut me?" she said. "No,


directly afterwards, intimating that he should not return before evening. The two new friends established themselves in the house during his absence, when I heard Hareton sternly check his cousin on her offering a revelation of her father-in-law's conduct to his father. He said he wouldn't suffer a word to be uttered in his disparage- ment. lf he were the devil, it didn't signify---he would stand by him; and he'd rather she would abuse himself, as she used to, than begin on Mr. Heathcliff. Catherine was waxing cross at this, but he found means to make her hold her tongue by asking how she would like him to speak ill of her father. Then she comprehended that Earnshaw took the master's reputation home to himself, and was attached by ties stronger than reason could break---chains forged by habit, which it would be cruel to attempt to loosen. She showed a good heart, thenceforth, in avoiding both complaints and expres- sions of antipathy concerning Heathcliff, and confessed to me her sorrow that she had endeavoured to raise a bad spirit between him and Hareton. Indeed, I don't believe she has ever breathed a syllable, in the latter's hearing, against her oppressor since. When this slight disagreement was over, they were friends again, and as busy as possible in their several occupations of pupil and teacher. I came in to sit with them after I had done my work, and I felt so soothed and comforted to watch them that I did not notice how time got on. You know they both appeared in a meas- nre my children. I had long been proud of one, and now I was sure the other would be a source of equal satisfac- tion. His honest, warm, and intelligent nature shook off rapidly the clouds of ignorance and degradation in which it had been bred, and Catherine's sincere com- mendations acted as a spur to his industry. His bright- ening mind brightened his features, and added spirit and nobility to their aspect. I could hardly fancy it the same individual I had beheld on the day I discov- ered my little lady at Wuthering Heights, after her ex- pedition to the Crags. While I admired and they laboured, dusk drew on, and with it returned the mas- ter. He came upon us quite unexpectedly, entering by the front way, and had a full view of the whole three ere we could raise our heads to glance at him. Well, I reflected, there was never a pleasanter or more harm- less sight, and it will be a burning shame to scold them. The red firelight glowed on their two bonny heads, and revealed their faces animated with the eager interest of children; for though he was twenty-three and she eighteen, each had so much of novelty to feel and learn that neither experienced nor evinced the sentiments of sober, disenchanted maturity. They lifted their eyes together, to encounter Mr. Heathcliff. Perhaps you have never remarked that their eyes are precisely similar, and they are those of Cath- erine


the bank of the river, going south. Montag tried to see the men's faces, the old faces he remembered from the firelight, lined and tired. He was looking for a brightness, a resolve, a triumph over tomorrow that hardly seemed to be there. Perhaps he had expected their faces to burn and glitter with the knowledge they carried, to glow as lanterns glow, with the light in them. But all the light had come from the camp fire, and these men had seemed no different from any others who had run a long race, searched a long search, seen good things destroyed, and now, very late, were gathering to wait for the end of the party and the blowing out of the lamps. They weren't at all certain that the things they carried in their heads might make every future dawn glow with a purer light, they were sure of nothing save that the books were on file behind their quiet eyes, the books were waiting, with their pages uncut, for the customers who might come by in later years, some with clean and some with dirty fingers. Montag squinted from one face to another as they walked. "Don't judge a book by its cover," someone said. And they all laughed quietly, moving downstream. There was a shriek and the jets from the city were gone overhead long before the men looked up. Montag stared back at the city, far down the river, only a faint glow now. "My wife's back there." "I'm sorry to hear that. The cities won't do well in the next few days," said Granger. "It's strange, I don't miss her, it's strange I don't feel much of anything," said Montag. "Even if she dies, I realized a moment ago, I don't think I'll feel sad. It isn't right. Something must be wrong with me." "Listen," said Granger, taking his arm, and walking with him, holding aside the bushes to let him pass. "When I was a boy my grandfather died, and he was a sculptor. He was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give the world, and he helped clean up the slum in our town; and he made toys for us and he did a million things in his lifetime; he was always busy with his hands. And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the back yard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes the way he did. He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man. I've never gotten over his death. Often I think, what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died. How many jokes are missing


silent as a tomb, the only hint of life the faint smell of incense from mass earlier that evening. Silas sensed an uneasiness in Sister Sandrine's demeanor as she led him into the sanctuary. He was not surprised by this. Silas was accustomed to people being uncomfortable with his appearance. "You're an American," she said. "French by birth," Silas responded. "I had my calling in Spain, and I now study in the United States." Sister Sandrine nodded. She was a small woman with quiet eyes. "And you have never seen Saint-Sulpice?" "I realize this is almost a sin in itself." "She is more beautiful by day." "I am certain. Nonetheless, I am grateful that you would provide me this opportunity tonight." "The abb requested it. You obviously have powerful friends." You have no idea, Silas thought. As he followed Sister Sandrine down the main aisle, Silas was surprised by the austerity of the sanctuary. Unlike Notre Dame with its colorful frescoes, gilded altarwork, and warm wood, Saint-Sulpice was stark and cold, conveying an almost barren quality reminiscent of the ascetic cathedrals of Spain. The lack of decor made the interior look even more expansive, and as Silas gazed up into the soaring ribbed vault of the ceiling, he imagined he was standing beneath the hull of an enormous overturned ship. A fitting image, he thought. The brotherhood's ship was about to be capsized forever. Feeling eager to get to work, Silas wished Sister Sandrine would leave him. She was a small woman whom Silas could incapacitate easily, but he had vowed not to use force unless absolutely necessary. She is a woman of the cloth, and it is not her fault the brotherhood chose her church as a hiding place for their keystone. She should not be punished for the sins of others. "I am embarrassed, Sister, that you were awoken on my behalf." "Not at all. You are in Paris a short time. You should not miss Saint-Sulpice. Are your interests in the church more architectural or historical?" "Actually, Sister, my interests are spiritual." She gave a pleasant laugh. "That goes without saying. I simply wondered where to begin your tour." Silas felt his eyes focus on the altar. "A tour is unnecessary. You have been more than kind. I can show myself around." "It is no trouble," she said. "After all, I am awake." Silas stopped walking. They had reached the front pew now, and the altar was only fifteen yards away. He turned his massive body fully toward the small woman, and he could sense her recoil as she gazed up into his red eyes. "If it does not seem too rude, Sister, I am not accustomed to simply walking into a house of God and taking a tour. Would you mind if I took some time alone to pray before I look around?" 61 Sister Sandrine hesitated. "Oh, of course. I shall wait in the rear of the church for you." Silas put a soft but heavy hand on her shoulder and peered down. "Sister, I feel guilty


young girl, grew involuntarily more concentrated; in his attitude there was the consciousness of power, investing his hardly mature figure with a dignity that did not belong to its physical manifestation. It was evident, that, with but one wave of his hand and a corresponding effort of his will, he could complete his mastery over Phoebe's yet free and virgin spirit: he could establish an influence over this good, pure, and simple child, as dangerous, and perhaps as disastrous, as that which the carpenter of his legend had acquired and exercised over the ill-fated Alice. To a disposition like Holgrave's, at once speculative and active, there is no temptation so great as the opportunity of acquiring empire over the human spirit; nor any idea more seductive to a young man than to become the arbiter of a young girl's destiny. Let us, therefore, --whatever his defects of nature and education, and in spite of his scorn for creeds and institutions,--concede to the daguerreotypist the rare and high quality of reverence for another's individuality. Let us allow him integrity, also, forever after to be confided in; since he forbade himself to twine that one link more which might have rendered his spell over Phoebe indissoluble. He made a slight gesture upward with his hand. "You really mortify me, my dear Miss Phoebe!" he exclaimed, smiling half-sarcastically at her. "My poor story, it is but too evident, will never do for Godey or Graham! Only think of your falling asleep at what I hoped the newspaper critics would pronounce a most brilliant, powerful, imaginative, pathetic, and original winding up! Well, the manuscript must serve to light lamps with;--if, indeed, being so imbued with my gentle dulness, it is any longer capable of flame!" "Me asleep! How can you say so?" answered Phoebe, as unconscious of the crisis through which she had passed as an infant of the precipice to the verge of which it has rolled. "No, no! I consider myself as having been very attentive; and, though I don't remember the incidents quite distinctly, yet I have an impression of a vast deal of trouble and calamity,--so, no doubt, the story will prove exceedingly attractive." By this time the sun had gone down, and was tinting the clouds towards the zenith with those bright hues which are not seen there until some time after sunset, and when the horizon has quite lost its richer brilliancy. The moon, too, which had long been climbing overhead, and unobtrusively melting its disk into the azure,--like an ambitious demagogue, who hides his aspiring purpose by assuming the prevalent hue of popular sentiment,--now began to shine out, broad and oval, in its middle pathway. These silvery beams were already powerful enough to change the character of the lingering daylight. They softened and embellished the aspect of the old house; although the shadows fell deeper into the angles of its many gables, and lay brooding under the projecting story, and within the half-open door. With the lapse of every moment, the garden grew more picturesque; the fruit-trees, shrubbery, and


me get all my things into the trunk and back seat of the car—I’d acquired so much the months that I’d lived in the city, lots of hand-me-downs from the other girls, a couple of fancy dresses I bought with my salary as a Rockette—and then we climbed inside and drove in silence to Bronxville. That was back when he could still drive. His hand shook slightly on the steering wheel, but other than that, you’d never know what was to come. After I’d moved back home, Simon didn’t go out much, as there was nowhere to go and every one of his friends dropped him once the news of his role in the bombing case came to light. There were no criminal charges, thank goodness, but he became a social pariah. For a man who lived on laughter and camaraderie, known for his enthusiastic handshakes when he bumped into a casual acquaintance, a man who remembered everyone’s wives’ and kids’ names, the toll was steep. He withdrew into himself, literally: his hands turned into fists, his shoulders caved in toward his chest, his head tilted forward. Then there were the constant falls, because he refused to use a cane or a walker. Eventually, he was too weak to stand and, although he railed against the idea, finally settled into a wheelchair. All of this took time, of course. That’s the nature of the disease. A slow erosion of independence and freedom of movement. While he wasted away, I found steady work as a choreographer, which helped pay for aides to stay and care for him. One thing I wasn’t going to do was let him get in the way of my career. The show about the early days of Russell’s dance troupe—called Rise of the Rockettes—was a big hit, and I found myself working for other directors, eventually dropping the assistant before choreographer, and getting nominated for my first Tony in 1959. I lost to Bob Fosse but then went on to win three after that. While I officially retired from choreographing five years ago, at the age of fifty, I’m still involved in various projects that bring me into the city and feed my need for movement and grace. Simon passed away after a series of strokes in the late sixties. At that point, I could have moved into the city, but it had changed, and not for the better. New York was more dangerous; there was litter on the streets and graffiti in the subways. By comparison, Bronxville was a paradise, and it remained my home base, even as I worked and traveled the world. With this new book out about the hunt for the Big Apple Bomber, my phone rings with requests for interviews constantly. Everyone had forgotten the terror that one man brought to the city over the course of sixteen years. It had receded into the city’s collective memory, and if you mentioned the name “George Martinek,” you’d get a blank look. I’d allowed the author to interview me for the book, knowing that it was


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley's gang. CHAPTER THREE -- THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches. Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport: Harry Hunting. This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny. "They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?" "No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it -- it might be sick." Then he ran, before Dudley could work out what he'd said. One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn't as bad as usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn't seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it for several years. That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life. As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh. *** There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming


with a soft cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong, masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression of a man who was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took all his strength of mind to control. "I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor," said he, "but I have had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table." I took it up and glanced at it. "Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic engineer, 16A. Victoria Street (3d floor)." That was the name, style, and abode of my morning visitor. "I regret that I have kept you waiting," said I, sitting down in my library-chair. "You are fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a monotonous occupation." "Oh, my night could not be called monotonous," said he, and laughed. He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up against that laugh. "Stop it!" I cried; "pull yourself together!" and I poured out some water from a caraffe. It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and pale-looking. "I have been making a fool of myself," he gasped. "Not at all. Drink this." I dashed some brandy into the water, and the color began to come back to his bloodless cheeks. "That's better!" said he. "And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to be." He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots. "Good heavens!" I cried, "this is a terrible injury. It must have bled considerably." "Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round the wrist and braced it up with a twig." "Excellent! You should have been a surgeon." "It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own province." "This has been done," said I, examining the wound, "by a very heavy and sharp instrument." "A thing like a


followed it for perhaps a hundred yards, and then swerved off. Behind him the ululation swept across the island once more and a single voice shouted three times. He guessed that was the signal to advance and sped away again, till his chest was like fire. Then he flung himself down under a bush and waited for a moment till his breathing steadied. He passed his tongue tentatively over his teeth and lips and heard far off the ululation of the pursuers. There were many things he could do. He could climb a tree; but that was putting all his eggs in one basket. If he were detected, they had nothing more difficult to do than wait. If only one had time to think! Another double cry at the same distance gave him a clue to their plan. Any savage balked in the forest would utter the double shout and hold up the line till he was free again. That way they might hope to keep the cordon unbroken right across the island. Ralph thought of the boar that had broken through them with such ease. If necessary, when the chase came too close, he could charge the cordon while it was still thin, burst through, and run back. But run back where? The cordon would turn and sweep again. Sooner or later he would have to sleep or eat--and then he would awaken with hands clawing at him; and the hunt would become a running down. What was to be done, then? The tree? Burst the line like a boar? Either way the choice was terrible. A single cry quickened his heart-beat and, leaping up, he dashed away toward the ocean side and the thick jungle till he was hung up among creepers; he stayed there for a moment with his calves quivering. If only one could have quiet, a long pause, a time to think! And there again, shrill and inevitable, was the ululation sweeping across the island. At that sound he shied like a horse among the creepers and ran once more till he was panting. He flung himself down by some ferns. The tree, or the charge? He mastered his breathing for a moment, wiped his mouth, and told himself to be calm. Samneric were somewhere in that line, and hating it. Or were they? And supposing, instead of them, he met the chief, or Roger who carried death in his hands? Ralph pushed back his tangled hair and wiped the sweat out of his best eye. He spoke aloud. "Think." What was the sensible thing to do? There was no Piggy to talk sense. There was no solemn assembly for debate nor dignity of the conch. "Think." Most, he was beginning to dread the curtain that might waver in his brain, blacking out the sense of danger, making a simpleton of him. A third idea would be to hide so well that the advancing line would pass without discovering him. He jerked his head off the ground and listened. There was another noise to attend to now,


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


Wager, DM me. I will protect your anonymity. Can someone explain to me how Jerome Wager still has a platform? He’s still on Twitter, and @CGRgallery has made NO statement denouncing his actions. This doesn’t seem like abuse to me. It seems like a shitty relationship. Are we canceling people now for being bad at dating? How on earth was his Obama mural racist? It’s sad this has to be explained to you. Lording power over someone, even “soft power,” is structural imbalance. Abuse does not have to equal rape. Still no statement from @msbodiekane. Hello, @starletpod? Even if #JeromeWager faces repercussions, the damage is done. How many gallery shows should have gone to other people? How much money has he made wielding his power and keeping others down? if you need to ask how that mural was racist you’re the problem. We have ONE law in this country about the age of consent, and it’s the age of 18. Someone 18 can screw someone 100, and I’m sorry but it’s PERFECTLY LEGAL. Actually some places it’s younger but this is not about the age of consent, you absolute dingbat. I was angry—I was shaking—and I was certain now that my anger had less to do with loyalty to Jerome or concern over his reputation than with the stunning contrast between this easy online outrage and the outrage any one of us should have felt for years over people like you, people like Dorian. It was like seeing someone hanged for stealing gum when down the street someone else was robbing a bank. I shouldn’t have done anything. Sober, I wouldn’t have done anything. But I was not sober. I typed out a thread of messages with my pruning thumbs, posting each after a quick scan for drunken typos: Has Jasmine Wilde even asked for repercussions? This is a work of art, not, as far as I know, a call to action. 1/ I’m no longer with Jerome Wager, but as a survivor of ACTUAL sexual assault, this all sits wrong with me. Age is not the only form of power. You could argue that working for the gallery, Jasmine had as much career power over him as he had over her. 2/ Are we talking here about the feminism of empowerment, or the feminism of victimhood? Either a 21-year-old woman is an adult who can make her own decisions or a helpless waif who needs our protection against big scary men. Which is it? It can’t be both. 3/ Are we saying a 21-year-old woman lacks sexual agency? Lacks the ability to make decisions about her own body? Whose permission does she need to date someone older? Her father’s? This is infantilizing. 4/ What age range WOULD be acceptable to all of you? Is five years older okay? Is one year older okay? One month? 5/ That said, Jasmine has created an evocative piece of art. Let’s leave it at that: art, not a call for a Twitter mob. 6/6 I stopped myself, because my blood pressure was only going up,


and read and rest,and not work. It's like other people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I'm so fond of luxury," said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the least shabby. "Well, we can't have it, so don't let us grumble but shoulder our bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I'm sure Aunt March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I've learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get so light that I shan't mind her." This idea tickled Jo's fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children, seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair in the most becoming way. "Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross midgets, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not?" she muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk. "I shall have to toil and moil all my days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly and sour, because I'm poor and can't enjoy my life as other girls do. It's a shame!" So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn't at all agreeable at breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to croak. Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with the cat and three kittens. Amy was fretting because her lessons were not learned, and she couldn't find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and make a great racket getting ready. Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn't suit her. "There never was such a cross family!" cried Jo, losing her temper when she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon her hat. "You're the crossest person in it!" returned Amy, washing out the sum that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate. "Beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down cellar I'll have them drowned," exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of reach. Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was. "Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry," cried Mrs. March, crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter. There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were an institution, and the girls called them `muffs',for they had no others and


to make on the first floor drawingroom with a brassplate or Blooms private hotel he suggested go and ruin himself altogether the way his father did down in Ennis like all the things he told father he was going to do and me but I saw through him telling me all the lovely places we could go for the honeymoon Venice by moonlight with the gondolas and the lake of Como he had a picture cut out of some paper of and mandolines and lanterns O how nice I said whatever I liked he was going to do immediately if not sooner will you be my man will you carry my can he ought to get a leather medal with a putty rim for all the plans he invents then leaving us here all day youd never know what old beggar at the door for a crust with his long story might be a tramp and put his foot in the way to prevent me shutting it like that picture of that hardened criminal he was called in Lloyds Weekly news 20 years in jail then he comes out and murders an old woman for her money imagine his poor wife or mother or whoever she is such a face youd run miles away from I couldnt rest easy till I bolted all the doors and windows to make sure but its worse again being locked up like in a prison or a madhouse they ought to be all shot or the cat of nine tails a big brute like that that would attack a poor old woman to murder her in her bed Id cut them off him so I would not that hed be much use still better than nothing the night I was sure I heard burglars in the kitchen and he went down in his shirt with a candle and a poker as if he was looking for a mouse as white as a sheet frightened out of his wits making as much noise as he possibly could for the burglars benefit there isnt much to steal indeed the Lord knows still its the feeling especially now with Milly away such an idea for him to send the girl down there to learn to take photographs on account of his grandfather instead of sending her to Skerrys academy where shed have to learn not like me getting all IS at school only hed do a thing like that all the same on account of me and Boylan thats why he did it Im certain the way he plots and plans everything out I couldnt turn round with her in the place lately unless I bolted the door first gave me the fidgets coming in without knocking first when I put the chair against the door just as I was washing myself there below with the glove get on your nerves then doing the loglady all day put her in a glasscase with two at a time to look at her if he knew she broke off the hand


however, he turned round --when, good heavens! what a sight! Such a face! It was of a dark purplish, yellow color, here and there stuck over with large, blackish looking squares. Yes, it's just as I thought, he's a terrible bedfellow; he's been in a fight, got dreadfully cut, and here he is, just from the surgeon. But at that moment he chanced to turn his face so towards the light, that I plainly saw they could not be sticking-plasters at all, .. <p 21 > those black squares on his cheeks. they were stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this; but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story of a white man --a whaleman too--who, falling among the cannibals, had been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course of his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And what is it, thought I, after all! It's only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot sun's tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were passing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at all. But, after some difficulty having opened his bag, he commenced fumbling in it, and presently pulled out a sort of tomahawk, and a seal-skin wallet with the hair on. Placing these on the old chest in the middle of the room, he then took the New Zealand head --a ghastly thing enough --and crammed it down into the bag. He now took off his hat --a new beaver hat --when I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise. There was no hair on his head --none to speak of at least -- nothing but a small scalp-knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplish head now looked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had not the stranger stood between me and the door, I would have bolted out of it quicker than ever I bolted a dinner. Even as it was, I thought something of slipping out of the window, but it was the second floor back. I am no coward, but what to make of this head-peddling purple rascal altogether passed my comprehension. Ignorance is the parent of fear, and being completely nonplussed and confounded about the stranger, i confess i was now as much afraid of him as if it was the devil himself who had thus broken into my room at the dead of night. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was not game enough


stock, and melted gun barrels. Head back to the bridge and do your job.” Chapter 2 I briefly hesitated before entering HealthBay. I’d been here a number of times over the last few days. Things continued to look crazy hectic. Inside, I saw a flurry of rushing- around medical staff and several hovering medibots. I entered the primary patient compartment. As before, the overheads had been dimmed, and each of the beds was occupied. Physiological monitoring equipment beeped and dinged, merging into a kind of constant white noise. Above several of the beds were slow-rotating 3D medical avatars. I’d make my rounds, drop by each of the patients later. For right now, I needed to check in on Sonya. I made a left through double doors beneath a sign that read “Surgical Suite.” Staff wearing pastel-colored scrubs bustled by. A harried-looking nurse noticed me. “Captain? Um … Sorry, but Doc Viv’s not allowing any—” “Sonya Winters. She’s out of surgery?” “Yes, but as I said …” It was then that I saw Hardy lean his bulk out into the corridor. “She’s in here, Cap.” I strode past the nurse. “Keep up the good work. I won’t stay long.” Sonya was sitting upright but looked to be asleep. A web of tubes and wires emerged from her shoulder dressing. Rhythmic beeps of a heart monitor echoed within the quiet compartment, punctuating the stillness. Unmoving, Hardy stood tall against an adjacent bulkhead. “How is she?” I asked. Hardy’s faceplate came alive, his holographic John Hardy face looking back at me. “She came through the surgery without any complications. Her arm was reattached at the shoulder. Prognosis … She’ll be fine within several weeks. She won’t be giving any high fives for a while—that, or playing badminton.” Sonya looked small and vulnerable, lying there in her pink bunny–patterned gown. Having been brought up within the Pylor pirate clan once led by the infamous pirate, Thunderballs, she’d been forced to grow up fast and fend for herself within a rough, male-dominated society. I’d only recently discovered this sixteen-year-old kid, and I had a familial genetic connection with her. I now thought of her, even if it wasn’t totally true, as my niece. She was special to me. Seeing her now, lying there looking broken and helpless, well, the guilt was weighing heavy on my shoulders. She wasn’t a soldier; she wasn’t one of Max’s Marines. She’d been insistent; nothing new there, but I should never have allowed her onto that Ziu mother ship. This was on me. I watched as Sonya’s chest rose and fell in a slow and steady rhythm. “Are you going to just stand there and watch me? Creepy comes to mind.” Her words had come out just above a whisper. Her eyes fluttered open. “And King Kong over there, can’t you find something for him to do?” I took a seat at the side of her bed. “How do you feel, kid?” She didn’t answer right away, and I thought she might have fallen back to sleep. “I feel like one of


locks with the spring for a mirror. Sometimes I look for her footprints in the dew in the morning. Oh, Diana, don't give up your faith in the dryad!" Wednesday morning came. Anne got up at sunrise because she was too excited to sleep. She had caught a severe cold in the head by reason of her dabbling in the spring on the preceding evening; but nothing short of absolute pneumonia could have quenched her interest in culinary matters that morning. After breakfast she proceeded to make her cake. When she finally shut the oven door upon it she drew a long breath. "I'm sure I haven't forgotten anything this time, Marilla. But do you think it will rise? Just suppose perhaps the baking powder isn't good? I used it out of the new can. And Mrs. Lynde says you can never be sure of getting good baking powder nowadays when everything is so adulterated. Mrs. Lynde says the Government ought to take the matter up, but she says we'll never see the day when a Tory Government will do it. Marilla, what if that cake doesn't rise?" "We'll have plenty without it" was Marilla's unimpassioned way of looking at the subject. The cake did rise, however, and came out of the oven as light and feathery as golden foam. Anne, flushed with delight, clapped it together with layers of ruby jelly and, in imagination, saw Mrs. Allan eating it and possibly asking for another piece! "You'll be using the best tea set, of course, Marilla," she said. "Can I fix the table with ferns and wild roses?" "I think that's all nonsense," sniffed Marilla. "In my opinion it's the eatables that matter and not flummery decorations." "Mrs. Barry had HER table decorated," said Anne, who was not entirely guiltless of the wisdom of the serpent, "and the minister paid her an elegant compliment. He said it was a feast for the eye as well as the palate." "Well, do as you like," said Marilla, who was quite determined not to be surpassed by Mrs. Barry or anybody else. "Only mind you leave enough room for the dishes and the food." Anne laid herself out to decorate in a manner and after a fashion that should leave Mrs. Barry's nowhere. Having abundance of roses and ferns and a very artistic taste of her own, she made that tea table such a thing of beauty that when the minister and his wife sat down to it they exclaimed in chorus over it loveliness. "It's Anne's doings," said Marilla, grimly just; and Anne felt that Mrs. Allan's approving smile was almost too much happiness for this world. Matthew was there, having been inveigled into the party only goodness and Anne knew how. He had been in such a state of shyness and nervousness that Marilla had given him up in despair, but Anne took him in hand so successfully that he now sat at the table in his best clothes and white collar and talked to the minister not uninterestingly. He never said a


I’m not sure if I will ever understand. When the kids and I call her another day, she is looking more like her old self, perhaps because she’s wearing her glasses—nearsighted as she is without them, I’ve noticed she rarely has them on for our video calls—and one of my father’s old Cleveland Browns T-shirts. I can tell that she is weak, and she has lost more weight, though she says that she still eats well. From the sound of her voice, she has recently woken from a nap. She holds up the flowers we sent her and thanks us, but even from the other side of a screen I can see that the online shop I ordered from has failed us. More than half the blooms are wilted. * * * May rolls around, and toward the end of one particularly long day, I text a friend: I think Mom forgot my birthday. It’s understandable, I think. It’s more and more difficult for her to talk on the phone or over Skype. She’s on pain meds that are only available to the dying, the kind of medication she refused when she first started hospice care, and she is sleeping more often. I wouldn’t be surprised if she no longer keeps close track of the days. I’m about to head upstairs to get ready for bed when my phone rings. Mom flashes on the screen. My breath catches. When I answer, she doesn’t even say hello. We both know why she is calling. “Happy birthday to you . . .” She sings with as much life as she can, more than I’ve heard from her in days. I wonder if I should tell her to save her strength. I know this call is an effort. But I also know that she called because she believes this is important: she’s my mother, and she has a job to do. After I left home, my parents called on every birthday to sing to me—Dad in his gravelly baritone, Mom enthusiastic and slightly off-key—and she has continued the tradition alone since he died. She always sends me a card, too, and sometimes flowers, but the birthday call is the most important part of the long-distance celebration: sacrosanct, for all that I have taken it for granted. “Happy birthday to you . . .” After she sings the first two lines, she takes a shuddery breath and surprises me with an edit. “Your mom didn’t forget your birthday, and she really loves you.” Tears are rolling down my face. My husband, sitting next to me on the couch—close enough to have heard my mother singing—reaches over to take my hand, squeezing it hard. All of us know it’s the last birthday call. I manage to thank her with only a little wobble in my voice. “Well, of course,” she says. “I just woke up from a nap and thought, I’d better call Nikki. I’m glad I made it in time.” 21 The week after Mother’s Day, her hospice nurse calls me. “She had a great day!


relationship on. I told myself I was too smart to think I was falling in love with him. Because I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. If only I’d been right. Now Wyn pulls the itinerary out of my hands, his gaze traveling across the open page. “I genuinely love how organized Sabrina is,” I say. “But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. And when you’re mentioning bowel movements on your group vacation schedule, I think you’ve hit it.” Wyn returns the folder to the end table. “You think this is bad, but it’s nothing compared to the packing list Parth sent me. He told me how many pairs of underwear to bring. So either my ‘personalized surprise’ on Saturday is going to end badly, or he thinks I’m incapable of counting my own underwear.” “Don’t sell yourself short,” I say. “I’m sure it’s a little of both.” As he laughs, his dimples flash, little dark pricks in his scruffy jaw. For a second, it’s like we’ve come unglued from the timeline, tumbled back a year. Then he steps back from me. “The next fifteen minutes are scheduled for relaxing before lunch,” he says, “so I’ll leave you to it.” I nod. He nods. He moves toward the door, hesitates there for a second. And then he’s gone, and I’m still frozen where he left me. I do not relax. 6 REAL LIFE Monday THE “BIG BEDROOM” is a disaster. A beautiful, amazing, nightmarish disaster. The kids’ room is at the front of the hallway and thus is part of the original house. This is at the back, in the behemoth extension. There are no wonky doors that get stuck, or windows you have to prop open with books, or floorboards that snap and groan when no one’s even touching them. This room is pure luxury. The king-sized bed has four-zillion-thread-count sheets. A set of double doors opens onto a balcony that overlooks both the saltwater pool and the bluffs beyond it, and there’s both a massive stone tub and a two-person shower made of dark slate and glass. However, if I could make one minor interior design suggestion, it would be to put one or both of the aforementioned amenities behind a door. As it stands, they’re out in the open. Sure, the toilet gets to hide in a shameful little cabinet, but if I plan on changing my clothes at any point during this week, my options are (1) accept that I’ll be doing so with an audience of one, namely my ex-fiancé; (2) stuff myself into the shit-closet and pray for good balance; or (3) find a discreet way to sneak down to the infamous outdoor shower stall over by the guesthouse. All this to say, I spend my fifteen minutes of “relaxation” taking a private shower while I can. Then I pull on a pair of jeans and a clean white T-shirt. One of Wyn’s and my few areas of overlap is our complete absence of personal style. His work has always required him to


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

laugh and come in equal measure. Honestly, it’s not that hard.” She falls onto her back again, staring up at the ceiling. “What?” I loom over her. “Is that offensive? Have I disrespected your hidden depths?” “Enjoy,” she says. “What’s that?” She turns her eyes to me. “You said enjoy. ‘You’d enjoy a man.’ Not want or need or even deserve.” She turns her attention back to the ceiling and smiles. “You’re right. I’d really fucking enjoy a man like that. I just love that phrasing.” “Why do you think you’re so complicated?” “Because everyone else does.” I shake my head, rolling to my side to face her and propping my head on a hand. “Not me. You’re a Rubik’s Cube with four blocks.” She laughs, reaching across her body to smack my chest. “Hey.” “A maze with a straight line through the middle. It’s just that most men are quite stupid.” I can tell she wants to be mad but the delight in her eyes burns bright. She reaches up, brushing my hair off my forehead. “Careful,” she says. “Careful what?” Her lips are soft and wet, her neck bare and stretching endlessly, soft for my mouth. I can see her pulse beating just beneath her jaw and want to press my face there and absorb the feeling of her fire thrumming under my touch. “You gonna rough me up for being straight with you that you’re just a big, messy softie?” She drags her fingers along my temple and down my jaw. “Are you trying to make me want you?” “I think that’s the problem,” I say, adjusting my head in my hand. “I don’t really have to try.” Fizzy smiles distractedly. “Because you’re so sexy?” “Obviously.” She rolls back to her side, tracing her thumb along my bottom lip, and not even an oncoming train could get me to evade her touch. I can see in her eyes, too, that she understood my true meaning. I don’t have to try with her because everything between us is too easy. Too obvious. Too good. The idea that she’d end up with a Jude or even a Nick seems laughable now. But so is the idea that she’d end up with me. Trying to clear the fog of alcohol and desire, I pull away from her touch. Her eyes refocus and she blinks away from my lips. “Uh-oh,” she whispers. “The spell is broken.” “Nah, it’s late. I’m sure you’ve got more wedding celebrations early tomorrow. I should head home.” Fizzy frowns. “Let’s put on a movie or something. You’ve been drinking.” “I’ll cab it.” I move to climb from bed, but she cups a hand over my forearm, stilling me. “Connor. You should stay here. I can behave myself. I promise.” I laugh. “You’re not the only one who needs to behave, sweet. Historically I just have more self-control. I don’t think I do tonight.” She sucks in a sharp breath and exhales it shakily. “I’ll have it for us, then. I know we can’t fool around.” “For about a