why we were there. We were led into a narrow office on the first floor with a thin brown carpet and a flickering light overhead. There were rows upon rows of steel-grey filing cabinets. ‘Sharon normally takes care of the admin,’ the woman explained, immediately absolving herself and again checking her watch. ‘Not to worry Ms …?’ ‘Mrs Hughes.’ ‘Mrs Hughes,’ I said, ‘this won’t take long. Any chance of a cup of tea in the meantime?’ ‘No.’ With that, she left the room and we both waited until her footsteps were far enough down the hall. ‘What the hell was that, Angela Lansbury?’ I whisper-shouted. ‘I don’t know! It just … happened.’ ‘I can’t believe it worked.’ ‘Nor can I.’ She was giddy with excitement. We didn’t know how to celebrate so in the end we just high-fived. ‘Okay, we better start looking.’ We didn’t have much time and our task was daunting. Admissions files were categorised by date, but then some records were filed under the resident doctor’s name and others still were filed under the patient’s name. It was basically a mess. We agreed to begin at opposite ends of the room. I was searching the dates – mid-1920s onwards – and Martha was searching for Carlisle. We hardly spoke, apart from the occasional ‘I still can’t believe you did that’ coming from me. I was pleasantly surprised by how much she wanted to help me. Or perhaps that was conceited. If what she said turned out to be the case and she had found herself in possession of Opaline’s book, then it made sense that she had her own connection to this intriguing woman. After all, as I’d told her on the bus, you didn’t need a qualification on paper to make a big discovery. Knowing my luck, she’d probably find the manuscript before me. The thought hit me like a sucker punch. I looked across at her and watched as her fingertips picked their way through the hanging manila files. Had I been played all along? Was she using me? ‘Henry. What are you doing?’ ‘What?’ ‘We don’t have much time,’ she said. ‘Right. Yes. Sorry.’ I pulled open another drawer and flicked through the files. They were all too recent. We were about to meet at the middle filing cabinet when I heard footsteps coming quickly down the hall. ‘Shit!’ ‘Stall her,’ Martha said. I didn’t think, I simply did what she said and met the woman just outside the doorway. ‘I’ve been on to the department, and they’ve never heard of a Dr Field. In fact, they said there was no spot-check arranged. So now, would you care to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?’ ‘I would like to tell you, Mrs Hughes. But if I did, I’d have to kill you.’ ‘Excuse me?’ Jesus, what was I saying? ‘Candid camera,’ Martha smiled, coming out of the room. ‘See, I have a camera in my bag,’ she explained, pointing to what looked like a badge on her rucksack. ‘I don’t—’ ‘Oh,


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 those monster Ziu fuckers pulled my arm off, then tossed me around like a big chew toy.” “I’m sorry, Sonya. This is my fault.” She turned her head just enough to look at me. She made a face. “Oh God … you’re getting all sappy and mushy. Hardy, find me a bucket; my uncle’s making me want to ralph.” “Knock it off. I’m allowed to be worried about you. You gave all of us, gave me, quite a scare.” “Whatever … I’m fine. When can I get out of here? I need to check on the Symbios. Both Reggie and Sadon were injured.” Symbio-Poths were bio-robotic facsimiles of various Earth lifeforms. Produced by Empress Shawlee’s incredible creative people—like an onboard modern-day Disney Imagineering team—they had originally created an entire group of townspeople on USS Hamilton, so real, so lifelike, it was virtually impossible to distinguish them from actual human beings. I momentarily flashed back to Lori and Carl Quintos, my Symbio parents within the mock town of Clairmont. Typically situated on a ship’s upper R&R decks, over the years, that same creativity had evolved into recreational games such as Convoke Wyvern and Caveman Glory games and the subsequent creation of immense dragons, prehistoric dinosaurs, even tiny flying fairies. Needless to say, the crew, hell, I myself, had gotten more than a little attached to these seemingly all-too-real creatures. But just as I had put Sonya in harm’s way, I’d been forced to utilize many of the Symbio-Poths for the defense of one ship or another. Just one more thing to weigh heavy on my shoulders. Hardy said, “Ensign Plorinne’s on top of all that. No worries in that regard.” She raised her head. “Where is Plorinne? He hasn’t come to see me.” I wasn’t thrilled with the budding relationship between the Pleidian Weonan twenty-something ensign and my niece. But the two did seem to care for one another. Who was I to stand in the way of young love, if that was what this was? Hell, my own love


in the room: the voice was as near by and natural as if he had been lounging in his favourite arm-chair by the fire. The fact would not ordinarily have surprised Archer, for long-distance telephoning had become as much a matter of course as electric lighting and five-day Atlantic voyages. But the laugh did startle him; it still seemed wonderful that across all those miles and miles of country--forest, river, mountain, prairie, roaring cities and busy indifferent millions--Dallas's laugh should be able to say: "Of course, whatever happens, I must get back on the first, because Fanny Beaufort and I are to be married on the fifth." The voice began again: "Think it over? No, sir: not a minute. You've got to say yes now. Why not, I'd like to know? If you can allege a single reason--No; I knew it. Then it's a go, eh? Because I count on you to ring up the Cunard office first thing tomorrow; and you'd better book a return on a boat from Marseilles. I say, Dad; it'll be our last time together, in this kind of way--. Oh, good! I knew you would." Chicago rang off, and Archer rose and began to pace up and down the room. It would be their last time together in this kind of way: the boy was right. They would have lots of other "times" after Dallas's marriage, his father was sure; for the two were born comrades, and Fanny Beaufort, whatever one might think of her, did not seem likely to interfere with their intimacy. On the contrary, from what he had seen of her, he thought she would be naturally included in it. Still, change was change, and differences were differences, and much as he felt himself drawn toward his future daughter-in-law, it was tempting to seize this last chance of being alone with his boy. There was no reason why he should not seize it, except the profound one that he had lost the habit of travel. May had disliked to move except for valid reasons, such as taking the children to the sea or in the mountains: she could imagine no other motive for leaving the house in Thirty-ninth Street or their comfortable quarters at the Wellands' in Newport. After Dallas had taken his degree she had thought it her duty to travel for six months; and the whole family had made the old-fashioned tour through England, Switzerland and Italy. Their time being limited (no one knew why) they had omitted France. Archer remembered Dallas's wrath at being asked to contemplate Mont Blanc instead of Rheims and Chartres. But Mary and Bill wanted mountain-climbing, and had already yawned their way in Dallas's wake through the English cathedrals; and May, always fair to her children, had insisted on holding the balance evenly between their athletic and artistic proclivities. She had indeed proposed that her husband should go to Paris for a fortnight, and join them on the Italian lakes after they had "done" Switzerland; but Archer had declined. "We'll stick together," he said; and May's


"I will think what you like, sir; I am content to be only your nurse, if you think it better."     "But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet; you are young you must marry one day."     "I don't care about being married."     "You should care, Janet; if I were what I once was, I would try to make you care but a sightless block!"     He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more cheerful, and took fresh courage; these last words gave me an insight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.     "It is time some one undertook to rehumanize you," said I, parting his thick and long uncut locks; "for I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a 'faux air' of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain; your hair reminds me of eagle's feathers; whether your nails are grown like bird's claws or not, I have not yet noticed."     "On this arm I have neither hand nor nails," he said, drawing the mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. "It is a mere stump a ghastly sight! Don't you think so, Jane?"     "It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes and the scar of fire on your forehead; and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you."     "I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my cicatrized visage."     "Did you? Don't tell me so lest I should say something disparaging to your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire, and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a good fire?"     "Yes; with the right eye I see a glow a ruddy haze."     "And you see the candles?"     "Very dimly each is a luminous cloud."     "Can you see me?"     "No, my fairy; but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you."     "When do you take supper?"     "I never take supper."     "But you shall have some to-night. I am hungry: so are you, I dare say, only you forget."     Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheerful order; I prepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast. My spirits were excited, and with pleasure and ease I talked to him during supper, and for a long time after. There was


166 gun violence issue and, 78, 79, 80, 145 hasty and careless military proposals of, 64, 66, 71, 133, 146–47, 217, 219, 220, 225–27 hostility to careerists of, 83, 84, 85 hurricane threat response and relief of, 62–63, 83–84, 126, 127 illegal and potentially illegal proposals of, 9, 10, 107, 141–42, 151–52, 167–68, 172, 173, 178–79, 180, 182, 183, 190, 191, 217 immigration and border obsession of, 9, 10, 31, 44, 51, 52, 79–80, 86, 97–98, 100–101, 106, 107–9, 120, 133, 141–42, 145, 151, 162–63, 166–83, 187, 188, 189–90, 191–92, 217, 225, 235 inability to focus of, 58, 61, 62, 63–64, 127, 135 inciting of violence by, 3, 254, 257–58, 261 Insurrection Act invocation efforts of, 9, 225–26, 263 ISIS threat and, 56, 58, 59, 66, 146 isolationist positions of, 20, 60, 64, 220 judges resented and feared by, 9, 23, 94, 109, 121–22, 180 justice system tampering by, 58, 111, 112, 113, 118–20, 123–24, 137, 271 lawsuits used as weapons against political adversaries by, 117, 124, 192, 271 London attacks (2017) and, 50–51, 52 looming midterm elections as check on, 133 loyalty demanded by, 28, 36, 69, 70, 74, 76, 80–82, 102, 112, 153 McCain’s death and, 131–32 media targeted by, 99, 157 militia groups and, 115–16, 192, 261, 263 “Muslim ban” and travel restrictions of, 22–23, 29, 31, 32, 50, 91–94, 122, 170, 205, 206 Nielsen’s tense relations with, 107, 172, 173–74, 175, 178–81, 182–83 North Korea threat and, 96, 97, 98 officials as protecting “Doomsday Book” from, 185, 186, 194 officials as wary of sharing sensitive information with, 56, 218–19 and outsourcing warfare to private contractors proposal, 226–27 in 2017 Oval Office meeting with Russian officials, 59–60, 66 paranoia and mental instability of, 81, 101, 111–12, 119, 129, 135, 136, 139, 142, 211 pardons offered by, 10, 182, 183 post-2016 election transition period of, 27–29 proliferation of leaders modeled after, 10, 11, 34, 35, 41 Puerto Rico/Greenland swap proposal of, 126–27 Putin and, 9, 25, 52, 60, 80, 135, 136, 141, 224 rallies of, 2–3, 173, 243, 254 Russian election interference denied by, 23, 24, 25, 31, 119, 133, 140–41 Russian investigation and, 58–59, 99, 111, 119, 140 sexism of, 10, 25, 103 “Sharpiegate” and, 83–84 thin skin of, 60, 102, 110 in trip to southern border (2019), 176, 177, 181–83 tweeting by, 5, 42, 53, 59, 60, 67, 68, 71, 83, 96, 112, 124, 136, 137, 145, 146, 170, 171, 213, 257–58, 271, 288 in 2016 election, 19, 20, 21–26, 34, 35, 37, 49, 53, 169, 285 2019 State of the Union Address of, 225 in 2020 election, 38, 42, 231–32, 235, 272, 275, 276, 277, 280 in unlawful and unethical management of government funds, 126, 127, 128, 130, 133, 151–52, 167–68, 190, 193 unrealistic proposals of, 60, 100, 126–27, 141–42, 169, 173, 176, 178 VA targeted by, 72–74 in Warning response, 207, 210–11 on weaponized drones, 127–28 Wolf’s Correspondents’ Dinner comments on, 104 Trump, Donald, Jr., 210 Trump, Ivanka, 10, 27, 103, 104 Trump, Melania, 143, 148 Trump administration, 6, 8, 48, 58–59, 60, 75, 76, 85,


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

of money.” My jaw is on the floor. “No kidding.” Remembering something, I look over at Ash. “GeneticAlly—isn’t that how you and Ella met?” He nods. “We’re a Gold Match.” A couple to our right has just taken their seats. The vibe between them is heavy with disappointment. A bad first date. They glance at each other only when they think the other isn’t looking, and an accidental brush of hands leads to bursting apologies but no shy smiles. No spark. It’s presumptuous of me, but I could walk over there right now and tell them they’ve got no chemistry, no chance. Couldn’t we all? I’m not overly familiar with GeneticAlly, but I know they developed a system that matches people for compatibility based on signatures in their DNA. I’d give this couple a zero. Lifting my chin, I say to Ash, “Think they’re a Gold Match?” He glances over and watches for a handful of seconds before raising his drink to his lips. “Nope. No way.” I look back up at the TV and an idea tickles the edge of my brain. I’ll have to make a few calls. Maybe having time to kill will be a good thing after all. three CONNOR Two hours later, I pull up in front of Natalia’s house. It’s a beautiful place—I should know; I cosigned the loan. The Realtor called it Spanish Colonial Revival, with white stucco walls, a low-pitched tile roof, and a gated courtyard Nat always goes all out decorating for Halloween. But where there was once a tricycle in the yard and pastel chalk animals scribbled on the sidewalk, now there’s a ten-speed and a row of potted orchids leading up to the front door. Natalia took up gardening after our divorce. Post-divorce she’s thriving, and so are the orchids. Waiting for me on the front step is Stevie’s chocolate-brown labradoodle, Baxter. We are absolutely those parents who got their kid a consolation divorce dog. He barks cheerily to alert the house that an intruder has entered the premises and, tail still wagging, promptly rolls over for belly rubs. “All that money for puppy camp and you are still a terrible guard dog,” I say, bending to pet him. “Where is everybody? Where’s Stevie? Can you go fetch her?” The door is slightly open and Baxter nudges it with his nose and goes up the stairs. “Hello?” I call out. It’s cool and quiet inside. Stevie’s homework is spread out on the coffee table and a basket of folded laundry sits on the couch. The walls are filled with photographs, some of Stevie and Natalia, a few with me. We’ve taken photos of Stevie in the same location and in the same pose on her birthday every year, and seeing them grouped together is like a time lapse of her childhood. She’s tall for a ten-year-old, and rail thin. She has her mum’s olive complexion and dark hair, but her eyes—my eyes—are as green as they’ve ever been. Footsteps pound on the stairs and a second later, a body collides into


what I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agin." So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching under- neath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore -- and then I was pretty soon comfortable again. Tom he made a sign to me -- kind of a little noise with his mouth -- and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a dis- turbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches be- witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other


second-guessing both myself and my interpretation of whatever it is we’re talking about: “Oh so what you’re trying to say is that I’m not supposed to think Mission: Impossible—Fallout is intellectually stimulating and the greatest film of all time?” This then devolves into an even more embarrassing apology: “I’m so sorry for not understanding what ‘good acting’ is!” And that continues until I shrivel into a husk and die, vowing with my dying breaths to never again publicly express joy or excitement. Some friend of my wife’s said to me—who am I, a balding stand-up comic in 1987??—after using the dry cleaner recommendation she’d asked me for a week earlier, “That strip mall where you told me to get my pants hemmed is so depressing. I can’t believe you go there.” I leaned against my open front door, in a fraying hoodie and soiled pajama bottoms, blinking at her over my first Diet Coke of the day. What did she want from me? What was I supposed to say? “I can’t believe you go there!” she repeated, and it became clear to me that she wanted…an explanation. An apology. Unfortunately, I was in no mood to be forced to atone for a place I: did not conceptualize. did not build. do not own. do not live in. do not profit from. frequently use with satisfaction. told her about as a courtesy because she asked me! Wanting to keep this early-morning interaction as brief as possible, my brain cycled through the possibilities of how to respond. I could: apologize for, uhh, helping her and solving her problem? apologize for having poor taste in local shopping plazas? apologize for being alive? apologize, then snarkily ask how her dry cleaning turned out, and then immediately and reflexively apologize for being snarky? Imagine me saying, “I’m sorry that the home of Bill’s Greeting Card Hut and Lucy’s Luxury Lashes wasn’t up to your exacting standards, and I apologize for making you look at dull brown bricks.” I would rather live inside the Value City that’s next door to Glamour Nails! But I didn’t say anything, and she chuckled again, saying, “It’s so ugly!” followed by an anticipative pause. And I dunno, man, the smoothie spot is pretty good and the out-of-business DVD store is oddly comforting to me, so I arranged my face into something resembling cheerfulness and said, in my highest octave, “I like it!” Gotcha, bitch. I watched as she searched for something to say next since I’d dodged the trap she’d set and whatever further insults she had prepared to hit me with. “I like it!” I chirped again. “I like it! I like it a lot!” I don’t remember if I slammed the door in her face or kicked her backward down my concrete steps, but what I do know is, that day a new person was born, an upgraded version of myself that no longer felt shamed by some smarty-pants making fun of the John Grisham novel poking out of my backpack. I’d need a sociology degree to write about this


sidled out of bed to take a cup of tea in the garden alone, to their evening together after he came back from the Playhouse. They’d drink beer and sit outside, breathing in night-scented stock and talking about the classics until the stars were high diamonds in the midnight sky. Now they were sitting in the deer park in Magdalen College, surrounded by gold and russet trees. They had wandered through old cloisters, past the quadrangle bursting with the rising voices of new students, and he was excitedly pointing at the roe deer. Minnie smiled indulgently; she had seen it all before, although to her it was much more than a tourist attraction. Oxford was lodged deep in her heart; it had changed her life and she felt bound to it. Jensen took her hand in his, almost speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘The tranquillity, the beauty, Minnie – it’s just breathtaking, the way this place exudes culture and tradition. It’s almost impossible to think that it’s normal for you to live in such an incredible place, and this is your home.’ ‘It is,’ Minnie said. ‘I love it.’ ‘You came to Magdalen as a student?’ Minnie was impressed that he’d pronounced it correctly, Mawdlin. ‘Oh, no – women weren’t allowed here in those days. I was at St Hilda’s. I had a couple of boyfriends who were students here. I won’t tell you their names. One’s quite infamous, in the House of Lords now, I believe.’ Jensen smiled. ‘You’ve lived an incredible life, Minnie.’ ‘I’m still living it…’ Minnie gazed at a deer that had wandered from the group, moving towards them. ‘There’s so much more I want to do…’ ‘There is.’ Jensen’s eyes glowed behind the gold-rimmed glasses. ‘You know, Minnie, I never thought I’d meet anyone I felt this way about.’ ‘After your wife?’ Jensen shook his head. ‘Pamela and I were close, we had the kids, and now she’s gone, I miss her. But you and I are different.’ ‘How different?’ ‘We connect completely.’ Jensen ruffled his white hair. ‘Mind, body and spirit – I mean, look at you. There’s no one like you.’ Minnie gazed down at herself in the floral dress and green Doc Martens. It all seemed quite ordinary. She smiled. ‘So, the day is entirely ours. What do you want to do?’ Jensen leaned forward eagerly. ‘When can I meet your friends in the village – Josie and Lin and your sister Tina?’ ‘Why would you want to meet them?’ Minnie was puzzled. ‘Middleton Ferris is nothing like Oxford.’ Jensen laughed. ‘These people are part of your life – I want to know all there is to know about you.’ ‘You’re interested in my murky backstory in a small Oxfordshire village?’ Minnie was amused. ‘I can’t imagine that you’d enjoy going there.’ ‘But you go there – you care about these people.’ ‘I do,’ Minnie agreed. ‘It’s my past. But you’re my present.’ ‘And future, I hope?’ Jensen said hopefully. ‘We should go…’ Minnie stood up and brushed grass from her dress. ‘Let’s walk down


is creepy as fuck,” Grip said. “The ship held what? Thousands? Where the hell is everyone?” No one answered him. Hardy slowed, taking notice of new signs of struggle: dried blood streaks on a bulkhead, weapons damage to the corridor, and other marks he’d yet to decipher. They turned a corner, seeing more blood, a lot more blood, and indications of far more weapons fire. Charred plasma craters pocked virtually every surface. Max said, “Looks like the alien fuckers came through here like a meatgrinder … Ship’s crew fought hard.” They followed the increasing signs of carnage, eventually coming up to one of the ship’s main lower deck holds, some twenty meters up ahead. The entrance hatch doors, extra wide to enable the movement of cargo, had been left open. Max signaled for his crew to take up a stacked line formation. Hardy checked his readings. Although there were signs of “life,” motion sensors detected very little movement. He looked to Max. “No time like the present; it’s time to party, boys.” Hardy breached the compartment at a full run, ready to confront whatever hostiles were present. Weapons raised, fingers on triggers, Max and crew were close on his six. Once inside, they spun, ready to target the enemy. Most of the overhead lighting had previously been shot out. Hardy took in the grisly sight. Despite being fully trained and battle hardened, he watched as the Marines wavered, weapons lowered. Ham was making gagging noises over the open channel. Max said, “Don’t you dare lose it in your helmet, Ham! If you have to spew, leave, and do it out in the passageway.” “I’m good, boss …” Hardy was somewhat surprised they didn’t all lose their collective lunch. The compartment was packed with what was left of the crew members. He counted several hundred poor souls lying prone on their backs. “Looks like they were … what? Tortured … mutilated?” Max commented. “This is bad, real fucking bad,” Grip said under his breath. The hold was half the size of a football field, and the scope of the horror was breathtaking. Max said, “Let’s clear this hold, just in case there are any bad guys lurking back there around those tall shelves.” Staying on high alert, they separated and moved out. Meanwhile, Hardy walked among the rows of bodies—each lying within a kind of metal, high-lipped pan. He tried to comprehend who, what, had done this to them. He tried to make sense of the alien “technology” apparent within each of the carcasses. Whatever it was, it was allowing these bodies to remain alive. Several minutes later, Max was back at his side. “I think some of these people are … still alive.” “No, Max … All of them are still alive.” “Good mother of God.” Grip joined them and knelt next to one body, a woman. “Uh … are those bite marks I’m seeing?” In the dimly lit hold, a light flickered above, casting eerie, strobing shadows upon the uniformed crew member—one that Hardy was certain once bore the visage of


closest one and immediately shut the curtains. Io and Edei mimicked her. Io’s pod was wide enough to fit her comfortably even cross-legged. In the Quilt, she glimpsed Aris and the two other men climbing onto the roof of the building. Rosa’s plan was brilliant: even if they got in the pod area, the moira-born would think they were just other guests. Up ahead, the hatch groaned open. Wet footsteps sounded on the staircase. Wet! Gods, what if the men noticed the wet traces of their boots on the floor? Io stuck her head outside. Sure enough, their footprints gleamed on the linoleum floor of the corridor. Grabbing the blanket from her pod, she slipped out and furiously swiped at the wetness. She followed their prints out of the room to the corridor, breathing hard, one eye to the winding staircase. She could see the phobos-born’s calves, his knees, his torso— An arm came around her waist. Edei pulled her back into the pod room. They lunged into his pod, crawling in side by side. Edei dragged the curtain closed and covered them with the blanket in one smooth move. A second later, a figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the beige curtain. Io clapped a hand over her mouth. Edei’s face was close; his rapid breath stroked her cheek; their bodies pressed tight against each other. In the darkness, she could only make out the silhouette of his face: the ridge of his nose, his heavy eyebrows. “Are they here?” the phobos-born asked. Io’s breath staggered through her chest in a dry sob. Edei wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight against his chest. His chin tucked over her head. His heart thundered beneath her cheek. “Check all rooms,” Aris Lefteriou said. “All pods.” Io squirmed, an infinitesimal, involuntary movement. “Did you hear that?” Edei pressed his mouth against her forehead, clasping her so tight that she couldn’t move even if she wanted to. Io shut her eyes. She heard the curtain to their pod fly open. Edei breathed slowly—in, out, in, out. She focused on his breathing, on his fingers on her head, his lips on her forehead, the line of his body fitting into hers. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t move. The curtain fell back. Her heart was beating fast, her breath raspy and hitched. She didn’t dare move. Only listened. Footsteps, curtains dragged, a sleepy complaint. Then silence. “It’s only the displaced here, boss,” one of the men said. “In the other rooms, too,” said the other man. “Cori, stay here in case they hid somewhere,” whispered Aris. He must have been standing right outside their pod because Io could hear him perfectly. “Jude, you’re with me. We need to find them immediately. They were at the Nine. They know about the women.” “I recognized the big one, boss,” the second man spoke again. “Edei Rhuna. He works at the Fortuna.” Io shifted back to look at Edei’s face. Their eyes locked in the half-light. He did that thing again, his gaze shifting rapidly between


thinks. I was a princess of Sparta and queen of Maeonia . . . Now I am married to the man who murdered my family. * * * They arrive in Mycenae in the late sunlight, the hilltops colored in violet and purple shades. Shrubs and rocks are scattered for miles and miles on the land around her, and in front of her, the citadel stands on a rocky outcrop, massive. The limestone blocks of the outer walls are bigger than bulls, pale against the dark mountains behind. The road to the citadel is steep and unprotected, each approaching visitor at the mercy of the guards stationed on the walls. Clytemnestra wonders how Agamemnon and Menelaus ever managed to retake the city. It looks impregnable. The suburbs stretch like cobwebs, traders and other workers running their last errands of the day. As Agamemnon and Clytemnestra ride through, the people stop and kneel. They look filthy and strangely thin, like helots. They are not soldiers, Clytemnestra can tell. Her horse steps on some bread crusts on the pebbles, and guards ride on both sides of her as if to protect her from the people. Two soldiers are waiting for them by the gate, holding a bright banner—a golden lion on purple. The banner flaps in the wind, and Clytemnestra follows its dance. Behind it, the gate is unlike anything she has ever seen. Perched above the posts and lintel, two carved lions stand on their hind legs, their front paws on each side of a column. Their heads are turned to look straight at her. They bathe in the light, quiet and watchful. The guards let them through. Inside the walls, they follow streets that become narrower and narrower as they draw closer to the palace. At the summit of the citadel, she can make out a small temple. One of the guards talks to Clytemnestra in a low voice. “Here on the right is one grave circle,” he whispers as they pass a massive stone construction guarded by two soldiers. “Those are warriors’ houses.” Tall buildings along a paved path. And then a barn. A blacksmith’s forge. Bakers passing with loaves. Slaves carrying fruit and meat for their masters. The smell of honey and spices coming out of an orange-painted store. Naked little boys and girls playing with sticks. The stone steps are worn smooth in the fading sun. They climb until they reach the top and the palace—big and glowing, each terrace surrounded by fire-red columns. Once inside, Agamemnon disappears with some counselors and Clytemnestra is taken along shadowy colonnades and perfectly lit corridors. The windows have been covered, and the light comes from golden torches hung every few steps. They pass hall after hall, each leading to a corridor lined with painted chambers. She glimpses deep-blue ceilings and columns ringed with roaring lions, griffins, and fearful deer. As they reach her quarters, the air feels still, cooler. Two slaves are waiting for her in her bedroom. The younger one has dark-red hair and wide eyes, the older a crooked nose


with a copy of the New English Bible.

The hardback version. It is indeed, I always thought, a very hard back.

Getting hit with it made me feel bad about myself, bad about the teacher, and

bad about the Bible. Nevertheless, the next night I’d go right back to flouting

the rules.

If I wasn’t roaming the corridors, I was roaming the school grounds,

usually with my best mate, Henners. Like me, Henners was officially a

Henry, but I always called him Henners, and he called me Haz.

Skinny, with no muscles, and hair that stood up in permanent surrender,

Henners was all heart. Whenever he smiled, people melted. (He was the only

boy who mentioned Mummy to me after she disappeared.) But that winning

smile, that tender nature, made you forget that Henners could be quite

naughty.

A huge “pick your own” farm lay beyond the school grounds, on the

other side of a low fence, and one day Henners and I hopped over, landing

face-first in carrot furrows. Row after row. Nearby were some fat, juicy

strawberries. We went along, stuffing our mouths, popping up now and then

like meerkats to make sure the coast was clear. Whenever I bite into a

strawberry I’m there again, in those furrows, with lovely Henners.

Days later we went back. This time, after we’d eaten our fill and hopped

over the fence, we heard our names.

We were heading along a cart track in the direction of the tennis courts

and slowly we turned. Coming straight for us was one of the teachers.

You there! Stop!

Hello, sir.

What are you two doing?

Nothing, sir.

You've been to the farm.

No!

Open your hands.

41

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

We did. Busted. Crimson palms. He reacted as if it were blood.

I can’t remember what punishment we received. Another clout with the

New English Bible? Detention? (Often called det.) A trip


Go! Go on. Get out. Go home.” She made shooing motions with her hands. “Hole up in your house by yourself if that’s what you want.” “I do. It is exactly what I want.” “Fine!” Then Bella calmed a bit. “Look, you just survived a horrific attack and lost your husband, watched him die in your arms, for God’s sake. That’s . . . that’s unthinkable. Horrific. The worst! But even so, there’s so much to life, so much to live for.” Kristi’s eyes grew hot. She thought of the baby. Her baby. Jay’s. Growing inside her. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted, and her voice sounded rough. “I know I’ve got some things to work through, but . . . but I’ll be fine.” She was on the edge of telling her friend about her pregnancy, but didn’t. It seemed traitorous somehow, that Bella Lyons would know the truth and Jay wouldn’t. Not ever. Of course she would have to tell Bella—or someone—soon enough, she thought as she pulled her debit card from her wallet. But not today. Definitely not today. “Look, Jess and Sarah and I, we’re thinking of starting jogging. Like at least once a week, maybe more. You already run, right? So why don’t you join us?” “I’ll think about it,” she lied. Right now, she couldn’t think of anything worse than getting together with her friends and doing anything where there would be hours to talk about their lives, their husbands, their children, their joy. Not yet. “And you know, if you ever want to do a show, promote your next book or whatever? The producer at the station is interested.” Bella looked hopeful, as she always did. Though she sold ads for the station, she seemed to think it her mission to find guests for the local talk shows. This wasn’t the first time Bella had suggested Kristi make herself available for a television interview. Today, Kristi wasn’t in the mood. “Another time.” “Promise?” Kristi shot her a look. “No. But if I ever consider it, you’ll be the first to know.” “Cool,” she said, though the way Bella muttered it, Kristi was pretty sure her response to the offer was anything but chill with her friend. They split the bill and hugged good-bye, but there was definitely a stiffness to the embrace that had never been there before. “You take care of yourself, okay?” Bella asked as she released her. “And you call me, or text, if you need anything. I mean it. Anything.” “Sure. You got it,” Kristi lied, and holding her jacket tight against the wind, hurried back to the spot where she’d parked her car, just off the French Quarter. She passed open-air shops and galleries and eyed the neon sign for a psychic. Glowing yellow letters over a blue crescent moon. She paused for a second, considered making an appointment for a session, then dismissed the thought. “Afraid of what you’ll find out?” Jay’s voice asked. “Never,” she said loudly, and an older man in a hat and overcoat walking in the


Crickets sang in the nights, and in the days all manner of creeping, crawling things rustled forth into the sun. Partridges and woodpeckers were booming and knocking in the forest. Squirrels were chattering, birds singing, and overhead honked the wild-fowl driving up from the south in cunning wedges that split the air. From every hill slope came the trickle of running water, the music of unseen fountains. All things were thawing, bending, snapping. The Yukon was straining to break loose the ice that bound it down. It ate away from beneath; the sun ate from above. Air-holes formed, fissures sprang and spread apart, while thin sections of ice fell through bodily into the river. And amid all this bursting, rending, throbbing of awakening life, under the blazing sun and through the soft-sighing breezes, like wayfarers to death, staggered the two men, the woman, and the huskies. With the dogs falling, Mercedes weeping and riding, Hal swearing innocuously, and Charles's eyes wistfully watering, they staggered into John Thornton's camp at the mouth of White River. When they halted, the dogs dropped down as though they had all been struck dead. Mercedes dried her eyes and looked at John Thornton. Charles sat down on a log to rest. He sat down very slowly and painstakingly what of his great stiffness. Hal did the talking. John Thornton was whittling the last touches on an axe-handle he had made from a stick of birch. He whittled and listened, gave monosyllabic replies, and, when it was asked, terse advice. He knew the breed, and he gave his advice in the certainty that it would not be followed. "They told us up above that the bottom was dropping out of the trail and that the best thing for us to do was to lay over," Hal said in response to Thornton's warning to take no more chances on the rotten ice. "They told us we couldn't make White River, and here we are." This last with a sneering ring of triumph in it. "And they told you true," John Thornton answered. "The bottom's likely to drop out at any moment. Only fools, with the blind luck of fools, could have made it. I tell you straight, I wouldn't risk my carcass on that ice for all the gold in Alaska." "That's because you're not a fool, I suppose," said Hal. "All the same, we'll go on to Dawson." He uncoiled his whip. "Get up there, Buck! Hi! Get up there! Mush on!" Thornton went on whittling. It was idle, he knew, to get between a fool and his folly; while two or three fools more or less would not alter the scheme of things. But the team did not get up at the command. It had long since passed into the stage where blows were required to rouse it. The whip flashed out, here and there, on its merciless errands. John Thornton compressed his lips. Sol-leks was the first to crawl to his feet. Teek followed. Joe came next, yelping with pain. Pike made painful efforts. Twice he


piled by the slot. A minute later, he saw Car’s shadow appear in the front window and heard the loud thud thud thud of his fist pounding on the door. A pause. No sounds from the house. Then again, thud thud thud. “New Haven PD!” Car bellowed. Nothing. No scramble of feet, no window sliding open above. Then Car kicked the door in. “New Haven PD!” he shouted again. Turner stared at Car through the window. The hell was he doing? They hadn’t actually been summoned here by a landlord. There was no reason for them to smash their way in. Car gestured for Turner to follow. “Fuck it,” said Turner. What else were they going to do this morning? King Tut was their only lead, and no way Big Car was getting jammed up on an illegal search. Turner drew his weapon, took a few steps back, then slammed his shoulder into the door, feeling it give way. Before he could even ask Car what they were doing, Car had a finger to his lips and was pointing up the stairs. “There’s someone up there. I heard it.” “Heard what?” Turner whispered. “Could have been a cat. Could have been a girl. Could have been nothing.” The prickle spread from the back of Turner’s neck. Not nothing. “Clear the ground floor,” said Car. “I’m going up.” Turner did as he was told, but there wasn’t much territory to cover. A living room with a stained mattress and dirty clothes heaped on top, a bare kitchen where nearly every cupboard was open, as if someone had searched it. Two empty bedrooms, a bathroom with a rotting floor where it looked like a pipe had burst. “Clear,” he shouted. “I’m coming up!” He had one foot on the bottom step when he heard Car shout. A shot rang out, then another. Turner sprinted up the steps, weapon drawn. He felt it squirm in his hand, looked down, and saw nothing but the hard black shadow of his sidearm. Fear was messing with his head. Not fear for himself. Fear for what he might do, who he might hurt, his brother’s voice in his head: You like that badge and gun. Turner always said the same prayer. Please, God. Don’t let it be a kid. Don’t let it be one of us. “Carmichael?” he called out. No answer came. No sound. The layout of the second floor was almost identical to the floor below. Turner spoke into his radio. “Detective Abel Turner. I am at 372 Orchard. Shots fired, request backup and medical.” He didn’t wait for the response, sweeping through the first bedroom, the bathroom. As he entered the second, he saw a body on the floor. Not Carmichael. His mind took a minute to understand. The man on the ground, a boy really, couldn’t be older than twenty, a hole in his chest, a hole in the floorboards beside him. Carmichael standing over him. Turner recognized Delan Tuttle from his file. King Tut. Bleeding out on the ground. “Shit,” said Turner kneeling


things considered. “Clearly, I’ve been remiss in not consulting another scholar.” The peacock feather apparently itched; Bastian pulled it from his ear and twirled it between his fingers instead. “No one else I’ve discussed this with has been as learned as you.” Lore gave him a small, shy smile, conjuring country cousin, conjuring no threat and don’t take me too seriously. “There isn’t much to do at home. I find my amusements where I may.” He cocked a brow and looked pointedly at the grass stains again. Lore pinched his arm, fighting a genuine laugh. “Lore!” Gabriel walked hurriedly down the path, like he’d been trying to catch up without running. Still, he was slightly out of breath when he reached them. His eye darted to Bastian, then to her, brow rising as if he was annoyed that she was following her orders so closely. “Remaut, nice of you to join us.” Bastian took the peacock feather from behind his ear and swiveled it flirtatiously beneath Gabe’s chin. “I was just taking your cousin to the stables. Don’t worry, she already had the grass stains when I found her.” Gabe’s eyebrow climbed farther. Lore gave him a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Come along.” Bastian tightened the bend of his arm, trapping Lore’s hand. “I have a curious new acquisition. You two will be the first I’ve shown it to.” He gave Lore a brilliant smile. “Honestly, between this and inviting you to the masque last night, I’ve been quite the social director. Perhaps I should hire myself out to the mothers of spinsters.” “I’m sure August would love that.” Gabe fell into step on Lore’s other side. It felt somewhat like being escorted by two abnormally tall cats, twitchy and standoffish. “Probably as much as Anton loves you coming back to court. I’m sure he wasn’t pleased about losing his star channeler for a season.” Gabe said nothing, arms politely behind his back, though those polite arms ended in fists. Lore thought of the conversation she and Bastian had as they danced, about how Bastian had attempted to orchestrate Gabe’s freedom for the summer, not knowing that Anton had planned it already. But the awkward transition gave her an opening, a place to speak about the two ruling brothers of Auverraine with someone who would know more about their relationship than most. “August and Anton…” she began, feeling out how she wanted to word it. “They don’t seem to get along. Why is that?” “Anton didn’t become the Priest Exalted until after his vision.” Gabe jumped in to answer, though he had to know she’d meant the question for Bastian. The man was apparently incapable of not immediately rising to Anton’s defense. “But August has been the heir since he was born, Apollius’s chosen. Naturally, it led to some tension.” “Like children fighting over being Father’s favorite,” Bastian scoffed. “Anton’s vision was certainly convenient.” Gabe shot him a dark look. “Are you implying it wasn’t true?” “Remaut, I don’t even know what the vision was, and neither does anyone


do okay with detective work—actually pretty good—but the reason you’re there is so cops don’t get fired over Titans.” “You coulda said it a little nicer, but yeah, that’s a big part of it.” “What’s another part of it?” “Very occasionally I get to stop something bad happening before it happens, rather than after.” “Well, that’s nice.” “Very occasionally.” “But other than that it’s a shitty job.” “Yeah.” “Why d’you do it?” “I don’t know. I fell into it, now I’m here.” I know just fine, but I don’t want to talk about Athena with Felton. Felton looks at me a while longer. “I don’t like it, but I get it now. I can deal with it.” He puts his hand out. I shake it. We both look like we’d rather be anywhere but here. “Okay. Thank you.” “You want any more about the gun?” “You think it’s important?” “In my cop judgement? Fuck, no. It is not.” “You get anything off the security tape yet?” “Take out the residents, there’s fourteen people come in that evening. So far we got a racketball teacher, four dinner guests and a massage therapist.” “Like massage massage or the other kind?” “All I can tell you is expensive. That kind of expensive, it’s honestly a little hard to tell. Then there’s a few more we don’t know yet. No faces, no one’s owned up to them. You know there’s going to be two or three we can’t get, right? People doing things they shouldn’t do.” “Yeah.” “You gonna share? Did you get anything?” I’m about to say I’m only supposed to tell Gratton, but I can still feel his handshake. “Janitor collects hair. Like, he gathers it up and colour-matches it.” He stares at me. “The hell?” “He says it’s commercial. I don’t think it’s a thing.” “Oh, it’s a thing I’m gonna think about when I can’t sleep nights. Jesus, Sounder. Anything that isn’t freaky as shit and might be relevant?” “Not yet. You want me to call if I do?” He nods and we look at each other like we’re ten years old and trying to share a pushbike. I walk out before one of us fucks it up. * * * — Twenty minutes with a cup of bad street coffee in my hand gets me to Mick’s Guns on Highdown Road. Mick’s is a militia-aspected executive hipster venue catering to nervous senior vice presidents and Doc Holliday wannabes with deep pockets. They carry the Armani Armour range as a cheap option and head north into bespoke Dyneema, Dragonscale and monofilament. There’s impact cloth ballgowns in the ladies’ section: bulletproof so long as the shooter doesn’t aim for the décolletage, but they solve that with a shawl which’ll take a direct hit at ten feet and keep the contessa standing to return fire with a range of purse-carry accessories. The same pepperpot gun Roddy bought comes in a thigh holster and ships with a selection of replaceable grips in non-slip pearl or abalone. There are no cash registers, so you’d think these


from Mr. Kim. Nothing. Fine. Eat first, worry later. I glanced over to see if I should make a plate of linguine for Peanut, but he was fast asleep, a little pile of blow-dried fur. “So,” I said, settling onto a kitchen stool and gesturing around at this empty warehouse of an apartment. “What’s the story here?” “What story?” I looked around again. “You know you don’t have any furniture, right?” “Ah,” Joe said. “That’s true.” No sense in pretending. “This is the saddest apartment I’ve ever seen,” I said. “It’s worse than my place, and I live in a hovel.” “A penthouse hovel,” Joe pointed out. “A rooftop hovel,” I corrected. “But it’s surprisingly nice.” “It’s much nicer than this sad…”—I looked around—“empty warehouse.” Then I had to ask. “How long has it been like this?” “A year.” I choked on a noodle. “A year?” Joe crunched on his salad and gave me a shrug. “Do you…” I tried to imagine any kind of reason at all why a grown man would live in an empty apartment for a whole year. “Are you … anti-furniture?” “Not really,” Joe said, like that was all he was going to say on that. Then he added, “I just gave it all to Goodwill when my wife left me.” Ah. Okay. He went on, “I wanted to burn it in a gasoline-fueled bonfire, but that’s against city regulations. Apparently.” Wow. Joe had a past. And maybe some anger issues. Why did that suddenly make him sexier? “You checked with the city before torching your ex-wife’s furniture?” He nodded. “It’s all on the municipal website.” Then he tilted his head like he was noticing my point. “I’m very law-abiding.” “Fair enough.” “She must have done something really horrible to you,” I said then, all casual, hoping he’d spill it all. “Yep.” “For you to want to burn everything.” “Yep.” “And then for you to just … live in a mausoleum.” Joe stopped chewing and assessed me. Then he made a decision. “She cheated on me. With a guy from work. And then she left me and moved in with him. And now they’re getting married.” I squeezed my whole face up like that really smarted. “Oh god.” “Yeah.” “How did you find out?” I asked. “I surprised her on a work trip and found them together at her hotel. Naked. In her private hot tub.” “Oof.” “She got home from the trip, packed a suitcase without a word, and went to a hotel. She came back a few days later to get the rest of her stuff … and brought him with her. She brought him with her. To our apartment. She kept saying, ‘I thought you’d be at work,’ like that made it better. And then—long story short—I wound up beating the crap out of him.” He paused, like I might think that was a bad idea. “Good,” I said, holding up my hand for a high five. “Yeah, well. I’m not normally violent. Just so you know.” I looked at his forkful of linguine,


and in health, to stand by your side in good times and in bad, to share your joy as well as your sorrow,” I murmur. He freezes. His only movement is to open wide his fathomless eyes and gaze at me as I continue my wedding vows. “I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals and dreams, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, to share my hopes and dreams with you, and bring you solace in times of need.” I pause, will- ing him to talk to me. He watches me, his lips parted, but says nothing. “And to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.” I sigh. “Oh, Ana,” he whispers and moves again, breaking our precious contact so that we’re lying side by side. He strokes my face with the back of his knuckles. “I solemnly vow that I will safeguard and hold dear and deep in my heart our union and you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse . “I promise to love you faithfully, forsaking all others, through the good times and the bad, in sickness or in health, regardless of where life takes us. I will protect you, trust you, and respect you. I will share your joys and sorrows and comfort you in times of need. I promise to cherish you and uphold your hopes and dreams and keep you safe at my side. All that is mine is now yours. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love from this moment on for as long as we both shall live.” Tears spring to my eyes. His face softens as he gazes at me. “Don’t cry,” he murmurs, his thumb catching and dispatching a stray tear. “Why won’t you talk to me? Please, Christian.” He closes his eyes as if in pain. “I vowed I would bring you solace in times of need. Please don’t make me break my vows.” He sighs and opens his eyes, his expression bleak. “It’s arson,” he says simply, and he looks suddenly so young and vulnerable. Oh fuck. 77/551 “And my biggest worry is that they are after me. And if they are after me—” He stops, unable to continue. “. . . They might get me,” I whisper. He blanches, and I know that I have fi- nally uncovered the root of his anxiety. I caress his face. “Thank you,” I murmur. He frowns. “What for?” “For telling me.” He shakes his head and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You can be very persuasive, Mrs. Grey.” “And you can brood and internalize all your feelings and worry yourself to death. You’ll probably die of a heart attack before you’re forty, and I want you around far longer than that.” “Mrs. Grey, you’ll be the death of me. The sight of you on the Jet Ski—I nearly had a coronary.” He flops back on the bed and puts his hand over his eyes, and I feel him shudder. “Christian, it’s a Jet


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

was even more luxurious than the outside. Knaves set into the walls held small icons of Apollius, sun rays over their arched tops breaking gold on the rich mahogany. The ceilings were painted with lush garden scenes, nude figures reclining among green trees and beside rushing blue streams, interrupted occasionally by the gold chains of heavy chandeliers, light catching the hanging gems and splashing rainbows across the walls. The iron crossbars bisecting the floor seemed brutally out of place. The bars were flush to the marble, but Lore still didn’t want to step on them. She lengthened her stride as much as the too-tight dress would allow. “Interesting décor decision.” Something about all this opulence made her want to keep her voice quiet. “They’re symbolic,” Gabriel murmured back. “Supposed to remind everyone that the Citadel is here to keep Mortem contained, and that the Arceneaux line rules through divine right.” “Gaudy.” “Quite.” A huge tapestry hung on the wall to her left, nearly wide enough to span the length of the hallway. In the top corner, the pale, chestnut-haired figure of Apollius hovered, wings of light spread behind His back, one hand thrust forward into the chest of a dark shape careening toward the ground. Just like the tapestry in the Church, the figure was vague, more smoke and shadow than concrete lines, but the crescent crown on Her brow was clear. Below, azure thread was interrupted by circles of brown and green, seven stylized islands in a stormy sea. The one at the end of the archipelago, farthest from the viewer, was the biggest by far. The Golden Mount. Where Apollius and Nyxara had lived before this moment. This was the Godsfall, how the Burnt Isles had gotten their name. Apollius cast down Nyxara when She tried to kill Him and take His place, creating a deep crater in the second island and rupturing the others. According to the Book of Holy Law, that was why so many gemstones and precious metals could be mined from them. Gods bled riches, apparently. Convenient. Lore stopped for a moment, studying the tapestry. It was strange to see all seven islands depicted. The smoke from the Godsfall obscured all but the first two from view, now, and the Golden Mount was functionally a myth, with countless voyagers lost as they searched for it in the smog. Five hundred years, and the ash still hadn’t cleared. A soft touch on her elbow. Gabriel nodded forward, where Malcolm and Anton were about to turn a corner. Lore lurched forward to follow, tearing herself away from Apollius and Nyxara. Around the corner, a huge set of double doors appeared, even more gilt-and-jewel-encrusted than the Citadel’s main entrance. Bloodcoat guards lined the hall, all of them inclining their heads in a bow when Anton appeared. The Priest Exalted paid them no mind, facing forward as the bloodcoats at the end of the line pushed the double doors open. The throne room beyond was even more impressive than the rest of the Citadel, large enough to hold a ball.


eyes, and the uncovering of his little teeth shine to me in the dusk. "If I tell you why, will you understand?" My heart, at this, leaped into my mouth. WOULD he tell me why? I found no sound on my lips to press it, and I was aware of replying only with a vague, repeated, grimacing nod. He was gentleness itself, and while I wagged my head at him he stood there more than ever a little fairy prince. It was his brightness indeed that gave me a respite. Would it be so great if he were really going to tell me? "Well," he said at last, "just exactly in order that you should do this." "Do what?" "Think me--for a change--BAD!" I shall never forget the sweetness and gaiety with which he brought out the word, nor how, on top of it, he bent forward and kissed me. It was practically the end of everything. I met his kiss and I had to make, while I folded him for a minute in my arms, the most stupendous effort not to cry. He had given exactly the account of himself that permitted least of my going behind it, and it was only with the effect of confirming my acceptance of it that, as I presently glanced about the room, I could say-- "Then you didn't undress at all?" He fairly glittered in the gloom. "Not at all. I sat up and read." "And when did you go down?" "At midnight. When I'm bad I AM bad!" "I see, I see--it's charming. But how could you be sure I would know it?" "Oh, I arranged that with Flora." His answers rang out with a readiness! "She was to get up and look out." "Which is what she did do." It was I who fell into the trap! "So she disturbed you, and, to see what she was looking at, you also looked--you saw." "While you," I concurred, "caught your death in the night air!" He literally bloomed so from this exploit that he could afford radiantly to assent. "How otherwise should I have been bad enough?" he asked. Then, after another embrace, the incident and our interview closed on my recognition of all the reserves of goodness that, for his joke, he had been able to draw upon. XII The particular impression I had received proved in the morning light, I repeat, not quite successfully presentable to Mrs. Grose, though I reinforced it with the mention of still another remark that he had made before we separated. "It all lies in half a dozen words," I said to her, "words that really settle the matter. 'Think, you know, what I MIGHT do!' He threw that off to show me how good he is. He knows down to the ground what he `might' do. That's what he gave them a taste of at school." "Lord, you do change!" cried my friend. "I don't change--I simply make it out. The four, depend upon it, perpetually meet. If on either of these last nights you


my intention to charge him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was national property. I was determined that the law should have its way in everything. "'At least,' said he, 'you will not have me arrested at once. It would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house for five minutes.' "'That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you have stolen,' said I. And then, realizing the dreadful position in which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my honor but that of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and that he threatened to raise a scandal which would convulse the nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell me what he had done with the three missing stones. "'You may as well face the matter,' said I; 'you have been caught in the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.' "'Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,' he answered, turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made at once not only of his person but of his room and of every portion of the house where he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched boy open his mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and I, after going through all the police formalities, have hurried round to you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter. The police have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of it. You may go to any expense which you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of 1000 pounds. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my honor, my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!" He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words. Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire. "Do you receive much company?" he asked. "None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one else, I think." "Do you go out much in society?" "Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it." "That is unusual in a young girl." "She is of


had survived. People had told me over the years that I’d been blessed, brave, determined, fierce. I hadn’t felt like any of those things. Survival had never even crossed my mind as a possibility or a concept. I’d crawled across the forest floor because in my blood loss–addled brain, I was trying to get away from the pain, like I could leave it behind if I got far enough. One of the stab wounds had nicked the side of my heart, not quite puncturing the atrial wall. If it had been a millimeter deeper or farther to the right, I would have escaped the pain after all. The door opened. Mitch crept in with a hangdog shuffle. “I’m sorry,” he said, sinking down cross-legged beside me on the carpet. “You’re right. I’m an asshole. Completely useless. Can you forgive me?” “Okay,” I said, and then I flashed him a quick smile. If I sounded half-hearted, he’d keep up the Please forgive me groveling as long as it took. “You’re not useless, and you’re not an asshole.” “Yes, I am. I’m a horrible boyfriend.” He leaned his head against my shoulder. I sagged. I didn’t have the energy to make him feel better right now, but if I didn’t he would keep this up all night, berating himself for his supposed failures. “It’s okay,” I soothed. “You’re so stressed out, and I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” “I’m sorry,” he said again. His fingertips trailed down my arm and played across my palm, and I shut my eyes. What was wrong with me? Mitch loved me. He wanted the best for me. Why couldn’t I love him like I used to? “Who’s Persephone?” Mitch asked. I jerked, startled, and realized that Mitch was looking at my hand—at the bracelet wrapped around my fingers. It had been in the bottom of the box. I hadn’t even known that I’d picked it up. It was simple: a discolored nylon string, knotted into a loop and strung with plastic alphabet beads that had faded and chipped until the letters were almost unreadable. But not quite. “No one,” I said. I tossed the bracelet back in the box, disturbed that I’d picked it up without noticing. I can’t tell you more. Not over the phone, Liv had said. “Then why do you have her bracelet?” he asked with a little laugh. “Let me guess. Elementary school crush. Your BFF. Your babysitter.” “I don’t even know why that thing is in there,” I said. I should have gotten rid of it a long time ago. I crammed the binder and the cards and the quilt back in the box. The things in that box were the very last possessions I’d taken with me when I left Chester. “Maybe I should throw it all out. Move on.” “You know, I don’t think I’ve told you how fucking amazing you are,” Mitch said. “You were eleven years old and you put a serial killer away. They had jack shit on Stahl without your testimony. You were a pint-sized badass, and


that you really didn’t want children after all. I would have hated myself if you had given that up for me and then eventually regretted it.” That same afternoon he’d talked of illnesses that were passed down from generation to generation. I hadn’t put it together until now that he was talking about us, our future. He was trying to protect me. What a terrible waste, to have given each other up for some future tragedy that never even happened. When I speak, there’s a chill in my voice. “I never had children. My life was too peripatetic for that. But I suppose I appreciate the sentiment. You seem to have made it through your thirties unscathed.” “I have.” “I’m glad. Very glad.” “I considered reaching out, once I knew I was in the clear, but at that point I was with someone. After we broke up, I was on a work trip in Los Angeles when I saw that one of your shows was doing an out-of-town tryout there. I went to the opening—it was marvelous, by the way—but as I was buying my ticket I saw you with someone . . .” He trails off, but I know exactly who he’s referring to. It was a whirlwind romance with the assistant director, all glitter but no substance, one that fizzled out before we even got back to New York. I remember that night, though, when I was still in the midst of the initial heady spell of finding oneself in love. I hate that Peter witnessed it and walked away. “It wasn’t anything, just an on-the-road romance with an assistant director. You were there?” He nods and flinches a little, as if remembering the moment. My heart goes out to him then. My heart has always been with him. What terrible timing we’ve had. “The important thing is that you’re healthy,” I say. “I can only imagine what it was like waking up day after day, wondering if this was it, wondering if what you were thinking and feeling was reality or something else.” “That’s exactly what it was like.” “I’m afraid I didn’t escape the family curse so easily. You saw me earlier, I can’t even walk up to the stage without help. Like father, like daughter.” “I’m sorry, Marion. You seem better now.” “The medicine helps. For a time. I’m doing fine, actually. Better than expected.” He moves toward me. “I was excited that you’d be here tonight, that we’d see each other. I wanted a chance to explain, finally.” He pauses. “Although I admit I was worried that there was some assistant director in the picture.” I laugh, and he does as well. But he’s still looking at me like he’s serious. Good Lord. The man is caught up in the moment, not thinking straight. “No, no assistant director. But it’s too late, Peter, although I appreciate the sentiment.” My heart is thudding in my chest. “Come with me. We need a do-over.” “What?” Back inside we grab our coats and awards at the coat check—he refuses


advertising plainly that when his desire was met, he would come in and be good. Francois sat down and scratched his head. Perrault looked at his watch and swore. Time was flying, and they should have been on the trail an hour gone. Francois scratched his head again. He shook it and grinned sheepishly at the courier, who shrugged his shoulders in sign that they were beaten. Then Francois went up to where Sol-leks stood and called to Buck. Buck laughed, as dogs laugh, yet kept his distance. Francois unfastened Sol-leks's traces and put him back in his old place. The team stood harnessed to the sled in an unbroken line, ready for the trail. There was no place for Buck save at the front. Once more Francois called, and once more Buck laughed and kept away. "T'row down de club," Perrault commanded. Francois complied, whereupon Buck trotted in, laughing triumphantly, and swung around into position at the head of the team. His traces were fastened, the sled broken out, and with both men running they dashed out on to the river trail. Highly as the dog-driver had forevalued Buck, with his two devils, he found, while the day was yet young, that he had undervalued. At a bound Buck took up the duties of leadership; and where judgment was required, and quick thinking and quick acting, he showed himself the superior even of Spitz, of whom Francois had never seen an equal. But it was in giving the law and making his mates live up to it, that Buck excelled. Dave and Sol-leks did not mind the change in leadership. It was none of their business. Their business was to toil, and toil mightily, in the traces. So long as that were not interfered with, they did not care what happened. Billee, the good-natured, could lead for all they cared, so long as he kept order. The rest of the team, however, had grown unruly during the last days of Spitz, and their surprise was great now that Buck proceeded to lick them into shape. Pike, who pulled at Buck's heels, and who never put an ounce more of his weight against the breast-band than he was compelled to do, was swiftly and repeatedly shaken for loafing; and ere the first day was done he was pulling more than ever before in his life. The first night in camp, Joe, the sour one, was punished roundly-- a thing that Spitz had never succeeded in doing. Buck simply smothered him by virtue of superior weight, and cut him up till he ceased snapping and began to whine for mercy. The general tone of the team picked up immediately. It recovered its old-time solidarity, and once more the dogs leaped as one dog in the traces. At the Rink Rapids two native huskies, Teek and Koona, were added; and the celerity with which Buck broke them in took away Francois's breath. "Nevaire such a dog as dat Buck!" he cried. "No, nevaire! Heem worth one t'ousan' dollair, by Gar! Eh? Wot you say,


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

tempted to make some remark to answer his library dust comment, but in truth, I was a little humbled by his thoughtfulness. “Thank you,” I said finally. “I will—I will confine my reading to the indicated entries only.” He was only partly listening to me, his attention absorbed by the mirror that hung by my bed, in which he was frowning at his reflection and tugging his cloak this way and that. “I thought you had only a little common fae ancestry,” I said, trying to suppress my amusement—though not very hard, I admit. He scowled. “It is a little. I have three other grandparents, all highborn, including a king and queen.” I nodded, pretending to ponder this. Then I said, “There’s a bump in your nose now.” He glared at me. “There is not.” “Your mouth is lopsided.” He opened his mouth to argue, but then he just let out a weary groan. “What is the point? I am hideous. I can’t wait to change myself back again.” “Don’t. I prefer you like this.” He looked surprised, then he began to smile. “Do you?” “Yes,” I said. “You blend into the background. I could almost forget about you entirely. It’s refreshing.” Naturally, he found a way to twist this into a compliment. “And am I ordinarily a distraction to you, Em?” He rose to leave, flicking his fingers at the servant, who grumbled and began to stir. “Your attendants will become suspicious if I tarry much longer,” he said. “I will send you a note with your veil to clarify your role in tomorrow’s events. Perhaps it will soothe your conscience to know that it is a small one.” As he retreated, he seemed to melt into the grey daylight shadows, and I felt a sudden stab of terror. I didn’t want him to leave. Actually, I wanted him to stay, which was almost but not quite the same thing. I realized with a horrible sort of clarity that I had missed him. “What is the date?” I said. He paused, and told me. “A month,” I murmured. “I was off by a month.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s not bad. Most mortals can watch years slip by in Faerie and think them mere days.” “Wendell,” I said. “I should—I mean, everything you’ve done for me, I —” “Oh dear,” he said. “That’s how I know you’ve really and truly been enchanted—you are getting mushy. You will kill me later if I enjoy the moment, so I’ll leave you to profess your gratitude to the walls. And anyhow, I must finish your dress.” I did not see him and Shadow leave the room, though I knew they were gone. My servant propped herself up on one elbow, blinking her frosty eyelashes in confusion. Before she had a chance to open her mouth, I berated her for falling asleep and bid her to send in my next visitor. 30th January—later (presumably) It was some time before I was able to escape from visitors and their interminable questions about my nuptials —which I


nod, she says simply, “Good.” She opens drawers and cabinets, pulling out things I don’t recognize. “This is special large-head atractylodis from Hangzhou,” she says, holding up something brown and dried. “We’re going to soak it in rice water, which will help the healing properties enter Lady Huang’s body through her Spleen and Stomach meridians to dry the Damp, harmonize the Stomach, and prevent miscarriage. Here’s another herb that we’ll prepare in vinegar. It helps to remove toxic Heat, invigorate Blood, and control pain.” I don’t fully comprehend the things she says, but I’m able to follow her directions. She lets me pour the rice water and later the vinegar. She shows me how to gaze into the liquid to judge its strength by the depth of the color. She asks me to hold the sieve as she pours both mixtures into an earthenware pot. I’d like her to tell me more about what the different roots and herbs are and their purpose, but her thoughts are elsewhere. “Having babies is central to every woman’s life,” she says. “But every pregnancy is a crisis of life or death. Will the mother survive and continue to run the household? Will the baby survive to become a descendant?” When we’re done and Inky has taken the formula to Lady Huang, Grandmother directs me to sit across from her. “Your grandfather has spoken about teaching you his medicine. I look at it differently. Your mother died because no male doctor could properly examine or treat her.” She silently taps her fingertips on her thighs, seemingly struggling with what to say. “It is not the custom to teach hereditary medicine to a daughter, who will eventually marry out and take her knowledge with her. Your grandfather’s type of medicine is different. It can be learned from a book, by anyone.” “But you learned, and you married out.” “I did,” she admits, but doesn’t expand on how that came to pass. Her fingers give a decisive thump on her thighs. “I cannot say if you will be a good student or not, but I am willing to teach you my medicine. Doctors, whether male or female, call it fuke—medicine for women. Are you interested?” My mouth spreads into a wide smile. “Yes, Grandmother Ru.” She hands me a small book. “This volume contains formulas and treatments more than two hundred years old. Start by memorizing the first three formulas. Once you can recite them without mistake, you will come to me ready to enumerate the problems for which they are most efficacious and how best to employ them.” I take the book and read the title: Excellent Prescriptions for Women by Chen Ziming. Still beaming, I draw the volume to my chest. “Thank you, Grandmother.” “Don’t thank me yet. When I was your age, I was already helping my parents in their practice. We have much work to do, so stop grinning! Nothing is assured. We will have to see how well you learn. Ultimately, I will decide if you are worthy of absorbing all I know.”


with it. I mean, what’re ya gonna do? Know what I mean?” He wore an orange T-shirt and battered jeans held up by suspenders that stretched over a protruding belly. His beard was gray and thin, his feet slipped into moccasins that had stretched and looked a size too big. As they stepped into the office, he closed the door quickly behind them, pulled down the shade, and with the click of a switch killed the vacancy sign. “We need a little privacy,” he explained, “and some of my guests, well, they get a little squirrely around cops, if ya know what I mean.” Montoya did. The office itself was small with low ceilings and smelled of tobacco, fish, and dust. A counter ran along one side of the room, a refrigerated case on the opposite wall stacked with cold drinks—soda, beer, water, refrigerated snacks that included processed cheese and sausage, and bait. Next to the cold drink case was a chest freezer stuffed with frozen waffles, pizza, corn dogs, ice cream sandwiches, and more bait. Nuts, pretzels, M&M’s, cigarettes, and chewing tobacco were also available and displayed beneath the glass top of the counter, while behind the register was a wall-to-ceiling display of hard liquor bottles and packages of ammunition, all tightly locked behind Plexiglas doors. A bulletin board held curled and yellowed business cards, photos of hunters with dead alligators or deer, or fishermen with their catches, along with a piece of paper offering CU’s cabins for rent with his phone number on tabs at the bottom. The paper was missing four or five slips where potential customers had torn off the information. Not exactly high-tech, the kind of advertising one did in local grocery stores. “Come on back to the livin’ room,” Cyrus suggested. They followed him down a short hallway where supplies nearly blocked the path to an area that was a rustic studio apartment, a bed pushed into one corner, couch and recliner stretched across the opposite wall, television on a swiveling stand so that it could face the recliner or bed. The kitchen was an alcove with a microwave, mini fridge, and hot plate, and over the scents of mildew and dust, the smell of recently fried fish still lingered. Sliding doors opened to a large deck built over the water of the swamp and decorated with hanging lights and another couple of bug zappers. “So tell us about the priest,” Bentz suggested after letting CU know the interview was being recorded. “I’m not sure he was a priest.” CU settled into his recliner and stared out the window to the darkness beyond. “What made you think he was?” Montoya asked. “He was dressed all in black, no collar—just black pants and shirt, which isn’t all that odd these days, but there was something about him that made me think . . .” He let his voice fade off for a minute. “It was all odd. He called, asking about a cabin, which isn’t weird, of course, said he’d heard that I had one from a


it in, rather than pull it out. Around the slab, Gabe and Bastian didn’t move. Instinct was all she had to follow here. Lore thinned that forest in her mind, loosening its protection. She took a breath, then held it until her vision began to white out, until everything faded to the muted gray of dead matter or the blazing white of something living. Gabe and Bastian were smudges of light, the body on the slab the color of charcoal—something between, something that should be dead, but with the death spooled out of it. Mortem was easy to find—it lived in the rock, in the glass solarium above, slowly turning pink with incoming dawn. But it was hard for her to grasp, hard to get a handle on. Bastian. Bastian was here. Lore opened her eyes, fixed them on him. “Bastian. You have to go.” Incredulity crossed his face first, then a blaze of rage. “Absolutely not. I thought we established that—” “I can’t get a grip on Mortem while you’re here.” She was too tired to argue. Gods, how long had it been since she’d slept? “I don’t know why, but if I’m going to do this, I need you to leave the vault.” To his credit, Gabe didn’t look smug. He didn’t look at Bastian at all, only at Lore, his brow furrowed. Channelers could see Mortem, but nonchannelers couldn’t—they could only see the effects it left on a person. Gabe had seen her reach for Mortem, seen her fail to grasp it. She watched him a moment, saw him hold his breath, his fingers go white and cold. Testing to see if he could grab hold of Mortem when she couldn’t. No dark threads attached to his fingers—he couldn’t grasp the magic of death when Bastian was around, either. Lore couldn’t decide if that was comforting or alarming. Bastian stared at her, not quite a glare, his arms crossed over his still-bare chest, his full mouth pressed into a white line. He nodded, just once, and stalked from the vault. Gabe didn’t ask questions. Didn’t do anything but wait. She was thankful for that. Lore closed her eyes, held her breath, lowered her mental defenses until she could sense Mortem again. She reached for it, twirled a thread of it around her necrotic fingers, her veins sludgy and blackened as her blood just barely moved. The Mortem worked its way through her, death crowding her cells but not taking over. Slowly, it gathered in her palms, and slowly, Lore raised her hands and pushed it out. It trailed across the vault, a viscous, dark line. It entered the corpse’s slack mouth, the gaping nostrils, the open black eyes. And as 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


of my well-honed compartmentalization skills. “He saw through the bad grades and the rec letters that said I was flaky. Told me I had potential. Accepted me into grad school. Everything I’ve accomplished, I owe to him.” Jack scans my face for a long time. Then he exhales slowly and nods once, as if coming to an arduous decision. “Elsie—” “My turn to ask a question,” I interrupt. I’m done talking about J.J. and Dr. L. “Since we’re on the topic.” Jack hesitates, like he’s not ready to let go of the subject. “What is it?” “Olive also said something else. That when you do go out with women, it’s usually to . . .” I can’t bring myself to utter the words. But it doesn’t matter, because Jack looks like he knows exactly what I want to say. I point back and forth between us. “Is that what you want?” He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies me, stern, unreadable, impenetrable as he hasn’t been in a while. And then, after a long beat of choosing words carefully, he slowly says, “You and I won’t be having sex—” “You guys ready to order?” The waitress interrupts us. We don’t go back to the topic. And I wonder why the knot of relief in my belly feels so much like disappointment. 18 FLUX M Y MAIN SENTIMENT GOING INTO LUNCH WITH G REG IS FEAR —closely followed by self-loathing, guilt, and an uncontrollable impulse to run back home and feed myself to Hedgie. Does he hate me? Does he hold me responsible for outing him? Does he want his money back? He deserves it. I’ll sell a cornea. Or a foot. Whatever goes for highest. As it turns out, I shouldn’t have worried. Because Greg grins widely the moment he sees me, and then asks suggestively, “You and my brother, huh?” “Oh, no. No, I . . .” We’re at our usual café, but even though today I could use some diversions, there are no screaming toddlers or projectile vomiting or tragic mishearings. Just the barista in a “Breathe If You Hate Tom Brady” shirt, me, and Greg’s winky face. I silently wish for a tectonic earthquake, to no avail. “We—Jack and I are just . . . hanging out.” There was dinner last Thursday, of course, which ended when he drove me home and answered my “Do you want to do this again?” with an infuriating “Do you?” And then the Saturday afternoon spent hunting down the Murder, She Wrote novelization for Millicent and bickering about the validity of string theory. (“It has produced no testable experimental predictions.” “We are working on the math!” “Work away, but until you come to me with a substantial breakthrough, the multiverse is as scientific as the Great Pumpkin.”) And last night, of course, when he drove me to a Northeastern lecture I was going to attend anyway. (“Or you can take the subway and we can meet there, if you enjoy watching people masturbate to Tropicana ads.”) Afterward we spent one hour in his


off. The police are stymied, and it’s been sixteen years, which is more than long enough for this man to terrorize the city. I thought you might be able to help.” He looked at her like she was nuts, which really made perfect sense. She was a Rockette, kicking and dancing for her weekly wage. Not the typical pursuer of sociopaths. She continued. “When you were at the restaurant, you were able to analyze that man who was abusing the staff and put him straight. I thought you might have some insights into who this bomber is.” “Without having met him?” “Why not? I mean, I’m sure they have notes he’s left—that sort of thing—that you can look at. Maybe there’s a pattern, like with the project you’re doing.” He leaned forward, picked up a pen, and then put it back down. “Because it’s more involved than that. What I do is science, not some parlor trick.” “That’s exactly what the investigation needs: science. The police are stuck, and maybe you can help them out of it, give them some ideas to go on. You have to.” “Why?” He looked genuinely confused. “Why are you here?” “I am here because . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “Look, if the police want help with their investigation, they’re going to approach a doctor with a long history in psychoanalysis, not me. Is there something else you’re not telling me?” She couldn’t answer his question honestly. If she did, she’d end up bursting into tears and he’d dismiss her as some hysterical, grieving relative. “I saw the bomber,” she finally said. “That day.” He looked at her, eyes wide. “You did? Have you told the police?” “Yes. Not that it did much good.” “What did he look like?” “A balding man in his forties, with glasses, wearing a trench coat and carrying a black leather briefcase.” She was pleased with how many details she’d come up with. But Peter didn’t seem impressed at all. He sat back in his chair. “That describes thousands of men in the city.” “That’s what the police said.” “And they’re right.” He checked his watch. “I’m sure you are very upset by what happened. It must’ve been quite frightening. But it’s not your job to figure out who the Big Apple Bomber is. You stick with what you do best, and let the police do their job.” His patronizing tone sent her over the edge; her entire body sizzled with rage. “Just because I dance doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.” “I didn’t say that, not at all.” “I’m a citizen of this city, as you are, and my taxes help pay for the police. If they can’t figure out who this guy is, after sixteen years, then maybe they should be looking outside the box. I plan on making them do that. There cannot be another death. There simply cannot.” He put his hands up. “I didn’t know there was a death. I thought most of these bombs didn’t go off, or if they did, the injuries were


the seabed, in between the forests of kelp, was a disco floor of orange sea stars and shimmering sea urchins. Spider crabs hastily retreated from her, no doubt scared that she might be hunting them since they were a popular delicacy in Hope Town. A large silver octopus took no evasive action, passing close by, staring at her with enigmatic, bulbous eyes, entirely unafraid even though they, too, were regularly caught, their flesh fried to a tempura crisp in salty seal-fat oil. Echo, normally so measured in her reactions, couldn’t be in the same room when they were being eaten – she found the sight distressing, and from this visceral reaction her mother had deduced that her biological composition must take some genetic element from the octopus. This mystery had puzzled Echo until she saw her own blood for the first time. With tough skin and excellent co-ordination, she’d never experienced the kind of scratches and grazes that were part of an ordinary-born human’s childhood. The first time she saw her blood was when her period began and she’d discovered that her blood was blue – little spots of sky dotted across her white-scale skin. Antarctic octopus blood was also blue, from the high concentration of the copper-based protein hemocyanin, which enabled it to continue transporting oxygen even at freezing temperatures. Though the genetic mystery was solved, the sight of her blue blood had troubled Echo – an expression of how alien she really was, as if being human meant that your blood ran red. The only person she’d confided in was Tetu, hoping he’d be nerdish and academic about it. To her surprise he’d reacted emotionally, and she realized in that moment that he’d been contemplating their compatibility as sexual partners or, to put it less scientifically, that he might be in love. He’d tried to cover his feelings by joking that ‘blue blood’ used to be a phrase denoting royalty, that she was a member of Antarctica’s royal family, an Ice Princess, and he was a humble peasant on this land, a man who should bow before her. Even his attempt at humour was revealing, the joke touching upon the belief that he didn’t feel that he was worthy of her, that the biological barriers between them couldn’t be bridged by affection alone. Swimming along the seabed towards the flickers of alien light ahead, Echo thought about asking these difficult questions when she arrived at McMurdo City. She would meet her creators, stand before them, ask a long series of questions and listen as her place in this world became clear. It was for this reason that she admired Tetu so much. He had no wise creators he could quiz for answers, he had no family, he had nothing except the wisdom he’d worked for and the ambition to be more than a survivor. Though she rarely paid him a compliment, she decided it was time to tell him, when she handed him this alien fragment, not that she loved him – she wasn’t confident of using that word –


vacuum. Just like your zombie of a mother.” The words were cruel enough on their own, but I knew there was more abuse to come. If we were in a true BDSM relationship, the repercussions would have been agreed upon in advance. But Benjamin was not a dominant. He was a bully. A manipulator. An abuser. “Go to the room.” “But the steak…,” I said weakly. His plate flew at me, the cutlery clattering to the table. I brought my forearm up to protect myself, the plate glancing off it sharply. The bloody piece of meat landed in my lap. “Go!” he roared. I stood and stumbled obediently down the stairs. 30 “WE HAVE TO LEAVE,” I said. “Soon.” Jesse’s eyes remained on the road ahead as he piloted the Audi through sparse Saturday morning traffic. “What happened?” “This.” I twisted in my seat to reveal my lower back, black and blue from the beating. Benjamin used a leather cat-o’-nine-tails, a common instrument of BDSM play. But the way he used it was not playful. It was brutal. “Christ,” Jesse muttered. “And I’m only allowed to go to the gym for one hour now. It’s not long enough for us to be together.” I saw his jaw clench. “That fucking prick.” “I have to get away from him, Jesse. He’s going to kill me one day.” “I can’t get the boat. It’s chartered for the next month.” “Shit.” I swiped at my eyes and the tears welling there. His voice was gentle. “Don’t cry, Hazel.” But I couldn’t stop. The hopelessness of my situation was overwhelming me. I hated and feared my husband, but I couldn’t leave him. He would find me, and he would kill me. And then he’d go after my mother. I winced as my bruised backside brushed against the seat belt buckle. Jesse’s voice cut through my meltdown. “I met her,” he said without looking over. “Who?” “Lee. The homeless woman.” Something in my chest clutched as he continued. “She works at a diner in Beacon Hill. It’s a dive. Full of illegal workers. I sort of know the owner.” “But why did you want to meet her?” “There’s a strange woman living in the park near your house, Hazel. And she has a knife.” “She wouldn’t hurt me,” I said quickly. “She’s harmless. She’s nice actually.” “I’m not worried about her hurting you.” Fat raindrops began to mottle the windshield and Jesse flicked on the wipers. “I think we could use her.” An unpleasant tremor ran through me. “Use her how?” Jesse turned the Audi down a random side street. We were driving aimlessly. There wasn’t time to go to his apartment. “This is going to sound like a lot but hear me out.” He glanced over at me. I kept my face blank, receptive, but my heart rabbited in my throat. “We could get rid of Benjamin. For good. You could keep everything: the house, the money, the cars. And we could be together.” The school system, my peers, and most of all my husband had


straightforward about money. A little longer, he kept thinking. I’ll tell her about the investment once some time has passed since my last fuckup. Really, it had been just over a week since he’d sent her running to the other side of the country. They were so happy. He’d just wanted more things about their marriage in the pro column before he added deceptive about money to the con side. “Of course, go greet your wife,” the CO answered, laughing. “Didn’t recognize her at the flower stand. She looks different. Good different. Happier.” “Thank you,” August managed, pulse rollicking. “Did you . . . you didn’t mention the investment, did you? I haven’t told her yet.” The man only looked confused. “Why not?” “It’s complicated.” August sort of just doubled over, catching himself with hands on his knees, releasing an unsteady exhale. “You did tell her. She knows.” “It came up, yes.” “Oh fuck.” “Cates?” “Sorry. Oh fuck, sir.” This was bad. This was very bad. His spleen was seconds from erupting, and he didn’t even know where his spleen was located. Or its function. Fix it. Fix it now. “I need some time with Natalie, sir,” he said, winded. “If you hear glass breaking or doors slamming, don’t worry, that’s normal around here.” “Should I come back later?” August took a deep breath on his journey toward the house. “That’s probably a good idea, sir.” With a brisk nod, the commanding officer strode to his car, as if a battle awaited. And it did. The big one. Why the hell had August kept this from her for so long? Didn’t he know better by now? August paused with his hand on the doorknob, then opened the door carefully, waiting a beat, just in case a plate or frying pan came flying at his head. “Princess?” No answer. Shit. I’m screwed. Silent treatment from Natalie was so much worse than arguing, because he didn’t get to hear her voice and it meant her feelings were injured. Utter torture. “Natalie,” he said, easing himself inside the house, “I’m sorry. I was going to . . .” August stopped short just inside the door, because a sight greeted him that he wasn’t expecting. Natalie was standing in the middle of the kitchen, wringing her hands. She appeared to be . . . nervous? Why? Did people get nervous before they asked for a divorce? Probably. Acid flooded his organs, so thick he could taste it in his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice in tatters. “I was going to tell you, but we’re so happy and I didn’t want you to lump me in with your father and Morrison and Savage. Listen to me, it’s not what you think. Yes, I accepted an investment from Sam’s father. But it wasn’t because I didn’t want your help with the bank loan. I wasn’t rejecting you, the way I did with making our wine. That wasn’t it at all, Natalie. I just wanted . . .” He strode forward and took her shoulders, stooping