want to see him.' After a moment's survey of me, the sharp-looking lad decided to let me in; and opening the door wider for that purpose, admitted me, first, into a little closet of a hall, and next into a little sitting-room; where I came into the presence of my old friend (also out of breath), seated at a table, and bending over papers. 'Good God!' cried Traddles, looking up. 'It's Copperfield!' and rushed into my arms, where I held him tight. 'All well, my dear Traddles?' 'All well, my dear, dear Copperfield, and nothing but good news!' We cried with pleasure, both of us. 'My dear fellow,' said Traddles, rumpling his hair in his excitement, which was a most unnecessary operation, 'my dearest Copperfield, my long-lost and most welcome friend, how glad I am to see you! How brown you are! How glad I am! Upon my life and honour, I never was so rejoiced, my beloved Copperfield, never!' I was equally at a loss to express my emotions. I was quite unable to speak, at first. 'My dear fellow!' said Traddles. 'And grown so famous! My glorious Copperfield! Good gracious me, WHEN did you come, WHERE have you come from, WHAT have you been doing?' Never pausing for an answer to anything he said, Traddles, who had clapped me into an easy-chair by the fire, all this time impetuously stirred the fire with one hand, and pulled at my neck-kerchief with the other, under some wild delusion that it was a great-coat. Without putting down the poker, he now hugged me again; and I hugged him; and, both laughing, and both wiping our eyes, we both sat down, and shook hands across the hearth. 'To think,' said Traddles, 'that you should have been so nearly coming home as you must have been, my dear old boy, and not at the ceremony!' 'What ceremony, my dear Traddles?' 'Good gracious me!' cried Traddles, opening his eyes in his old way. 'Didn't you get my last letter?' 'Certainly not, if it referred to any ceremony.' 'Why, my dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, sticking his hair upright with both hands, and then putting his hands on my knees, 'I am married!' 'Married!' I cried joyfully. 'Lord bless me, yes,!' said Traddles - 'by the Reverend Horace - to Sophy - down in Devonshire. Why, my dear boy, she's behind the window curtain! Look here!' To my amazement, the dearest girl in the world came at that same instant, laughing and blushing, from her place of concealment. And a more cheerful, amiable, honest, happy, bright-looking bride, I believe (as I could not help saying on the spot) the world never saw. I kissed her as an old acquaintance should, and wished them joy with all my might of heart. 'Dear me,' said Traddles, 'what a delightful re-union this is! You are so extremely brown, my dear Copperfield! God bless my soul, how happy I am!' 'And so am I,' said I. 'And I am sure I am!' said the blushing and laughing Sophy. 'We are all


promised she won’t go hungry. Rue has only me. Once I reach the stream, I have only to follow it downhill to the place I initially picked it up after the tracker jacker attack. I have to be cautious as I move along the water though, be- 211 cause I find my thoughts preoccupied with unanswered ques- tions, most of which concern Peeta. The cannon that fired ear- ly this morning, did that signify his death? If so, how did he die? At the hand of a Career? And was that in revenge for let- ting me live? I struggle again to remember that moment over Glimmer’s body, when he burst through the trees. But just the fact that he was sparkling leads me to doubt everything that happened. I must have been moving very slowly yesterday because I reach the shallow stretch where I took my bath in just a few hours. I stop to replenish my water and add a layer of mud to my backpack. It seems bent on reverting to orange no matter how many times I cover it. My proximity to the Careers’ camp sharpens my senses, and the closer I get to them, the more guarded I am, pausing frequently to listen for unnatural sounds, an arrow already fit- ted into the string of my bow. I don’t see any other tributes, but I do notice some of the things Rue has mentioned. Patches of the sweet berries. A bush with the leaves that healed my stings. Clusters of tracker jacker nests in the vicinity of the tree I was trapped in. And here and there, the black-and-white flash of a mockingjay wing in the branches high over my head. When I reach the tree with the abandoned nest at the foot, I pause a moment, to gather my courage. Rue has given specific instructions on how to reach the best spying place near the lake from this point. Remember, I tell myself. You’re the hunter now, not them. I get a firmer grasp on my bow and go on. I make it to the copse Rue has told me about and again have to 212 admire her cleverness. It’s right at the edge of the wood, but the bushy foliage is so thick down low I can easily observe the Career camp without being spotted. Between us lies the flat expanse where the Games began. There are four tributes. The boy from District 1, Cato and the girl from District 2, and a scrawny, ashen-skinned boy who must be from District 3. He made almost no impression on me at all during our time in the Capitol. I can remember almost nothing about him, not his costume, not his training score, not his interview. Even now, as he sits there fiddling with some kind of plastic box, he’s easily ignored in the pres- ence of his large and domineering companions. But he must be of some value or they wouldn’t have bothered to let him live. Still, seeing him only adds to my sense of


for shelter, and from points of vantage behind masts, wheel-house and cabin they returned the fire of the five men who represented the hated authority of the ship. Two of their number had gone down before the captain's revolver. They lay where they had fallen between the combatants. But then the first mate lunged forward upon his face, and at a cry of command from Black Michael the mutineers charged the remaining four. The crew had been able to muster but six firearms, so most of them were armed with boat hooks, axes, hatchets and crowbars. The captain had emptied his revolver and was reloading as the charge was made. The second mate's gun had jammed, and so there were but two weapons opposed to the mutineers as they bore down upon the officers, who now started to give back before the infuriated rush of their men. Both sides were cursing and swearing in a frightful manner, which, together with the reports of the firearms and the screams and groans of the wounded, turned the deck of the Fuwalda to the likeness of a madhouse. Before the officers had taken a dozen backward steps the men were upon them. An ax in the hands of a burly Negro cleft the captain from forehead to chin, and an instant later the others were down: dead or wounded from dozens of blows and bullet wounds. Short and grisly had been the work of the mutineers of the Fuwalda, and through it all John Clayton had stood leaning carelessly beside the companionway puffing meditatively upon his pipe as though he had been but watching an indifferent cricket match. As the last officer went down he thought it was time that he returned to his wife lest some members of the crew find her alone below. Though outwardly calm and indifferent, Clayton was inwardly apprehensive and wrought up, for he feared for his wife's safety at the hands of these ignorant, half-brutes into whose hands fate had so remorselessly thrown them. As he turned to descend the ladder he was surprised to see his wife standing on the steps almost at his side. "How long have you been here, Alice?" "Since the beginning," she replied. "How awful, John. Oh, how awful! What can we hope for at the hands of such as those?" "Breakfast, I hope," he answered, smiling bravely in an attempt to allay her fears. "At least," he added, "I'm going to ask them. Come with me, Alice. We must not let them think we expect any but courteous treatment." The men had by this time surrounded the dead and wounded officers, and without either partiality or compassion proceeded to throw both living and dead over the sides of the vessel. With equal heartlessness they disposed of their own dead and dying. Presently one of the crew spied the approaching Claytons, and with a cry of: "Here's two more for the fishes," rushed toward them with uplifted ax. But Black Michael was even quicker, so that the fellow went down with a bullet in


me, Black Dog and the blind beggar, would be inclined to give up their booty in payment of the dead man’s debts. The captain’s order to mount at once and ride for Doctor Livesey would have left my mother alone and unprotected, which was not to be thought of. Indeed, it Contents seemed impossible for either of us to remain much longer in the house; the fall of coals in the kitchen grate, the very tick- ing of the clock, filled us with alarms. The neighbourhood, Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 30 31 to our ears, seemed haunted by approaching footsteps; and more—man, woman, and child— they clung to the shelter of what between the dead body of the captain on the parlour their houses. The name of Captain Flint, though it was strange floor and the thought of that detestable blind beggar hover- to me, was well enough known to some there and carried a ing near at hand and ready to return, there were moments great weight of terror. Some of the men who had been to when, as the saying goes, I jumped in my skin for terror. Some- field-work on the far side of the Admiral Benbow remem- thing must speedily be resolved upon, and it occurred to us at bered, besides, to have seen several strangers on the road, and last to go forth together and seek help in the neighbouring taking them to be smugglers, to have bolted away; and one at hamlet. No sooner said than done. Bare-headed as we were, least had seen a little lugger in what we called Kitt’s Hole. we ran out at once in the gathering evening and the frosty For that matter, anyone who was a comrade of the captain’s fog. was enough to frighten them to death. And the short and the The hamlet lay not many hundred yards away, though long of the matter was, that while we could get several who out of view, on the other side of the next cove; and what were willing enough to ride to Dr. Livesey’s, which lay in greatly encouraged me, it was in an opposite direction from another direction, not one would help us to defend the inn. that whence the blind man had made his appearance and They say cowardice is infectious; but then argument is, whither he had presumably returned. We were not many on the other hand, a great emboldener; and so when each had minutes on the road, though we sometimes stopped to lay said his say, my mother made them a speech. She would not, hold of each other and hearken. But there was no unusual she declared, lose money that belonged to her fatherless boy; sound—nothing but the low wash of the ripple and the croak- “If none of the rest of you dare,” she said, “Jim and I dare. ing of the inmates of the wood. Back we will go, the way we came, and small thanks to you It was already candle-light when we reached the hamlet, big, hulking, chicken-


already pooling like acid in her stomach. She forced her dark thoughts back into the depths of her head. This was not the time and place to disintegrate. “I’m not blaming you,” Rosa said, caressing Io’s arm comfortingly. “I’m trying to say the opposite: you did what you had to.” “I know,” said Io. Rosa gave her a sad smile, a bandage coated with salt. “Do you?” CHAPTER XXI HIS GAZE WAS A WARNING THANK THE GODS, Io didn’t have to answer. A curtain rustled; Edei climbed out of the pod, pillow wrinkles across his cheek. They quickly filled him in on the new findings: the wraiths being Initiative pledges, the victims being Saint-Yves’s failed cases, the murky funding of the Initiative. Then Rosa took off to report to City Plaza and make some excuse about her absence, patting the sleeping cop’s head on the way out. “We need to tell Bianca,” Edei announced. And off they went, back out to the streets, walking briskly against the morning chill. The Fortuna was dark and silent when they entered. The single guard posted on the side door jumped upright at the sight of Edei’s grim expression and ran off to fetch Bianca. In the guard’s absence, Edei looked lost in the empty foyer. He fidgeted with the buttons of his overcoat, scrubbed at his growing stubble. He didn’t look at Io, as if she were making him uncomfortable. Had she crossed a line by falling asleep next to him? His unease made her uneasy. Moments trickled by at a snail’s pace. The room was too quiet, the walls too dark, her outfit too damp and stinky. She needed a bath and a change of clothes. Something to eat and a gallon of water. A painkiller would be nice, and ice on her bruises. “Coffee?” Edei said. “Yes, please.” He hesitated, as though about to speak again, but seemed to decide coffee was good enough. He led her down the corridor and into a small kitchen: stovetops, a kitchen island, four tall stools around it. There was even a fruit bowl on the counter. Much homelier than Io ever guessed the Fortuna could be. “Sugar? Milk?” Edei was making modern-style coffee, lining up three cups on the kitchen counter, each with a small paper filter on it. “A spoonful of sugar,” Io replied. “No milk.” “Yes, boss.” He paused, bent over a small pot, and looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I’ve thought of a good one. Comeback, I mean. About horses.” His voice was undecipherable, somewhere between mischievous and nervous. Either way, Io couldn’t gods-damn wait. A running joke—it felt like a friendship milestone. “Let’s hear it.” “You would say: Always nice to be equated to a horse. And I would say: So you vote neigh on the horse, boss?” A stunned silence followed, long and unbroken. He grinned at the cups he was preparing, breathed a chuckle, peeked at her. “It’s . . . a pun,” she said. “What’s wrong with a pun?” “Nothing wrong. I just didn’t, um,


mean. Can you imagine that girl running Fairhurst? Poor Lady Ashley.” “Poor nothing. Just think of the weekend parties. The trapeze artists! The dancing girls!” “The camels, darling!” They broke off into laughter, reaching for more wine. “Oi,” said a voice at Winnie’s ear. She turned and started. Behind her, eyes narrowed, stood one of Mrs. Bone’s men. His jaw was clenched. Winnie backed behind the marquee. “What are you doing?” she muttered. “We’re off.” “What?” “We’re getting out. This place is swarming with peelers.” Winnie looked around, searching for Mrs. King. “Nonsense,” she said. “Everything is simply fine. Go back inside.” “Can’t.” He nodded at the distant figure of the princess, moving slowly through the crowd. “Not now she’s here.” “Then you’ll need to improvise.” Winnie held his stare. “You don’t leave this house until Mrs. King gives the word.” For a second she feared he might refuse to obey her, might tell her to go and fetch Mrs. King. I would if I could, she thought desperately. But then he nodded again, a quick, smart little duck of the chin. “Yes, ma’am.” Equals, Winnie said to herself, almost in disbelief. We’re all equals... * * * Mrs. King was frog-marched downstairs by Lockwood’s clerks. “I can see myself out,” she said angrily, shaking their hands off her arm. “Mr. Lockwood said—” “Hang Mr. Lockwood,” said Mrs. King. But they steered her through the front hall, avoiding a huge crowd of guests that seemed to be processing toward the garden. Mrs. King couldn’t see who had arrived. She felt the mob rolling, not steered, not marshaled. Evidently, Hephzibah was busy elsewhere. A sudden fear pulled on Mrs. King’s heart. She was required here: to direct things. But she needed to get to Alice first. Dunce, she thought, directing all her anger on herself. Idiot. Even the Janes had sensed a risk with Alice, but not her. She was incapable of understanding other people’s feelings. She always had been. It was clear at once what had happened. She’d seen the way Alice had bent her head toward Miss de Vries, yearning toward her, fixing that awful, splendid gown. She’d been snared. Alice wasn’t a canary. She was a mouse, right in the trap. Lockwood was sizing her up. Mrs. King’s instincts told her everything she needed to know. She felt sick, frightened. “Off you go,” said the clerks, disposing of her on the front step, very nearly pushing her into the road. She didn’t talk back: she hurtled to the tradesmen’s entrance, trying to double back inside before they spotted her. This time it was harder to get in: there were crates of wine obstructing the door, waiters smoking. She had to push her way through the crowd of servants, speeding up the servants’ staircase, panting. The sound of the orchestra grew duller as she reached the second floor. There was a door half-open, letting in a soft breeze. Mrs. King nudged it open with her toe. Empty. I should have planned for this, she thought. She should have made arrangements to


a sloping field that looked down into a sunny valley. Anne didn't very much like a big brown cow who came up close and stared at her, but it went away when Daddy told it to. The children ate enormously, and Mother said that instead of having a tea-picnic at half-past four they would have to go to a tea-house somewhere, because they had eaten all the tea sandwiches as well as the lunch ones! "What time shall we be at Aunt Fanny's?" asked Julian, finishing up the very last sandwich and wishing there were more. "About six o'clock with luck," said Daddy. "Now who wants to stretch their legs a bit? We've another long spell in the car, you know." The car seemed to eat up the miles as it purred along. Tea-time came, and then the three children began to feel excited all over again. "We must watch out for the sea," said Dick. "I can smell it somewhere near!" He was right. The car suddenly topped a hill- and there, was the shining blue sea, calm and smooth in the evening sun. The three children gave a yell. "There it is!" "Isn't it marvellous!" "Oh, I want to bathe this very minute!" "We shan't be more than twenty minutes now, before we're at Kirrin Bay," said Daddy. "We've made good time. You'll see the bay soon- it's quite a big one- with a funny sort of island at the entrance of the bay." The children looked out for it as they drove along the coast. Then Julian gave a shout. "There it is- that must be Kirrin Bay. Look, Dick- isn't it lovely and blue?" "And look at the rocky little island guarding the entrance of the bay," said Dick. "I'd like to visit that." "Well, I've no doubt you will," said Mother. "Now, let's look out for Aunt Fanny's house. It's called Kirrin Cottage." They soon came to it. It stood on the low cliff overlooking the bay, and was a very old house indeed. It wasn't really a cottage, but quite a big house, built of old white stone. Roses climbed over the front of it, and the garden was gay with flowers. "Here's Kirrin Cottage," said Daddy, and he stopped the car in front of it. "It's supposed to be about three hundred years old! Now- where's Quentin? Hallo, there's Fanny!" Chapter Two THE STRANGE COUSIN Contents- Prev/Next The children's aunt had been watching for the car. She came running out of the old wooden door as soon as she saw it draw up outside. The children liked the look of her at once. "Welcome to Kirrin!" she cried. "Hallo, all of you! It's lovely to see you. And what big children!" There were kisses all round, and then the children went into the house. They liked it. It felt old and rather mysterious somehow, and the furniture was old and very beautiful. "Where's Georgina?" asked Anne, looking round for her unknown cousin. "Oh, the naughty girl! I told her to wait in the garden for


with a gallant little bow. "I can't, for I told meg I wouldn't, because . . ." There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh. "Because, what?" "You won't tell?" "Never!" "Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know." But Laurie didn't laugh. He only looked dawn a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, "Never mind that. I'll tell you how we can manage. There's a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come." Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo,being full of swing and spring> When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students' festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale. "I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain. "I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I'm sorry. But I don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke. "I can't have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send." "I'll go." "No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can't stop here, for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can." "I'll ask Laurie. He will go," said Jo," looking relieved as the idea occurred to her. "Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. I can't dance anymore, but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes." "They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you. I'd rather." "No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired I can't stir." So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the dining room, which she


my decision. When she stepped out of the car, I ran and threw my arms around her. “You’re here,” I whispered into her hair. She pulled back and smiled at me. “You’re totally fine. Fine, fine, fine,” she said in a high-pitched voice. I laughed, realizing she was mimicking me from the night before, as I walked to the back seat to get my precious niece. “Junie!” she squealed, reaching her arms out to me. I unbuckled her booster and she jumped into my arms. “You bought a camp?” “I did.” Then I turned to Melanie, who was standing right behind me. “What in the world have I done?” Melanie turned and started to walk toward the river, and I followed her, Daphne on my hip. When we reached the river, she dug in her pocket and pulled out a watch. I just looked at her. “For you,” she said. Then she turned it over and I saw the inscription: Perfect timing. I couldn’t help but smile. “That is so nice,” I said. “So I’m guessing you knew this panic attack was coming?” “Maybe a little.” As I slid the watch on, Daphne said, “Ooooh. Pretty.” Melanie smoothed my hair and tucked it behind my ears. “Junie, Mom would be so proud.” That was all it took for the flood gates to burst. “Do you think?” “Do I think? Oh my gosh, I know! No one loved this camp more than Mom. No one. We knew the camp cheer before we knew nursery rhymes. I think this is the perfect way to honor her memory.” And that was the way I had been living my life for twenty-six years. Honoring my mother’s memory with this camp. For twenty-six years, I had been all but alone in that. Now, as I opened the door to my office and saw Daphne, Lanier, and Mary Stuart leaning over Jillian’s computer monitor, I realized I wasn’t alone anymore. “My songbirds are here!” I exclaimed. Daphne was wild-eyed. “Henry and Steven are unpacking,” she said. “But, June, we did it. The grants for the scholarships came through. We officially have a full, sold-out summer at Camp Holly Springs!” “And four girls on the waiting list with more adding every day!” Jillian noted. They all hooted and hollered as I felt a kind of bliss wash over me that I experienced fairly often here. It wasn’t only that we were one step closer to saving this place; it was that they had done this. They had used their bright, creative minds to come up with a plan, to work as a team, to engage the other alums that had been a part of their summers here. For seventy-six years that was what Camp Holly Springs had been doing. It had been turning scared little girls into self-sufficient women. We weren’t saved. Far from it, in fact. But we were closer; we were trying. Twenty-six years ago, I had left behind my life and my friends for an existence that no one had understood. As I pulled my clipboard


hand to my heart. It’s still galloping. This time, I know exactly why. After decades of silence, Lenora Hope wants to tell all. And I need to decide if I want to hear it. Part of me thinks, obviously, yes. This place, with its murderous past, mind-messing tilt, and general dourness, is already a lot to deal with. I suspect it would be easier if I knew what happened that night—and Lenora’s role in it. Especially because I’m the one who’ll be spending the most time with her. The one tasked with feeding her, bathing her, dressing her, keeping her alive. At the very least there’d be no more wondering, no more suspicion. Then again, not knowing provides at least a sliver of optimism. If Lenora confesses to killing her family, that will be gone. I’m still weighing my options as I start to unpack, beginning with the books I’d abandoned when Jessie showed up at my door. I grab a handful and take them to the bookshelf, which is already filled with paperbacks, leaving no room for my own. I grab one—Eye of the Needle by Ken Follett—and open it. Inside the front cover, written in ballpoint pen, is a message. This book is the property of Mary Milton Those same words are in the next book I pick up, a battered copy of John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire. While it seems odd that Mary left so many books behind, I also understand. Books aren’t easy to move—and maybe Mary thought whoever replaced her would enjoy them. Things start to make less sense when I abandon the books and try to unpack my clothes. The dresser’s top drawer is filled with pristine nurse’s uniforms exactly like my own. While I totally get why Mary left those behind—I would have done the same thing—more of her clothes fill the other drawers. Not just uniforms, but slacks, blouses, and underwear. I assume they belong to Mary because some of the tags bear initials written in Magic Marker. MM Sorting through the clothes, I see a pair of Jordache jeans, a pink Lacoste polo shirt, a striped blouse with the price tag still attached. Sears. Twelve dollars. All of it looks to be new and in good condition—far nicer than my own clothes. In the closet, I find a wool coat drooping from a hanger. And boots on the floor below it. And an empty cardboard box bearing a word again written in Magic Marker: Books. Beside it, surrounded by a thin coating of dust, is a narrow rectangle of clean floor where something else used to sit. What it was, I have no idea. Another box, presumably. Now gone. On the closet shelf is a medical bag similar in shape and size to the one my parents gave me. I pull it down and peek inside, seeing most of the same items I keep in mine, arranged in an orderly manner. Its presence makes no sense. If there had been a family emergency, as Jessie suspects, Mary surely would have spent a


from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose." "Which surely he restored to their owner?" "My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them." "What, then, did Peterson do?" "He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner." "Did he not advertise?" "No." "Then, what clew could you have as to his identity?" "Only as much as we can deduce." "From his hat?" "Precisely." "But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?" "Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?" I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discolored. There was no maker's name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly


him on his hip. “Sophie, where’s Gail?” “She was in the big house.” I glance at Christian. His smile has turned bittersweet, and I wonder what he’s thinking. “You’re so good with him,” he murmurs. “This little one?” I ruffle Ted’s hair. “It’s only because I have the measure of you Grey men.” I smirk at my husband. He laughs. “Yes, you do, Mrs. Grey.” Teddy squirms out of Christian’s hold. Now he wants to walk, my stubborn little man. I take one of his hands, and his dad takes the other, and together we swing Teddy between us all the way back to the house, Sophie skipping along in front of us. I wave to Taylor who, on a rare day-off, is outside the garage, dressed in jeans and a wife-beater, as he tinkers with an old motorbike. 517/551 I pause outside the door to Ted’s room and listen as Christian reads to Ted. “I am the Lorax! I speak for the trees . . .” 1 When I peek in, Teddy is fast asleep while Christian continues to read. He glances up when I open the door and closes the book. He puts his finger to his lips and switches on the baby monitor beside Ted’s crib. He adjusts Ted’s bedclothes, strokes his cheek, then straightens up, and tiptoes over to me without making a sound. It’s hard not to giggle at him. Out in the hallway, Christian pulls me into his embrace. “God, I love him, but it’s great when he’s asleep,” he murmurs against my lips. “I couldn’t agree with you more.” He gazes down at me, eyes soft. “I can hardly believe he’s been with us for two years.” “I know.” I kiss him, and for a moment, I’m transported back to Teddy’s birth: the emergency caesarian, Christian’s crippling anxiety, Dr. Greene’s no- nonsense calm when my Little Blip was in distress. I shudder inwardly at the memory. “Mrs. Grey, you’ve been in labor for fifteen hours now. Your contractions have slowed in spite of the Pitocin. We need to do a C-section—the baby is in distress.” Dr. Greene is adamant. “About fucking time!” Christian growls at her. Dr. Greene ignores him. 518/551 “Christian, quiet.” I squeeze his hand. My voice is low and weak and everything is fuzzy—the walls, the machines, the green-gowned people . . . I just want to go to sleep. But I have something important to do first . . . Oh yes. “I wanted to push him out myself.” “Mrs. Grey, please. C-section.” “Please, Ana,” Christian pleads. “Can I sleep then?” “Yes, baby, yes.” It’s almost a sob, and Christian kisses my forehead. “I want to see the Lil’ Blip.” “You will.” “Okay,” I whisper. “Finally,” Dr. Greene mutters. “Nurse, page the anesthesiologist. Dr. Miller, prep for a C-section. Mrs. Grey, we are going to move you to the OR.” “Move?” Christian and I speak at once. “Yes. Now.” And suddenly we’re moving—quickly, the lights on the ceiling blurring into one long bright strip as I’m whisked across the corridor. “Mr.


work and the spoils. Making sure that both our families had food. Gale gave me a sense of security I’d lacked since my father’s death. His companionship replaced the long solitary hours in the woods. I became a much better hunter when I didn’t have to look over my shoulder constantly, when someone was watching my back. But he turned into so much more than a hunting partner. He became my confidante, someone with whom I could share thoughts I could never voice inside the fence. In exchange, he trusted me with his. Being out in the woods with Gale . . . sometimes I was actually happy. I call him my friend, but in the last year it’s seemed too ca- sual a word for what Gale is to me. A pang of longing shoots through my chest. If only he was with me now! But, of course, I don’t want that. I don’t want him in the arena where he’d be 111 dead in a few days. I just . . . I just miss him. And I hate being so alone. Does he miss me? He must. I think of the eleven flashing under my name last night. I know exactly what he’d say to me. “Well, there’s some room for improvement there.” And then he’d give me a smile and I’d return it without hesitating now. I can’t help comparing what I have with Gale to what I’m pretending to have with Peeta. How I never question Gale’s motives while I do nothing but doubt the latter’s. It’s not a fair comparison really. Gale and I were thrown together by a mu- tual need to survive. Peeta and I know the other’s survival means our own death. How do you sidestep that? Effie’s knocking at the door, reminding me there’s another “big, big, big day!” ahead. Tomorrow night will be our tele- vised interviews. I guess the whole team will have their hands full readying us for that. I get up and take a quick shower, being a bit more careful about the buttons I hit, and head down to the dining room. Peeta, Effie, and Haymitch are huddled around the table talk- ing in hushed voices. That seems odd, but hunger wins out over curiosity and I load up my plate with breakfast before I join them. The stew’s made with tender chunks of lamb and dried plums today. Perfect on the bed of wild rice. I’ve shoveled about halfway through the mound when I realize no one’s talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice and wipe my mouth. “So, what’s going on? You’re coaching us on interviews today, right?” 112 “That’s right,” says Haymitch. “You don’t have to wait until I’m done. I can listen and cat at the same time,” I say. “Well, there’s been a change of plans. About our current approach,” says Haymitch. “What’s that?” I ask. I’m not sure what our current ap- proach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tri- butes is the last bit


it," said George, looking down too. "The water's so clear today that we should be able to see quite a long way down. Wait, I'll row a bit to the left." "Woof!" said Timothy, suddenly, and wagged his tail- and at the same moment the three children saw something deep down in the water! "It's the wreck!" said Julian, almost falling out of the boat in his excitement. "I can see a bit of broken mast. Look, Dick, look!" All four children and the dog, too, gazed down earnestly into the clear water. After a little while they could make out the outlines of a dark hulk, out of which the broken mast stood. "It's a bit on one side," said Julian. "Poor old ship. How it must hate lying there, gradually falling to pieces. George, I wish I could dive down and get a closer look at it." "Well, why don't you?" said George. "You've got your swimming trunks on. I've often dived down. I'll come with you, if you like, if Dick can keep the boat round about here. There's a current that is trying to take it out to sea. Dick, you'll have to keep working a bit with this oar to keep the boat in one spot." The girl stripped off her jeans and jersey and Julian did the same. They both had on bathing costumes underneath. George took a beautiful header off the end of the boat, deep down into the water. The others watched her swimming strongly downwards, holding her breath. After a bit she came up, almost bursting for breath. "Well, I went almost down to the wreck," she said. "It's just the same as it always is- seaweedy and covered with limpets and things. I wish I could get right into the ship itself. But I never have enough breath for that. You go down now, Julian." So down Julian went- but he was not so good at swimming deep under water as George was, and he couldn't go down so far. He knew how to open his eyes under water, so he was able to take a good look at the deck of the wreck. It looked very forlorn and strange. Julian didn't really like it very much. It gave him rather a sad sort of feeling. He was glad to go to the top of the water again, and take deep breaths of air, and feel the warm sunshine on his shoulders. He climbed into the boat, "Most exciting," he said. "Golly, wouldn't I just love to see that wreck properly- you know- go down under the deck into the cabins and look around. And oh, suppose we could really find the boxes of gold!" "That's impossible," said George. "I told you proper divers have already gone down and found nothing. What's the time? I say, we'll be late if we don't hurry back now!" They did hurry back, and managed to be only about five minutes late for tea. Afterwards they went for a walk over the moors, with Timothy at


an answer Jack dropped into the uncomprehending silence that followed it the one crude expressive syllable. Release was immense. Those littluns who had climbed back on the twister fell off again and did not mind. The hunters were screaming with delight. Simon's effort fell about him in ruins; the laughter beat him cruelly and he shrank away defenseless to his seat. At last the assembly was silent again. Someone spoke out of turn. "Maybe he means it's some sort of ghost." Ralph lifted the conch and peered into the gloom. The lightest thing was the pale beach. Surely the littluns were nearer? Yes--there was no doubt about it, they were huddled into a tight knot of bodies in the central grass. A flurry of wind made the palms talk and the noise seemed very loud now that darkness and silence made it so noticeable. Two grey trunks rubbed each other with an evil speaking that no one had noticed by day. Piggy took the conch out of his hands. His voice was indignant. "I don't believe in no ghosts--ever!" Jack was up too, unaccountably angry. "Who cares what you believe--Fatty!" "I got the conch!" There was the sound of a brief tussle and the conch moved to and fro. "You gimme the conch back!" Ralph pushed between them and got a thump on the chest. He wrestled the conch from someone and sat down breathlessly. "There's too much talk about ghosts. We ought to have left all this for daylight." A hushed and anonymous voice broke in. "Perhaps that's what the beast is--a ghost." The assembly was shaken as by a wind. "There's too much talking out of turn," Ralph said, "because we can't have proper assemblies if you don't stick to the rules." He stopped again. The careful plan of this assembly had broken down. "What d'you want me to say then? I was wrong to call this assembly so late. We'll have a vote on them; on ghosts I mean; and then go to the shelters because we're all tired. No--Jack is it?--wait a minute. I'll say here and now that I don't believe in ghosts. Or I don't think I do. But I don't like the thought of them. Not now that is, in the dark. But we were going to decide what's what." He raised the conch for a moment. "Very well then. I suppose what's what is whether there are ghosts or not--" He thought for a moment, formulating the question. "Who thinks there may be ghosts?" For a long time there was silence and no apparent movement. Then Ralph peered into the gloom and made out the hands. He spoke flatly. "I see." The world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away. Once there was this and that; and now-- and the ship had gone. The conch was snatched from his hands and Piggy's voice shrilled. "I didn't vote for no ghosts!" He whirled round on the assembly. "Remember that, all of you!" They heard him stamp. "What are we? Humans? Or animals? Or savages?


engrossed in that novel you’re finally going to read, you still want to be able to sit in some warm, dry place and sip your coffee and watch and listen to the sea, expansive, ever changing, soothing as nothing else is. The first time he and I went to a North Carolina beach together, he marveled at the change in me. I talked and moved more slowly, slept deeper and longer. The tension left my shoulders. “I guess we’ll have to move to the ocean someday,” he joked. Over the years, we’ve settled for regular visits, usually made in the cooler spring or fall—as a northwesterner, I prefer my coastline breezy and deserted. The beach is the only place where I know how it feels, even temporarily, to live without anxiety: I’m able to feel a kind of soul-deep calm I never get close to anywhere else. It was the same for my mother; when she was a girl, it was her first glimpse of the ocean that planted a wish in her heart to live somewhere beautiful. If one or both of us were stressed, if we were getting into too many arguments or just feeling a little world-weary, she’d say, “Should we go to the coast this weekend?” and soon we’d find ourselves in the car, making the familiar drive through the mountain passes to the little fishing town my grandma and I had discovered one long-ago spring break. Until I was sixteen, we made free use of my grandparents’ RV, parked in a trailer park a short drive or bike ride from the ocean. After Grandma sold it, Mom would manage to find money for gas and a couple of nights in the motel across from the marina. She and I would walk along the beach for miles, sometimes chatting, often silent, listening to the waves and hunting for sand dollars. These weekend trips were the only vacations she and I ever took together, but it didn’t occur to me to wish for more: when you can get to the Pacific in under three hours, it’s hard to feel anything but lucky. With the anniversary of her death approaching, I can think of only one place where I might be able to weather it. I take the week off work, we tell the kids they can skip virtual school, and we find a house on the water where we can bring the dog. It’s not the most beautiful beach I’ve been to—more bay than ocean, with a startling number of horseshoe crabs—but it’s good to be there together, to introduce the dog to sand and cold salt water, to seek quiet and stillness instead of trying to work and push through our grief. The best feature of the house is a wide screened-in porch with lumpy old sofas, where we spend most of our time when we’re not by the water. We play board games and read books; my kids draw; I write. Peggy’s fur is always rumpled and damp, but she’s happy. When we return from the beach,


not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, `I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.' `What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!' `I can't explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, `because I'm not myself, you see.' `I don't see,' said the Caterpillar. `I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely, `for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.' `It isn't,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; `but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?' `Not a bit,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice; `all I know is, it would feel very queer to ME.' `You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. `Who are YOU?' Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such VERY short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, `I think, you ought to tell me who YOU are, first.' `Why?' said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a VERY unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. `Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. `I've something important to say!' This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. `Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar. `Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. `No,' said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, `So you think you're changed, do you?' `I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; `I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!' `Can't remember WHAT things?' said the Caterpillar. `Well, I've tried to say "HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE," but it all came different!' Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. `Repeat, "YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,"' said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- `You are old, Father William,' the young man said, `And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?' `In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, `I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.' `You are old,' said the youth,


something about him that immediately put Simon on edge. He could hardly judge a man’s character based on the way he dressed, so there had to be something about his expression that made Simon dislike him from the start. “Yes?” He was grateful Mother was not there to witness his utter lack of politeness. The man frowned a little, taking Simon in. He must have recognized he was not speaking to a servant, and he faltered over his words. Simon hoped the man had merely been caught off guard, because otherwise his first words would have been entirely uncouth. “I’m looking for a governess.” Simon waited in vain for elaboration. “A governess?” “Indeed.” “And you thought you would steal mine?” The man perked up, peering behind Simon, as if he might see deep into the house. “Do you have one?” What in the world? “No.” “Blast.” Unless he had forgotten some long-ago discussion with William or Forester, this was the strangest conversation Simon had ever had, and he and this unwelcome visitor had exchanged only a few words. The man was acting as if all of this was commonplace. As if he often went around knocking on doors and asking about staff availability. Clearing his throat, the presumptuous dandy finally decided to explain, though it hardly helped Simon make sense of anything. “She left London a few days back, and no one has seen or heard from her since.” “So you are looking for a particular governess?” Why would he be looking in a place like this? Few people within twenty miles of Calloway Park even employed staff beyond housekeepers and men of all work. The man nodded. “Miss Hayes. You haven’t seen her, have you? Eyes dark as coal? Hair nearly black? A spirited temperament with a tendency to speak out of place?” An uneasy tension settled between Simon’s shoulders. It wasn’t as if there weren’t other women with similar coloring, but combined with the time line of when the missing Miss Hayes disappeared, he couldn’t help but wonder. Lucy had said her surname was Staley. But she had hesitated, and that hadn’t bothered Simon until now. “How do you know this governess?” he asked, though his words stuck a little in his throat. He didn’t want to imagine the worst—he didn’t even know what the worst could be—but he was dangerously close to thinking rather uncharitable thoughts about his future sister-in-law. What if these two were part of a scheme, preying on helpless invalids and their families in order to gain . . . something? Lucy had hardly eaten anything since coming to Calloway Park, and she certainly hadn’t asked for anything besides. Cook had even approached him last night in concern for the quality of the food, thinking Lucy was entirely dissatisfied, and Simon had had to assure her everything was as delicious as ever. Lucy hadn’t even tried to spread the word about her upcoming marriage—the opposite, in fact—so Simon forced himself to stop jumping to radical conclusions. If she was there to gain something, she was doing


of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to her. Poor Meg seldom complained,but a sense of injustice made her feel bitter toward everyone sometimes,for she had not yet learned to know how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy. Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because her offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had lost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady's will, but the unworldly Marches only said . . . "We can't give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will keep together and be happy in one another." The old lady wouldn't speak to them for a time, but happening to meet Jo at at a friend's, something in her comical face and blunt manners struck the old lady's fancy, and she proposed to take her for a companion. This did not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place since nothing better appeared and, to every one's surprise, got on remarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn't bear it longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to come back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady. I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books, which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about queer pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever he met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and best of all, the wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked, made the library a region of bliss to her. The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo hurried to this quiet place,and curling herself up in the easy chair, devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular bookworm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure as she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of a song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice called, "Josy-phine! Josy-phine! and she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham's Essays by the hour together. Jo's ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was, she had no idea as yet, but left it for


dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the OPERATIC TRAGEDY began. "A gloomy wood," according to the one playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred to Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo's voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding, "What ho, minion! I need thee!" Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love philter. Hither, hither, from thy home, Airy sprite, I bid thee come! Born of roses, fed on dew, Charms and potions canst thou brew? Bring me here, with elfin speed, The fragrant philter which I need. Make it sweet and swift and strong, Spirit, answer now my song! A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang . . . Hither I come, From my airy home, Afar in the silver moon. Take the magic spell, And use it well, Or its power will vanish soon! And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the spirit vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a mocking


to eradicate this constant, creeping sense of dread. Miss de Vries shifted in her tiny pew. “How’s the mood below stairs?” she asked. “I’m sure it’s all going well, Madam,” she said. A mealymouthed sort of response. Although, really, how on earth was she to know? She was locked away in the dressing room, spending her days negotiating yards of black crepe. “They’re getting in a twist about the preparations, I suppose.” Miss de Vries’s lips looked very dark under her lace, as if she’d rubbed a little stain into them. It gave them a fullness, a rawness, that was not there before. Alice swallowed. “Who is, Madam?” “Everybody below stairs.” Miss de Vries threw her prayer book aside. It fell with a thud to the tiled floor. She got to her feet, facing the altar. “And I suppose you’re getting tired of life here, too,” she said, voice short. “You’ll be wanting to move on.” The light wobbled. Alice rose slowly. She was clumsier than Madam: her skirts bunched around her boots. “Not in the least.” Miss de Vries turned. She rubbed her forehead with her fist. “But what of your ambitions?” she said. “Or don’t you have any?” There was a sting to the words. Alice observed it. It made her own feelings prickle. “I’m quite content here,” she said stiffly. “Content?” “I’m very happy with my position, Madam.” Something darkened in Miss de Vries’s gaze. She was keyed up about something. It was sharpening her, giving her new points and angles. “You understand I shall be leaving soon?” she said, voice cold. “I expect to be engaged before the week is out.” Alice took this in. The air in the chapel felt thick, crafty. “Then I should offer my congratulations, Madam,” she said, with care. Miss de Vries’s eyes came around quickly. “Hmm,” she said. “Yes, you should.” And then, with a tiny frown, she added, “You’re a sharp girl, aren’t you, Alice?” Alice swallowed. “I don’t know, Madam.” “Keen-eyed. Eyes like a hawk, I’d say.” Madam gave a hard smile. “You’ve observed all of my movements.” There was something needling Alice’s skin, sounding a silent alarm. She said nothing. Miss de Vries raised an eyebrow. Lifted her arm, indicated the fabric in her sleeves. “I mean my gestures, the precise gradient of my limbs. To make my costume.” “Oh,” said Alice, on an out breath. “Yes.” Miss de Vries smiled, expression flat. “In normal circumstances I never keep a personal maid. I find it so tedious, having one person around me all day. But I am considering making an exception. If I take control of a new household, I shall need to have the right people in my camp. Watchful sorts, girls who can report back to me candidly. To provide eyes in the back of my head, as it were.” She held Alice’s stare. “You’d do splendidly.” Far in the distance, through the thick chapel walls, Alice could hear a motor making its way around the edge of the park. “I’m not sure, Madam,” she said. “I’m


a long, deep mutter then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness. "My God, what's that, Watson?" "I don't know. It's a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once before." It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood straining our ears, but nothing came. "Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound." My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice which told of the sudden horror which had seized him. "What do they call this sound?" he asked. "Who?" "The folk on the countryside." "Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call it?" "Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?" I hesitated but could not escape the question. "They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles." He groaned and was silent for a few moments. "A hound it was," he said at last, "but it seemed to come from miles away, over yonder, I think." "It was hard to say whence it came." "It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the direction of the great Grimpen Mire?" "Yes, it is." "Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn't you think yourself that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to speak the truth." "Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be the calling of a strange bird." "No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a cause? You don't believe it, do you, Watson?" "No, no." "And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don't think that I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood. Feel my hand!" It was as cold as a block of marble. "You'll be all right to-morrow." "I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise that we do now?" "Shall we turn back?" "No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it. We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come on! We'll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon the moor." We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning steadily in


chimney-corner. She had on a red cloak and a black bonnet, or rather a broad-brimmed gipsy hat, tied down with a striped handkerchief under her chin. An extinguished candle stood on the table; she was bending over the fire, and seemed reading in a little black book, like a prayer-book, by the light of the blaze. She muttered the words to herself, as most old women do, while she read; she did not desist immediately on my entrance: it appeared she wished to finish a paragraph.     I stood on the rug and warmed my hands, which were rather cold with sitting at a distance from the drawing-room fire. I felt now as composed as ever I did in my life. There was nothing, indeed, in the gipsy's appearance to trouble one's calm. She shut her book and slowly looked up; her hat-brim partially shaded her face, yet I could see, as she raised it, that it was a strange one. It looked all brown and black. Elf-locks bristled out from beneath a white band which passed under her chin, and came half over her cheeks, or rather jaws; her eyes confronted me at once with a bold and direct gaze.     "Well, and you want your fortune told?" she said, in a voice as decided as her glance, as harsh as her features.     "I don't care about it, mother; you may please yourself; but I ought to warn you I have no faith."     "It's like your impudence to say so I expected it of you; I heard it in your step as you crossed the threshold."     "Did you? You've a quick ear."     "I have; and a quick eye and a quick brain."     "You need them all in your trade."     "I do, especially when I've customers like you to deal with. Why don't you tremble?"     "I'm not cold."     "Why don't you turn pale?"     "I'm not sick."     "Why don't you consult my art?"     "I'm not silly."     The old crone "nichered" a laugh under her bonnet and bandage; she then drew out a short black pipe, and lighting it, began to smoke. Having indulged a while in this sedative, she raised her bent body, took the pipe from her lips, and while gazing steadily at the fire, said, very deliberately, "You are cold; you are sick; and you are silly."     "Prove it," I rejoined.     "I will; in few words. You are cold, because you are alone: no contact strikes the fire from you that is in you. You are sick, because the best of feelings, the highest and the sweetest given to man, keeps far away from you. You are silly, because, suffer as you may, you will not beckon it to


tightness, insensibility. circumspect, cagey, vigilant, addicted, wont, trained, inured, ANTONYMS: (n) ease, limpness, watchful, conditional, discreet, used, inveterate, hardened. malleability gingerly, conservative. ANTONYM: (adj) untrained hardships: (n) difficulty ANTONYMS: (adj) frank, careless, haggard: (adj) emaciated, gaunt, harmless: (adj) safe, benign, trusting, reckless, open, unwary, cadaverous, careworn, tired, worn, inoffensive, hurtless, innocent, natural lean, thin, wasted, pinched, squalid. innoxious, intact, simple; (n) silly; guardianship: (n) custody, care, ANTONYMS: (adj) relaxed, carefree, (adj, n) foolish; (v) weaponless. charge, keeping, safekeeping, healthy ANTONYMS: (adj) lethal, tutelage, conservation, protection, hale: (adj) healthy, whole, sturdy, damaging, destructive, poisonous, wardship; (adj, n) ward; (adj) guard strong, sane, rugged, robust; (v) toxic, serious, offensive, malicious, guillotine: (n) trimmer, block, ax, drag; (adj, n) well, hearty, sound. hurtful, noxious, unpleasant closure by compartment, cutter, gag ANTONYM: (adj) unwell harp: (n) lyre, harmonica, harper, rule; (v) decapitate, cut, execute, kill, halfpenny: (adj) feather, bulrush, old lute, mouth harp; (v) dwell, murder son, jot, pinch of snuff, peppercorn, ingeminate, iterate, restate, reiterate, guiltiness: (n) culpability, rap; (n) bawbee, doit, farthing retell criminality, complicity, hallucination: (n) illusion, dream, harshly: (adv) roughly, severely, criminalness, fault, blame, guilty apparition, vision, fantasy, sternly, sharply, cruelly, hoarsely, conscience, status, guilt feelings, phantom, delirium, aberration, strictly, pitilessly, rigorously, collusion, blameworthiness. optical illusion, mirage, nightmare rigidly; (adj, adv) piercingly. ANTONYM: (n) innocence halo: (n) halation, aura, glory, ring, ANTONYMS: (adv) softly, guinea: (n) greaseball, Republic of circle, corona, nimbus, hoop, harmoniously, quietly, gently, Guinea, poultry, change, shilling, aureola, band, anchor ring elaborately, leniently, smoothly, penny, doit, domestic fowl, farthing, handicraftsman: (n) artisan, artist, tolerantly, cheerfully, loosely, fowl, French Guinea handcraft, handcraftsman, pleasantly guise: (n) form, dress, aspect, handicraft harvesting: (n) gathering, gather, costume, disguise, fashion, pretense, handiwork: (n) handicraft, creation, harvest home, crop, reap, plucking, camouflage, attire, figure, color production, handcraft, product, harvests, ingathering, reaping, gush: (n, v) flood, flow, spurt, jet, handwork, work, produce, design, farming, harvest time discharge, stream, rush, surge; (n) performance; (v) workmanship haste: (n, v) hurry, dash, dispatch, burst, effusion; (v) course handsaw: (n) saw, whipsaw, crosscut rush; (n) celerity, expedition, gushing: (adj) pouring, enthusiastic, saw, coping saw, compass saw, rapidity, speed, bustle, hastiness, burbly, alive to, burbling, emotional, bucksaw, ripsaw quickness. ANTONYMS: (n) delay, effusive, garrulous, torrential; (n) hangdog: (adj) guilty, shamefaced, patience, forethought, caution sincere, passionate. ANTONYM: ashamed, bullied, browbeaten, hasten: (adj, n, v) speed, quicken; (v) (adj) taciturn cowed, stealthy, embarrassed, expedite, advance, hurry, hie, dash, gusty: (adj) blustery, stormy, windy, intimidated, sheepish, afraid. rush; (n, v) further, forward, blowy, tempestuous, squally, dirty, ANTONYM: (adj) proud dispatch. ANTONYMS: (v) linger, blustering, blusterous, airy, harassed: (adj) annoyed, pestered, retard, amble inclement. ANTONYMS: (adj) calm, irritated, bothered, annoy, jittery, hastened: (adj) careless airless worried, troubled, beleaguered, hastening: (n) quickening, speed, habitation: (adj, n) abode; (n) obsessed, harried. ANTONYMS: hurrying, speeding up, faster, fast, domicile, residence, house, home, (adj) calm, carefree stepping up habitat, lodging, place, occupancy, harassing: (adj) troublesome, carking, hateful: (adj) disgusting, execrable, inhabitation, inhabitancy. galling, thorny, vexatious; (v) nasty, abominable, hideous, ANTONYM: (n) vacancy bothering, pestering, tormenting, despicable, repulsive, distasteful, habitual: (adj, n) common, frequent, worrying, annoy, harass foul; (adj, v)


indeed!' said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest contempt. `I've seen a good many little girls in my time, but never ONE with such a neck as that! No, no! You're a serpent; and there's no use denying it. I suppose you'll be telling me next that you never tasted an egg!' `I HAVE tasted eggs, certainly,' said Alice, who was a very truthful child; `but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you know.' `I don't believe it,' said the Pigeon; `but if they do, why then they're a kind of serpent, that's all I can say.' This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding, `You're looking for eggs, I know THAT well enough; and what does it matter to me whether you're a little girl or a serpent?' `It matters a good deal to ME,' said Alice hastily; `but I'm not looking for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn't want YOURS: I don't like them raw.' `Well, be off, then!' said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled down again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the trees as well as she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. After a while she remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height. It was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes, and began talking to herself, as usual. `Come, there's half my plan done now! How puzzling all these changes are! I'm never sure what I'm going to be, from one minute to another! However, I've got back to my right size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden--how IS that to be done, I wonder?' As she said this, she came suddenly upon an open place, with a little house in it about four feet high. `Whoever lives there,' thought Alice, `it'll never do to come upon them THIS size: why, I should frighten them out of their wits!' So she began nibbling at the righthand bit again, and did not venture to go near the house till she had brought herself down to nine inches high. CHAPTER VI Pig and Pepper For a minute or two she stood looking at the house, and wondering what to do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came running out of the wood--(she considered him to be a footman because he was in livery: otherwise, judging by his face only, she would have called him a fish)--and rapped loudly at the door with his


Sky withheld rain for seven years, until crops withered and the dead could not be buried because the hoes broke on the stony Earth. At last Vulture was sent to plead with Sky, and to soften his heart with a song of the suffering of the sons of men. Whenever Nwoye's mother sang this song he felt carried away to the distant scene in the sky where Vulture, Earth's emissary, sang for mercy. At last Sky was moved to pity, and he gave to Vulture rain wrapped in leaves of coco-yam. But as he flew home his long talon pierced the leaves and the rain fell as it had never fallen before. And so heavily did it rain on Vulture that he did not return to deliver his message but flew to a distant land, from where he had espied a fire. And when he got there he found it was a man making a sacrifice. He warmed himself in the fire and ate the entrails. That was the kind of story that Nwoye loved. But he now knew that they were for foolish women and children, and he knew that his father wanted him to be a man. And so he feigned that he no longer cared for women's stories. And when he did this he saw that his father was pleased, and no longer rebuked him or beat him. So Nwoye and Ikemefuna would listen to Okonkwo's stories about tribal wars, or how, years ago, he had stalked his victim, overpowered him and obtained his first human head. And as he told them of the past they sat in darkness or the dim glow of logs, waiting for the women to finish their cooking. When they finished, each brought her bowl of foo-foo and bowl of soup to her husband. An oil lamp was lit and Okonkwo tasted from each bowl, and then passed two shares to Nwoye and Ikemefuna. In this way the moons and the seasons passed. And then the locusts came. It had not happened for many a long year. The elders said locusts came once in a generation, reappeared every year for seven years and then disappeared for another lifetime. They went back to their caves in a distant land, where they were guarded by a race of stunted men. And then after another lifetime these men opened the caves again and the locusts came to Umuofia. They came in the cold harmattan season after the harvests had been gathered, and ate up all the wild grass in the fields. Okonkwo and the two boys were working on the red outer walls of the compound. This was one of the lighter tasks of the after-harvest season. A new cover of thick palm branches and palm leaves was set on the walls to protect them from the next rainy season. Okonkwo worked on the outside of the wall and the boys worked from within. There were little holes from one side to the other in the upper levels of the wall, and through these Okonkwo passed the


croupier as he spaded the thick chips over the table to Bond. Bond slipped them into his right-hand pocket with the unused packet of notes. His face showed no emotion, but he was pleased with the success of his first coup and with the outcome of the silent clash of wills across the table. The woman on his left, the American Mrs Du Pont, turned to him with a wry smile. 'I shouldn't have let it come to you,' she said. 'Directly the cards were dealt I kicked myself.' 'It's only the beginning of the game,' said Bond. 'You may be right the next time you pass it.' Mr Du Pont leant forward from the other side of his wife: 'If one could be right every hand, none of us would be here,' he said philosophically. 'I would be,' his wife laughed. 'You don't think I do this for pleasure.' As the game went on, Bond looked over the spectators leaning on the high brass rail round the table. He soon saw Le Chiffre's two gunmen. They stood behind and to either side of the banker. They looked respectable enough, but not sufficiently a part of the game to be unobtrusive. The one more or less behind Le Chiffre's right arm was tall and funereal in his dinner-jacket. His face was wooden and grey, but his eyes flickered and gleamed like a conjurer's. His whole long body was restless and his hands shifted often on the brass rail. Bond guessed that he would kill without interest or concern for what he killed and that he would prefer strangling. He had something of Lennie in Of Mice and Men, but his inhumanity would not come from infantilism but from drugs. Marihuana, decided Bond. The other man looked like a Corsican shopkeeper. He was short and very dark with a flat head covered with thickly greased hair. He seemed to be a cripple. A chunky malacca cane with a rubber tip hung on the rail beside him. He must have had permission to bring the cane into the Casino with him, reflected Bond, who knew that neither sticks nor any other objects were allowed in the rooms as a precaution against acts of violence. He looked sleek and well fed. His mouth hung vacantly half-open and revealed very bad teeth. He wore a heavy black moustache and the backs of his hands on the rail were matted with black hair. Bond guessed that hair covered most of his squat body. Naked, Bond supposed, he would be an obscene object. The game continued uneventfully, but with a slight bias against the bank. The third coup is the 'sound barrier' at chemin-de-fer and baccarat. Your luck can defeat the first and second tests, but when the third deal comes along it most often spells disaster. Again and again at this point you find yourself being bounced back to earth. It was like that now. Neither the bank nor any of the players seemed to be able to get hot. But there was a steady and inexorable


heavy feet tramping again along the hall, with with many other idle feet coming behind them. The door is shut, the chains rattle. There is a grinding of the key in the lock. I can hear the key withdrawn, then another door opens and shuts. I hear the creaking of lock and bolt. Hark! In the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the distance. I am alone in the castle with those horrible women. Faugh! Mina is a woman, and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit! I shall not remain alone with them. I shall try to scale the castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place. And then away for home! Away to the quickest and nearest train! Away from the cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still walk with earthly feet! At least God's mercy is better than that of those monsters, and the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep, as a man. Goodbye, all. Mina! CHAPTER 5 LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY TO MISS LUCY WESTENRA 9 May. My dearest Lucy, Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air. I have been working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan's studies, and I have been practicing shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also I am practicing very hard. He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don't mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people, but it is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do, interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day. However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans when we meet. I have just


fear that once you taste something like that … you don’t forget it, Iris. And now I must see if your words from three days ago hold, or if you will rewrite them with me here, in this moment.” She was quiet, full of heady thoughts as Roman’s statement sank in. She had never wanted someone so fiercely—it nearly felt like she was falling ill —and she caressed his hair. The black strands were soft between her fingers, and Roman shut his eyes, wholly captive to her touch. She took that moment to study his face, the slant of his mouth as his breaths skipped. “I suppose I can be persuaded to rewrite those words,” she whispered in a teasing cadence, and he opened his eyes to regard her. His pupils were large and dark, like new moons. Iris could nearly see herself within them. “But only with you, Kitt.” “Because I excel at writing?” he countered. Iris smiled. “That, among other things.” She kissed him—a light brushing of her lips against his—and he was still, as if she had enchanted him. But soon his mouth eagerly opened beneath hers, his hands tracing the curve of her spine. It sent a shiver through her, to feel his fingertips memorize her, to feel his teeth nip at her bottom lip as they began to explore each other. She touched him in return, learning the broad slope of his shoulders and the dip of his collarbone and the sharp cut of his jaw. She felt like she was drowning; she felt like she had run up the bluff. There was a pleasant ache within her—bright and vibrant and molten—and she realized that she wanted to feel his skin against hers. He broke their kiss, his eyes glazed as they briefly met hers. He pressed his mouth to her neck, as if drinking in the scent of her skin. His fingers were splayed over her back, holding her close against him, and his breath was warm on her throat. “Marry me, Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman whispered, drawing back to look at her. “I want to spend all my days and all my nights with you. Marry me.” Iris, heart full of fire, framed his face with her hands. She had never been this close to someone, but she felt safe with Roman. And she had not felt such safety in a long time. “Iris … Iris, say something,” he begged. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Roman Carver Kitt.” Roman’s confidence returned, a flicker of a smile. She watched it in his eyes, like stars burning at eventide; she felt it in his body as the tension melted. He wove his fingers into her long, unruly hair and said, “I thought you’d never say yes, Winnow.” It had only been a matter of seconds. She laughed again. His mouth found hers, swallowing the sound. When her blood was coursing, she ended their kiss to ask, “When are we getting married?” “This afternoon,” Roman replied without hesitation. “You said it earlier: at any moment, a bomb could drop.


face must have looked genuine because Laurie continued. “She could be scoping out homes in your neighborhood. Or she could be deranged.” “I never thought of that.” Concern fluttered across my face. They clocked it, just like I wanted them to. “You should call the police,” Laurie said. Vanessa added, “Be careful, Hazel. You can’t be friends with someone like that.” We hugged efficiently and went our separate ways. 32 I WAS DELIGHTED TO TELL Jesse how I’d played the chance encounter with Lee. He nodded appreciatively as I recounted Laurie Gamble’s concerns, Vanessa Vega’s warnings. “Quick thinking,” he said, pulling me in for a kiss. We were nestled on his charcoal couch. I was supposed to be asking restaurants for gift certificates right now, but I’d driven straight to Jesse’s apartment. We hadn’t had time to be intimate lately, and I knew it was important. I knew I had to please my man. “Does she have your phone number?” Jesse asked, touching the ends of my hair. “No, why?” “We’re building a case against her, Hazel. She’s approached you in public. She’s got that Japanese ornament thing. It would be good if she called you. A bunch of times.” “Right,” I said, brow furrowed. “I’ll think of something.” “And we need to get her into the house. On the day.” The day of the murder, he meant. I swallowed thickly. “I’ll figure that out.” “The knife will be the clincher. You’ll have to get it out of her car so I can use it.” He sounded so efficient, so businesslike. Almost like he’d done this before. I felt a heavy weight on my chest, struggled to respond. “Okay.” “That’s my girl.” He tilted my chin so our eyes could connect, and there was warmth in his. “It’ll all be worth it, Hazel. When we’re together, for real. When Benjamin can’t hurt you anymore.” “I know,” I said, and I tried to believe it. * * * The next morning, Lee didn’t come to the beach. Perhaps she’d found a new spot to park? Or she’d gone to a shelter. But when she didn’t return the next day, or the day after that, I began to worry. I’d hurt her. Embarrassed her. I’d chased her away. “She’s gone,” I told Jesse. We were at the gym. He was supervising my dead lifts while we talked in hushed voices. “I fucked it all up.” “She’s not gone,” he said. “I’ll bring her back.” “Really? You can do that?” He smirked, pleased with himself. “She’ll do anything I say. She’s falling for me.” “I know.” My words were bitter in my mouth. “She told me.” “Don’t be jealous,” he said playfully. “I’m doing this for you.” It was true. Anything he did with Lee was in service to our plan. He was sending this woman to jail to free me from my abusive marriage. I couldn’t be jealous. So, what was this feeling twisting in my guts? I tried to keep my voice level as I asked, “Are you sleeping with her?” “Of course


the lips of a toddler too weak to lift his head. She helps me measure ingredients and sometimes stirs the pot as herbs are brewed. Not surprisingly, given that she’s a Thin Horse, she has knowledge I haven’t been exposed to, which gives her insights into our situation. “How can we as women not blame this scourge on men?” she asks with a hint of bitterness one night as we sip tea next to our sleeping children. “When men travel, they stay in crowded inns. They eat food and drink tea prepared by strangers. They converse with other sojourners. They’re exposed to typhoid and cholera…” She takes a breath before rattling off the rest of her list. “Diphtheria, typhus, and smallpox. When they come home, they bring these malignant elements to those of us—wives, children, servants, and concubines like me—who reside in the inner chambers. Tell me. Are men not the cause of every woe the world must endure?” I glance around at the sick on their mats. “I blame mothers.” “Mothers?” I can’t disguise the disdain in my voice when I say, “Any mother who has the opportunity to hire a smallpox-planting master and does not do it has failed in her duty not only to her children but to the future generations of her husband’s family.” A long silence follows this. Miss Chen sets down her cup and rests her fingers against her son’s forehead. I sense her trying to suck his fever into her body. Manzi seems to be rallying. His cheeks are filling out again, although they’ll never reach the roundness that Master Yang and my husband were born with, but his sister is deteriorating, having reached the stage when all she does is sleep. I’ve given her doses of ginseng, burnt licorice, astragalus root, and cinnamon heart in a final attempt to reverse the course of her fate, but my hopes are ebbing. Still, when I watch Miss Chen’s devotion, I’m reminded how lucky her children are to have a mother who can nurse them at any hour of the day or night when so many others are in here alone. Miss Chen turns and meets my eyes. “I don’t remember my mother, and I don’t remember seeing a smallpox-planting master after the Tooth Lady bought me, but obviously I never received variolation. And now you reproach me for not doing my duty as a mother to my children?” She pauses to let her accusation sink in. “Not everyone is a believer in variolation. How sick will a child get? Will he or she die or be scarred from the process? Things can go wrong—” “I know, but—” “I’ve also had to consider my daughters’ futures. I don’t know what their father has planned or what Lady Kuo might arrange for them. I could not risk that they might end up with even a few scars on their faces caused by variolation. Unlike you,” she adds pointedly, “Fourth Daughter doesn’t have extra attributes—an education or generations of imperial scholars in her lineage—that would guarantee a bright future


grey tint, now dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling on the tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light, while their sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy mist. Meanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to blush, then to redden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till the golden light darted over all the air, touched the lower points of the mountain's brow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the valley and its stream. All nature seemed to have awakened from death into life; the spirit of St. Aubert was renovated. His heart was full; he wept, and his thoughts ascended to the Great Creator. Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, and to taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed to enjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt often stopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling to point out to them the peculiar objects of his admiration. St. Aubert was pleased with him: 'Here is the real ingenuousness and ardour of youth,' said he to himself; 'this young man has never been at Paris.' He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and his heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so short an acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the carriage; seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared to search anxiously for topics of conversation to account for his delay. At length he took leave. As he went, St. Aubert observed him look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a countenance full of timid sweetness, while the carriage drove on. St. Aubert, for whatever reason, soon after looked from the window, and saw Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with folded arms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and Valancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the salute, and started away. The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soon found themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to their summits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shot up from the vale, and lost its snowy top in the clouds. The rivulet, which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a river; and, flowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a mirror, the blackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was seen lifting its bold head above the woods and the vapours, that floated mid-way down the mountains; and sometimes a face of perpendicular marble rose from the water's edge, over which the larch threw his gigantic arms, here scathed with lightning, and there floating in luxuriant foliage. They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing now and then at a distance the solitary


out—or that it wouldn’t, and she would hurt someone else, and it would all be for nothing. And Jessi’s niece. The real Persephone. Not a goddess. Not bones in a cave. Not a story we’d told, but a girl who’d loved her aunt, and who missed her. Who’d never known what had happened so that she could properly grieve. A mistake had killed Jessi Walker. Silence had killed Liv. And the truth had killed me now. And I would be lost, too. There was no one left who knew where Persephone’s bones lay. And that seemed right. I wanted to stay here forever with her. The seventh ritual. Everything would be in balance again. But if I was lost, Marcus and Kimiko would never know that it hadn’t been Liv’s fault. I needed to tell them. Cody’s calls were moving away. He’d lost my trail. He’d backtrack soon, but I might have a few minutes first. My phone was a hard lump against my thigh. I pulled it out and squinted at it, the screen blurring. There was the tiniest shred of signal. I stabbed at the screen, managed to pull up the last number dialed. Ethan. I couldn’t hold the phone up anymore. I pressed the button to call and let my arm drop, holding it propped on the ground beside my ear. It rang twice, and then Ethan answered. His voice dipped in and out, and I couldn’t tell if it was the poor signal or unconsciousness grasping at me. “—there? Hello?” “You have to tell them,” I said. There was blood in the back of my throat; I coughed on it. “Naomi? Is that you?” “Listen. Listen.” I swallowed against the blood. “Tell them it wasn’t Liv. She didn’t do it. You have to tell them.” I tried to take a breath and choked, and a whine of pain slipped between my teeth. Ethan was talking but I couldn’t understand the words. I hadn’t explained properly, but I couldn’t think of how to tell him what he needed to know. “I have to go now,” I said. “Naomi, don’t hang up. Tell me where you are,” Ethan said. “It’s okay. She’s here with me,” I said. I let go of the phone; it tumbled from my fingers. I pulled myself closer to the bones and rolled over onto my back. I shut my eyes and saw again the image of Cody above me as the pain in my back began to register. The way he’d knelt over me, horrified, grief-stricken. Like it was a thing that had happened to him. His face swam. Blurred. Other memories crowded it. Oscar’s fingers dug into my abdomen. “You and me were meant to be,” he crooned. His fingers punched through my skin, wriggling in my innards. Then he yelped as Cody pulled him away, was kneeling over me again, face streaked with tears. Young again. “No, please no,” he said, pawing at my neck. “Please don’t be dead.” I tried to tell him I was alive, but I didn’t believe it. My


under dustcloths. Painstaking, brutal work. The letter wasn’t there. Had it ever been? she wondered. She pictured Mr. de Vries’s watery gaze. It could have been another trick, a lie, sickbed delirium... She sat on an upturned crate in the yard as the sun went down over the factory, and ran her hands through her hair. A small voice said, “All right?” Alice had been watching her, keeping her distance, as if uncertain about Mrs. King’s mood. Mrs. King roused herself. She stood up. Went to her sister, grasped her by the shoulders. “It’s a funny world, this,” she said. “Don’t let it get to you.” Her sister gave it back at her. “Don’t let it get to you.” * * * Mrs. Bone had given each of them a bedroom, armored, bunkered, almost without light. “Lie low,” she’d said. “Don’t move a muscle. I need three days to shift the best stuff. And a week to get rid of the rest.” They obeyed her. Mrs. Bone knew what she was doing. Mrs. King faced the wall, ancient bedsprings creaking beneath her, and examined her feelings. She was rich already, and soon to be richer still, but she felt empty. Failure. It trickled down her spine. Someone knocked softly on the door. She turned. “Come.” The door opened, letting in an orangey gleam of light. Winnie was in a long nightdress, her hair in paper curlers. Hephzibah had done it for her. “Can I come in?” Mrs. King felt like refusing. “Of course.” Winnie closed the door, tiptoed across the room. She sat beside Mrs. King on the bed, almost gingerly. “Dinah.” “Yes.” “You remember what I told you? When we first started all this?” Mrs. King looked at her. “That you need to talk to me. To consult me. To tell me what’s going on.” “Nothing’s going on, Win. It’s finished. We did it.” Mrs. King heard her voice, dead cold. Winnie gave her a long and searching look. Then she said, “Come on. Buck up.” Mrs. King felt her heart tightening at the words. They were like an echo, a reminder of those first unfamiliar nights in Park Lane, twenty years ago. Sitting up in that tiny room at the top of the house, trying to understand what she’d done. That she’d left her mother, sister, her whole life behind—for what? For a mysterious benefactor, the sort every girl craved. She remembered all the things not spoken, not explained, not answered, when she asked, “Why have I come here?” But Lockwood had put a stop to all that. “No questions,” he told her. “Just be grateful.” She remembered Winnie staring at her, earnest eyed, knowing nothing. “Buck up,” she’d said, with a gentle smile. “Do.” “I had some papers,” she said. “Expenses. The menus for the ball.” She paused. “Letters.” Shepherd had watched her do it. He’d been with her, in her housekeeper’s room. He’d watched her throw them on the fire. And with them, folded with the order bills and receipts and notes for the ball, were the letters


“People like you and I.” “Yeah. I mean.” I hold his eyes and put down another stone. “What even are numbers—” I snap my mouth shut. We must have reached for the same square. My fingers brush against Jack’s, and something electric and unidentifiable licks up my arm. I wait for him to pull away, but he doesn’t. Even though it was my turn. Wasn’t it my turn? I’m pretty sure— “Well, if it isn’t a draw.” I yank back my hand. Millicent is next to me, staring at the board. I follow her gaze and nearly gasp, because . . . she’s right. I just not-thrashed Jack Freaking Smith at Go. “It’s been a long time since Jack hasn’t won a game,” Millicent says with a pleased smile. It’s been a long time since I haven’t won a game. What the hell? I look up at Jack—still staring, still furrowing his brow, still judging me silently. My brain blanks. I panic and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “There are more legal board positions in Go than the atoms in the known universe.” A snort. “Someone’s been telling me since he was barely out of diapers.” Millicent glances shrewdly at Jack, who is still. Staring. At. Me. “You and Elsie make for a very good couple. Although, Jack, my dear, she should still sign a prenup.” I don’t immediately understand what she’s saying. Then I do and turn crimson all over. “Oh, no. Mrs. Smith, I’m—I’m dating Greg. Your other grandson.” “Are you sure?” What? “I—yes. Of course.” “Didn’t seem like it.” She shrugs. “But what do I know? I’m a ninetyyear-old bat who frolics in mud.” I watch her shuffle toward the canapé table. Then I turn to Jack with a nervous laugh. “Wow. That was—” He’s still staring. At me. Stone faced. Intent. Sectoral heterochromic. Like I’m interesting, very interesting, very, very interesting. I open my mouth to ask him what’s going on. To demand a rematch to the death. To beg him to quit counting the pores in my nose. And that’s when— “Smile, guys!” I whip my head around, and the flash of Izzy’s Polaroid instantly blinds me. • • • “M Y PARENTS ’ ANNIVERSARY NEXT MONTH SHOULD BE THE LAST time I need to take you along.” Greg signals right and pulls into my building’s parking lot. “After, I’ll tell Mom you broke up with me. I begged you not to. Serenaded you. Bought you my weight in plushies—all in vain.” I nod sympathetically. “You’re heartbroken. Too inconsolable to date someone else.” “I might need to find solace in a Spotify playlist.” “Or frost your tips.” He grimaces. I laugh, and once the car stops I lean against the passenger door to study his handsome profile in the yellow lights. “Tell her that I cheated on you with the Grubhub delivery guy. It’ll buy you longer moping rights.” “Brilliant.” We’re silent while I think about Greg’s situation. The reason he even needs a fake girlfriend. What he felt comfortable telling me, a