crawling horde. People stayed indoors until daylight. Several times during the night Janie heard the snort of big animals like deer. Once the muted voice of a pan- ther. Going east and east. That night the palm and banana trees began that long distance talk with rain. Several people 182 Zora Neale Hurston took fright and picked up and went in to Palm Beach anyway. A thousand buzzards held a flying meet and then went above the clouds and stayed. One of the Bahaman boys stopped by Tea Cake’s house in a car and hollered. Tea Cake came out throwin’ laughter over his shoulder into the house. “Hello Tea Cake.” “Hello ’Lias. You leavin’, Ah see.” “Yeah man. You and Janie wanta go? Ah wouldn’t give nobody else uh chawnce at uh seat till Ah found out if you all had anyway tuh go.” “Thank yuh ever so much, Lias. But we ’bout decided tuh stay.” “De crow gahn up, man.” “Dat ain’t nothin’. You ain’t seen de bossman go up, is yuh? Well all right now. Man, de money’s too good on the muck. It’s liable tuh fair off by tuhmorrer. Ah wouldn’t leave if Ah wuz you.” “Mah uncle come for me. He say hurricane warning out in Palm Beach. Not so bad dere, but man, dis muck is too low and dat big lake is liable tuh bust.” “Ah naw, man. Some boys in dere now talkin’ ’bout it. Some of ’em been in de ’Glades fuh years. ’Tain’t nothin’ but uh lil blow. You’ll lose de whole day tuhmorrer tryin’ tuh git back out heah.” “De Indians gahn east, man. It’s dangerous.” “Dey don’t always know. Indians don’t know much uh nothin’, tuh tell de truth. Else dey’d own dis country still. De white folks ain’t gone nowhere. Dey oughta know if it’s Their Eyes Were Watching God 183 dangerous. You better stay heah, man. Big jumpin’ dance tuhnight right heah, when it fair off.” Lias hesitated and started to climb out, but his uncle wouldn’t let him. “Dis time tuhmorrer you gointuh wish you follow crow,” he snorted and drove off. Lias waved back to them gaily. “If Ah never see you no mo’ on earth, Ah’ll meet you in Africa.” Others hurried east like the Indians and rabbits and snakes and coons. But the majority sat around laughing and waiting for the sun to get friendly again. Several men collected at Tea Cake’s house and sat around stuffing courage into each other’s ears. Janie baked a big pan of beans and something she called sweet biscuits and they all managed to be happy enough. Most of the great flame-throwers were there and natu- rally, handling Big John de Conquer and his works. How he had done everything big on earth, then went up tuh heben without dying atall. Went up there picking a guitar and got all de angels doing the ring-shout round and round de throne. Then everybody but God and Old Peter flew off on a flying race to Jericho and back and John


for me—ouch!” My arms drop. There is a red bruise on the back of my hand. Another cheddar cube on the floor. “What the —” “Stop whining all over my kitchen,” she commands. “Fear aside, do you want to be with Jack? Do you like being with Jack?” So much. So, so much. So, so, so much. “I like it. But maybe I still shouldn’t.” “There are things like that. That feel nice but are bad for you. Like MDMA, or Q-tips for ear cleanings. I don’t think Jack qualifies, though.” “Why?” Cece’s eyes are earnest. Her fingers reach out for mine. “You know me, Elsie: I hate giving credit to a dude who probably went to kindergarten at a French château. But you’ve been seeing him for, what, weeks? And I don’t know what it is precisely that you two have been doing for each other. But he just let go of a very shitty thing he’s been carrying around for half his life. And you . . . I feel like I know you better than I ever did before. And I’m thinking that maybe, I owe it a little bit to him.” I look at Cece, letting her words swirl around me in messy, complicated, unpredictable patterns. Then they settle inside my brain, and I can taste their truth. Four weeks ago I was a different person. No: four weeks ago I was an infinite number of different people. I’ve put myself in a hundred tiny boxes, played a thousand roles, sculpted myself in a million smooth lines. But for the first time in memory I’m fighting against that, and . . . What do you want, Elsie? I squeeze my hand tight around Cece’s. Then I stand, pick up my coat, and run out the door. • • • T HERE ’ S SOMETHING NEW ON THE DOOR OF J ACK ’ S OFFICE . Under the “Jonathan Smith-Turner, Ph.D.” plaque and the “Physics Institute, Director” subplaque, someone taped a printout of the Annals article Cece showed me earlier today. All two pages. Including the citations. One of which is an article of mine. “Dr. Hannaway?” I turn to Michi walking down the hallway. “Oh—hi.” “Hi!” She smiles widely at me. “Can I help you?” “Oh, I was . . .” I point at the door, which looks a lot like I’m pointing at the paper. I quickly lower my hand. “I was looking for Jack.” “I think he went straight home after the faculty meeting.” Shit. No. Not shit. This is good. I can go to his place. I know where he lives. I’ve basically lived there, too, for a couple of weekends. So this is perfect—it gives me more time to think about what I’m going to tell him, since I have no idea. Why am I here? Just swept by the currents, like a salmon during mating season. I shoot Michi a quick smile and speed-walk down the hallway. I think she yells after me that she followed me on Twitter, but I don’t stop


hurried, like this is a timed activity and we’re in our final seconds. “What was the text,” I hiss out as our lips draw apart. “What text,” he asks, turning me back to the car, the warm metal of the hood meeting my back. “From your mom,” I say. “I saw a text from your mom.” “Nothing,” he says, lifting me onto the hood. “Wyn.” “It’s about work, Harriet,” he says, squeezing my thighs, pulling them around his hips. “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say as he kisses his way down my throat, hand curling against my ear. “I can explain it to you right now,” he says, “or we can have sex in the car.” A plumb line of heat drops through my center, my thighs tightening against him as he kisses me more deeply. “The car? We’re like a mile from the house.” “I don’t have a mile in me right now, Harriet.” I push against his shoulders even as the rest of my body strains toward him. “Tell me,” I say. He steps back. A car flies by our spot on the shoulder, and he blinks as if emerging from a trance. Then obvious anxiety torques his brow and mouth, and I am positive I made the right decision, that there’s something I need to know. With a resigned sigh, he pulls his phone out of his back pocket and taps on it for several seconds, teeth worrying at his lower lip, while the suspense pummels my nerves. Finally, he hands the phone to me. There’s a web browser open to some hip minimalistic shop. A white backdrop. Soft serifed headings: Gallery, Contact, Social Media. Beneath them, a photograph of a massive oak pedestal table out in a green-gold meadow. Mismatched wooden chairs line it, wildflowers bursting up around their legs. Behind the meadow, periwinkle mountains jut up into a cloudless sky. It’s so beautiful it makes me ache. I feel the same brand of longing I used to get when I rode my bike home at dusk as a kid, past lit kitchen windows, saw the people inside laughing while they set their tables or washed their dishes. I tap the image. An option to purchase the table pops up. “Fifteen thousand dollars? American dollars?” “It’s the cheapest one,” Wyn says. I look up, stunned. “Wyn. Are you buying a fifteen-thousand-dollar table? Here I was freaking out about a coffee-table book, and you’re buying a millionaire’s table?” “What?” He laughs uncomfortably. “No. Harriet. It’s not—I’m not buying it . . . I made it.” I stare at him. “You . . .” I look back down to the table, then up at him. “You made this? Or you fixed it?” Color rises along his cheeks. “I made it. For that home goods store in Bozeman. Juniper and Sage?” Juniper and Sage. I went once with Wyn’s parents, and Hank joked that we shouldn’t touch any of their vases, because if we broke them, we’d have to mortgage the house. “They’re selling them on consignment,” Wyn says. “The


up broken, then so be it. She was free now. To love. To get hurt. To stitch herself back together. To love again, without guilt, and, one day, be loved in return. Io said, “I wish I could give you the answer you want. I wish I could tell you that what I feel came first, and not the fate-thread—but I don’t know for certain. What I can tell you, with absolute clarity, is this: if I had the choice, I would still choose you. We are a good team, you and I, and we could be so much more.” She closed her eyes and let her sorrow ascend, a balloon loosed from a child’s hand. “But if this is not your choice, I will cut the thread,” Io continued. “I mean it, Edei. I will cut the thread, and I will be your friend instead. Maybe not straightaway, but eventually. I don’t know. But I do know that I will be fine.” And she would be, wouldn’t she? She had been surviving loss all her life: her parents, her childhood, Thais. It would hurt and she would mourn, but she had thought this was her penance, and instead it felt like . . . freedom. This is your penance. Her thoughts paused. Her heartbeat spiked, her mind numbed by the echo of the past speaking back to her. Slaughter? the rogue gang leader had said on the bridge. Oh, no, girl. This is your penance. These past few days tumbled into Io’s head, line after line after line. I will rise from the ashes a daughter of flame. Drina Savva’s words. Revenge is for the wicked. My purpose is justice. I am its servant, and it is mine. I’m neither crazy, nor dying. I am ascended. Drina Savva. I was made to know your crimes. I don’t deal in mercy. I deliver justice. I can see the taint of crime on you, too, sister. Raina. There are crimes that cannot go unpunished. Emmeline Segal, Drina Savva, Raina. I cannot punish you. Your crimes are not truly yours. Drina again. And from the Nine: They are daughters of the night, chosen for their honor, made to whip vengeance into the backs of wicked men. Shit. Oh shit. She had to find Nina—now. She pulled up the Quilt around her and approached Nina’s apartment. The boy—her son—was standing behind the door, probably nervously watching them through the peephole. A dozen threads sprouted from his chest, and one of them was brighter, vibrating toward the direction of the exit. His mother, most likely, nearing the apartment building. Io shot off in an instant, Edei dashing after her. “Io,” he called, “what’s wrong?” She had a theory, and if she was right about it, everything was wrong. They were barely down the first flight of stairs when Nina rounded the corner, carrying bags with groceries on both shoulders. Her white-blond hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and her cheeks looked gaunt, as though she hadn’t eaten in days. A gun was stuffed down


reaching for the conch in the light of the setting sun. He held on and leapt on the trunk. "All this I meant to say. Now I've said it. You voted me for chief. Now you do what I say." They quieted, slowly, and at last were seated again. Ralph dropped down and spoke in his ordinary voice. "So remember. The rocks for a lavatory. Keep the fire going and smoke showing as a signal. Don't take fire from the mountain. Take your food up there." Jack stood up, scowling in the gloom, and held out his hands. "I haven't finished yet." "But you've talked and talked!" "I've got the conch." Jack sat down, grumbling. "Then the last thing. This is what people can talk about." He waited till the platform was very still. "Things are breaking up. I don't understand why. We began well; we were happy. And then--" He moved the conch gently, looking beyond them at nothing, remembering the beastie, the snake, the fire, the talk of fear. "Then people started getting frightened." A murmur, almost a moan, rose and passed away. Jack had stopped whittling. Ralph went on, abruptly. "But that's littluns' talk. We'll get that straight. So the last part, the bit we can all talk about, is kind of deciding on the fear." The hair was creeping into his eyes again. "We've got to talk about this fear and decide there's nothing in it. I'm frightened myself, sometimes; only that's nonsense! Like bogies. Then, when we've decided, we can start again and be careful about things like the fire." A picture of three boys walking along the bright beach flitted through his mind. "And be happy." Ceremonially, Ralph laid the conch on the trunk beside him as a sign that the speech was over. What sunlight reached them was level. Jack stood up and took the conch. "So this is a meeting to find out what's what. I'll tell you what's what. You littluns started all this, with the fear talk. Beasts! Where from? Of course we're frightened sometimes but we put up with being frightened. Only Ralph says you scream in the night. What does that mean but nightmares? Anyway, you don't hunt or build or help--you're a lot of cry-babies and sissies. That's what. And as for the fear--you'll have to put up with that like the rest of us." Ralph looked at Jack open-mouthed, but Jack took no notice. "The thing is--fear can't hurt you any more than a dream. There aren't any beasts to be afraid of on this island." He looked along the row of whispering littluns. "Serve you right if something did get you, you useless lot of cry-babies! But there is no animal--" Ralph interrupted him testily. "What is all this? Who said anything about an animal?" "You did, the other day. You said they dream and cry out. Now they talk--not only the littluns, but my hunters sometimes--talk of a thing, a dark thing, a beast, some sort of animal. I've heard. You thought not, didn't you? Now


right to be anywhere near shrapnel or bullets or whatever the hell had hurt her this time. Couldn’t she just be safe? Couldn’t the only person he loved try to take care of herself, for Andy’s sake if not for her own? It was a useless thought then, and it’s a useless thought now, so he grits his teeth and hopes Nick has a first aid kit. * * * “Hey,” Nick says, his voice a little slurred. Andy drops the newspaper and crosses the room in two strides. “What happened to you?” This close, he can see that Nick’s lip is split. He pushes Nick’s hand away and sees a nasty gash and the beginnings of a bruise running from his temple to his jaw. “Kids,” Nick says. “Street gang?” There are bands of teenagers all over Lower Manhattan who like to fight one another, but what kind of lunatic kids would go after someone like Nick? “Something like that.” Well, that’s a deeply unsatisfactory and unconvincing answer, and Andy will get to the bottom of it, but not while Nick is bleeding all over himself. “Sit,” he says, as firmly as he knows how, pointing to the kitchen table. To his surprise, Nick sits. Andy takes off his coat, then washes his hands, wets a dish towel, and pulls the chain to turn on the kitchen light. Up close, he can see that what at first looked like a gash also includes a scrape, as if Nick hit his face on something rougher than a fist. Andy carefully dabs at the scrape to clean it as best as he can. The cloth comes away discolored with blood and dirt. He folds the cloth and keeps dabbing with clean sections until he thinks that at least Nick doesn’t have any pieces of the sidewalk left in his face. “Do you have any bandages? Peroxide?” Andy asks. “Medicine cabinet,” Nick says. It isn’t until Andy’s unscrewing the cap off the peroxide that he realizes his hands are shaking. And so with unsteady hands he pours some of the liquid onto a washcloth and carefully applies it to Nick’s face. Nick winces, and Andy remembers the last time—the only time—he’s ever done this for anyone, nearly a year ago in the newsroom. It feels much longer ago than that, as if it happened on the other side of a divide, because then he was helping a friend, and now he’s helping—he’s helping Nick, and he doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t want to know. “Sit still,” Andy whispers. “Sorry.” Nick makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. “I hate this.” “Nobody likes it, you dummy.” But Andy doesn’t think Nick’s referring to the burn of the peroxide or even the fact of having gotten mugged. These cuts seem—they seem bad, and Andy doesn’t know if that’s because they’re dangerous, or because Andy is inclined to worry about everything, or because they’re on Nick. But he thinks that maybe peroxide isn’t enough, so he goes back to the medicine cabinet. When he returns,


for Malia, who flicked on the TV. Malia’s eyes were on the screen. ‘Odile was great about our idea, wasn’t she?’ ‘She was.’ Florence nodded. ‘Malia – I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ ‘It’s no sweat – I’m staying in Middleton Ferris until Christmas anyway so it’s easy to share the work at the café until the baby is born. Then you can come back part-time when you’re ready and I’ll look for a job somewhere, to start after Christmas. It suits us both.’ ‘In London?’ Adam asked, fork in the air. ‘Definitely not here,’ Malia sniffed. ‘I like it here,’ Adam retorted. ‘You’re just Dad’s little mini-me…’ Malia teased. Adam glanced towards Florence. ‘I’m happy where I am.’ Florence turned slowly. ‘I’m so grateful to you both… People are being so kind.’ ‘That’s because everyone likes you,’ Adam murmured and Malia rolled her eyes. Florence sat up. ‘Have you seen the nursery now Dad’s repainted it? The sunshine comes in and the room is so bright.’ ‘Have you bought anything for the baby yet?’ Malia asked. ‘Not yet, not really.’ ‘We’ll have to go shopping together,’ Malia said. ‘I can help too – I’d like to,’ Adam added. ‘I’m organising a lunchtime picnic by the barge – Devlin said it would be okay.’ Florence wiped her mouth on the back of her hand carelessly. ‘For Josie, Lin and Cecily – Minnie too. They’ve been so supportive and sweet, and I want to say thanks. Will you both come?’ ‘Yes, I’ll be there,’ Adam replied without pausing. ‘When is it?’ Malia snuggled into the armchair. ‘Next month – 12 August.’ Florence’s eyes were on the screen, oblivious as Adam stretched an arm across the back of the sofa behind her. She added, ‘Devlin said he and Finn and Fergal would just go down the pub for a couple of hours and let me use the barge, but I asked them to come to lunch too.’ Malia smiled. ‘It’ll be fun – I like Finn and Devlin.’ ‘Most women do…’ Florence muttered. ‘Where’s your dad now?’ Adam asked, changing the subject. ‘Down at The Sun, I think, with Jimmy Baker. They are a pair of old gossips when they get together,’ Florence said affectionately. Then she exhaled. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without Dad – or you two.’ ‘You’ll be fine, and so will the baby,’ Adam promised. Malia reached across and squeezed her hand. Florence closed her eyes, bathed in a feeling of warmth. There was a sharp knock on the front door and Adam clambered to his feet. ‘I’ll get it.’ Florence’s eyes were on the TV screen, but she was listening to the two male voices at the door, Adam’s light one and a deeper, gruffer voice. Then she heard Adam say, ‘You’d better come in.’ Florence turned to see Bobby Ledbury, who was carrying a white wooden cot with a floral mattress through the doorway. He put it on the carpet as Florence stood up, touching the rails with light fingers. Bobby shoved his hands in


get ready for dinner. The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place to build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked dinner. We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in there. We put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern. Pretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was right about it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider- webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale under- side of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest -- FST! it was as bright as glory, and you'd have a little glimpse of tree- tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go rum- bling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs -- where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know. "Jim, this is nice," I says. "I wouldn't want to be nowhere else but here. Pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread." "Well, you wouldn't a ben here 'f it hadn't a ben for Jim. You'd a ben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittn' mos' drownded, too; dat you would, honey. Chickens knows when it's gwyne to rain, en so do de birds, chile." The river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till at last it was over the banks. The water was three or four foot deep on the island in the low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that side it was a good many miles wide, but on the Missouri side it was the same old distance across -- a half a mile -- because the Missouri shore was just a wall of high bluffs. Daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe, It was mighty cool and shady in the deep woods, even if the sun was blazing outside. We went winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines hung so thick we had to back away and go some other way. Well,


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

look that was both dubious and impressed. “My, but that sounds like a lot of work.” “Yes.” Nine years of it, to be specific. I have been working on my encyclopaedia since earning my doctorate. “I hope to complete my fieldwork here by spring—the chapter on your Hidden Ones is the very last piece. My publisher is eagerly awaiting the manuscript.” The mention of a publisher seemed to impress him all over again, though the furrow in his brow remained. “Well. We have plenty of stories. I don’t know, though, that they’ll be any use to you.” “Stories are of great use,” I said. “Indeed, they are the foundation of dryadology. We would be lost without them, as astronomers cut off from the sky.” “They’re not all true, though,” he said with a frown. “Can’t be. All storytellers embellish. You should listen to my grandmother when she gets going—she’ll have us hanging on every word, yes, but a visitor from the next village will say they don’t know the tale, though it’s the same one their own amma tells at her hearth.” “Such variation is common. Nevertheless, when it comes to the Folk, there is something true in every story, even the false ones.” I could have gone on about faerie stories—I’ve written several articles on the subject—but I didn’t know how to talk to him about my scholarship, if what I said would be nonsense to his ears. The truth is that, for the Folk, stories are everything. Stories are part of them and their world in a fundamental way that mortals have difficulty grasping; a story may be a singular event from the past, but—crucially—it is also a pattern that shapes their behaviour and predicts future events. The Folk have no system of laws, and while I am not saying stories are as law to them, they are the closest thing their world has to some form of order.[*2] I finished simply, “My research generally consists of an amalgam of oral accounts and hands-on investigation. Tracking, observations in the field, that sort of thing.” If anything, the furrow had deepened. “And you—you’ve done this before? You’ve met them, I mean. The Folk.” “Many times. I would say that your Hidden Ones would be unable to surprise me, but that is a talent universally held by the Folk, is it not? The ability to surprise?” He smiled. I believe he thought me half akin to the Folk at that point, a strange magician of a woman conjured into his midst in a village little touched by the outside world. “That I couldn’t say,” he replied. “As I’ve only known our Folk. That’s enough for one man, I’ve always thought. More than enough.” His tone had darkened a little, but in a grim rather than an ominous way, the sort of voice one uses when speaking of those hardships that are a fact of life. He set a loaf of dark bread upon the table, which he informed me quite casually had been baked in the ground via geothermal heat, along with


by none in Arda. But of all the Maiar Oss and Uinen are best known to the Children of Ilvatar. Oss is a vassal of Ulmo, and he is master of the seas that wash the shores of Middle-earth. He does not go in the deeps, but loves the coasts and the isles, and rejoices in the winds of Manw; for in storm he delights, and laughs amid the roaring of the waves. His spouse is Uinen, the Lady of the Seas, whose hair lies spread through all waters under sky. All creatures she loves that live in the salt streams, and all weeds that grow there; to her mariners cry, for she can lay calm upon the waves, restraining the wildness of Oss. The Nmenreans lived long in her protection, and held her in reverence equal to the Valar. Melkor hated the Sea, for he could not subdue it. It is said that in the making of Arda he endeavoured to draw Oss to his allegiance, promising to him all the realm and power of Ulmo, if he would serve him. So it was that long ago there arose great tumults in the sea that wrought ruin to the lands. But Uinen, at the prayer of Aul, restrained Oss and brought him before Ulmo; and he was pardoned and returned to his allegiance, to which he has remained faithful. For the most part; for the delight in violence has never wholly departed from him, and at times he will rage in his wilfulness without any command from Ulmo his lord. Therefore those who dwell by the sea or go up in ships may love him, but they do not trust him. Melian was the name of a Maia who served both Vna and Est; she dwelt long in Lrien, tending the trees that flower in the gardens of Irmo, ere she came to Middle-earth. Nightingales sang about her wherever she went. Wisest of the Maiar was Olrin. He too dwelt in Lrien, but his ways took him often to the house of Nienna, and of her he learned pity and patience. Of Melian much is told in the Quenta Silmarillion. But of Olrin that tale does not speak; for though he loved the Elves, he walked among them unseen, or in form as one of them, and they did not know whence came the fair visions or the promptings of wisdom that he put into their hearts. In later days he was the friend of all the Children of Ilvatar, and took pity on their sorrows; and those who listened to him awoke from despair and put away the imaginations of darkness. Of the Enemies Last of all is set the name of Melkor, He who arises in Might. But that name he has forfeited; and the Noldor, who among the Elves suffered most from his malice, will not utter it, and they name him Morgoth, the Dark Enemy of the World. Great might was given to him by Ilvatar, and he was coeval with Manw. In the powers and knowledge


was afraid the film might have shrunk, or that I wouldn’t have the right projector and equipment to work with it, but I can play this film fine. I’m not sure I’d want to be projecting an entire film with no assistant—you want two people switching reels and you want to be in a safety booth—but it’s a few minutes of film.” “Then the film is in good shape,” Abel said nervously. “You’ll see,” she said, holding a door open for them. Tristán and Abel entered a small screening room with only three rows of seats. Tristán had been there on previous occasions. Antares had been top of the line, once. A 35-millimeter projection room, an editing room with a sturdy Moviola, a KEM and two computers that could run Avid, multiple editing bays with MIDI synchronizers: it was nothing to sniff at. But from what Tristán had heard, courtesy of Montserrat, Antares wasn’t doing so hot anymore. The equipment was aging, and there were new players in the market. Audiomaster 3000, which had already swallowed several other companies, dominated the dubbing market in no small part because of their ties to Televisa. Things were getting worse now that Audiomaster was the only dubbing studio capable of recording in stereo rather than the monoaural system once prevalent in Mexico. Magic, if it does exist, would sure be helpful right about now, Tristán thought. Antares could use it, and so could Montserrat with the way her career was going. Then again, so could he. Tristán and Abel picked their seats while Montserrat fiddled with the projector. Abel clutched the typewritten pages of the old movie script he had kept. He coughed and muttered to himself. Tristán, on the other hand, tossed a mint into his mouth. Montserrat had warned him there would be absolutely no smoking inside the studio, and he had to have a palliative. The reel began with no fanfare, interrupting the darkness of the room, and he gazed at the screen. Tristán had seen many films and never paid much attention to the stock they were shot on. That kind of trivia was best left for people like Montserrat or Abel to discuss. To him, it didn’t matter, and it must not have mattered to many others because Montserrat had mentioned that the majority of silver nitrate films had been recycled to extract the silver and celluloid. But as he looked at the screen, he finally understood what those granules of silver could do for a film in the hands of a skilled director. There was a clarity to the images that belied their age, a depth to the shadows that made them almost touchable, and a luminosity that entranced the eye. The first shot was of an empty altar with black draperies. Then two people walked into the frame, dressed in dark clothes. On the left was a beautiful woman, her hair pulled back with a ribbon across her forehead. Her hairstyle made her look like a Greek priestess, but her eyes were vacant or glancing in the wrong


was standing in front of a wall of darkness, and on the other side of it there was something unendurable, something too dreadful to be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was always one of self-deception, because he did in fact know what was behind the wall of darkness. With a deadly effort, like wrenching a piece out of his own brain, he could even have dragged the thing into the open. He always woke up without discovering what it was: but somehow it was connected with what Julia had been saying when he cut her short. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'it's nothing. I don't like rats, that's all.' 'Don't worry, dear, we're not going to have the filthy brutes in here. I'll stuff the hole with a bit of sacking before we go. And next time we come here I'll bring some plaster and bung it up properly.' Already the black instant of panic was half-forgotten. Feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he sat up against the bedhead. Julia got out of bed, pulled on her overalls, and made the coffee. The smell that rose from the saucepan was so powerful and exciting that they shut the window lest anybody outside should notice it and become inquisitive. What was even better than the taste of the coffee was the silky texture given to it by the sugar, a thing Winston had almost forgotten after years of saccharine. With one hand in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other, Julia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the bookcase, pointing out the best way of repairing the gateleg table, plumping herself down in the ragged arm-chair to see if it was comfortable, and examining the absurd twelve-hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a better light. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always, by the soft, rainwatery appearance of the glass. 'What is it, do you think?' said Julia. 'I don't think it's anything--I mean, I don't think it was ever put to any use. That's what I like about it. It's a little chunk of history that they've forgotten to alter. It's a message from a hundred years ago, if one knew how to read it.' file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (80 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt 'And that picture over there'--she nodded at the engraving on the opposite wall--'would that be a hundred years old?' 'More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can't tell. It's impossible to discover the age of anything nowadays.' She went over to look at it. 'Here's where that brute stuck his nose out,' she said, kicking the wainscoting immediately below the picture. 'What is this place? I've seen it before somewhere.' 'It's a church, or at least it used to be. St Clement Danes its name was.' The fragment of rhyme that Mr Charrington had taught him came back into his head, and he added half-nostalgically: "Oranges and lemons, say the bells of


break up with me? We got somethin’ beautiful, how you know my needs and I know yours, how we satisfy each other, our old flame burnin’ bright again. But, hey, if you go hormonal on me, you say hit the road, I got so much respect for you, baby, I’ll leave, no argument. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.” The house is warm, but Nina is cold in flesh and bone. Cold but steady. She won’t give him the pleasure of seeing her tremble. “Your crazy talk doesn’t scare me.” He feigns puzzlement. “Crazy? Nothin’ crazy about love, baby. It makes the world go round.” When he steps past the footstool, she does not back away. Any sign of weakness will encourage him. As he retrieves something from a pocket of his jacket—an Our Legacy jacket that costs God knows what—he says, “And nothin’ proves our love more than this.” A key. It’s how he got in here. “Where’d you get that?” “Where I get it? You don’t remember?” “Don’t say I gave it to you.” “You know me, sugar. I only say what’s true.” “Don’t say it’s from me.” “You want it back?” “I want it. There’s no ‘back’ involved.” “You want the other one, too?” She says nothing. “Remember? You give me a second, case maybe I lost this one.” “You can’t have him.” “Him? A key don’t have no him or her about it.” “Damn you.” “And here I thought you was a church lady.” “Put both keys on the table there.” “You want the third? The fourth?” He takes a step toward her, then another. They are five feet apart. He returns the key to his jacket pocket. “Got me a homeboy used to work for a locksmith. You want, he can come change out the locks, make you feel safe.” John steps out of the hallway, into the living room. He has retrieved the pistol from his mother’s bedroom. He holds it in both hands, aimed at the floor. Aleem says, “You gonna pop a cap, boy?” John looks to his mother. She tells him to put the gun down, but he doesn’t. “You know what it means—pop a cap?” Aleem asks. John says, “No.” “It means shoot someone. You gonna shoot someone, boy?” “Leave him out of this, Aleem.” “Can’t leave him out of a thing that’s all about him.” She says, “John, go to your room.” Favoring her with a cobra smile, Aleem adopts a sweet tone at odds with his words. “Sugar, much as I love you, sometimes you’re a dumb cunt. This’ll go down nicer iffen you keep your mouth shut when I’m talkin’ to my son. Can you do that, sweet thing?” She has sheltered John, kept him from all influences of the street. He’s a good kid, but short on hard experience. He’s not imprudent, certainly not rash, but there’s no telling what he might do if Aleem strikes her. He might interpret a slap to the face as prelude to homicidal violence. Even if he only wounds Aleem, what happens to him then? Not juvenile


the face.

Something has to change. Please?

It will.

I opened my mouth to the sky, to the moon.

To the future.

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Aaaah.

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part 3 captain of my soul

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| WAS SITTING around Nott Cott, scrolling through Instagram. In my feed I

saw a video: My friend Violet. And a young woman.

They were playing with a new app that put silly filters on your photos.

Violet and the woman had dog ears, dog noses, long red dog tongues

hanging out.

Despite the canine cartoon overlay, I sat up straighter.

This woman with Violet...my God.

I watched the video several times, then forced myself to put down the

phone.

Then picked it up again, watched the video again.

I’d traveled the world, from top to bottom, literally. I’d hopscotched the

continents. I’d met hundreds of thousands of people, I’d crossed paths with

a ludicrously large cross-section of the planet’s seven billion residents. For

thirty-two years I’d watched a conveyor-belt of faces pass by and only a

handful ever made me look twice. This woman stopped the conveyor-belt.

This woman smashed the conveyor-belt to bits.

I’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

Why should beauty feel like a punch in the throat? Does it have

something to do with our innate human longing for order? Isn’t that what

scientists say? And artists? That beauty is symmetry and therefore

represents a relief from the chaos? Certainly my life to that point had been

chaotic. I can’t deny hungering for order, can’t deny seeking a bit of

beauty. I’d just come back from a trip with Pa, Willy and Kate to France,


in her ear. “Think of it as the rock flying from your fingers, not falling, and aim for the far shore.” With Simon standing so close that she could smell him again—he smelled clean, masculine—Lucy tried one more time to skip her rock, throwing it exactly as he instructed. But just as she threw it, her foot slipped in the mud, and she shrieked as she tumbled right into Simon’s arms. “Careful!” He slid his arms beneath hers, and though she felt as if he could easily hold her up, there was something tense about him. “You’re slipping too, aren’t you?” she whispered. He grunted a little. “Yes. Perhaps if I . . .” His hold shifted, and Lucy tried to get herself steady on her feet. But she couldn’t get a solid foothold. “Wait,” she said as much to herself as to him since she was on the verge of laughing. Of course she would be the reason they got themselves in this predicament. It seemed she was as prone to small problems as she was to big ones. “Maybe if I turn around.” She did, gripping Simon’s strong arms as she moved as slowly as she could. Once they faced each other, she figured she would be able to hold onto him until she could get back to sturdy ground, and then she could help him do the same. How, she wasn’t sure, but she would do her best. But when she finally managed to turn without falling, she found herself pressed up against the man with his arms wrapped securely around her. She had a clear view of his cravat from where she stood and knew instinctively that if she lifted her head a few inches, her nose would brush his chin. Perhaps he had realized the same thing, because suddenly he seemed to be holding his breath. Lucy needed to be anywhere but where she was, and she swallowed as her fingers pressed against the solid muscle of his chest. Honestly, how was the man so strong? Was he a pugilist on the weekends? Did he spend his mornings wrestling lions? “Um . . .” Lucy tested her foothold, hoping something had changed over the last several seconds, but she slid yet again and had to wrap her arms around Simon’s torso to keep herself from falling. “I should . . .” She had no idea what she should do, but she couldn’t very well stay where she was. She felt Simon swallow, his heart racing in her ear. “I am going to—” What he was going to do Lucy never found out because as soon as he moved even the slightest bit, their feet slid out from under them, and they tumbled into the pond. Cold water hit Lucy like a slap to the face, and though she told herself she’d needed that, she quickly became focused on the fact that the pond was much deeper than she had anticipated and her feet could not reach the bottom without submerging her head in the water. Panicking, she


had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then. I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said was "mamaliga", and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call "impletata". (Mem., get recipe for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour before we began to move. It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China? All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side of them to be subject ot great floods. It takes a lot of water, and running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those I saw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets, and round hats, and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque. The women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very clumsy about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or other, and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course there were petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks, who were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass nails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them, and had long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion. It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is a very interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier--for the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina-- it has had a very stormy existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a series of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc


I just want so badly to have somebody with me. Anybody. And so I just have to ask if you might stay tonight. Despite everything.” I took a step closer, like that might seal the deal. “Can you postpone your plans,” I asked, “and come with me?” If there was any hope for us at all, he’d sense my desperation—how badly I really, truly needed him—and rescue me this one last time. But he didn’t. He kept his face turned toward the horizon. “Are you asking me to be your anybody?” “I guess that’s one way to put it.” Now, at last, he turned toward me. “I’m not going to be anybody for you, Sadie. And I don’t want to see the portrait. And I don’t know why you think I’d care about any of this.” But I shook my head. “I don’t understand what happened.” I could feel a flash of anger in his expression like fire. “Really?” he said. “I don’t understand it, either, to be honest. But here we are.” I took a deep breath. “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.” But Joe shook his head like sorry was the most useless word in the world. Worse than useless, even. Insulting. He turned to leave. Then he stopped and turned halfway back. “I’m moving out, by the way,” he said then. “So stop coming by my place. And stop calling me. And for god’s sake … stop texting.” Twenty-Five THE FIRST INSULT of the art show—before all the injuries—was placement. I arrived at the gallery to find my portrait hung in the worst conceivable spot—half under a staircase, fully at the back, right near the bathrooms, under an exposed air-conditioning vent that was literally dripping into a bucket. There was a moldy smell to the area—not to mention a tinge of Lysol. You’d think that a bright, airy, recently renovated art gallery wouldn’t have a dank corner—but you’d be wrong. And that’s where they stuck me. At the art gallery equivalent of a restaurant’s sucker table. Worst of all, the spot was hard to get to, but because of the U-shaped layout of the gallery, it was easy to see. Everybody entering the building could get a full view of my indefensibly tragic situation. So any and all humiliations to come would be on full display. And there were plenty of humiliations to come. Starting with the fact that no one was there. Oh, people were there—at the show. The show itself was packed. Just—no one came to my shadowy, mildewy, forgotten corner. I stood courageously next to my portrait, under the cold, damp, blowing air of that drippy vent, feeling as exposed as a hermit crab out of its shell—as I watched the entire gallery milling with eager art patrons. Everywhere—except where I was. No one came up to me and said hello. No one talked to me at all. Only a few freakish outliers even glanced at my portrait, which was clearly, easily, the big loser of the night from minute one. I scanned people’s outfits and hair


spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend. Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart, overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will proceed with my tale. Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to post the remainder of our way, for the wind was contrary and the stream of the river was too gentle to aid us. Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery, but we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England. It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene; they were flat but fertile, and almost every town was marked by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the Spanish Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich-- places which I had heard of even in my country. At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul's towering above all, and the Tower famed in English history. Chapter 19 London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time, but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of my promise and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished natural philosophers. If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness, it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the information they might give me on the subject in which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my fellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine, and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled my soul with anguish. But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long had in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had taken of its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of European colonization


done, and Mablung was among them; and he bade Trin return with him to Menegroth and abide the judgement of the King, seeking his pardon. But Trin, deeming himself now an outlaw and fearing to be held captive, refused Mablung's bidding, and turned swiftly away; and passing through the Girdle of Melian he came into the woods west of Sirion. There he joined himself to a band of such houseless and desperate men as could be found in those evil days lurking in the wild; and their hands were turned against all who came in their path Elves and Men and Orcs. But when all that had befallen was told and searched out before Thingol, the King pardoned Trin, holding him wronged. In that time Beleg Strongbow returned from the north marches and came to Menegroth, seeking him; and Thingol spoke to Beleg, saying: 'I grieve, Cthalion; for I took Hrin's son as my son, and so he shall remain, unless Hrin himself should return out of the shadows to claim his own. I would not have any say that Trin was driven forth unjustly into the wild, and gladly would I welcome him back; for I loved him well.' And Beleg answered: 'I will seek Trin until I find him, and I will bring him back to Menegroth, if I can; for I love him also.' Then Beleg departed from Menegroth, and far across Beleriand he sought in vain for tidings of Trin through many perils. But Trin abode long among the outlaws, and became their captain; and he named himself Neithan, the Wronged. Very warily they dwelt in the wooded lands south of Teiglin; but when a year had passed since Trin fled from Doriath, Beleg came upon their lair by night. It chanced that at that time Trin was gone from the camp; and the outlaws seized Beleg and bound him, and treated him cruelly, for they feared him as a spy of the King of Doriath. But Trin returning and seeing what was done, was stricken with remorse for all their evil and lawless deeds; and he released Beleg, and they renewed their friendship, and Trin foreswore thenceforward war or plunder against all save the servants of Angband. Then Beleg told Trin of King Thingol's pardon; and he sought to persuade him by all means that he might to return with him to Doriath, saying that there was great need of his strength and valour on the north marches of the realm. 'Of late the Orcs have found a way down out of Taur-nu-Fuin,' he said; 'they have made a road through the Pass of Anach.' 'I do not remember it,' said Trin. 'Never did we go so far from the borders,' said Beleg. 'But you have seen the peaks of the Crissaegrim far off, and to the east the dark walls of the Gorgoroth. Anach lies between, above the high springs of Mindeb, a hard and dangerous road; yet many come by it now, and Dimbar which used to be in peace is falling under the Black


table. Meg’s idea.

Time passed. Hour melted into hour. Minimal dilation.

Meg was doing a lot of deep breathing for pain. Then the deep

breathing stopped working. She was in so much pain that she needed an

epidural.

The anesthetist hurried in. Off went the music, on went the lights.

Whoa. Vibe change.

He gave her an injection at the base of her spine.

Still the pain didn’t let up. The medicine apparently wasn’t getting

where it needed to go.

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He came back, did it again.

Now things both quietened and accelerated.

Her doctor came back two hours later, slipped both hands into a pair of

rubber gloves. This is it, everybody. I stationed myself at the head of the

bed, holding Meg’s hand, encouraging her. Push, my love. Breathe. The

doctor gave Meg a small hand mirror. I tried not to look, but I had to. I

glanced, saw a reflection of the baby’s head emerging. Stuck. Tangled. Oh,

no, please, no. The doctor looked up, her mouth set in a particular way.

Things were getting serious.

I said to Meg: My love, I need you to push.

I didn’t tell her why. I didn’t tell her about the cord, didn’t tell her about

the likelihood of an emergency C-section. I just said: Give me everything

you've got.

And she did.

I saw the little face, the tiny neck and chest and arms, wriggling,

writhing. Life, life—amazing! I thought, Wow, it really all begins with a

struggle for freedom.

A nurse swept the baby into a towel and placed him on Meg’s chest and

we both cried to see him, meet him. A healthy little boy, and he was here.

Our ayurvedic doctor had advised us that, in the first minute of life, a

baby absorbs everything said to them. So whisper to the baby, tell the baby

your wish for him, your love.


Bliddit’s eyes as it screamed, licking the dripping blood from his claws. The Bliddit was unable to look away or blink, thanks to the nanomachines. Yet Lu-puk could sense its fear, detecting it in the Bliddit’s perspiration and observing the emanating energy. He smiled, raised the jeweled skin, and tore the meat away, akin to extracting an oyster from its shell. He relished the slow chewing, savoring the sweetness while the Bliddit continued to scream and curse. “Just wait,” Lu-puk uttered, the nanomachines in the Bliddit’s brain translating his words, “until I sink my teeth into your entrails.” Importing the Bliddit had cost him a week’s worth of wages. He had brought it along during his six-day shift on lookout, ensuring he could devour it in solitude. His intention was to take his time, relishing every morsel of its flesh and organs, breaking its bones, savoring the marrow, and ultimately feasting upon its eyes and brain. Only once the nanomachines had eradicated the Bliddit’s pain centers would it be allowed to die. He extended his claws once again, ready to extract the next jewel. However, an alarm, low and resonant like a hammer striking a steel beam, reverberated through the room, causing his delicate ears to twitch. Emitting a hiss of annoyance, he pulled back his hand, wiping it on a blood-soaked towel before slithering toward the control panel. His inner eyelids narrowed in irritation. A wormhole had opened in the flux trap, forcing him to postpone his lunch further. He reassured himself that the Bliddit’s flesh would only grow tastier with pain and fear and settled down to initiate his report. A shiver ran from his tail to the top of his head, causing his defensive spikes to bristle. It wasn’t just one ship emerging from the wormhole, but three. Lu-puk inserted his fingers into the control orifices, allowing his nanomachines to establish a connection with the computer. He closed his eyes, enhancing his ability to comprehend the data flooding into his mind. Two of the ships appeared large and heavily armed, bearing signs of recent battle, which had likely depleted their ammunition reserves. The largest vessel carried bipedal mammalian beings, mostly adults with a lone juvenile. There were a few representatives of other species aboard, but their numbers were minimal. Although the ship’s rail guns and beam weapons could pose a threat to smaller Liquilid vessels, they would have no impact on the red ships or the flux trap itself. Utilizing wormholes for interstellar travel and propulsion technology for in-system movement, it was evident that they were not embarking on a long-distance voyage. The second ship housed artificial beings resembling the mammalians. Lu-puk’s inner eyelids narrowed further. Artificials were merely a nuisance, offering little value to the Liquilids apart from the technological knowledge assimilated by their nanomachines. Leaning forward, a frown etching his features, he noticed something peculiar. The vessel they piloted was not originally designed for them. Traces of DNA found within the spattered blood indicated that another species had previously owned it. Whether the artificials had stumbled upon


touch of the fingers. Knowing, however, the dairyman's wish, she endeavoured conscientiously to take the animals just as they came, expecting the very hard yielders which she could not yet manage. But she soon found a curious correspondence between the ostensibly chance position of the cows and her wishes in this matter, till she felt that their order could not be the result of accident. The dairyman's pupil had lent a hand in getting the cows together of late, and at the fifth or sixth time she turned her eyes, as she rested against the cow, full of sly inquiry upon him. "Mr Clare, you have ranged the cows!" she said, blushing; and in making the accusation symptoms of a smile gently lifted her upper lip in spite of her, so as to show the tips of her teeth, the lower lip remaining severely still. "Well, it makes no difference," said he. "You will always be here to milk them." "Do you think so? I HOPE I shall! But I don't KNOW." She was angry with herself afterwards, thinking that he, unaware of her grave reasons for liking this seclusion, might have mistaken her meaning. She had spoken so earnestly to him, as if his presence were somehow a factor in her wish. Her misgiving was such that at dusk, when the milking was over, she walked in the garden alone, to continue her regrets that she had disclosed to him her discovery of his considerateness. It was a typical summer evening in June, the atmosphere being in such delicate equilibrium and so transmissive that inanimate objects seemed endowed with two or three senses, if not five. There was no distinction between the near and the far, and an auditor felt close to everything within the horizon. The soundlessness impressed her as a positive entity rather than as the mere negation of noise. It was broken by the strumming of strings. Tess had heard those notes in the attic above her head. Dim, flattened, constrained by their confinement, they had never appealed to her as now, when they wandered in the still air with a stark quality like that of nudity. To speak absolutely, both instrument and execution were poor; but the relative is all, and as she listened Tess, like a fascinated bird, could not leave the spot. Far from leaving she drew up towards the performer, keeping behind the hedge that he might not guess her presence. The outskirt of the garden in which Tess found herself had been left uncultivated for some years, and was now damp and rank with juicy grass which sent up mists of pollen at a touch; and with tall blooming weeds emitting offensive smells--weeds whose red and yellow and purple hues formed a polychrome as dazzling as that of cultivated flowers. She went stealthily as a cat through this profusion of growth, gathering cuckoo-spittle on her skirts, cracking snails that were underfoot, staining her hands with thistle-milk and slug-slime, and rubbing off upon her naked arms sticky blights which, though snow-white on the apple-tree


to me. How you snuck into my car, broke into our garage, attacked me, and told me about the oxycodone. How you planned to use it against me if I came forward.” His nose curls into a snarl. “Oh, no you’re not. Did you tell Ethan how you wanted him dead? How you were the one to bring it up after screwing me in the bathtub?” Sloane doesn’t respond. Instead, she slowly moves her finger off the gun barrel and onto the trigger. Brody steps toward her. “And how you adamantly refused to give Narcan?” She ignores the tension that builds between her shoulders. “That’s right. My private investigator talked to one of the first responders.” He smiles. “You shouted at the nurse not to give it.” His smile fades. “What’s that noise?” He points at the ceiling. He gapes at her as the water upstairs turns off. His eyes double in size. “Is Ethan home?” Sloane swings her arm forward and aims the stolen pistol at Brody’s chest. He throws his palms in the air. “Whoa! Sloane, calm down!” “Trust me, I’m calm.” Brody’s eyes dart toward the ceiling. “Ethan!” Sloane fires a round into the fireplace. The glass shatters as her ears ring from the blast. Brody lunges for the gun. “Ethan!” she screeches. She lets the gun fall to the floor as Ethan’s bare footsteps pound down the upstairs hallway. Brody jumps for the gun. He comes up looking terrified and angry all at once. He aims the pistol at her. “Stay. Back.” Sloane steps toward him, seeing her husband fly down the stairs, dripping wet, clutching a towel around his waist, his gun drawn with the other. “Be careful, Ethan! He has a gun!” Brody looks back at Sloane, his brows knit together in horrified confusion. “What are you—” “He tried to kill me!” Brody’s terror-filled pupils lock with Sloane’s before his eyes dart toward Ethan, who stands huffing at the foot of the stairs. “Drop the weapon!” Ethan yells. “Now! Drop the gun!” Brody swings the weapon at Ethan. “She’s the one—” Sloane screams over Brody’s voice. A blast fills the room. Brody’s head recoils from the impact of the bullet to his forehead. Sloane brings her hands to her face as she watches him recoil and collapse to the floor. Ethan rushes over, and Sloane pulls the weapon out of Brody’s limp hand seconds before Ethan can. She looks away before she steps over Brody. His eyes seem fixed on hers as the life drains from them. Sloane turns to Ethan beside her and allows him to take the pistol from her grip. He stands holding a gun in each hand, staring at the blood draining from Brody’s lifeless form. “Call 911.” Sloane bends down and feels Brody’s neck for a pulse, realizing her words came out calmer than she meant them to. “My phone’s in the kitchen. The passcode is our anniversary. Tell them we’re starting CPR. It will look better if we do.” “I’ll use mine. It’s upstairs. I have to get dressed anyway.”


something and fell at his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him, and by the light of their lantern they found that he had fallen on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead. Their first supposition was that it was the corpse of some person who had been drowned and was thrown on shore by the waves, but on examination they found that the clothes were not wet and even that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near the spot and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. It appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age. He had apparently been strangled, for there was no sign of any violence except the black mark of fingers on his neck. The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me, but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned I remembered the murder of my brother and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed me with a keen eye and of course drew an unfavourable augury from my manner. The son confirmed his father's account, but when Daniel Nugent was called he swore positively that just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore; and as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman deposed that she lived near the beach and was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat with only one man in it push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found. Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the body into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed and rubbed it, and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone. Several other men were examined concerning my landing, and they agreed that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely that as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the town of ---- from the place where I had deposited the corpse. Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for


picture, an old Italian cassone, and an almost empty bookcase,--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was standing on the mantel-shelf, he saw that the whole place was covered with dust, and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odor of mildew. "So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that curtain back, and you will see mine." The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning. "You won't? Then I must do it myself," said the young man; and he tore the curtain from its rod, and flung it on the ground. An exclamation of horror broke from Hallward's lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous thing on the canvas leering at him. There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at! The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely marred that marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual lips. The sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet passed entirely away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own brush-work, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermilion. It was some foul parody, some infamous, ignoble satire. He had never done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed from fire to sluggish ice in a moment. His own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned, and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat. The young man was leaning against the mantel-shelf, watching him with that strange expression that is on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when a great artist is acting. There was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in the eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. "What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. "Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, "you met me, devoted yourself to me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my


from rehab at seventeen, an embarrassment to the Vos name while he was already thriving at Stanford, she’d sort of assumed his lack of contact was his way of showing disapproval. Or worse, that he wasn’t aware of her at all. No matter what she did, the reverse of that disapproval never came, from Julian or her parents. Not after she’d improved her grades and gotten into Cornell. Not after she’d climbed her way up the ladder in the boy’s club that was New York finance or jointly purchased her condo with Morrison on Central Park South. It had taken them accidentally sharing the guest house together to make her realize Julian had been dealing with his own issues that whole time. It didn’t excuse his silence, but she understood him more now. I’m glad you’re here. She could still hear those clipped words coming from her brother as they’d walked up the path toward the main house one night just over a month ago. The night she met August at the Wine Down festival, actually. Until then, she hadn’t realized exactly how starved she’d been for any form of affection from her family. Hearing that Julian had given up his Thursday night in order to get better acquainted with August . . . meant something. It meant a lot. Even if he’d been bullied into it by his girlfriend. For the next hour, they went over wedding plans. At Corinne’s behest, Natalie and August would be married in the front yard of the main house, overlooking the vineyard, at sunset. A dream wedding, really, if only it were real. Hallie had outdone herself with the flower arrangements, creating a tasteful color scheme of cream and crimson with pops of black ribbon, somehow grasping Natalie’s style without her having to say a word. Corinne had taken charge of the ceremony arrangements and a tent for the reception was already in the process of being erected and decked out. Natalie’s only request had been “Small, please,” and it had obviously been vetoed. Hallie shuffled some paperwork around. “If there are any specific songs you’d like the DJ to play—” “Anything but ‘Brick House.’ Please.” “An anti-playlist,” Lavinia chimed in, her fourth martini hoisted in the air. “I love it. Can we please add ‘Mambo No. 5’? There isn’t a person alive that looks good dancing to that song. We need fucking Abba—and that’s it, really. Abba.” “Fucking Abba. Check,” Hallie chirped, making a note. “I also need to know which song you and August would like to dance to.” For some reason, her whole body flushed hot. Dancing with August while he held her close. In front of everyone. Would she even have to fake her enjoyment of that? “How about ‘You’re So Vain’?” Hallie’s nose wrinkled. “By Carly Simon?” “The very one.” Satisfied with her choice, already picturing the look on his face, Natalie smiled around the rim of her glass on the next sip. But the cold liquid didn’t make it down her throat, because the door opened and August strode


what he taught, but he was one of those professors everyone knew. He wore a tweed bucket hat and a Morse scarf, and rode his bike everywhere on campus, the bell jingling merrily as he waved to students. He was called Beeky and his lectures were always packed, his seminars legendary. He also seemed to know everyone interesting who had ever gone to Yale, and he’d brought a slew of famous actors and authors to tea at Morse. No one had said a word about Marjorie Stephen in the days since she’d been found dead. Alex doubted anyone but the professor’s students and colleagues at the Department of Psychiatry knew she’d passed. But this was going to be something entirely different. She didn’t want to look closely at the body, but she made herself peer into the dean’s face. His eyes were open, but they didn’t have the same milky cast Alex remembered from the first crime scene. It was hard to tell if he looked older than he should. His mouth was open, his expression startled but still genial, as if greeting a friend who had appeared unexpectedly at his door. “His neck is broken,” said Turner. “The coroner will tell us if it happened when the chair went over or before.” “So no poison,” she said. “But you think this is connected to Marjorie Stephen’s death?” “This was on his desk.” Turner waved her over to where a typed piece of paper lay atop the blotter: Bewray not him that wandereth. “Isaiah again?” “That’s right. It completes the line we found with Professor Stephen: Hide the outcasts, bewray not him that wandereth. Did you find anything at Lethe about it?” She shook her head. “I haven’t had a chance to go digging.” I’ve been too busy figuring out how to break into hell. “I don’t know anything about Isaiah.” “He was a prophet who predicted the coming of Christ, but I don’t see what that has to do with two dead professors.” Alex studied the bookshelves, the messy desk, the rigid body. “Does this … It feels wrong. It’s too showy. The Bible quotes. The body tipped over. There’s something…” “Theatrical?” Turner nodded. “Like someone thinks this is amusing.” Like someone was playing a game. And demons loved games and puzzles, but their only resident demon was currently trapped in a circle of protection. Was someone at the societies toying with them? “Did Professor Stephen know Beekman?” “If they were connected, we’ll find out. But they weren’t in the same department. They weren’t even in the same field. Dean Beekman taught American Studies. He had nothing to do with the psych department.” “And the poison that killed Professor Stephen?” “Still waiting on the tox report.” The societies didn’t like eyes on them, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t gone rogue. Even so, none of it really made sense. “It’s the clues,” she said, chewing over the thought. “Those Bible quotes don’t fit. If someone was using magic to … I don’t know, get revenge on their professors, they wouldn’t leave


knife is inside my car, next to the driver’s seat. Do I open the door and grab for it? Or run back into the diner? The figure is coming toward me, growing familiar. “Hey.” It’s Jesse, his voice husky. “Did I scare you?” “Uh… yeah.” “Shit. Sorry.” “Why didn’t you come into the diner?” “There’s no parking out front. I found a spot back here and decided to wait for you.” “I’m glad you did.” I slide into his arms and it feels warm and comfortable and right. My heart rate slows as endorphins flood through me. With him, I feel like I’m home. “I wanted to see you,” he says, his voice muffled by my hair. “My sister and her kids are in town. They’re staying with me.” That explains his absence. It’s too soon to meet them. Obviously. But if he asked me to, I would. He lifts my chin so our eyes connect. “I miss you.” “Me too.” He kisses me and it is deep and hungry. The chemistry between us is so potent, so magnetic, that it just takes over. Last time we were together, I was the aggressor, but now it is mutual. Our hands run over each other’s bodies, our hips pressing together. Jesse wants me—I hear it in his panting breaths, feel it in the pressure of his erection against my thigh. His lips travel from my mouth, down my neck to my collarbone. Soon, his hands are fumbling with the button of my pants. “You make me so hot.” The ache in his voice, the need, renders me weak with desire. I grab at his belt, undoing it with trembling hands. This is a bad idea. Randy or Vincent or anyone could come out for a smoke at any moment. I’d be humiliated. I could be fired. But Jesse pushes me up against my car and I gasp as he enters me. I wrap my legs around him, bury my face in his neck as he moves inside me. Soon, he climaxes. “God, Lee.” His body collapses against me. “You do something to me.” I suppose it’s a compliment, but I’m not sure how to respond. “Thanks?” I mumble. “I’d better go.” He zips his pants and then smirks. “I told my sister I was running out to get milk.” “She’ll think you’ve gone searching for a cow.” He kisses my lips, a quick peck. “They’re leaving tomorrow morning. You can come over later, yeah?” “Sure,” I say. “I’ll cook for you.” But he doesn’t respond. He is already hurrying away. I button my pants with shaking hands. I feel strange, almost light-headed, unmoored. I didn’t come—it was too quick, too frenzied—but that’s not why I feel empty, dissatisfied. What I have loved about being with Jesse is the tenderness, the closeness, the normalcy. Fucking me up against my car in a parking lot, the scents of grease and garbage around us… it felt dirty. It felt demeaning. But this is my issue, not Jesse’s. He doesn’t know that I am broke, homeless, and


[1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt 'Of course we can't afford to take chances,' agreed Winston dutifully. 'What I mean to say, there is a war on,' said Parsons. As though in confirmation of this, a trumpet call floated from the telescreen just above their heads. However, it was not the proclamation of a military victory this time, but merely an announcement from the Ministry of Plenty. 'Comrades!' cried an eager youthful voice. 'Attention, comrades! We have glorious news for you. We have won the battle for production! Returns now completed of the output of all classes of consumption goods show that the standard of living has risen by no less than 20 per cent over the past year. All over Oceania this morning there were irrepressible spontaneous demonstrations when workers marched out of factories and offices and paraded through the streets with banners voicing their gratitude to Big Brother for the new, happy life which his wise leadership has bestowed upon us. Here are some of the completed figures. Foodstuffs----' The phrase 'our new, happy life' recurred several times. It had been a favourite of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Parsons, his attention caught by the trumpet call, sat listening with a sort of gaping solemnity, a sort of edified boredom. He could not follow the figures, but he was aware that they were in some way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged out a huge and filthy pipe which was already half full of charred tobacco. With the tobacco ration at 100 grammes a week it was seldom possible to fill a pipe to the top. Winston was smoking a Victory Cigarette which he held carefully horizontal. The new ration did not start till tomorrow and he had only four cigarettes left. For the moment he had shut his ears to the remoter noises and was listening to the stuff that streamed out of the telescreen. It appeared that there had even been demonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising the chocolate ration to twenty grammes a week. And only yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that the ration was to be REDUCED to twenty grammes a week. Was it possible that they could swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it. Parsons swallowed it easily, with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature at the other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a furious desire to track down, denounce, and vaporize anyone who should suggest that last week the ration had been thirty grammes. Syme, too--in some more complex way, involving doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, ALONE in the possession of a memory? The fabulous statistics continued to pour out of the telescreen. As compared with last year there was more food, more clothes, more houses, more furniture, more cooking-pots, more fuel, more ships, more helicopters, more books, more babies--more of everything except disease, crime, and insanity. Year by year and minute by minute, everybody and everything was whizzing rapidly upwards. As Syme had done earlier Winston had taken up his spoon and


administrative; processive, thriving, ongoing, atrocious, stranded (n) administration aggressive; (n) advancement, accustomed: (adj, n) habitual; (adj) admirable: (adj) fine, outstanding, progression, proceeding familiar, normal, wonted, usual, beautiful, great, commendable, advent: (n) coming, arrival, natural, everyday, ordinary, lovely, good, creditable, apparition, appearance, approach, habituated, common, traditional. praiseworthy, worthy, grand. entrance, emergence, Second ANTONYMS: (adj) unusual, green, ANTONYMS: (adj) appalling, poor, Coming, reaching, season, unseasoned, unconventional, unworthy, despicable, contemptible, Christmas. ANTONYMS: (n) untrained, abnormal, detestable, dishonorable, rotten, departure, end, exit, disappearance uncharacteristic, exceptional unimpressive, loathsome, low adventures: (n) experiences, fortunes, acknowledging: (n) agreement; (adj) admirably: (adv) superbly, perfectly, confessions, journal, life, biography, responsive, affirmative excellently, admirable, autobiography, personal narrative acquaintance: (n) connection, friend, marvellously, heroically, bravely, adversity: (n) hardship, calamity, acquaintanceship, mate, awareness, brilliantly, nicely, creditably, ably. disaster, distress, misadventure, associate, buddy, friendship, ANTONYMS: (adv) badly, affliction, fatality, catastrophe, trial, intercourse, companion; (n, v) inadequately, dishonorably, trouble, tragedy. ANTONYMS: (n) knowledge. ANTONYMS: (n) execrably, incompetently, poorly favor, prosperity, fortune, aid, help, ignorance, inexperience, admiringly: (adv) admire, lovingly, opportunity, privilege unfamiliarity, animosity, enemy respectfully, reverently, afar: (adv) off, away, far away, acquaintances: (n) associates approvingly, enthusiastically, distantly, beyond, Afar off, in the acquainted: (adj) knowledgeable, affectionately, indulgently, kindly, distance, by far, apart; (adj) informed, aware, cognizant, dotingly, tenderly. ANTONYMS: outlying, far. ANTONYMS: (adv) conversant, hand and glove, (adv) disrespectfully, ill close, nearby, near; (prep) within intimate, thick; (adv) abreast; (v) admitting: (adj) suscipient; (adv) affections: (n) bosom inform, acquaint conditionally; (n) acknowledgment, affinity: (n) analogy, alliance, acquiring: (n) acquisition, getting, receipt, credence; (conj) although propinquity, rapport, bond, relation, receipt, contracting, acceptance, admixture: (n) mixture, composite, relationship, kindred, semblance, appropriation, obtainment, alloy, addition, fusion, additive, penchant, similarity. ANTONYMS: occupancy, occupation; (adj) mixing, amalgam, mix, commixture, (n) repulsion, dissimilarity, acquisitive, appropriative melange difference, consanguinity, aversion, acrid: (adj, v) pungent; (adj) bitter, admonished: (adj) reprimanded, hatred, horror acerbic, caustic, sour, sharp, acerb, reproved, chastened affirm: (v) prove, assert, declare, corrosive, hot, harsh, tart. adore: (v) worship, idolize, admire, protest, avow, maintain, approve, ANTONYMS: (adj) mild, savory, glorify, cherish, appreciate; (n, v) accept, assure, profess, promise. palatable, nice, flattering, delicious, honor; (adj) adoring, worshipping, ANTONYMS: (v) negate, veto, kind, complimentary, amicable worshiping; (adv) adoringly. nullify, refute, repress acutely: (adv) sharply, keenly, ANTONYMS: (v) detest, despise, affirmed: (adj) acknowledged, severely, astutely, piercingly, shrilly, condemn, loathe, disrespect, abhor, avowed, guaranteed cleverly; (adj, adv) intensely, scorn affirming: (adj) predicative, extremely, gravely, critically. adorn: (v) deck, dress, embellish, predicant, assertory; (n) ANTONYMS: (adv) chronically, ornament, beautify, enrich, grace, confirmation mildly, slightly, faintly, vaguely, trim, garnish, gild, blazon. afflicted: (adj) miserable, distressed, unexceptionally ANTONYMS: (v) mar, disfigure, stricken, pitiful, sorrowful, ill, acuteness: (n) acuity, sharpness, deform, deface, damage, hurt woeful, dejected, sorry; (v) afflict, acumen, discrimination, gravity, adorned: (adj) decorated, ornate, displeased insight, sensitivity, perspicacity, bedecked, decked out, fancy, affliction: (n, v) adversity; (n) penetration, keenness, intensity. garnished, ornamented, decked, distress, regret, martyrdom, ANTONYMS: (n) faintness, beautiful, inscribed, festooned torment, curse, trial, bane, insignificance, dullness adornment: (n) jewelry, misadventure, sorrow, agony. adaptation: (n) adjustment, embellishment, decoration, ANTONYMS: (n) gift, godsend, acclimatization, alteration, version, garnishment, accessory, trim, frill, solace, blessing reworking, acclimation, fitness, passementerie, trimming,


again. Your wife and my wife. Wonder is he pimping after me? Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's Summer Sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. LEAH tonight. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that. HAMLET she played last night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his face. Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his father and left the God of his father. Every word is so deep, Leopold. Poor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his face. That day! O, dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best for him. Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss. Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they look. Still their neigh can be very irritating. He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer. He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies. All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. VOGLIO E NON. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. He hummed: LA CI DAREM LA MANO LA LA LALA LA LA. He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open it. And once I played marbles


to the embalming room, to spend the witching hour with the deceased. Forbidden from venturing into that place other than in the company of their father or mother, Durand declined. Because of his refusal, he was mocked by Gifford. Now, awake at eleven thirty, he feels it necessary to prove himself by going into the basement alone. Barefoot and in pajamas, with but a penlight and the ambient glow of the city that pales the windows, carrying a single foil-wrapped Hershey’s Kiss for a special purpose, he makes his way down through the funeral home, into the basement, a realm that always seems vast to him. The cold-holding room—which Gifford sometimes calls the “meat locker” when their parents can’t hear—has a white ceramic-tile floor. In fact everything therein is either white or matte-finished stainless steel. Normally, the room itself isn’t as arctic as it is this night. In one wall, three refrigerated morgue drawers can accommodate quiet and respected guests. Death is busy this Halloween; two drawers contain deliveries. Because the third drawer isn’t functioning properly, the temperature of the chamber itself has been set low enough to cause Durand’s breath to feather from him in frosty plumes. The eighty-five-year-old man, concealed beneath a sheet, is on a gurney in the center of the room. Father and his team of technicians will set to work at 5:00 a.m., and all viewings and funerals will be conducted precisely on schedule. This is a windowless space, and after young Durand closes the door and turns on the overhead fluorescent panels, he switches off his penlight. He is very cold and somewhat uneasy, but he is stone determined to hide the Hershey’s Kiss where his father won’t likely find it, so that tomorrow he can tell Gifford where it is and thus prove he has been here. He opens a cabinet door and drops to his knees and tucks the candy behind bottles of whatever, farther back than anything the embalmers and cosmeticians might need for the work that currently awaits them. He circles the gurney on which the approximate shape of a man lies under a sheet. He hasn’t seen this customer, and he wants to be able to describe the deceased to Gifford, as absolute proof that he didn’t just plant the Hershey’s Kiss and hastily retreat. He’s seen many dead people, of course, mostly in their open coffins after they have been spruced up and dressed for Heaven. For the most part, he doesn’t find cadavers scary, but instead boring. It’s an unusual situation, however, this being Halloween and the body freshly dead and Durand alone with it, so that the skin on the nape of his neck crawls, and his throat feels tight. Three times, young Durand pinches the sheet between his thumb and forefinger, intending to peel it back and reveal the face of the corpse. Again and again and again, he releases the shroud without fulfilling his intention. He grips the pull on one of the morgue drawers. But he has previously seen the two deceased who came in


so if I could!" They were both melted by these words, and both entreated me to say no more. "But I must say more. Dear Joe, I hope you will have children to love, and that some little fellow will sit in this chimney corner of a winter night, who may remind you of another little fellow gone out of it for ever. Don't tell him, Joe, that I was thankless; don't tell him, Biddy, that I was ungenerous and unjust; only tell him that I honoured you both, because you were both so good and true, and that, as your child, I said it would be natural to him to grow up a much better man than I did." "I ain't a-going," said Joe, from behind his sleeve, "to tell him nothink o' that natur, Pip. Nor Biddy ain't. Nor yet no one ain't." "And now, though I know you have already done it in your own kind hearts, pray tell me, both, that you forgive me! Pray let me hear you say the words, that I may carry the sound of them away with me, and then I shall be able to believe that you can trust me, and think better of me, in the time to come!" "O dear old Pip, old chap," said Joe. "God knows as I forgive you, if I have anythink to forgive!" "Amen! And God knows I do!" echoed Biddy. Now let me go up and look at my old little room, and rest there a few minutes by myself, and then when I have eaten and drunk with you, go with me as far as the finger-post, dear Joe and Biddy, before we say good-bye!" I sold all I had, and put aside as much as I could, for a composition with my creditors - who gave me ample time to pay them in full - and I went out and joined Herbert. Within a month, I had quitted England, and within two months I was clerk to Clarriker and Co., and within four months I assumed my first undivided responsibility. For, the beam across the parlour ceiling at Mill Pond Bank, had then ceased to tremble under old Bill Barley's growls and was at peace, and Herbert had gone away to marry Clara, and I was left in sole charge of the Eastern Branch until he brought her back. Many a year went round, before I was a partner in the House; but, I lived happily with Herbert and his wife, and lived frugally, and paid my debts, and maintained a constant correspondence with Biddy and Joe. It was not until I became third in the Firm, that Clarriker betrayed me to Herbert; but, he then declared that the secret of Herbert's partnership had been long enough upon his conscience, and he must tell it. So, he told it, and Herbert was as much moved as amazed, and the dear fellow and I were not the worse friends for the long concealment. I must not leave it to be supposed that we


sharp tongue, to catch them in a compromising position. Mary Ann did not like Miss Wilkinson and called her an old cat. Aunt Louisa was not very well and could not come to the station, but the Vicar and Philip saw her off. Just as the train was leaving she leaned out and kissed Mr. Carey. "I must kiss you too, Philip," she said. "All right," he said, blushing. He stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly. The train started, and Miss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and wept disconsolately. Philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a distinct sensation of relief. "Well, did you see her safely off?" asked Aunt Louisa, when they got in. "Yes, she seemed rather weepy. She insisted on kissing me and Philip." "Oh, well, at her age it's not dangerous." Mrs. Carey pointed to the sideboard. "There's a letter for you, Philip. It came by the second post." It was from Hayward and ran as follows: My dear boy, I answer your letter at once. I ventured to read it to a great friend of mine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very precious to me, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and literature; and we agreed that it was charming. You wrote from your heart and you do not know the delightful naivete which is in every line. And because you love you write like a poet. Ah, dear boy, that is the real thing: I felt the glow of your young passion, and your prose was musical from the sincerity of your emotion. You must be happy! I wish I could have been present unseen in that enchanted garden while you wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis and Chloe, amid the flowers. I can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of young love in your eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe in your arms, so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne'er consent--consented. Roses and violets and honeysuckle! Oh, my friend, I envy you. It is so good to think that your first love should have been pure poetry. Treasure the moments, for the immortal gods have given you the Greatest Gift of All, and it will be a sweet, sad memory till your dying day. You will never again enjoy that careless rapture. First love is best love; and she is beautiful and you are young, and all the world is yours. I felt my pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you told me that you buried your face in her long hair. I am sure that it is that exquisite chestnut which seems just touched with gold. I would have you sit under a leafy tree side by side, and read together Romeo and Juliet; and then I would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kiss the ground on which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is the homage of a poet to her


trip to England. Back at Lone Pines, they hugged Ella goodbye. “I changed my mind,” she said. “You can do it,” Peter said. “You’re so strong,” Maud said, feeling sick. She didn’t want to let Ella go, but she didn’t trust herself to take care of her. She had missed so many signs and misread many more. All those months when she thought Ella was being a snarly teenager, her daughter had been suffering. Her anger masked pain. And Maud had sensed that something was wrong—checking under the toilet seat, looking at Ella’s arms to make sure they hadn’t gotten skinny—and done nothing about it. She’d been blinded by her own desires, blinded by her feelings for Gabriel, and blinded by Gabriel himself. Gabriel, who had deceived her, lied to her, withheld and dissembled. And maybe worse—that fear kept returning, a furor that swept her up, kicking and struggling for breath. A nurse arrived to tell them that the room was ready. As Ella disappeared through the steel door, Maud saw the metamorphosis that had taken place over the past year, how her hips had winged out, how her waist had narrowed. From the back, she could be mistaken for a grown woman. And that, Maud thought as the door closed, was what Gabriel would have seen when Ella walked away from the table. Over the next week, she lay in bed while Peter slept and continued to think through what had happened with Gabriel, the actual and the imagined. She counted twenty-one weekdays at Montgomery Place between the canoe trip and Peter’s arrival, so twenty-one times that Gabriel might have returned to the cottage and spent at least an hour with Ella. Twenty-one nights that he and Maud had sat together, talking, being intimate, with him saying nothing to her. And who knew what else he had lied about? Maybe he’d been manipulating her from the start. Maybe he’d played the same role of reformed lone wolf with all of those women he’d mentioned. Or maybe those women, too, had been fabricated, characters in a narrative meant to lure Maud in by making her feel special. She’d thought that they had been carried away when they walked into the forest from the hedge, but Gabriel might have planned the whole thing, knowing that she was close to cracking, just as she’d seen him slowly, gently crack Ella’s resistance to him. And Maud had helped him, given him advice. She cringed when she thought of it. Maybe he’d had some sick fantasy about a threesome. One night, she got up and paced the living room, as fog pressed on the windows. She couldn’t stop her mind from churning. In the unlit kitchen, she did internet searches: Men/teenage girls. Pedophilia. Molestation. Everywhere, men were molesting children—girls and boys. But she’d known this already. In the very parish that she’d attended as a child, there’d been the “Father Chambers fiasco,” as her parents called it. Four former altar boys revealed in their twenties the abuse they’d suffered in the sacristy. Maud had known that