and she's had twelve, and there never was healthier or better ones. Miss Mary can get no harm from them. I'd always take Susan Sowerby's advice about children myself. She's what you might call healthy-minded--if you understand me." "I understand," Mr. Craven answered. "Take Miss Mary away now and send Pitcher to me." When Mrs. Medlock left her at the end of her own corridor Mary flew back to her room. She found Martha waiting there. Martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removed the dinner service. "I can have my garden!" cried Mary. "I may have it where I like! I am not going to have a governess for a long time! Your mother is coming to see me and I may go to your cottage! He says a little girl like me could not do any harm and I may do what I like--anywhere!" "Eh!" said Martha delightedly, "that was nice of him wasn't it?" "Martha," said Mary solemnly, "he is really a nice man, only his face is so miserable and his forehead is all drawn together." She ran as quickly as she could to the garden. She had been away so much longer than she had thought she should and she knew Dickon would have to set out early on his five-mile walk. When she slipped through the door under the ivy, she saw he was not working where she had left him. The gardening tools were laid together under a tree. She ran to them, looking all round the place, but there was no Dickon to be seen. He had gone away and the secret garden was empty--except for the robin who had just flown across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her. "He's gone," she said woefully. "Oh! was he--was he--was he only a wood fairy?" Something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught her eye. It was a piece of paper, in fact, it was a piece of the letter she had printed for Martha to send to Dickon. It was fastened on the bush with a long thorn, and in a minute she knew Dickon had left it there. There were some roughly printed letters on it and a sort of picture. At first she could not tell what it was. Then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sitting on it. Underneath were the printed letters and they said: "I will cum bak." CHAPTER XIII "I AM COLIN" Mary took the picture back to the house when she went to her supper and she showed it to Martha. "Eh!" said Martha with great pride. "I never knew our Dickon was as clever as that. That there's a picture of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an' twice as natural." Then Mary knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message. He had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret. Her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush. Oh, how she did


Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family. ``Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,'' she added in a melancholy tone, ``for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.'' Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth. ``Aye, there she comes,'' continued Mrs. Bennet, ``looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she can have her own way. -- But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all -- and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead. -- _I_ shall not be able to keep you -- and so I warn you. -- I have done with you from this very day. -- I told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children, -- Not that I have much pleasure indeed in talking to any body. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! -- But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.'' Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason with or sooth her would only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls, ``Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together.'' Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected conversation. -- ``Oh! Mr. Collins!'' -- ``My dear Madam,'' replied he, ``let us be for ever silent on this point. Far be it from me,'' he presently continued, in a voice that marked his displeasure, ``to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of


account, I hope you will be satisfied." "Why, to be sure," said Mr. Woodhouse--"yes, certainly--I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often-- but then--she is always obliged to go away again." "It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.-- You quite forget poor Mr. Weston." "I think, indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly, "that Mr. Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can." "Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.-- "Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that very windy day last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night, on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor." "Where is the young man?" said John Knightley. "Has he been here on this occasion--or has he not?" "He has not been here yet," replied Emma. "There was a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately." "But you should tell them of the letter, my dear," said her father. "He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--" "My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes." "Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought it-- and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th--and began, `My dear Madam,' but I


the servants, one of the old guard, who’d remember that scullery girl. Mrs. Bone almost let out a bitter laugh. Of course it would be Cook. She stepped out from behind the pillar, staring desperately at the back of Hephzibah’s head, trying to telegraph a message through the air: Get out of the way, get yourself hidden, quick. Miss de Vries heard the words, and looked straight at Cook. Mrs. Bone froze. She knew what should happen. What would happen, in any normal circumstance. Miss de Vries would frown, glance around for a footman, or Mr. Shepherd, someone who could clear Cook out of the way. But she didn’t. She just studied Cook, curious, and then slowly—oh, dreadfully slowly—turned back to Hephzibah. Hephzibah’s gaze widened, sensing crisis. And later Mrs. Bone thought, if it weren’t for Hephzibah’s courage, her magnificence, if she weren’t such a powdered and painted sort of heathen, they wouldn’t have made it through the night at all. Hephzibah tilted her head toward Miss de Vries and said, in a confidential whisper, “You would seem to have a rather eager sort of woman working for you there.” It felt to Mrs. Bone that the air screwed itself up. She forced the vase into Cook’s hands, feeling light-headed. “Move,” she whispered in her ear. “Now.” She saw Hephzibah moving on, unconcerned. Felt Cook go rigid, color racing into her cheeks. “Sorry, mum, sorry, m’lady,” she said, dipping a curtsey, the vase slipping into her hands. “And off we go,” muttered Mrs. Bone, getting her by the elbow. “Off we go.” “I...” “Now, Cook.” Yes, go, go, go, she thought, run. She dragged Cook away, feeling eyes on her back, ice racing after them through the floor. Cook said, “I just thought...for a second. It was odd... I thought she looked like...” Mrs. Bone banged open the door, got them out of the hall. “Here,” she said, shoving another vase at Cook. “You’d best take that and all.” Feints and distractions were the only things that ever worked on Cook. Cook scowled at Mrs. Bone, said in a dangerous voice, “You want to watch your tongue. Who made you queen of the castle?” “The Lord himself,” Mrs. Bone said, although she was breathing fast, her heart hammering. “And you’ll thank me later. But would you listen, Cook? There’s something awful I need to tell you...” 24 Five hours to go Alice had slipped out for her break, checking over her shoulder every second. Winnie met her on the corner of Mount Street, a purple veil covering her face. The slump in her shoulders made her look exhausted. “I don’t have long,” Alice muttered. “Can we make it quick?” Winnie lifted her veil, checking they weren’t being observed. Her skin looked gray, her eyes worried. “Fine. Talk me through the plan. I need to make sure you’re on top of the details.” Alice dug her hands in her pockets, looked nervily down the road. “It’s like we said. I’ll make a fuss. Kick up a hullabaloo, get Madam downstairs so Mrs. Bone’s


damage on his back. “Oh, you really got scraped,” I said. “Yeah,” he said. “We skidded a few feet.” “I’m so sorry,” I said, the volume on “annoyed” turning itself way down as “apologetic” ramped up. I looked down at my scratched-up palms. His back made them look paltry. “Come on,” I said, ready to remedy my guilt with stellar first aid, starting to skate back toward my door. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” But when I looked back, he wasn’t following. I skated back to him. “Let’s go.” “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got it.” “It’s your back,” I said. “How are you going to reach it?” “I’ll manage.” Was it his fault that he startled me and made me trip? Absolutely. Sort of. But was I the one who landed on him and dragged him across a roof? Also yes. “Let me help you,” I said, my voice much softer now. “You wouldn’t be scraped up like this if I hadn’t landed on you.” “You wouldn’t have landed on me if I hadn’t come up here.” “You wouldn’t have come up here if the lock had been working properly.” Joe nodded. “So this is all Mr. Kim’s fault.” “One hundred percent Mr. Kim,” I agreed, taking Joe’s hand and pulling him toward my place like a tugboat. “But I’m all you’ve got.” * * * INSIDE, JOE COULDN’T stop looking around at all my paintings, and I couldn’t stop looking at Joe. He was taking in my painting supplies, and my decor, and my hovel in general—but his expression was so different from what Lucinda’s had been. She’d been judging me, and he was, too—but, from his body language, he was judging me positively. Like he liked it. Which was a little bit spellbinding. Or was it the torso? Tough call. I mean … all this time I’d been disliking him, he’d been walking around with that endlessly appealing situation under his shirt? I wondered if I might have assessed him differently if I’d known. God. Was I that shallow? An hour ago, I’d have said no—but now I wasn’t so sure. But what choice did I have—as an artist—to let a visual situation like that go unadmired? It was practically my professional duty. Even now, the thought of it makes me want to let out a low whistle. I mean, that chest might even have been better than a face. If I had to choose. I made Joe lean shirtlessly over my kitchen sink while I poured hydrogen peroxide over the scrapes. He sucked in tight breaths as the cold bubbly liquid ran down his flanks. “Ticklish?” I asked, watching his muscles contract. He shook his head. “Only my ears.” I dried the uninjured parts of his back with a paper towel, and then I offered to wash his shirt for him. He shook his head. “I got it. I’ll just head home.” But at the words, I suddenly pictured him walking down the top-floor hallway all shirtless and someone else happening upon him—and I got the weirdest, most


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

boots were heard loudly charging across the quadrangle and then returning heavily, foiled and spurning the gravel at each step. His step was angry and with an angry abrupt gesture he thrust the stick back into Stephen's hand. Stephen felt that his anger had another cause but, feigning patience, touched his arm slightly and said quietly: --Cranly, I told you I wanted to speak to you. Come away. Cranly looked at him for a few moments and asked: --Now? --Yes, now, Stephen said. We can't speak here. Come away. They crossed the quadrangle together without speaking. The bird call from SIEGFRIED whistled softly followed them from the steps of the porch. Cranly turned, and Dixon, who had whistled, called out: --Where are you fellows off to? What about that game, Cranly? They parleyed in shouts across the still air about a game of billiards to be played in the Adelphi hotel. Stephen walked on alone and out into the quiet of Kildare Street opposite Maple's hotel he stood to wait, patient again. The name of the hotel, a colourless polished wood, and its colourless front stung him like a glance of polite disdain. He stared angrily back at the softly lit drawing-room of the hotel in which he imagined the sleek lives of the patricians of Ireland housed in calm. They thought of army commissions and land agents: peasants greeted them along the roads in the country; they knew the names of certain French dishes and gave orders to jarvies in high-pitched provincial voices which pierced through their skin-tight accents. How could he hit their conscience or how cast his shadow over the imaginations of their daughters, before their squires begat upon them, that they might breed a race less ignoble than their own? And under the deepened dusk he felt the thoughts and desires of the race to which he belonged flitting like bats across the dark country lanes, under trees by the edges of streams and near the pool-mottled bogs. A woman had waited in the doorway as Davin had passed by at night and, offering him a cup of milk, had all but wooed him to her bed; for Davin had the mild eyes of one who could be secret. But him no woman's eyes had wooed. His arm was taken in a strong grip and Cranly's voice said: --Let us eke go. They walked southward in silence. Then Cranly said: --That blithering idiot, Temple! I swear to Moses, do you know, that I'll be the death of that fellow one time. But his voice was no longer angry and Stephen wondered was he thinking of her greeting to him under the porch. They turned to the left and walked on as before. When they had gone on so for some time Stephen said: --Cranly, I had an unpleasant quarrel this evening. --With your people? Cranly asked. --With my mother. --About religion? --Yes, Stephen answered. After a pause Cranly asked: --What age is your mother? --Not old, Stephen said. She wishes me to make my easter duty. --And will


“Good Lawd, Pheoby! ain’t you never goin’ tuh gimme dat lil rations you brought me? Ah ain’t had a thing on mah stomach today exceptin’ mah hand.” They both laughed easily. “Give it here and have a seat.” 6 Zora Neale Hurston “Ah knowed you’d be hongry. No time to be huntin’ stove wood after dark. Mah mulatto rice ain’t so good dis time. Not enough bacon grease, but Ah reckon it’ll kill hongry.” “Ah’ll tell you in a minute,” Janie said, lifting the cover. “Gal, it’s too good! you switches a mean fanny round in a kitchen.” “Aw, dat ain’t much to eat, Janie. But Ah’m liable to have something sho nuff good tomorrow, ’cause you done come.” Janie ate heartily and said nothing. The varicolored cloud dust that the sun had stirred up in the sky was settling by slow degrees. “Here, Pheoby, take yo’ ole plate. Ah ain’t got a bit of use for a empty dish. Dat grub sho come in handy.” Pheoby laughed at her friend’s rough joke. “Youse just as crazy as you ever was.” “Hand me dat wash-rag on dat chair by you, honey. Lemme scrub mah feet.” She took the cloth and rubbed vig- orously. Laughter came to her from the big road. “Well, Ah see Mouth-Almighty is still sittin’ in de same place. And Ah reckon they got me up in they mouth now.” “Yes indeed. You know if you pass some people and don’t speak tuh suit ’em dey got tuh go way back in yo’ life and see whut you ever done. They know mo’ ’bout yuh than you do yo’ self. An envious heart makes a treacherous ear. They done ‘heard’ ’bout you just what they hope done hap- pened.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 7 “If God don’t think no mo’ ’bout ’em then Ah do, they’s a lost ball in de high grass.” “Ah hears what they say ’cause they just will collect round mah porch ’cause it’s on de big road. Mah husband git so sick of ’em sometime he makes ’em all git for home.” “Sam is right too. They just wearin’ out yo’ sittin’ chairs.” “Yeah, Sam say most of ’em goes to church so they’ll be sure to rise in Judgment. Dat’s de day dat every secret is s’posed to be made known. They wants to be there and hear it all.” “Sam is too crazy! You can’t stop laughin’ when youse round him.” “Uuh hunh. He says he aims to be there hisself so he can find out who stole his corn-cob pipe.” “Pheoby, dat Sam of your’n just won’t quit! Crazy thing!” “Most of dese zigaboos is so het up over yo’ business till they liable to hurry theyself to Judgment to find out about you if they don’t soon know. You better make haste and tell ’em ’bout you and Tea Cake gittin’ married, and if he taken all yo’ money and went off wid some young gal, and where at he is now and where at is all yo’ clothes


She turns toward the late afternoon sun pouring in through the window above her kitchen sink. She checked the news all morning—another downside of being at home—before finally giving it a rest. There were no reports of what the search of Brody’s home yielded, and she wonders what Ethan might have found. Despite Brody’s confidence that he has nothing to hide. Remembering his strong body against hers in the cabin of his boat causes a ripple of revulsion through her core. How could she possibly have enjoyed being with such a creep? Brody texted her prepaid phone that morning with his new number and had kept the message brief. Too brief. The point of the secret communication was for him to alert her about the investigation—to Brody’s mind, so she could help him stay one step ahead of Ethan and the rest of Seattle Homicide. Now nothing. She called his new number a few hours ago, but it went to an automated voicemail. And Brody hasn’t returned her call. Her kettle whistles, drowning out her thoughts. She flicks off the stove and pours steaming water onto her tea bag at the bottom of her mug. Sloane watches the transformation and takes a breath. She has to convince Ethan what they have is still worth fighting for. Before it’s too late. After squeezing what’s left in her honey container into her tea, she goes to toss the tea-bag wrapper into the kitchen garbage. Seeing it is past overflowing, she grabs the bag and carries it to the garage. The concrete is cold against her bare feet as she glances at her dented Porsche and recalls the day Ethan told her with tears in his eyes that he had slept with his homicide partner. How he— A clang of metal clamoring against the concrete causes Sloane to whip around. The trash bag slips from her grip as Brody jumps out from behind the shelving against the wall. Chapter 36 Laughter erupts from the room at the end of the hallway as Ethan and Jonah follow the firefighter captain through Seattle Fire Station 29. Maybe I should’ve leaked the photos, Ethan thinks. Or at least given a damning statement against Carr to the media. But he couldn’t let his personal vendetta against Carr allow him to do something to jeopardize their case, or the safety of any of the girls in the photos. Jonah turns to Ethan. “My brother’s a firefighter. He only works like nine shifts a month. Sometimes I think I chose the wrong career path.” “Yeah, maybe.” Ethan nods, feeling a twist in his gut at the cascade of events that will occur once Jonah discovers Sloane is the woman on Carr’s security footage. Jonah has already set up a meeting with a judge first thing in the morning to get the warrant approved for the security cameras at Carr’s San Juan Island home. Ethan could warn Sloane. Have her ask Brody to get rid of it. But the thought of her contacting him again, asking him to destroy evidence, makes him


was unable to resent her first advances. She had the doctor trait which some dogs possess; and as a mother cat washes her kittens, so she washed and cleansed Buck's wounds. Regularly, each morning after he had finished his breakfast, she performed her self- appointed task, till he came to look for her ministrations as much as he did for Thornton's. Nig, equally friendly, though less demonstrative, was a huge black dog, half bloodhound and half deerhound, with eyes that laughed and a boundless good nature. To Buck's surprise these dogs manifested no jealousy toward him. They seemed to share the kindliness and largeness of John Thornton. As Buck grew stronger they enticed him into all sorts of ridiculous games, in which Thornton himself could not forbear to join; and in this fashion Buck romped through his convalescence and into a new existence. Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time. This he had never experienced at Judge Miller's down in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. With the Judge's sons, hunting and tramping, it had been a working partnership; with the Judge's grandsons, a sort of pompous guardianship; and with the Judge himself, a stately and dignified friendship. But love that was feverish and burning, that was adoration, that was madness, it had taken John Thornton to arouse. This man had saved his life, which was something; but, further, he was the ideal master. Other men saw to the welfare of their dogs from a sense of duty and business expediency; he saw to the welfare of his as if they were his own children, because he could not help it. And he saw further. He never forgot a kindly greeting or a cheering word, and to sit down for a long talk with them ("gas" he called it) was as much his delight as theirs. He had a way of taking Buck's head roughly between his hands, and resting his own head upon Buck's, of shaking him back and forth, the while calling him ill names that to Buck were love names. Buck knew no greater joy than that rough embrace and the sound of murmured oaths, and at each jerk back and forth it seemed that his heart would be shaken out of his body so great was its ecstasy. And when, released, he sprang to his feet, his mouth laughing, his eyes eloquent, his throat vibrant with unuttered sound, and in that fashion remained without movement, John Thornton would reverently exclaim, "God! you can all but speak!" Buck had a trick of love expression that was akin to hurt. He would often seize Thornton's hand in his mouth and close so fiercely that the flesh bore the impress of his teeth for some time afterward. And as Buck understood the oaths to be love words, so the man understood this feigned bite for a caress. For the most part, however, Buck's love was expressed in adoration. While he went wild with happiness when Thornton touched him or spoke to him, he did not seek these tokens. Unlike


she cried, urging him to stand again. “You’re bleeding!” “It’s nothing, Winnow,” he said, but he was beginning to look pale. “I must have pulled a stitch.” “Here, sit down.” “In the road?” “No, over here on this crate.” Iris guided him to the closest front yard. It must have been the O’Briens’ property, because there were multiple cats sunbathing on the dead grass, and she remembered Marisol talking about how most of Avalon Bluff worried those felines would get them all bombed one day. “I must have failed to mention that I’m allergic to cats,” Roman said, frowning as Iris forced him to sit on the overturned milk crate. “And I’m more than capable of walking back to Marisol’s.” “No, you’re not,” Iris argued. “The cats will leave you alone, I’m sure. Wait here for me, Kitt. Don’t you dare move.” She began to step away, but he snagged her hand, dragging her back to him. “You’re leaving me here?” He made it sound as if she were abandoning him. Her heart rose in her throat when she recalled how she had left him in the trenches. She wondered if that day haunted him the way it did her. Every night when she lay in the dark, remembering. You and I … we need to stay together. We’re better this way. “Only for a moment,” Iris said, squeezing his fingers. “I’ll run and fetch Peter. He has a lorry, and he can give us a ride to the infirmary, so a doctor can look at your—” “I’m not going back to the infirmary, Iris,” Roman stated. “They’re overworked and there’s no room for me with something as minor as a pulled stitch. I can fix it myself, if Marisol has a needle and thread.” Iris sighed. “All right. I’ll take you to the B and B, so long as you don’t move while I’m gone.” Roman relented with a nod. He relinquished her hand, albeit slowly, and Iris broke into a run, flying down the street and around the bend at a breakneck pace. She thankfully found Peter at home, next door to the B and B, and he agreed to drive up the bluff to give Roman a lift. Iris stood in the back of the lorry beside a hay bale, holding on to the wooden side panel as the truck rumbled through the streets. She didn’t understand why her breath continued to skip, as if her heart believed she was still running. She didn’t understand why her blood was coursing, and why she was suddenly afraid. She half expected for them to ascend the hill only to find Roman was gone. It felt like she was caught up in the pages of a strange fairy tale, and she shouldn’t be foolish but shrewd, preparing for something horrible to thwart her. Because good things never lasted for long in her life. She thought about all the people who had been close to her, the threads of their lives weaving with hers—Nan, Forest, her mother—and how they had all left, either


letting myself laugh, every few minutes, at how bad it all was. My pants were soaked, my boots were soaked, my socks were freezing to my ankles. I was sitting on the bank of the creek, on a patch of ice-mud. If I could freeze myself to the core, I could find some equilibrium between my inner and outer states. Like homeopathy, like hair of the dog, like poison as the antidote to poison. It was not any one thing stealing my breath; it was everything at once. The sudden atomization of Yahav and Jerome and Lance. Maybe the podcast, too, gone in a puff of smoke. The slow melting of any certainty I’d had about Thalia’s death, a melting I’d been terrified to acknowledge but could no longer ignore. The realization that you, one of the best things about Granby, might have been not only a fraud, not only a predator, but—it was possible, I was finally letting it creep into view—a more violent kind of monster. I sucked in air, but it was just empty space, no oxygen. The news story had been getting to me, too, clawing at the edges of my dreams. The way no one would listen to her testimony. The way they mocked her victim impact statement. The way they read her diary aloud. Somewhere down here lay the rock I’d once thrown. Somewhere down here was the hula hoop circle we’d observed, a quarter century of changes within its circumference. It was in the other woods, the ones at the bottom of campus—connected to these but drier, flatter, denser—that we’d built the Kurt shrine. Those were the same woods where Barbara Crocker’s body was found in 1975, just outside the Granby property line. Those were the woods where, in the middle of the night, late senior year, I brought my backpack with the half bottle of Absolut Kurant I’d stolen from the Hoffnungs’ liquor cabinet, and I sat under the tree where the magazine photos and notes and flowers had faded to scraps, and I drank straight from the bottle, daring myself to swallow more before the first wave hit me, and then more. And when it did all hit me, it was with the force of a ferocious undertow pulling me far, far out to black waters. That next morning, I woke up vomiting—my back and neck and head throbbing, my fingers numb. I foggily remembered having fished Tylenol out of my backpack’s side pocket and swallowing the seven that were in the bottle. If there had been more in the bottle, I would have swallowed those, too. I would have. I remembered having drunkenly whispered into the night air, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.” It was a kind of rebuke—to the woods, the school, myself. I’d come here to live deliberately, and I’d failed. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but every day was worse. Each morning I woke to heavier air, heavier bones, heavier eyelids, even as my body grew so thin that I


and when it begins to fail, a few patches won’t fix it. Even on a little house like hers, a new roof can be expensive. On this occasion, however, she isn’t fretting about leaks and water damage. Being in possession of four hundred thousand dollars with which to start a new life, she can regard the storm the same way people in Beverly Hills see it—as just a change in the weather. Because she and John visited Disneyland for three days to celebrate his tenth birthday, he has had a suitcase for three years. Not all of his things are going to fit in the one bag, so she has assembled two of the banker boxes that she uses to store business records. After she gets him started packing, she steps out of his bedroom and follows the short hallway into the living room, on her way to the kitchen. From an armchair, his Common Projects sneakers propped on the footstool, Aleem Sutter says, “Girl, you’re still seriously fresh.” She halts, rocking slightly on her heels, as if she’s walked into a glass door. He says, “Time don’t work on you. How is it you look cherry as you ever did?” Nina says nothing. She’s thinking about the pistol clipped to the bed frame in her room. “Wasn’t you I come here about, but now I seen you up close, damn if I don’t got that old feelin’.” “Go away.” “Nowhere better to go.” He swings his feet off the ottoman but remains in the armchair, relaxed and insolent. “Back when, wasn’t nothin’ you liked better than a ride on the Aleem machine. My taste runs to high-school skirt, but you want to ride again, it don’t cost you even a quarter.” “You’re a disgusting pig.” His soft laugh is warm, but his eyes belie the pretense of amusement. “You always had some fire in you.” “This is my house.” “A shitty little place to raise a kid.” “I told you to get out.” “You said ‘go away.’ Ask a lawyer, he’ll explain ‘imprecise is just advice. To get a conviction, use the right diction.’ I learned me a lot of law since back when you was makin’ my baby.” “Get the fuck out, Aleem.” He rises from the chair and stretches extravagantly, arms extended as if he’s nailed to a cross, rolling his head to loosen his neck muscles. After a yawn, he says, “What you just done there is you undermined your status as a victim. Every word you say, you got to think to yourself how sayin’ it might be like pissin’ on your precious status as a victim. A pretty girl talks dirty, a man might think she comin’ on to him, so what he does don’t count as crime.” “I’m calling the police.” His voice is laced with mockery. “Why would you do that ’stead of you just 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,


for something with which to break the floor tile. High above Silas, in the balcony, Sister Sandrine stifled a gasp. Her darkest fears had just been confirmed. This visitor was not who he seemed. The mysterious Opus Dei monk had come to Saint-Sulpice for another purpose. A secret purpose. You are not the only one with secrets, she thought. Sister Sandrine Bieil was more than the keeper of this church. She was a sentry. And tonight, the ancient wheels had been set in motion. The arrival of this stranger at the base of the obelisk was a signal from the brotherhood. It was a silent call of distress. 79 CHAPTER 25 The U.S. Embassy in Paris is a compact complex on Avenue Gabriel, just north of the Champs-Elyses. The three-acre compound is considered U.S. soil, meaning all those who stand on it are subject to the same laws and protections as they would encounter standing in the United States. The embassy's night operator was reading Time magazine's International Edition when the sound of her phone interrupted. "U.S. Embassy," she answered. "Good evening." The caller spoke English accented with French. "I need some assistance." Despite the politeness of the man's words, his tone sounded gruff and official. "I was told you had a phone message for me on your automated system. The name is Langdon. Unfortunately, I have forgotten my three-digit access code. If you could help me, I would be most grateful." The operator paused, confused. "I'm sorry, sir. Your message must be quite old. That system was removed two years ago for security precautions. Moreover, all the access codes were five-digit. Who told you we had a message for you?" "You have no automated phone system?" "No, sir. Any message for you would be handwritten in our services department. What was your name again?" But the man had hung up. Bezu Fache felt dumbstruck as he paced the banks of the Seine. He was certain he had seen Langdon dial a local number, enter a three-digit code, and then listen to a recording. But if Langdon didn't phone the embassy, then who the hell did he call? It was at that moment, eyeing his cellular phone, that Fache realized the answers were in the palm of his hand. Langdon used my phone to place that call. Keying into the cell phone's menu, Fache pulled up the list of recently dialed numbers and found the call Langdon had placed. A Paris exchange, followed by the three-digit code 454. Redialing the phone number, Fache waited as the line began ringing. Finally a woman's voice answered. "Bonjour, vous tes bien chez Sophie Neveu," the recording announced. "Je suis absente pour le moment, mais..." Fache's blood was boiling as he typed the numbers 4... 5... 4. 80 CHAPTER 26 Despite her monumental reputation, the Mona Lisa was a mere thirty-one inches by twenty-one inches-smaller even than the posters of her sold in the Louvre gift shop. She hung on the northwest wall of the Salle des Etats behind a two-inch-thick pane of protective Plexiglas. Painted


out with her bloomin' old teapot, and I've lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you're worth, and won't even get a growl out of me. Drive along with your questions. I know what yer a-comin' at, that `ere escaped wolf." "Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it happened, and when I know the facts I'll get you to say what you consider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair will end." "All right, guv'nor. This `ere is about the `ole story. That`ere wolf what we called Bersicker was one of three gray ones that came from Norway to Jamrach's, which we bought off him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk of. I'm more surprised at `im for wantin' to get out nor any other animile in the place. But, there, you can't trust wolves no more nor women." "Don't you mind him, Sir!" broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh. " `E's got mindin' the animiles so long that blest if he ain't like a old wolf `isself! But there ain't no `arm in `im." "Well, Sir, it was about two hours after feedin' yesterday when I first hear my disturbance. I was makin' up a litter in the monkey house for a young puma which is ill. But when I heard the yelpin' and `owlin' I kem away straight. There was Bersicker a-tearin' like a mad thing at the bars as if he wanted to get out. There wasn't much people about that day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a `ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin' through it. He had a `ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was `im as they was hirritated at. He `ad white kid gloves on `is `ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me and says, `Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.' "`Maybe it's you,' says I, for I did not like the airs as he give `isself. He didn't get angry, as I `oped he would, but he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. `Oh no, they wouldn't like me,' `e says. " `Ow yes, they would,' says I, a-imitatin'of him.`They always like a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea time, which you `as a bagful.' "Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin' they lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears same as ever. That there man kem over, and blessed but if he didn't put in his hand and stroke the old wolf's ears too! " `Tyke care,' says I. `Bersicker is quick.' " `Never mind,' he says. I'm used to `em!' " `Are you in the business yourself?"


The tempest rose higher and higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its fastenings and went winging away on the blast. The boys seized each others' hands and fled, with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that stood upon the river-bank. Now the battle was at its highest. Under the ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed in the skies, everything below stood out in clean-cut and shadowless distinctness: the bending trees, the billowy --------------------------------------------------------- -170- river, white with foam, the driving spray of spume-flakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on the other side, glimpsed through the drifting cloud-rack and the slanting veil of rain. Every little while some giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing through the younger growth; and the unflagging thunder-peals came now in ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling. The storm culminated in one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the tree-tops, blow it away, and deafen every creature in it, all at one and the same moment. It was a wild night for homeless young heads to be out in. But at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker and weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway. The boys went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was still something to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the shelter of their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and they were not under it when the catastrophe happened. Everything in camp was drenched, the camp-fire as well; for they were but heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision against rain. Here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through and chilled. They were eloquent in their distress; but they presently discovered that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had been --------------------------------------------------------- -171- built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from the ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so they patiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered from the under sides of sheltered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again. Then they piled on great dead boughs till they had a roaring furnace, and were glad-hearted once more. They dried their boiled ham and had a feast, and after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified their midnight adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep on, anywhere around. As the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over them, and they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep. They got scorched out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast. After the meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little home-sick once more. Tom saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as he could. But they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

who look like that. “I’ve come to bargain.” “For what?” came a small voice out of the forest, nearer than I had guessed. “For whatever you like,” I responded, “if it’s in my power to give it.” It was a neat answer that has gotten me out of many close calls, for whatever you promise a faerie you must provide, or you will lose everything. “I like skins,” the faerie said. “Will you give me a bearskin?” “And how do you know what bears are?” For there are none in Ljosland. “How do you think?” it replied. “From stories. I like those too.” I thought it over. “I will give you a beaver skin.” Oh, I was going to miss that hat. “We will see about the bear. Now will you hear what I want in return?” “I already know that.” The faerie was sitting on the edge of the spring—I would not have known if it hadn’t spoken, for it was like a fold in the ground. “You’re a noser. Poke, poke, poking your nose in. You want to know about me, but I shan’t tell you anything.” “Why not?” He—it was a he, I think—seemed not to expect the question. “I don’t like talking about myself.” I tried not to let my delight show. The faeries of Ljosland should have known nothing about scholars—nosers are what the common fae call us on the continent. Not unless the faerie realms overlap, as I have argued on numerous occasions. The Folk can slip through locked doors and disappear into trees. Why would an ocean or mountain range keep them separate from one another? “Then we seem to be at an impasse,” I said, affecting puzzlement. “Why ask for anything if you already knew what I wanted, and that you would not grant it?” The faerie looked down at his hands, blushing and mumbling to himself. I reached into my backpack and drew out the remnants of Finn’s burnt loaf. Sighing heavily, I broke it in half and began to chew. “That looks foul,” the faerie said. He was beside me now, his long, long needle-fingers curved over the edge of a rock. I spat out a piece of the crust. “My host is a poor cook.” “I’m a very good cook,” the faerie said as soon as the sentence left my lips. I smothered a smile. Many of the common fae need little convincing to aid mortals and in fact enjoy the arrangement. “Are you indeed?” He nodded, suddenly solemn. “I shan’t tell you my secrets. But I will bring you bread if I may have the skin.” I pretended to think it over. “Very well.” I rummaged in my backpack and pulled out another tin of Turkish delights. I popped one into my mouth, then held out a handful to the faerie. His black eyes bulged. “An offering only,” I said. “Not part of our bargain.” He swelled with pride. Ljoslanders regularly leave offerings for the common fae, but I wondered if this little faerie had ever had something left for


her turn signal, unconcerned. “I will go to his house, kick down his door, and tell him to stay away from my baby’s special night or else I’ll rip him a new—” She pauses and begins again. “I will motivate him, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.” I dissolve into fits of laughter. Mum joins in, and for a moment I am free and light and certain that she’d really do it if I wanted her to. Mum has my back no matter what, and so does Giselle, and I don’t spend enough time thinking how lucky I am to have the family I do. They are audacious with their love, and that’s who I want to be. Not afraid of my feelings but fired up by them. I want to live my life with pride and as shameless as Neneh Bangura. After all, I am my mother’s daughter. THURSDAY, 8:54 P.M. Celine: you were right btw Giselle: always am Giselle: about what tho? Giselle: ???? CHAPTER EIGHTEEN BRAD Recovering from a concussion is about as entertaining as watching paint dry. Lucky for me, I have heartbreak on the brain to spice things up a bit. When we get home, Mum puts all my stuff away (except my phone, lost that, trying not to think about it because fuck), and makes the bed around me really smooth and tight like she used to when I was little. I get her to do it again because I enjoy it so much. By the time Friday afternoon rolls around, though, even the bed thing isn’t making me less restless. I glare at a shadow on my duvet—the same shadow I’ve watched as it moved throughout the day with the course of the sun—and shout, “Mum!” A few seconds later, she opens my door and sticks her head in, her giant bun wobbling like jelly. “What’s up?” “Can I get up yet?” She arches an eyebrow and purses her lips in a way that means, You’re testing me. “Do you still want to go to the ball tomorrow?” “Yes.” No. Maybe. Celine’s going to be there, and I didn’t finish the expedition, so I don’t know why I’m even still invited, but I also know I can’t stay away. I’m hooked. Like a fish. Also, I have a purple suit that looks incredible on me. “Then stay your backside in bed,” Mum says, and disappears. “You’re being irrational!” I call after her. “Drink your Lucozade!” she shouts back. Then I hear her say, “Oh. Hi, Celine!” And the bottom falls out of my stomach. Celine. Here? Crap. “Hi, Maria,” she says, her voice quieter than usual. She’s right outside the door. I have this urge to check how I look but then I remember it doesn’t matter and I don’t care. I can’t care, not if I want this constant ache to one day fade away. So I lean back against my bed’s overstuffed cushions, breathe out hard, and tell myself to relax just as a knock sounds at my bedroom door. “Yeah?” I ask, then wince


. .” He shut his mouth before he finished, but they both knew what he had been about to say. Not like you. Simon had never minded the fact that his future was tied to Calloway Park. Only that the many businesses his father had started so often called him away beyond the duties of Parliament. Without those, he would happily remain in this part of the country when he wasn’t needed at Lords. William was the one who liked to travel, who liked to be pulled this way and that. Simon wanted stability. Contentment. Something more fulfilling than filling his coffers with money he didn’t need. “Help me up, will you?” William kept his arm around Simon’s shoulders, and when they stood, he was far lighter than Simon liked. This fever had taken a lot out of William. Though his brother protested, Simon maintained his hold on him the entire journey to the breakfast room, where he would ensure his brother ate as much as possible to gain back his strength. The breakfast room wasn’t empty, as Simon had expected. Olivia was there, probably eager for their race that morning, but he was surprised to find Forester with a plate of food as well. He was generally the sort to stay up into the long hours of the night and sleep late into the morning. Then there was Lucy, who looked almost sick as she sat beside Forester and refused to look up when Simon and William entered the room. “Ah, the invalid has risen,” Forester said a little too loudly. “We were wondering how long it would take you to join us. Are you going to watch the great race with us?” William lifted an eyebrow. “Race?” “Simon has finally agreed to race me on horseback,” Olivia proclaimed with a wide smile. “Again?” Pulling away from Simon, William used the backs of the chairs to maneuver himself around the room and into the chair next to Lucy’s. Simon tried not to let jealousy rise up in his throat, but he failed miserably. He had thought the ache he felt for Lucy was bad before, but now that William was back to charm her with his smiles, Simon was tempted to lock himself in his study and never leave. The time for dreaming was over. “Hurry and eat,” Olivia said, hopping up and grabbing his hand. “I cannot wait to gloat over my victory.” Seeing the way William watched Lucy push her food around her plate, Simon was more than ready to get to their race as well. Anything to distract himself from the love he shouldn’t have. She is not yours to love, he told himself yet again, and his stomach soured at the thought. Hopefully she and William would be married soon, and then she would leave his house and be a distant memory. “I am ready when you are,” Simon declared. He feared any food he ate wouldn’t sit well with him as long as Lucy was nearby. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” Forester asked, though


the dream, Paul told himself. For this had happened -- these words from his mother, the Lady Jessica who was now a Reverend Mother of the Fremen, these words had passed through reality. Jessica was fearful of the religious relationship between himself and the Fremen, Paul knew. She didn't like the fact that people of both sietch and graben referred to Muad'Dib as Him. And she went questioning among the tribes, sending out her Sayyadina spies, collecting their answers and brooding on them. She had quoted a Bene Gesserit proverb to him: "When religion and politics travel in the same cart, the riders believe nothing can stand in their way. Their movement become headlong -- faster and faster and faster. They put aside all thought of obstacles and forget that a precipice does not show itself to the man in a blind rush until it's too late." Paul recalled that he had sat there in his mother's quarters, in the inner chamber shrouded by dark hangings with their surfaces covered by woven patterns out of Fremen mythology. He had sat there, hearing her out, noting the way she was always observing -- even when her eyes were lowered. Her oval face had new lines in it at the corners of the mouth, but the hair was still like polished bronze. The wide-set green eyes, though, hid beneath their over-casting of spice-imbued blue. "The Fremen have a simple, practical religion," he said. "Nothing about religion is simple," she warned. But Paul, seeing the clouded future that still hung over them, found himself swayed by anger. He could only say: "Religion unifies our forces. It's our mystique." "You deliberately cultivate this air, this bravura," she charged. "You never cease indoctrinating." "Thus you yourself taught me," he said. But she had been full of contentions and arguments that day. It had been the day of the circumcision ceremony for little Leto. Paul had understood some of the reasons for her upset. She had never accepted his liaison -- the "marriage of youth" -- with Chani. But Chani had produced an Atreides son, and Jessica had found herself unable to reject the child with the mother. Jessica had stirred finally under his stare, said: "You think me an unnatural mother." "Of course not." "I see the way you watch me when I'm with your sister. You don't understand about your sister." "I know why Alia is different," he said. "She was unborn, part of you, when you changed the Water of Life. She --" "You know nothing of it!" And Paul, suddenly unable to express the knowledge gained out of its time, said only: "I don't think you unnatural." She saw his distress, said: "There is a thing, Son." "Yes?" "I do love your Chani. I accept her." This was real, Paul told himself. This wasn't the imperfect vision to be changed by the twistings out of time's own birth. The reassurance gave him a new hold on his world. Bits of solid reality began to dip through the dream state into his awareness. He knew


He had been in the most beautiful places in Europe, though he had remained nowhere more than a few days. He had chosen the quietest and remotest spots. He had been on the tops of mountains whose heads were in the clouds and had looked down on other mountains when the sun rose and touched them with such light as made it seem as if the world were just being born. But the light had never seemed to touch himself until one day when he realized that for the first time in ten years a strange thing had happened. He was in a wonderful valley in the Austrian Tyrol and he had been walking alone through such beauty as might have lifted, any man's soul out of shadow. He had walked a long way and it had not lifted his. But at last he had felt tired and had thrown himself down to rest on a carpet of moss by a stream. It was a clear little stream which ran quite merrily along on its narrow way through the luscious damp greenness. Sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughter as it bubbled over and round stones. He saw birds come and dip their heads to drink in it and then flick their wings and fly away. It seemed like a thing alive and yet its tiny voice made the stillness seem deeper. The valley was very, very still. As he sat gazing into the clear running of the water, Archibald Craven gradually felt his mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the valley itself. He wondered if he were going to sleep, but he was not. He sat and gazed at the sunlit water and his eyes began to see things growing at its edge. There was one lovely mass of blue forget-me-nots growing so close to the stream that its leaves were wet and at these he found himself looking as he remembered he had looked at such things years ago. He was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was and what wonders of blue its hundreds of little blossoms were. He did not know that just that simple thought was slowly filling his mind--filling and filling it until other things were softly pushed aside. It was as if a sweet clear spring had begun to rise in a stagnant pool and had risen and risen until at last it sweptthe dark water away. But of course he did not think of this himself. He only knew that the valley seemed to grow quieter and quieter as he sat and stared at the bright delicate blueness. He did not know how long he sat there or what was happening to him, but at last he moved as if he were awakening and he got up slowly and stood on the moss carpet, drawing a long, deep, soft breath and wondering at himself. Something seemed to have been unbound and released in him, very quietly. "What is it?" he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

the mariner, rising and speaking slowly. "D'you mean to say--?" "I do," said Mr. Marvel. "Then why did you let me go on and tell you all this blarsted stuff, then? What d'yer mean by letting a man make a fool of himself like that for? Eigh?" Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks. The mariner was suddenly very red indeed; he clenched his hands. "I been talking here this ten minutes," he said; "and you, you little pot-bellied, leathery-faced son of an old boot, couldn't have the elementary manners--" "Don't you come bandying words with me," said Mr. Marvel. "Bandying words! I'm a jolly good mind--" "Come up," said a voice, and Mr. Marvel was suddenly whirled about and started marching off in a curious spasmodic manner. "You'd better move on," said the mariner. "Who's moving on?" said Mr. Marvel. He was receding obliquely with a curious hurrying gait, with occasional violent jerks forward. Some way along the road he began a muttered monologue, protests and recriminations. "Silly devil!" said the mariner, legs wide apart, elbows akimbo, watching the receding figure. "I'll show you, you silly ass,--hoaxing me! It's here--on the paper!" Mr. Marvel retorted incoherently and, receding, was hidden by a bend in the road, but the mariner still stood magnificent in the midst of the way, until the approach of a butcher's cart dislodged him. Then he turned himself towards Port Stowe. "Full of extra- ordinary asses," he said softly to himself. "Just to take me down a bit--that was his silly game--It's on the paper!" And there was another extraordinary thing he was presently to hear, that had happened quite close to him. And that was a vision of a "fist full of money" (no less) travelling without visible agency, along by the wall at the corner of St. Michael's Lane. A brother mariner had seen this wonderful sight that very morning. He had snatched at the money forthwith and had been knocked headlong, and when he had got to his feet the butterfly money had vanished. Our mariner was in the mood to believe anything, he declared, but that was a bit too stiff. Afterwards, however, he began to think things over. The story of the flying money was true. And all about that neighbourhood, even from the august London and Country Banking Company, from the tills of shops and inns--doors standing that sunny weather entirely open--money had been quietly and dexterously making off that day in handfuls and rouleaux, floating quietly along by walls and shady places, dodging quickly from the approaching eyes of men. And it had, though no man had traced it, invariably ended its mysterious flight in the pocket of that agitated gentleman in the obsolete silk hat, sitting outside the little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. Chapter 15 The Man Who Was Running In the early evening time Doctor Kemp was sitting in his study in the belvedere on the hill overlooking Burdock. It was a pleasant little room, with three windows, north, west, and south, and bookshelves crowded with books


starting to think there’s more to this than a simple desire to eat off clean plates, but I’m not going to say anything to him about it. If there’s something Finn wants to share with me, something he wants to put in the book, then he’ll tell me when he’s ready. At least, I hope so. Based on the way he quickly turns back to the dishwasher, shielding his face from me, I’m not sure he’s ready. “It’s not a big deal,” he rushes to say. “Is there something you need? I can hand-wash it for you, or—” “Nope,” I say, holding up my Nalgene. “Wash away. I was just coming to get some water. And maybe check on the AC, though I’m not sure I’d be able to diagnose what’s wrong.” He finishes up, dropping in a dishwasher pod. The hum of the machine fills the space, creating an oddly soothing harmony with the AC. “If you’re ready to—” I start, just as he says, “I was thinking about—” Both of us hurry to backtrack. He gestures for me to speak, and I force myself to take a deep breath. “I was just going to say, if you’ve settled in, maybe we could start in my bedroom?” His eyebrows jump to his hairline. “To . . . work on the book?” The book. Obviously. “No, uh—we can do that out here, of course,” I say, my face flaming. Finn has a call scheduled with his manager first, which ends right around when the dishes do, so I unload everything. It’s still freezing in the house, and I’ve had to add another pair of socks. When the doorbell rings, Finn slips by me to answer it. “Ordered some groceries,” he explains. “Oh. Thank you.” He brings the bags to the kitchen counter, the two of us stumbling around each other. “Thought I could whip something up if you’re hungry. If you don’t mind eating vegetarian.” He has to speak loudly to be heard over the sound of the AC. “I don’t mind!” I shout back. Then the house emits one final clatter as the air-conditioning breaks. * * * We scrounge up some fans from the closets, open all the windows before realizing the air outside is too hot and then shutting them again. We debate leaving the house before realizing we’re in the suburbs and the first five Ubers we try to get decline the trip. So we decide to tough it out. I changed into cutoffs and a tank top, and even with my short hair, I’m still scraping sweat off the back of my neck. Finn’s in a heather gray T-shirt and gym shorts, a bowl of fresh berries waiting on the counter for me. While he cooks, I pepper him with basic questions, the kind that are easy to answer in between chopping onions. He talks me through his career before The Nocturnals, because his audition is widely documented online. The story goes, a nineteen-year-old Finn started talking about Middle-earth during a callback because one of the producers


said. “It’s further than that,” Louise said. She couldn’t believe how good it felt to hear Poppy’s voice. Louise remembered her second year of grad school when her mom had called one night and Louise had gone on about the interpersonal politics of charette, and finding a paid internship, and she’d finally realized her mom wasn’t talking. “Why’d you call?” Louise had asked. “I just needed to hear your voice,” her mom had said. Louise wondered what her mom had been going through that night, but she would never know. Not now. Not anymore. Her mom’s life was over. Her secrets didn’t matter now. Mark called again. Louise declined. “You’re only twenty miles away,” Poppy decided. “No, I’m one hundred miles, twenty times away,” Louise said. Louise had no idea why she was trying to explain multiplication to a fiveyear-old, but she remembered how much she’d liked it when her dad had explained things to her, even when she hadn’t fully understood. “Flights are going to be expensive this late,” Ian said. “Are you flying Delta?” “I don’t know,” Louise said, annoyed he was interrupting this moment and making it more confusing than it needed to be for Poppy. “I haven’t looked yet. Poppy, can you imagine one hundred miles twenty times?” “You’re a hundred miles,” Poppy declared. Mark called again. Louise declined, punching her screen hard. “Why don’t we draw it?” Louise said. “Do you have a piece of paper? I’ve got—” Bang! Something slammed into the window behind Louise. She jumped, throwing her phone across the bed and throwing herself forward after it. She scrambled across the carpet on her hands and knees until she reached the other side of the bed, then looked back. Mark stood outside her window, smacking it with his hands. “Lou!” he called, his voice muffled through the double-paned glass. “They won’t tell me your room number.” “Mommy?” she heard Poppy call faintly from her phone where she’d thrown it. “Jesus Christ! What do you think you’re doing?” Louise said, then realized Mark couldn’t hear her through the window. “What do you want?” she shouted. “Come outside!” he shouted, his voice muted and very far away. “We need to talk!” She heard Poppy ask Ian where she was. “No!” she shouted at Mark. “We need to talk!” he shouted. “No!” she yelled again. “Hey!” someone shouted from the adjoining room. “Keep it down.” “It’s important!” Mark shouted through the window. He wasn’t going away. Louise picked up her phone and saw Ian’s face in close-up as he tried to figure out why the screen had suddenly gone black. “Hey,” Louise said. “Something’s come up. Tell Poppy I’ll just be a minute.” She ended the call and turned to the window. “Meet me out front,” she shouted. “Shut! Up!” the man in the adjoining room yelled. — Mark stood on the sidewalk, just out of range of the sliding-door sensor. His hair stuck out on both sides like he’d been running his hands through it. He held his phone in one hand. His gut peeked out


I was furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years, and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I think, from his blank look of amazement, that he thought I had taken too much champagne, or something." "I am not surprised." "I was not surprised either. Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him, and that they were all to be bought." "I believe he was quite right there. But, on the other hand, most of them are not at all expensive." "Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means. By this time the lights were being put out in the theatre, and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars which he strongly recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the theatre again. When he saw me he made me a low bow, and assured me that I was a patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with an air of pride, that his three bankruptcies were entirely due to the poet, whom he insisted on calling 'The Bard.' He seemed to think it a distinction." "It was a distinction, my dear Dorian,--a great distinction. But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?" "The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me; at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined to bring me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn't it?" [28] "No; I don't think so." "My dear Harry, why?" "I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl." "Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy, and so gentle. There is something of a child about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning at the door-way of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would insist on calling me 'My Lord,' so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, 'You look more like a prince.'" "Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments." "You don't understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and


spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy and I like him, and I won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We'll all be good to him because he hasn't got any mother, and he may come over and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?" "Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can." "I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed Amy. "What do you say, Beth?" "I was thinking about our `PILGRIM'S PROGRESS'," answered Beth, who had not heard a word. "How we got out of the Slough and through the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying, and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going to be our Palace Beautiful." "We have got to get by the lions first," said Jo, as if she rather liked the prospect. -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.6 Beth Finds the Palace Beautiful The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he had called, said something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich, for this made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return. But, after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors, and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March's motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride and interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater. All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and he privately informed his tutor that "the Marches were regularly splendid girls." With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the solitary boy into their midst and made much of him, and he found something very charming in the innocent companionship of these simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was quick to feel the influences they brought about him, and their busy, lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie was always playing truant and running over to the Marches'. "Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward," said the old gentleman. "The good lady next door says he is studying too hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is right, and that I've been coddling the fellow as if I'd been his grandmother. Let


her arm, and Clytemnestra feels her skin burning where his fingertips touched her. “I’ve heard that you’re good at wrestling,” he says. “Women aren’t trained like men where I come from.” “I’m sorry for them,” Clytemnestra replies. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. His quiet is frustrating. She wishes she could strike him or run away as he studies her, his eyes peeling off her skin. But she stays where she is. When he finally turns to walk away from the gymnasium, she joins her mother on the wrestling ground. Timandra drops the spear and hurries behind her. Together, they stare at the broken body of the Spartan boy. “Timandra,” Leda says, “find the physician. And bring some opium.” Her daughter scampers away, quick as a cat. Leda glances at Clytemnestra, then at the portico where Agamemnon had been seconds before. “He likes you,” she says finally. Her green eyes have a flat look, like aging copper. “Can’t he see that I’m pregnant?” Leda shakes her head. “Some men want only the things they cannot have.” * * * Clytemnestra walks back to the palace alone. The water in the Eurotas is the color of silver and the land around it is like liquid bronze. She thinks about Leda and the priestess, facing each other in the megaron. Her mother was right but shameless. She was the one who had taught Clytemnestra there are always better ways to treat your opponents, better ways to humiliate them. But all she had done was humiliate herself. Why hadn’t she sent away the priestess? Perhaps she’d tried but Tyndareus hadn’t allowed it. The thought is painful, like a sharp cut on the throat. Rain is falling. She hurries along the path, her sandals muddied already. When she gets to the stables, she stops, catching her breath, taking shelter next to a mare and her foal. She pats them, listening to the raindrops pounding the ground. Then she hears another sound, somewhere to her left. She listens more carefully, hiding behind the bales of hay. It is a soft cry—she can hear it clearly now. She steps closer, and behind a large stack of hay, she sees Agamemnon’s back. His tunic—still stained with the boy’s blood, Clytemnestra notices—is rolled up above his waist, and his hands are on a young woman’s hips. The girl is moaning and crying but Clytemnestra can’t see her face. She steps forward, thinking of the bruised helot. “Leave her alone,” she says, her voice loud over the rain. Agamemnon turns quickly, his hand flying to the knife dangling from his tunic. The girl stands, not bothering to cover her naked body, and smiles at the sight of Clytemnestra. It is Cynisca. “What do you want?” she asks. There are scars wrapping around her strong legs, like snakes. Her breasts are small, her nipples large and brown. There is a big birthmark on one breast, which Clytemnestra has never noticed in the gymnasium. She turns to Agamemnon, whose hand is tight on his knife. It is different from Spartan daggers, more


the shift, I’ve stopped trying. With the night’s meager earnings in my pocket, I drive back up north, to that upscale community, to the secluded alcove. In the dark, I struggle to find the bags I stashed in the bushes, but they are still there, untouched. I put them in the car, recline my seat, and sleep. Hard and deep. Until I hear it. A sharp tapping on the glass beside my head wrenches me into consciousness. I lurch forward, hands groping for the knife in my lap. I grasp it, just as I make out the face framed in the window, backlit by the rising sun. It’s not a cop or a thief or a rapist. It’s her. The drowning woman. 7 TENTATIVELY, I OPEN THE CAR door and step out. The morning sky glows a promising shade of peach, and there’s already a whisper of warmth in the crisp air. The woman is in another expensive jogging outfit, dark hair pulled back from a flawless, makeup-free face. But she looks different now, softer. Smiling. “I realize that I never thanked you,” she says. “For saving me.” “It’s fine.” “I thought I wanted to die. But I don’t. I’m grateful that you found me when you did.” I shrug because there is really nothing to say. The woman removes a small pack from her back and unzips it. “I brought you something. To say thanks.” She presses a small object into my hand. It’s smooth and white, a hole through its center. “It’s a netsuke,” she explains. “Traditionally, Japanese men used them as toggles on their kimonos. It’s carved from bone.” I look at the figurine: an intricate figure of a coiled snake. “My husband collects them,” the woman says. “This one’s from the early nineteenth century.” I’d have preferred a package of bagels. Or a latte. “Thanks.” “It’s quite valuable. I’m not sure what it’s worth but it’s signed.” Turning it over, I see the artist’s name in Japanese characters. “Sell it if you want. Or keep it. Put it somewhere in your new place, once you’re back on your feet.” What is it worth? I wonder. It would be rude to ask. But if I can get even a hundred bucks for it, I’m selling it. I appreciate the sentiment, but money is more important than a trinket right now. “And…,” she says, digging deeper into the pack, removing a brown paper sack, “breakfast.” That’s more like it. My stomach churns with the promise of food. Free food. “Shall we eat on the beach? Watch the sunrise?” Before I can answer, she’s moving toward the path. She calls over her shoulder, “Your car is safe. I jog here every morning. No one ever comes by.” I trail her down to the ocean. * * * We settle on a driftwood log, bleached soft and gray, and the woman unpacks the paper sack. “I’m Hazel,” she says as she passes me a roll covered in seeds. “I baked these a couple of days ago. I couldn’t make anything fresh without


soul would consent to return with us to man would go along with us. All they would do was to give the Admiral Benbow. The more we told of our troubles, the me a loaded pistol lest we were attacked, and to promise to Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 32 33 have horses ready saddled in case we were pursued on our and taking it up, I found written on the other side, in a very return, while one lad was to ride forward to the doctor’s in good, clear hand, this short message: “You have till ten to- search of armed assistance. night.” My heart was beating finely when we two set forth in the “He had till ten, Mother,” said I; and just as I said it, our cold night upon this dangerous venture. A full moon was old clock began striking. This sudden noise startled us shock- beginning to rise and peered redly through the upper edges ingly; but the news was good, for it was only six. of the fog, and this increased our haste, for it was plain, before “Now, Jim,” she said, “that key.” we came forth again, that all would be as bright as day, and I felt in his pockets, one after another. A few small coins, our departure exposed to the eyes of any watchers. We slipped a thimble, and some thread and big needles, a piece of pigtail along the hedges, noiseless and swift, nor did we see or hear tobacco bitten away at the end, his gully with the crooked anything to increase our terrors, till, to our relief, the door of handle, a pocket compass, and a tinder box were all that they the Admiral Benbow had closed behind us. contained, and I began to despair. I slipped the bolt at once, and we stood and panted for a “Perhaps it’s round his neck,” suggested my mother. moment in the dark, alone in the house with the dead captain’s Overcoming a strong repugnance, I tore open his shirt at body. Then my mother got a candle in the bar, and holding the neck, and there, sure enough, hanging to a bit of tarry each other’s hands, we advanced into the parlour. He lay as string, which I cut with his own gully, we found the key. At we had left him, on his back, with his eyes open and one arm this triumph we were filled with hope and hurried upstairs stretched out. without delay to the little room where he had slept so long “Draw down the blind, Jim,” whispered my mother; “they and where his box had stood since the day of his arrival. might come and watch outside. And now,” said she when I It was like any other seaman’s chest on the outside, the had done so, “we have to get the key off THAT; and who’s to initial “B” burned on the top of it with a hot iron, and the touch it, I should like to know!” and she gave a kind of sob


that led out to a small balcony. “Come out here, let me explain.” They withdrew and closed the balcony door behind them. Peter stood in the middle of the room, drink in hand, looking about uncomfortably. Marion hadn’t expected to see Peter again, not after that strange dinner. But here he was. She should really go and get ready for the next show, but leaving him seemed rude. He gestured to one of the couches. “I guess we’ll have to make small talk until whatever is going on is settled.” She sat, and he did as well. She placed her drink on the coffee table, and he did also. It was like they were playing a game of Simon Says. “How’s the show going?” asked Peter. “Fine, thanks.” Peter leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “Look, to be honest, when Dale said we were going to stop by Radio City, I kind of hoped I’d see you again.” She plastered a vague smile on her face and braced herself for what was coming next. He’d want to take her to dinner, just the two of them, most likely. While it was true that she and Nathaniel were going through a rough patch, she certainly wasn’t interested in going on a date with anyone else. “I wanted to apologize for the way I acted at the restaurant a few weeks ago,” said Peter finally. “For analyzing you without your consent. That was wrong of me.” She hadn’t expected an apology. Peter was looking at her strangely, and it took her a moment to figure out what was different about his gaze. Men tended to have three ways of reacting to Marion: In most cases, they stammered and made terrible jokes in an effort to impress. Others became cold and dismissive, as if they figured they could win her over by taking the opposite tack and throwing her off-balance. Finally, there was a minority of men with inflated egos who had been unexpectedly spurned at one time. They were the most dangerous to interact with, as they tended to be domineering and resentful. Peter wasn’t in the first category. He wasn’t affected by her beauty, not glancing from her neck to her lips to her bustline, unsure of where to look. Nor did he seem cold or resentful. His eyes remained glued on hers—he was simply taking in her reaction to his words. In spite of herself, she blushed. “I appreciate your apology. And yes, I wouldn’t recommend doing that on future dates.” Marion paused. “Even if you were right.” She wasn’t sure why she’d just told him that. Peter was studying her so intently, and being so unabashedly honest, she couldn’t help it. He looked pained. “Even more apologies on my part, then. It was unprofessional.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I know this is awkward. I agreed to meet Dale for a drink but seem to have gotten caught up in some kind of lovers’ spat. If you have to go, please do. There’s no need to entertain me.” Peter


and Brother Michael was standing at his bedside with a bowl of beef-tea. He was glad for his mouth was hot and dry. He could hear them playing in the playgrounds. And the day was going on in the college just as if he were there. Then Brother Michael was going away and the fellow out of the third of grammar told him to be sure and come back and tell him all the news in the paper. He told Stephen that his name was Athy and that his father kept a lot of racehorses that were spiffing jumpers and that his father would give a good tip to Brother Michael any time he wanted it because Brother Michael was very decent and always told him the news out of the paper they got every day up in the castle. There was every kind of news in the paper: accidents, shipwrecks, sports, and politics. --Now it is all about politics in the papers, he said. Do your people talk about that too? --Yes, Stephen said. --Mine too, he said. Then he thought for a moment and said: --You have a queer name, Dedalus, and I have a queer name too, Athy. My name is the name of a town. Your name is like Latin. Then he asked: --Are you good at riddles? Stephen answered: --Not very good. Then he said: --Can you answer me this one? Why is the county of Kildare like the leg of a fellow's breeches? Stephen thought what could be the answer and then said: --I give it up. --Because there is a thigh in it, he said. Do you see the joke? Athy is the town in the county Kildare and a thigh is the other thigh. --Oh, I see, Stephen said. --That's an old riddle, he said. After a moment he said: --I say! --What? asked Stephen. --You know, he said, you can ask that riddle another way. --Can you? said Stephen. --The same riddle, he said. Do you know the other way to ask it? --No, said Stephen. --Can you not think of the other way? he said. He looked at Stephen over the bedclothes as he spoke. Then he lay back on the pillow and said: --There is another way but I won't tell you what it is. Why did he not tell it? His father, who kept the racehorses, must be a magistrate too like Saurin's father and Nasty Roche's father. He thought of his own father, of how he sang songs while his mother played and of how he always gave him a shilling when he asked for sixpence and he felt sorry for him that he was not a magistrate like the other boys' fathers. Then why was he sent to that place with them? But his father had told him that he would be no stranger there because his granduncle had presented an address to the liberator there fifty years before. You could know the people of that time by their old dress. It seemed to him a solemn time:


he might answer questions.--How am I to get in?' she repeated, aloud. `I shall sit here,' the Footman remarked, `till tomorrow--' At this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came skimming out, straight at the Footman's head: it just grazed his nose, and broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him. `--or next day, maybe,' the Footman continued in the same tone, exactly as if nothing had happened. `How am I to get in?' asked Alice again, in a louder tone. `ARE you to get in at all?' said the Footman. `That's the first question, you know.' It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so. `It's really dreadful,' she muttered to herself, `the way all the creatures argue. It's enough to drive one crazy!' The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating his remark, with variations. `I shall sit here,' he said, `on and off, for days and days.' `But what am I to do?' said Alice. `Anything you like,' said the Footman, and began whistling. `Oh, there's no use in talking to him,' said Alice desperately: `he's perfectly idiotic!' And she opened the door and went in. The door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of smoke from one end to the other: the Duchess was sitting on a three-legged stool in the middle, nursing a baby; the cook was leaning over the fire, stirring a large cauldron which seemed to be full of soup. `There's certainly too much pepper in that soup!' Alice said to herself, as well as she could for sneezing. There was certainly too much of it in the air. Even the Duchess sneezed occasionally; and as for the baby, it was sneezing and howling alternately without a moment's pause. The only things in the kitchen that did not sneeze, were the cook, and a large cat which was sitting on the hearth and grinning from ear to ear. `Please would you tell me,' said Alice, a little timidly, for she was not quite sure whether it was good manners for her to speak first, `why your cat grins like that?' `It's a Cheshire cat,' said the Duchess, `and that's why. Pig!' She said the last word with such sudden violence that Alice quite jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the baby, and not to her, so she took courage, and went on again:-- `I didn't know that Cheshire cats always grinned; in fact, I didn't know that cats COULD grin.' `They all can,' said the Duchess; `and most of 'em do.' `I don't know of any that do,' Alice said very politely, feeling quite pleased to have got into a conversation. `You don't know much,' said the Duchess; `and that's a fact.' Alice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would be as well to introduce some other subject of conversation. While she was trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup


far as the eye could see. Stone bridges spanned swift, narrow rivers, while small farms spread in rings around holdfasts walled in wood and stone. The road was well trafficked, and at night for their comfort there were rude inns to be found. Three days ride from Winterfell, however, the farmland gave way to 106 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN dense wood, and the kingsroad grew lonely. The flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fifth day they had turned into mountains, cold blue-grey giants with jagged promontories and snow on their shoulders. When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of ice crystals flew from the high peaks like banners. With the mountains a wall to the west, the road veered north by northeast through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen and black brier that seemed older and darker than any Tyrion had ever seen. "The wolfswood," Benjen Stark called it, and indeed their nights came alive with the howls of distant packs, and some not so distant. Jon Snow's albino direwolf pricked up his ears at the nightly howling, but never raised his own voice in reply. There was something very unsettling about that animal, Tyrion thought. There were eight in the party by then, not counting the wolf. Tyrion traveled with two of his own men, as befit a Lannister. Benjen Stark had only his bastard nephew and some fresh mounts for the Night's Watch, but at the edge of the wolfswood they stayed a night behind the wooden walls of a forest holdfast, and there joined up with another of the black brothers, one Yoren. Yoren was stooped and sinister, his features hidden behind a beard as black as his clothing, but he seemed as tough as an old root and as hard as stone. With him were a pair of ragged peasant boys from the Fingers. "Rapers," Yoren said with a cold look at his charges. Tyrion understood. Life on the Wall was said to be hard, but no doubt it was preferable to castration. Five men, three boys, a direwolf, twenty horses, and a cage of ravens given over to Benjen Stark by Maester Luwin. No doubt they made a curious fellowship for the kingsroad, or any road. Tyrion noticed Jon Snow watching Yoren and his sullen companions, with an odd cast to his face that looked uncomfortably like dismay. Yoren had a twisted shoulder and a sour smell, his hair and beard were matted and greasy and full of lice, his clothing old, patched, and seldom washed. His two young recruits smelled even worse, and seemed as stupid as they were cruel. No doubt the boy had made the mistake of thinking that the Night's Watch was made up of men like his uncle. If so, Yoren and his companions were a rude awakening. Tyrion felt sorry for the boy. He had chosen a hard life . . . or perhaps he should say that a hard life had been chosen for him. He had rather less sympathy


quickly I can only assume he has been standing there waiting. “Are you ready for your smoothie, my golden goddess?” Finn just came on board to help me. Had I partly hired him because he was a six-foot-four package of muscle who loved Andy Cohen as much as I do? Perhaps. But he was also a rock star employee. “What flavor are you having?” I ask. One of my favorite parts of our office remodel is the gorgeous break room, complete with sleek refrigerator/freezer drawers and a Vitamix that I had hemmed and hawed over as if I was purchasing a new Rolls-Royce. Verdict? Worth. Every. Penny. I walk toward the smoothie station, and he follows me. Finn peers into the freezer drawer at the choices delivered this week. “I think I’d like that new mint chocolate chip flavor,” he says definitively. I nod. “I need a little pick-me-up. How about a cocoa cold brew?” Finn shoots me his Colgate commercial smile. “I’ll get the conference room ready for your nine o’clock. Do you need anything before then?” As I am about to say no, I have an idea. “Actually, yes. Want to play tough lawyer with the town of Figure Eight and fix a problem for Mary Stuart’s wedding?” Finn looks puzzled. “I always want to play tough lawyer. But why?” How to keep this simple… “Mary Stuart, Lanier, and I do each other’s hard things. Mary Stuart finds arguing with a town about a noise permit hard. Me? Not so scared of the confrontation.” “You? Confrontational? No.” Finn winks at me. “I’m on it. I’m always here for your hard things.” Finn presses a button on the blender, and it springs to life as I open the refrigerator drawer and retrieve one of the refillable glass water bottles with stainless steel screw tops that have replaced plastic in our office. They are so beautiful they give me goose bumps. And all thanks to Mary Stuart, who procured them for me at a shop in her town about an hour away. In exchange I helped her fine-tune a pitch for a PR client she was trying to snag. I point toward my office, deciding to email my friends back before my meeting. “I’ll be ready in five.” Finn nods. I sit back down, hit the Siri button on my keyboard, and say: Subject: Re: Hard Things To: lanier@bookmasters.com; marystuart@harrispr.com Songbirds, I am giving you the day off. My day is blissfully devoid of hard things. Off to sever heads for both of you. Sending love and cannot wait to see you at Mary Stuart’s WEDDING! Fair winds and following seas, Daphne As I type the word wedding, my stomach rolls. It makes me think of Huff, my ex and, incidentally, Lanier’s brother. Huff and I haven’t seen each other much since our breakup seven years ago, but since he moved back to the area from Baltimore last month, we keep running into each other. And those run-ins keep getting longer… And I know all the reasons we cannot be together and


winters eventually finish us off. With more time we could be prudent. With more time we could be ethical. We have been neither. We staked our future on the genetic frontier. We’ve played God not out of hubris, but out of necessity. The actions of Yotam Penzak have made it clear to me that we’ve been delaying our most important decision. Which of these species of Cold People can we live with? Which of them can save us, since we can no longer save ourselves? We cannot delay this decision any longer. If we get it wrong, it might be the last decision we ever take. If we do nothing, it will surely be the last decision we ever take.’ With that said, President Mues indicated for Yotam to take the stand. MCMURDO CITY MCMURDO SENATE BUILDING CHAPEL OF THE SNOWS SAME DAY WITH COPPER COILED AROUND HIS feet as though the pair of them were on trial, Yotam looked across the pews filled with some of the world’s greatest living scientists and felt no concern for his own predicament. His only concern was for Eitan’s life and the survival of his colony; their fate depended on the answers he was about to give. President Mues began her questioning: ‘Yotam Penzak, you’ve exceeded the bounds of your authority. That’s not in any doubt. I could remove you from your post, I could have you work on the farms or in the fisheries, and that would be the end of it. The more important question, the reason we’re all gathered here, is to ask why you’re so sure this species of Cold People should be freed.’ ‘I agree, Madame President, that is the important question.’ ‘Would you claim to be the closest living representative of Song Fu’s views?’ ‘I lived with her for fourteen years. I worked with her every day. But I couldn’t speak for her. No one could.’ ‘Why do you imagine she chose you?’ ‘At the South Pole Station?’ ‘We accept that you’re intelligent and dedicated. But you had no knowledge of genetics when you arrived in Antarctica. You were an Israeli soldier. She interviewed thousands of survivors. Why did she pick you?’ ‘She chose a number of assistants.’ ‘After many years together, she entrusted you with the species she created.’ ‘That is true.’ ‘Would you say that she selected a team of assistants who understood what it was like to be rejected by society? A team of outsiders. People who could love her creation no matter how different it turned out to be. The more we recoiled from it the closer you became. She groomed you to fall in love with her creation. You are in love, are you not?’ ‘Love of a kind, yes.’ ‘Do you lack objectivity because of it?’ ‘Song Fu did exactly what you asked of her. She created a form of life perfectly adapted to the cold. And you keep it locked up under the ice as though it was a monster.’ ‘Perhaps it is a monster.’ ‘What is monstrous about it?’ ‘Do you


The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet. What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now have been gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex. But while he was mortal, there must be a triumph. She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved, and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance. But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their family. How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture. ____ Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family, and concluded with intreaties that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the Militia. ``It was greatly my wish that he should do so,'' he added, ``as soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me in considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into the regulars; and, among his former friends, there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and, I hope, among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our