his Heir. Mist sprayed my face as we crossed the last line of trees. The gush of Hirun had never sung so sweetly. I jogged ahead, abandoning my slippers behind me. The first splash of cool water against my ankles was heaven. I waded deeper. This river wound through every kingdom, and no one had ever traveled from one end to the other. Of all that had come and gone, Hirun remained unchanged. The only true axis in a land of shifting sands. “Sylvia!” Jeru shouted. His voice was far away. Water surged around my waist. My feet had carried me farther than I intended. A ball of tightly packed dirt hit the water and exploded in my face. A lump flew into my mouth. I hacked, pounding my chest, and lost my balance. Wes and Jeru’s shouts faded as the river catapulted my weightless body along. I flailed, struggling to keep my head above the murky water. A log bobbed ahead, directly in my path. Cheerfully waiting to behead me. I ducked. Frigid water swept over me. My skirt dragged, pulling me deeper. I kicked it off and pumped my legs. When the river curved, I used the momentum to launch myself toward shore. Hands reached forward, hauling me onto solid ground. I slapped them aside as soon as my knees were on dry earth and gagged. “How did you run so quickly?” I rasped. I shoved my dripping hair off my shoulders, shuddering in disgust at the green webs tangled in the strands. “I left you on the opposite bank.” The pair crouching in front of me were not Wes and Jeru. “Rovial’s horned heifer,” I groaned. “Are you two determined to die?” Marek grinned. “We missed you, too.” I shook my head, shoving aside my glee at the sight of my two favorite fools. “A whiff of sense, a drop. That’s all I ask. If the guards find you—” “They won’t,” Sefa reassured. “Unless you plan on lounging for much longer.” Belatedly, I remembered my legs were covered only by the thin white shift I’d worn beneath my skirt. My hair fell from its braid, hanging in wet waves around me. “Did you plan this?” Neither Marek nor Sefa attempted to touch me again, a gesture I appreciated now more than ever. “We’ve been searching for you since the waleema,” Marek said. Dread pooled in the pit of my stomach at the mention of that accursed celebration. A name knocked against my skull, politely asking to be let out. “Fairel. Is—did she—how is she?” I didn’t notice my hand had found my heart. I counted the beats in my head, my body strung tight like it was anticipating a blow. “She is still recovering,” Sefa said, and I almost keeled over in relief before she finished her sentence. She is. Fairel still existed, still lived, and the rest were details. “She and Rory are going to have matching canes,” Marek said. “She misses you, but she is excited to know a Champion.” I shook my head, a fond smile


I said. Of course he meant this. “Yeah,” he said. Never had I wanted so badly to just smash myself against another person, to tear off another person’s clothes. And wasn’t he complicit, hadn’t he gotten about 13 percent of the way to naked? Or was I delusional and was he accustomed, as cast members were, to having his body exposed and handled? My fingertip was still touching his tattoo. I swallowed, unbending my other fingers, and pressed the rest of them to his perfect skin. Calmly, I said, “I wouldn’t worry about this one, either.” As I pulled my hand away, I added, “Although I do like the word pretextual. I might have to start using it.” He yanked down his shirt and when he turned around so we were facing each other, he said, “Help yourself. My dad’s a lawyer, and I learned it from him. I hope you didn’t just lose all respect for me because of the basicness of my tattoos. I got them within a couple years of each other, quite a while ago.” “I think I know something that will reassure you.” I was wearing an unzipped fleece jacket, which I shrugged off, then I lifted the right short sleeve of my T-shirt and angled my arm toward him, elbow out. Peering at my bicep, he said, “Is that a…mouse?” “In fourth grade, my class had a hamster named Barnaby who I loved so much that I told my mom I wanted a tattoo of him. She said if I promised to wait until I was twenty-one, if I still wanted it, she’d get one with me. Obviously, by the time I was twenty-one, the only reason I still wanted a hamster tattoo was to hold my mom to her end of the bargain.” Just as I had, he reached out his fingers—they, too, were perfect, long and slim and straight—and when they brushed against my skin, I thought that if I could live inside this moment forever, I would. But he withdrew them quickly. He said, “I take it that’s why it says Mom.” “Hers said Sally, but the amazing part is that we didn’t coordinate it. We did it separately, in different rooms, to surprise each other. And when we realized what we’d done—” I paused. This had been fifteen years before, at a place in downtown Kansas City, and afterward we’d gotten enchiladas for lunch. Because my mother hadn’t been an ostentatious or performative person, it had taken me a long time, until college really, to realize how smart and funny she was, and how generously compassionate. Whenever I described embarrassing things I’d done, she’d say, “Oh, I can imagine doing that,” or “I think most everyone feels that way.” To Noah, I said, “When we realized that she’d gotten her hamster to say Sally and I’d gotten mine to say Mom, I started laughing and she started crying. And she wasn’t one of those moms who cry all the time. But now, I understand why she did.” Noah’s expression had turned serious


Duke's middle years. He was portrayed in matador costume with a magenta cape flung over his left arm. The face looked young, hardly older than Leto's now, and with the same hawk features, the same gray stare. She clenched her fists at her sides, glared at the painting. "Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!" she whispered. "What are your orders, Noble Born?" It was a woman's voice, thin and stringy. Jessica whirled, stared down at a knobby, gray-haired woman in a shapeless sack dress of bondsman brown. The woman looked as wrinkled and desiccated as any member of the mob that had greeted them along the way from the landing field that morning. Every native she had seen on this planet, Jessica thought, looked prune dry and undernourished. Yet, Leto had said they were strong and vital. And there were the eyes, of course -- that wash of deepest, darkest blue without any white -- secretive, mysterious. Jessica forced herself not to stare. The woman gave a stiff-necked nod, said: "I am called the Shadout Mapes, Noble Born. What are your orders?" "You may refer to me as 'my Lady,' " Jessica said. "I'm not noble born. I'm the bound concubine of the Duke Leto." Again that strange nod, and the woman peered upward at Jessica with a sly questioning, "There's a wife, then?" "There is not, nor has there ever been. I am the Duke's only . . . companion, the mother of his heir-designate." Even as she spoke, Jessica laughed inwardly at the pride behind her words. What was it St. Augustine said? she asked herself. "The mind commands the body and it obeys. The mind orders itself and meets resistance." Yes -- I am meeting more resistance lately. I could use a quiet retreat by myself. A weird cry sounded from the road outside the house. It was repeated: "Soo-soo-Sook! Soo-soo-Sook!" Then: "Ikhut-eigh! Ikhut-eigh!" And again: "Soo-soo-Sook!" "What is that?" Jessica asked. "I heard it several times as we drove through the streets this morning." "Only a water-seller, my Lady. But you've no need to interest yourself in such as they. The cistern here holds fifty thousand liters and it's always kept full." She glanced down at her dress. "Why, you know, my Lady, I don't even have to wear my stillsuit here?" She cackled. "And me not even dead!" Jessica hesitated, wanting to question this Fremen woman, needing data to guide her. But bringing order of the confusion in the castle was more imperative. Still, she found the thought unsettling that water was a major mark of wealth here. "My husband told me of your title, Shadout," Jessica said. "I recognized the word. It's a very ancient word." "You know the ancient tongues then?" Mapes asked, and she waited with an odd intensity. "Tongues are the Bene Gesserit's first learning," Jessica said. "I know the Bhotani Jib and the Chakobsa, all the hunting languages." Mapes nodded. "Just as the legend says." And Jessica wondered: Why do I play out this sham? But the Bene Gesserit ways were devious


falling, still falling, it sank toward the beach and the boys rushed screaming into the darkness. The parachute took the figure forward, furrowing the lagoon, and bumped it over the reef and out to sea. Toward midnight the rain ceased and the clouds drifted away, so that the sky was scattered once more with the incredible lamps of stars. Then the breeze died too and there was no noise save the drip and trickle of water that ran out of clefts and spilled down, leaf by leaf, to the brown earth of the island. The air was cool, moist, and clear; and presently even the sound of the water was still. The beast lay huddled on the pale beach and the stains spread, inch by inch. The edge of the lagoon became a streak of phosphorescence which advanced minutely, as the great wave of the tide flowed. The clear water mirrored the clear sky and the angular bright constellations. The line of phosphorescence bulged about the sand grains and little pebbles; it held them each in a dimple of tension, then suddenly accepted them with an inaudible syllable and moved on. Along the shoreward edge of the shallows the advancing clearness was full of strange, moonbeam-bodied creatures with fiery eyes. Here and there a larger pebble clung to its own air and was covered with a coat of pearls. The tide swelled in over the rain-pitted sand and smoothed everything with a layer of silver. Now it touched the first of the stains that seeped from the broken body and the creatures made a moving patch of light as they gathered at the edge. The water rose farther and dressed Simon's coarse hair with brightness. The line of his cheek silvered and the turn of his shoulder became sculptured marble. The strange attendant creatures, with their fiery eyes and trailing vapors, busied themselves round his head. The body lifted a fraction of an inch from the sand and a bubble of air escaped from the mouth with a wet plop. Then it turned gently in the water. Somewhere over the darkened curve of the world the sun and moon were pulling, and the film of water on the earth planet was held, bulging slightly on one side while the solid core turned. The great wave of the tide moved farther along the island and the water lifted. Softly, surrounded by a fringe of inquisitive bright creatures, itself a silver shape beneath the steadfast constellations, Simon's dead body moved out toward the open sea. CHAPTER TEN The Shell and the Glasses Piggy eyed the advancing figure carefully. Nowadays he sometimes found that he saw more clearly if he removed his glasses and shifted the one lens to the other eye; but even through the good eye, after what had happened, Ralph remained unmistakably Ralph. He came now out of the coconut trees, limping, dirty, with dead leaves hanging from his shock of yellow hair. One eye was a slit in his puffy cheek and a great scab had formed on his right knee.


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

look like crap.” I grunt in response, though I know I should do better. Ash has the day off for a teacher development thing that doesn’t start until this afternoon, and instead of lounging in bed with his wife, he’s here with me at brunch, listening to me explain again how my life is in the toilet. I know it’s a good thing I ended my relationship with Fizzy, but a part of me was hoping Ash would say what I know deep down, that I needed to give her time to work through what was probably the hardest thing for her to hear me say. Unfortunately, after hearing the entire story—the hotel drama, Fizzy’s confession, and the situation with Trent’s show—Ash agrees that I probably did the right thing. But I’ve never, not once in my life, felt this way, never been so into a woman that I considered risking my livelihood to be with her. And I hate how last night went, hate that she now feels like she can’t be straight with me if she’s panicked, that she can’t fuck up, too. I hate most of all that none of it matters anyway after Blaine’s ultimatum this morning. Ash ducks, trying to catch my attention. “Conn.” Meeting his eyes, I give a small “Yeah?” “You know what Fizzy would say right now?” “I’m dying to hear it.” “It’s only hot for a hero to brood for, like, three-quarters of a book.” A real laugh bursts out of me. “That is exactly what she would say.” He grins at the compliment. “And you’re ignoring the very obvious silver lining,” he says brightly. “Which is?” “That now you know you’re ready for a relationship.” I laugh again, but it’s back to sardonic. I can’t blame him for trying. Finding Ella was the best thing to ever happen to Ash. “There’s not a solid batch of evidence, Ash. Fizzy and I had a seesaw fling for a few weeks and then it ended before it even began.” “But you were open to it.” I lift the spoon to my lips, murmuring, “I fell for her against my will,” before taking a bite. “But yeah. I suppose.” “Maybe this time you try DNADuo,” he says, slicing neatly into his omelet. “There are so many more users in the system now that it sounds like people are getting lots of good matches. A Gold Match isn’t rare anymore—one of the teachers at school even got two! He can meet them both, find the perfect fit. Can you imagine just being handed a list?” He takes a bite and stares at me with unmasked curiosity. “I’d love to see who your perfect fit is.” I shove Fizzy’s face out of my thoughts and give a noncommittal hum. A few months ago, I would have described her as loud and unrelenting. Now I can’t imagine using those qualities as insults. “Besides, now you’re a hot commodity, Connor.” He takes another bite and chews. I’m still daydreaming about Fizzy’s loud mouth and what she did with it,


and Javier, one of our new hires, arguing in a small clearing. Porter’s got his hand pushed down on his hip. “Just because you’re too scared to go over there and check don’t mean it doesn’t need to be done.” “You do it, then,” Javier says. “You know the whole place like the back of your hand. Doesn’t it make more sense for you to go check?” Porter throws his hands up, then spots me walking toward them. “Oh, good,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Boss is here. Let her tell you whose job it is to check the perimeter fencing because news flash, sugafoot, it ain’t me.” I approach Javier. “That would be your job. Is there a problem?” Javier smiles, and his right eyebrow arches up. He’s tall, dark hair and eyes, a scattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. He looks like an athlete, but I’ve seen him trip over damn near every exposed root or uneven pathway out here. I don’t think he’s coordinated enough to walk in a straight line, much less play sports. “Aw, come on, Charity,” he whines. “Porter is so much better at this. He knows every inch of this place, and besides, something might happen to me, and then we’d never get a chance to really know each other, you know?” He flashes me another smile. He’s so obvious, it’s actually a little funny. “I’m a vegetarian,” I say to him. He looks at me, confused. “Huh?” “She don’t like meat,” Porter says. “Strictly strawberries, like my man Harry Styles said.” Javier’s brows push together. Me and Porter are both part of the alphabet mafia, so we get it, but poor Javier is clueless. “I’m gay,” I say. “Very, very gay. Save all that flirting and goofy grinning for somebody who wants it and who also isn’t your direct supervisor.” Porter tilts his head to the side. “I, however, am strictly dickly and not your supervisor, so please feel free to try and seduce me. It probably still won’t work because you’re out here tryna hand your job duties off to somebody else, but I think you should give it a try anyway.” Javier looks like he might actually take Porter up on his offer, but I cut him off. “Javier, you gotta get on the perimeter check. It’s important.” It still feels a little weird handing out tasks and staying on top of people’s assigned jobs. My previous two seasons, I always took on extra tasks—coordinated the game and set up reservations. I even worked to perfect our fake-blood recipes. At the start of this season, Mr. Lamont told me he was so impressed with my work ethic the previous summers that he was handing me the reins when it came to the day-to-day operations. He said I was responsible, self-sufficient, and trustworthy. That’s mostly true. I’m all those things, but mostly because I don’t have any other choices. Being the child of an irresponsible parent who doesn’t really care what you’re doing as long as it doesn’t mess up


her daughter hadn’t returned home. Sensing his wife’s concerns, Atto stood up from the table where he’d been re-stitching the lining of his jacket and wrapped his arms around her, feeling the tension in her body. ‘She’s fine. She’s always fine.’ Liza turned around and kissed him. ‘Worrying is part of being a parent. I can’t turn it off just because she’s strong.’ ‘I can’t either. But she’s never even grazed her knee.’ ‘Echo can get into dangerous situations ordinary-born people can’t. She’s up a mountain, she’s exploring icebergs. She takes risks because she has no fear of the cold.’ ‘If she wasn’t five times my strength, I’d ground her.’ ‘You’ve always been too soft on her.’ ‘You’ve always been too tough on her. I reckon that means, together, we’re perfect.’ Atto kissed Liza and returned to work on his jacket. He was a believer in the miracle of their love story – a partnership forged out of exceptional circumstances. Under pressure they were a remarkable team. During those early years in Antarctica, they’d been inseparable, struggling against the ravages of the cold while trying to build a society out of the ruins of the old. Their efforts had been at the centre of shaping Hope Town, arguing that there were many necessities to human survival. They’d been ridiculed by the other two settlements, but during the winter their people survived while others succumbed to depression. In Hope Town survival had never been reduced to a calorie count and a question of warmth. With almost no technological infrastructure in Hope Town, there was no way of contacting Echo. There were no personal phones. Communication networks were rudimentary and limited to linking the three Survivor Towns with McMurdo City who would send telegram-style messages, issuing instructions, a collection date for the volunteers or a demand for a crop harvest only grown on the Peninsula – the flowers and lichen on the most northern rock outcrops. There was no longer any orbital satellite network, destroyed during the alien occupation. Officials used wires and radios as they had done in the past. To play together, children would set meeting places – six in the afternoon by the last house on Cannery Row – and gather there in snow boots and seal-pelt coats, waiting for their friends to assemble before setting off on their cross-country skis. Adults would make appointments and worry, with good reason, when the other person didn’t show. A spoken arrangement became a contract; people took them seriously, aware that they couldn’t push it back thirty minutes or simply not show, explaining it away with a text message. Missing an appointment in Hope Town was taboo: the first thought was always that the person might have died. After an hour, normally, search parties were dispatched. Echo was six hours late. * * * Atto asked: ‘Was she alone?’ ‘She was with Tetu.’ ‘He’s in love with her, you know that, right?’ ‘Everyone knows that.’ ‘Everyone except her.’ ‘She knows it. She just doesn’t know what to make of it.’ ‘Did you have that


in it, and a couple of big arm-chairs; a Turkey carpet adorned the floor, and the walls were decorated with sporting prints. Mr. Carter was sitting at the desk and got up to shake hands with Philip. He was dressed in a long frock coat. He looked like a military man; his moustache was waxed, his gray hair was short and nut, he held himself upright, he talked in a breezy way, he lived at Enfield. He was very keen on games and the good of the country. He was an officer in the Hertfordshire Yeomanry and chairman of the Conservative Association. When he was told that a local magnate had said no one would take him for a City man, he felt that he had not lived in vain. He talked to Philip in a pleasant, off-hand fashion. Mr. Goodworthy would look after him. Watson was a nice fellow, perfect gentleman, good sportsman--did Philip hunt? Pity, _the_ sport for gentlemen. Didn't have much chance of hunting now, had to leave that to his son. His son was at Cambridge, he'd sent him to Rugby, fine school Rugby, nice class of boys there, in a couple of years his son would be articled, that would be nice for Philip, he'd like his son, thorough sportsman. He hoped Philip would get on well and like the work, he mustn't miss his lectures, they were getting up the tone of the profession, they wanted gentlemen in it. Well, well, Mr. Goodworthy was there. If he wanted to know anything Mr. Goodworthy would tell him. What was his handwriting like? Ah well, Mr. Goodworthy would see about that. Philip was overwhelmed by so much gentlemanliness: in East Anglia they knew who were gentlemen and who weren't, but the gentlemen didn't talk about it. CHAPTER XXXVII AT FIRST the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of accounts. Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy who made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of the more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he came to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which were in low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to add up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthy repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to it. Philip left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo. His supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National Gallery. Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled out of Ruskin's works, and with this in hand he went industriously through room after


forward. “Hey, it’s Ethan from homicide.” “Oh! Hey, Ethan, I heard you were back. And evidently working the same hours! Good for you, man. What can I do for you?” Macedo’s warm tone gives no indication that he’s holding a grudge or something, like the people in his own office. “I was wondering if you could give me some information on a death that occurred about a month ago.” “Sure.” “Great. The name of the deceased is Samuel David Lucas, and he died on October 27th.” Ethan hears Macedo’s fingertips tap against his keyboard. “Yep. Got the report right here. There’s not much to it. Oh, yeah. I remember this one. I was the one who picked up his body from Bayside. His cause of death was sepsis. IV drug user.” Ethan goes still. “Bayside?” “Yeah. He’d been in the ICU for a couple of days before we got the call. He was brought to the ER after passing out at a bus stop.” Ethan brings his hand to his temple. If he was brought to the ER two days before he died, it was likely during Sloane’s shift. “There was no next of kin so we—” “Thanks, Macedo. I gotta run, but I really appreciate your help.” Ethan slams his laptop closed and stands from his chair while slipping his phone into his pocket. “See ya tomorrow, Marks,” one of his coworkers says as he marches out of the homicide unit. “Good night,” Ethan calls over his shoulder. He throws the door open to the seventh-floor parking area adjacent to the homicide unit, seething with rage as he rushes to his car. Sloane lied about everything. Carr hadn’t brought a gun to their home that night. Sloane was so desperate to get rid of Brody Carr that she stole a gun off her patient in the ER. She planned the whole damn thing. Chapter 51 Perched on one of her barstools, Sloane smiles at Ethan when he walks into the kitchen. “I have something to tell you. Two things, actually.” He presses his trembling hands against the kitchen island countertop, trying to control the anger seething through his body. He’s never been this enraged in his life. “Like that you lied about Carr bringing a gun to our house? That you actually stole it from a gang member who came into the ER?” Her face falters, but only for a moment. “How do you know that?” Ethan recognizes he’s more livid now that she’s not even bothering to deny it. “Did you lure him over here that night? You must have.” She stares back at him. “Yes.” He takes a deep breath. “Why wasn’t there a record of that on his phone?” “I told him to get a second unregistered phone after you were assigned to Chelsea’s case. And I got one too.” Ethan backs away from the counter and paces back and forth, tempted to throw one of Sloane’s stupid barstools through the window. “Only so I could make sure he wasn’t going to falsely incriminate me. For a while,


visited and cheered as he climbed a wall with his new

prosthetic leg. Six years after that flight, as promised, he was running a

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marathon. Not the London marathon, which would’ve been miraculous on

its own. He was running his own marathon, along a route he’d designed

himself, in the outline of a poppy laid over the city of London.

A staggering thirty-one miles, he’d done the full circuit to raise money

and awareness—and heart rates.

I’m in shock, he said on finding me there.

You’re in shock? I said. That makes two of us.

Seeing him out there, still being a soldier, despite no longer being a

soldier—that was the answer to the riddle with which I’d been struggling so

long.

Question: How do you stop being a soldier, when a soldier is all you’ve

ever been or wanted to be?

Answer: You don’t.

Even when you stop being a soldier, you don’t have to stop being a

soldier. Ever.

78.

A N AFGHANISTAN WAR SERVICE at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and then a

reception at the Guildhall hosted by the City of London Corporation,

and then the launch of Walking With The Wounded’s Walk Of Britain, and

then a visit to England’s rugby team, and then watching them practice for a

match against France, and then following them to Twickenham and cheering

them on, and then a memorial for the Olympian Richard Meade, the most

successful equestrian in British history, and then a trip with Pa to Turkey to

attend ceremonies marking the hundredth anniversary of Gallipoli, and then

a meeting with descendants of the men who fought in that epic battle, and

then back to London to hand out medals to runners at the London Marathon.

That was the start of my 2015.

Just the highlights.

The papers were awash with stories about Willy being lazy, and the press

had taken to calling him


she made her way to the old storefront where they were supposed to leave the contraband. Maybe he’d already gone through the checkpoint, maybe he was waiting for her there… Lore rounded the last corner before the old storefront came into view. Scarlet jackets, polished guns. A cart carrying mostly empty boxes. JeanPaul’s red hair. He looked up to see her, a stocky middle-aged white man who’d been running for Val since before Lore came along, and though his expression was carefully neutral, fear sheened his eyes and made them nearly animal. Too late, too late, too late. For a moment, Lore couldn’t do anything but stand there. As one of the guards turned toward her, she ducked into an alley, pressing her back against the grimed brick, breathing hard enough to sting her throat. “Shit,” she spat, quick and hoarse. “Shit.” Holding her breath, Lore peered out of the alleyway. It looked like JeanPaul had made it through the checkpoint without being searched, but then the bloodcoats had realized their error and caught him right when he reached the storefront. Even if she’d gotten here on time, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Jean-Paul, to his credit, managed to keep that calm expression even as the bloodcoats poked through the boxes. The big man had his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet, a simple trader just waiting for the search to be over. He kept his head tipped down under the brim of his hat to hide his terrified eyes. She should abandon him. She knew that. It was one of Val’s earliest lessons. If a job went south, it was every man for himself. But she couldn’t make herself run. Jean-Paul had a husband and a young son, and if he was caught, he’d be sent to the Burnt Isles. Lore couldn’t just leave someone to a fate like that. “Shit.” Lore cursed one final time, landing hard on the t, then ducked out of the alley and into the crowd. The bloodcoats didn’t pay her any attention as she sidled up, as inconspicuous as she could manage. One of them, a burly man with a curling mustache beneath his small, pale nose, held up a dummy box full of nearly sprouting potatoes and cocked an eyebrow. “If you were making my deliveries, old man,” he sneered, “I’d be very concerned you were skimming them.” The boxes with the contraband were always on the top. The bloodcoats never expected it, always checked the boxes on the bottom first, assuming the poison would be as hidden as possible. That way, if you were found in the middle of a job, chances were the lode had already been moved to the drop point. “Alaric needed boxes,” Jean-Paul said, deadpan. Alaric was the name they always used if stopped and asked whose business they were about. “Wanted to store something. The potatoes were just to hold them down on the cart.” All the boxes were off the cart now. Curly Mustache’s cohorts started poking through the new


for some reason or other. He presently stood at the door immediately beneath me, smoking his pipe, and Biddy stood there too, quietly talking to him, and I knew that they talked of me, for I heard my name mentioned in an endearing tone by both of them more than once. I would not have listened for more, if I could have heard more: so, I drew away from the window, and sat down in my one chair by the bedside, feeling it very sorrowful and strange that this first night of my bright fortunes should be the loneliest I had ever known. Looking towards the open window, I saw light wreaths from Joe's pipe floating there, and I fancied it was like a blessing from Joe - not obtruded on me or paraded before me, but pervading the air we shared together. I put my light out, and crept into bed; and it was an uneasy bed now, and I never slept the old sound sleep in it any more. Chapter 19 Morning made a considerable difference in my general prospect of Life, and brightened it so much that it scarcely seemed the same. What lay heaviest on my mind, was, the consideration that six days intervened between me and the day of departure; for, I could not divest myself of a misgiving that something might happen to London in the meanwhile, and that, when I got there, it would be either greatly deteriorated or clean gone. Joe and Biddy were very sympathetic and pleasant when I spoke of our approaching separation; but they only referred to it when I did. After breakfast, Joe brought out my indentures from the press in the best parlour, and we put them in the fire, and I felt that I was free. With all the novelty of my emancipation on me, I went to church with Joe, and thought, perhaps the clergyman wouldn't have read that about the rich man and the kingdom of Heaven, if he had known all. After our early dinner I strolled out alone, purposing to finish off the marshes at once, and get them done with. As I passed the church, I felt (as I had felt during service in the morning) a sublime compassion for the poor creatures who were destined to go there, Sunday after Sunday, all their lives through, and to lie obscurely at last among the low green mounds. I promised myself that I would do something for them one of these days, and formed a plan in outline for bestowing a dinner of roast-beef and plumpudding, a pint of ale, and a gallon of condescension, upon everybody in the village. If I had often thought before, with something allied to shame, of my companionship with the fugitive whom I had once seen limping among those graves, what were my thoughts on this Sunday, when the place recalled the wretch, ragged and shivering, with his felon iron and badge! My comfort was, that it happened a long time ago, and that he had doubtless been


guess, no doubt, but I am almost certain that this address has been written in a hotel." "How in the world can you say that?" "If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single word and has run dry three times in a short address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated Times leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent this singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What's this?" He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes. "Well?" "Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is a blank half- sheet of paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in London?" "Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not." "You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?" "I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel," said our visitor. "Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?" "We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before we go into this matter?" "Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting." "I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth reporting." Sir Henry smiled. "I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here." "You have lost one of your boots?" "My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. You will find it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?" "Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine." "Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem. You have lost one of your boots, you say?" "Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last night, and there was only one in the morning. I could get no sense out of the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never had them on." "If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be cleaned?" "They were tan boots


detectors useless. Liv’s body had been shipped off so that a proper autopsy could be conducted, but no one was expecting to find anything but the obvious. Even when we sat in silence, those few minutes that punctuated the day were easier than the hours that stretched on alone. I found myself listening to Aftershocks, scrubbing past the descriptions of the crimes—which were mercifully brief—and listening to Ethan unfold the stories of what came after. It was his sincerity that sold it, I thought. During the interviews I could imagine those sincere eyes of his, inviting everyone from grieving mothers to remorseful killers to bare their souls for him. He was good at his job. It was almost disappointing. By the end of the week I was forced to admit that Ethan had been right. The task was too immense for me to figure out on my own with only the Doe Network profiles to go on. But Liv had known. Liv had found her. I knew what I had to do, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. I got myself cleaned up most of the way to respectable, even remembering to dab concealer over the dark circles under my eyes. My hair was getting shaggy at the back, but I finger-combed it into something resembling order and headed outside, my gait stiff. As I unlocked the car I glanced across the street and paused, faint unease scratching at the back of my mind. There was a black Toyota Camry parked across the street. It had been there yesterday, too. And the day before. It was just a car. Nothing weird. I started up my engine. In the rearview mirror, I watched as a man crossed the parking lot from the small park near the Corner Store, where there were a few benches and picnic tables. All of which had a clear view of the motel. I couldn’t make out much in the mirror. He was white, midthirties, with medium-brown hair cut a bit long and mirrored sunglasses. I’d seen him before, hadn’t I? The last few days, at the diner and the gas station. He’d been hanging around. The image of the boy in the striped shirt popped into my mind again. AJ Stahl. As I pulled out, he started up his car. I watched in the mirror as he turned out of the parking lot—following right behind me. My heart hammered. I reached for my phone, but stopped. Who would I call? What would I say that wouldn’t sound crazy? Then, a minute out from the Barnes house, the Camry slowed and turned, pulling off to a trailhead. I let out a breath, sinking back against the seat. You’re being paranoid, I scolded myself. I kept my eyes on the rearview, but the Camry never reappeared. The gate to the Barnes house was open. When I pulled up in front of the house, there was a casserole sitting on the front porch, covered in foil. It didn’t seem right to step over it, so I picked it up and


fire in a liquid form. She dropped the water treatment and everything else, and pinned her faith to Pain-killer. She gave Tom a teaspoonful and watched with the deepest anxiety for the result. Her troubles were instantly at rest, her soul at peace again; for the "indifference" was broken up. The boy could not have shown a wilder, heartier interest, if she had built a fire under him. Tom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of life might be romantic enough, in his blighted condition, but it was getting to have too little sentiment and too much distracting variety about it. So he thought over various plans for relief, and finally hit pon that of professing to be fond of Pain-killer. He asked for it so often that he became a nuisance, and his aunt ended by telling him to help himself and quit bothering her. If it had been Sid, she would have had no misgivings to alloy her delight; --------------------------------------------------------- -129- but since it was Tom, she watched the bottle clandestinely. She found that the medicine did really diminish, but it did not occur to her that the boy was mending the health of a crack in the sitting-room floor with it. One day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt's yellow cat came along, purring, eying the teaspoon avariciously, and begging for a taste. Tom said: "Don't ask for it unless you want it, Peter." But Peter signified that he did want it. "You better make sure." Peter was sure. "Now you've asked for it, and I'll give it to you, because there ain't anything mean about me; but if you find you don't like it, you mustn't blame anybody but your own self." Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down the Pain-killer. Peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging against furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc. Next he rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his unappeasable happiness. Then he went tearing around the house again spreading chaos and destruction in his path. Aunt Polly entered in time to see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah, and sail through the open --------------------------------------------------------- -130- window, carrying the rest of the flower-pots with him. The old lady stood petrified with astonishment, peering over her glasses; Tom lay on the floor expiring with laughter. "Tom, what on earth ails that cat?" "I don't know, aunt," gasped the boy. "Why, I never see anything like it. What did make him act so?" "Deed I don't know, Aunt Polly; cats always act so when they're having a good time." "They do, do they?" There was something in the tone that made Tom apprehensive. "Yes'm. That is, I believe they do." "You do?" "Yes'm." The old lady was bending down, Tom watching,


of us and everyone in line to hear, says, “Do you have a lost and found? Someone seems to have dropped this on the ride.” “Are we about to get kicked out of Lobster Fest?” I ask Wyn. His head falls back with another wave of laughter. “It was bound to happen eventually.” “End of an era,” I say. “Nah.” His eyes slice sideways. “Another beginning.” • • • WE’RE STILL GIGGLY when we spill out of the Rover in front of the cottage, Sabrina leaning heavily on me, Kimmy leaning even more heavily on Wyn behind us. We’re almost to the front steps when our fearless (braless) designated driver takes off toward the side of the house. “Where are you going?” Parth throws his arms out. “You have the keys!” Sabrina and I exchange a look, then take off after her, around the dark side of the house. Cleo throws the gate to the patio open, kicking her shoes off as she runs through, unbuttoning her pants. Sabrina thumps my arm to get me to run faster, and we round the bend in time to see Cleo, now pantsless, leap into the pool. The others come around the bend, and Sabrina spins toward Parth, uses her full weight to shove him in. Without hesitation, Kimmy cannonballs in after him, one shoe still on. Sabrina whirls on me. I shriek and swat her hands away. “We’re too old!” I cry. “Don’t make me do this!” I get hold of her wrists. Her yelp turns into laughter as we struggle at the water’s edge. I’m swept off my feet from behind. An arm tight around my rib cage, a clovey smell, as I’m pitched off-balance. We fall together, tangled, breathless. The water folds around us, and I open my eyes beneath the surface, turning in his arms. Everything is glitter, shimmering bits of silver blue at first, and then there he is, paled by the pool’s strange light. His hair waves out, dancing around his face, and bubbles slip from his nose and the corners of his mouth. He catches my hands and draws me closer. I don’t even think about holding myself back. I’d like to blame the weed, but I can’t. It’s him and me. My thighs skate over his, nesting loose against his hips. He brings my hands to the back of his neck, and we sink like that, descending from the glowing legs treading water. He pulls me flush to him, his heart pumping against my collarbone. And then we’ve reached the bottom of the pool. We can’t go any deeper. He pushes off against the tile, sending us back to the surface. Cold air, laughter, screeching from the edge of the pool, where Kimmy and Cleo have now teamed up to get Sabrina into the water. And I don’t feel young. I feel alive. Jolted awake. My skin, muscles, organs, bones, all somehow more concrete here. Wyn’s face and eyelashes glisten, his shirt plastered to him. His fingers are gentle on my jaw, his thumb tracing over my


thought that George was getting nicer and nicer! "Well, now we'll get down to business," said Julian, and he pulled out his map. "We must study this really carefully, and find out exactly under what spot the entrances to the dungeons are. Now- come around and let's do our best to find out! It's up to us to use our brains- and beat that man who's bought the island!" They all bent over the traced map. It was quite dry now, and the children looked at it earnestly. It was plain that in the old days the castle had been a very fine place. "Now look," said Julian, putting his finger on the plan of the dungeons. "These seem to run all along under the castle- and here- and here- are the marks that seem to be meant to represent steps or stairs." "Yes," said George. "I should think they are. Well, if so, there appear to be two ways of getting down into the dungeons. One lot of steps seems to begin somewhere near this little room- and the other seems to start under the tower there. And what do you suppose this thing is here, Julian?" She put her finger on a round hole that was shown not only in the plan of the dungeons, but also in the plan of the ground floor of the castle. "I can't imagine what that is," said Julian, puzzled. "Oh yes, I know what it might be! You said there was an old well somewhere, do you remember? Well, that may be it, I should think. It would have to be very deep to get fresh water right under the sea- so it probably goes down through the dungeons too. Isn't this thrilling?" Everyone thought it was. They felt happy and excited. There was something to discover- something they could and must discover within the next day or two. They looked at one another. "Well," said Dick, "what are we going to start on? Shall we try to find the entrance to the dungeons- the one that seems to start round about this little room? For all we know there may be a big stone we can lift that opens above the dungeon steps!" This was a thrilling thought, and the children jumped up at once. Julian folded up the precious map and put it into his pocket. He looked round. The stone floor of the little room was overgrown with creeping weeds. They must be cleared away before it was possible to see if there were any stones that looked as if they might be moved. "We'd better set to work," said Julian, and he picked up a spade. "Let's clear away these weeds with our spades- scrape them off, look, like this- and then examine every single stone!" They all picked up spades and soon the little stone room was full of a scraping sound as the four of them chiselled away at the close-growing weeds with their spades. It wasn't very difficult to get the stones clear of them, and


a thing as that. But, perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man gives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the dyspeptic old woman, he must have broken his digester. As I sat there in that now lonely room; the fire burning low, in that mild stage when, after its first intensity has warmed the air, it then only glows to be looked at; the evening shades and phantoms gathering round the casements, and peering in upon us silent, solitary twain; the storm booming without in solemn swells; I began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me. No more my splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world. This soothing savage had redeemed it. There he sat, his very indifference speaking a nature in which there lurked no civilized hypocrisies and bland deceits. Wild he was; a very sight of sights to see; yet I began to feel myself mysteriously drawn towards him. And those same things that would have repelled most others, they were the very magnets that thus drew me. I'll try a pagan friend, thought I, since Christian kindness has proved but hollow courtesy. I drew my bench near him, and made some friendly signs and hints, doing my best to talk with him meanwhile. At first he little noticed these advances; but presently, upon my referring to his last .. <p 51 > night's hospitalities, he made out to ask me whether we were again to be bedfellows. I told him yes; whereat I thought he looked pleased, perhaps a little complimented. We then turned over the book together, and I endeavored to explain to him the purpose of the printing, and the meaning of the few pictures that were in it. Thus I soon engaged his interest; and from that we went to jabbering the best we could about the various outer sights to be seen in this famous town. Soon I proposed a social smoke; and, producing his pouch and tomahawk, he quietly offered me a puff. And then we sat exchanging puffs from that wild pipe of his, and keeping it regularly passing between us. If there yet lurked any ice of indifference towards me in the Pagan's breast, this pleasant, genial smoke we had, soon thawed it out, and left us cronies. He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and unbiddenly as I to him; and when our smoke was over, he pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country's phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be. In a countryman, this sudden flame of friendship would have seemed far too premature, a thing to be much distrusted; but in this simple savage those old rules would not apply. After supper, and another social chat and smoke, we went to


spoken, I watched the Professor's face, and saw it turn ashen gray. He had been able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady was present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be. He actually smiled on her as he held open the door for her to pass into her room. But the instant she had disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining room and closed the door. Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat his palms together in a helpless way. Finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his hands before his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs that seemed to come from the very racking of his heart. Then he raised his arms again, as though appealing to the whole universe. "God! God! God!" he said. "What have we done, what has this poor thing done, that we are so sore beset? Is there fate amongst us still, send down from the pagan world of old, that such things must be, and in such way? This poor mother, all unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does such thing as lose her daughter body and soul, and we must not tell her, we must not even warn her, or she die, then both die. Oh, how we are beset! How are all the powers of the devils against us!" Suddenly he jumped to his feet. "Come," he said."come, we must see and act. Devils or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not. We must fight him all the same." He went to the hall door for his bag, and together we went up to Lucy's room. Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the bed. This time he did not start as he looked on the poor face with the same awful, waxen pallor as before. He wore a look of stern sadness and infinite pity. "As I expected," he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his which meant so much. Without a word he went and locked the door, and then began to set out on the little table the instruments for yet another operation of transfusion of blood. I had long ago recognized the necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a warning hand. "No!" he said. "Today you must operate. I shall provide. You are weakened already." As he spoke he took off his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeve. Again the operation. Again the narcotic. Again some return of color to the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. This time I watched whilst Van Helsing recruited himself and rested. Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she must not remove anything from Lucy's room without consulting him. That the flowers were of medicinal value, and that the breathing


I can’t be apart from you again. Whatever that looks like. Whatever it takes. I’m all in.’ ” My face is blazing, and Mary Stuart is frozen on the ledge of the firepit, like if she just doesn’t move maybe none of this will be real. “Lanier, I—” She wads the paper up and throws it in the fire, which sort of riles me. That’s my note. “One thing, Daphne. I have only ever asked you for one thing.” This is so categorically untrue that I want to laugh in her face. She asks me for things all the time. And I do them willingly with a smile on my face because that’s what friends do. “Why is it that you can’t just stay away from my brother?” I start to chime in, but Mary Stuart comes to my defense. “Because she loves him, Lanier. Because he loves her. Because they broke up and neither of them has been happy since.” “You knew?” she asks Mary Stuart. “I didn’t know they were together, but good Lord, Lanier, everyone knows they’re in love. And when things were rocky with Daphne, I kind of got where you were coming from. But we’re older now. We’re all in a different place. You can’t really play the card that Daphne will drag Huff down with her. She hasn’t so much as looked at a drink in years. We practically had to shove a Tylenol in her after Henry was born and she was hurting all over, for heaven’s sake. She will never go there again because of him. And because of us. And because she has yoga and journaling and therapy and whatever the hell else she does constantly, every day, to keep herself on track. She was twenty-three. You’ve punished her enough.” I’m floored by Mary Stuart standing up for me this way. And I’m also grateful. Because yes, yes to all those things. I try to be compassionate. “Lanier, I understand your concern, but—” “No! You do not understand my concern because you don’t have a brother.” That is technically true. But it burns through me, breaks my heart. “What is so wrong with me, Lanier? What is so bad about your best friend, the person who knows all your secrets, who you always run to first? What is so wrong with me that I’m not good enough for Huff?” Lanier looks as if she’s going to burst open. “We’re back here again, the two of you keeping secrets from me. Do you know how it feels for the two people you love the most to just leave you totally out in the cold?” I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me. “No, that’s great, Daphne, let’s just go right back there. Call me in six months when he’s dying to get married and you’re on the verge of falling apart. Can’t wait to clean that up. Again.” I am expecting her to be upset, so I’m trying to maintain my composure despite my heart beating out of my chest.


called out cheerily. ‘Anyone fancy a bacon roll?’ Everyone stared for a moment, then Josie called, ‘Fergal – have you seen Nadine?’ ‘Ah, yes…’ He waved his fork. ‘Come aboard.’ Penny squeezed her husband’s hand: George looked as if he would cry. Devlin was on his feet. ‘Are you looking for the pig? We’ve got her here. She came down an hour ago.’ Finn licked his lips. ‘Come and join us. There’s nothing like bacon, the way my da cooks it, with plenty of fat and a bit of ketchup.’ ‘Nadine!’ George groaned, putting his hand to his face. Penny wrapped an arm around him to comfort him. ‘Fergal…’ Josie put her hands on her hips. ‘Where is Nadine exactly?’ ‘Follow me…’ Fergal winked. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, though…’ ‘Oh, George,’ Penny moaned. Fergal led Josie down the steps as George and Penny followed, their faces nervous, searching for a glimpse of the pig, or what was left of her. Below, the accommodation was divided into sections, two bedrooms, three beds, a galley kitchen, a table, chairs. Fergal pointed to the smaller bedroom, where a double bed was pushed against a wall, wooden panels below, yellow paintwork above. On the bed was a grey duvet and lying on the duvet, snorting softly through a pink snout, was Nadine, her eyes closed, pointed ears and pale lashes, trotters sticking out and a smile curving her face. ‘She’s asleep.’ George gasped and ran to the pig, stroking the rough hair of the skin. ‘Nadine – oh, Nadine, you’re all right.’ ‘She’s better than all right.’ Fergal laughed. ‘She came down here, ate half a box of cornflakes and got herself onto my bed and now she’s away with the fairies. I didn’t have the heart to wake her.’ ‘I thought she was…’ George faltered, rolling his eyes upwards to indicate heaven or the upper deck, sniffing the cooking food dramatically through flared nostrils. ‘We thought you were frying her in the pan…’ Penny explained, tucking an arm through George’s protectively. ‘Ah, we wouldn’t do that to Nadine,’ Fergal said cheerfully. ‘She’s part of the village community now.’ Finn appeared with cans of beer which he’d found in a kitchen cupboard, handing them round with a grin. ‘Get your mouths around a lager each. And then come upstairs – Devlin’s shovelling bacon into butties for you all.’ ‘If you wouldn’t mind…’ George said quietly. ‘I’ll just have a beer – unless you have anything vegetarian I can put in a bread roll.’ 34 Florence shifted uncomfortably in bed. Her back ached badly and she twisted from one side to the other, but she couldn’t relax. It was past midnight – she could hear Dangerous Dave snoring in the next room like a busy buzz saw. She clambered out slowly, easing herself upright; she’d go down to the kitchen for another cup of water. She padded onto the landing, then a pain made her double over and grasp the vertical rails of the staircase. She stayed where she was, recovering for a few minutes, then


hands until they are red, selects an album of nerve-soothing easy-listening piano for the through-house music system, takes a tablet of Prozac, brews a pot of tea, and opens a tin of butter cookies that have been finished with a cinnamon glaze and sprinkled with sea salt. Before indulging in this predawn repast, he descends to the windowless room in the finished basement, where he opens a secret panel with a touch latch and then opens the heavily insulated steel door that is thus revealed. In the love nest, he strips the sheets off the bed and loads them in the washing machine that he uses only for this task. He’s finicky about consigning his own garments to the same machine that he uses to launder the bedclothes in which have lain the women he keeps here. Upstairs once more, seated at the kitchen table with tea and cookies, he laments the passing of Lenore, whom he had kept in the basement for seven delightful months. She was especially lovely and, once properly trained, precisely as submissive as he requires. All things must come to an end, however, for he is a man who needs a certain degree of variety. Royce is thirty, heir to a trust fund that spares him from the need to work. However, with financial independence comes the worry that those who seem to like you actually have contempt for you and are nice to you only because you have money. Dating is a dangerous enterprise for a young man of his position. Fortunately, he has the skills and courage to resolve the problem with such as Lenore. He adopted this style of courtship when he was twenty-one, and in the past nine years has had the pleasure of twelve beauties. He terminates these relationships by strangulation, which is less messy than most alternatives but also invigorating for reasons that he finds difficult to explain. He dislikes messiness, and when he’s not in his current girlfriend’s room, engaged in six- or eight-hour sessions of amorous pursuits, he spends a lot of time cleaning the house. Fortunately, he enjoys housekeeping, which eliminates the need to have a domestic employee. His residence is spotless. Royce believes in doing things the right way, with diligence and care. In the case of his previous eleven girlfriends, after breaking up with them, he removed them from his life with such forethought and care that only one was ever found. To this day, he can’t imagine how Jennifer—the second Jennifer, not the first—floated into Dana Point Harbor on a Sunday morning, after he had, on Friday, packed her in a metal steamer trunk and buried her at sea, ten miles south of there and nine miles from land. The trunk was bound in chains to which were attached six twenty-pound barbells; a hydraulic hand truck with a five-hundred-pound capacity was needed to get that package onto his boat and later raise it over the gunwale to slide it into the sea. If Royce believed in ghosts, he might wonder if the spirit of Harry


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

as much as possible. "Wait till the summer," said Mrs. Hall, sagely, "when the artisks are beginning to come. Then we'll see. He may be a bit overbearing, but bills settled punctual is bills settled punctual, whatever you like to say." The stranger did not go to church, and indeed made no difference between Sunday and the irreligious days, even in costume. He worked, as Mrs. Hall thought, very fitfully. Some days he would come down early and be continuously busy. On others he would rise late, pace his room, fretting audibly for hours together, smoke, sleep in the armchair by the fire. Communication with the world beyond the village he had none. His temper continued very uncertain; for the most part his manner was that of a man suffering under almost unendurable provocation, and once or twice things were snapped, torn, crushed, or broken in spasmodic gusts of violence. He seemed under a chronic irritation of the greatest intensity. His habit of talking to himself in a low voice grew steadily upon him, but though Mrs. Hall listened conscientiously she could make neither head nor tail of what she heard. He rarely went abroad by daylight, but at twilight he would go out muffled up enormously, whether the weather were cold or not, and he chose the loneliest paths and those most overshadowed by trees and banks. His goggling spectacles and ghastly bandaged face under the penthouse of his hat, came with a disagreeable suddenness out of the darkness upon one or two home-going labourers; and Teddy Henfrey, tumbling out of the Scarlet Coat one night at half-past nine, was scared shamefully by the stranger's skull-like head (he was walking hat in hand) lit by the sudden light of the opened door. Such children as saw him at nightfall dreamt of bogies, and it seemed doubtful whether he disliked boys more than they disliked him, or the reverse--but there was certainly a vivid enough dislike on either side. It was inevitable that a person of so remarkable an appearance and bearing should form a frequent topic in such a village as Iping. Opinion was greatly divided about his occupation. Mrs. Hall was sensitive on the point. When questioned, she explained very carefully that he was an "experimental investigator," going gingerly over the syllables as one who dreads pitfalls. When asked what an experimental investigator was, she would say with a touch of superiority that most educated people knew that, and would then explain that he "discovered things." Her visitor had had an accident, she said, which temporarily discoloured his face and hands; and being of a sensitive disposition, he was averse to any public notice of the fact. Out of her hearing there was a view largely entertained that he was a criminal trying to escape from justice by wrapping himself up so as to conceal himself altogether from the eye of the police. This idea sprang from the brain of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. No crime of any magnitude dating from the middle or end of February was known to have


would have perished, had not his sons in that moment come up with force to his aid; and the Balrogs left him, and departed to Angband. Then his sons raised up their father and bore him back towards Mithrim. But as they drew near to Eithel Sirion and were upon the upward path to the pass over the mountains, Fanor bade them halt; for his wounds were mortal, and he knew that his hour was come. And looking out from the slopes of Ered Wethrin with his last sight he beheld far off the peaks of Thangorodrim, mightiest of the towers of Middle-earth, and knew with the foreknowledge of death that no power of the Noldor would ever overthrow them; but he cursed the name of Morgoth thrice, and laid it upon his sons to hold to their oath, and to avenge their father. Then he died; but he had neither burial nor tomb, for so fiery was his spirit that as it sped his body fell to ash, and was borne away like smoke; and his likeness has never again appeared in Arda, neither has his spirit left the halls of Mandos. Thus ended the mightiest of the Noldor, of whose deeds came both their greatest renown and their most grievous woe. Now in Mithrim there dwelt Grey-elves, folk of Beleriand that had wandered north over the mountains, and the Noldor met them with gladness, as kinsfolk long sundered; but speech at first was not easy between them, for in their long severance the tongues of the Calaquendi in Valinor and of the Moriquendi in Beleriand had drawn far apart. From the Elves of Mithrim the Noldor learned of the power of Elu Thingol, King in Doriath, and the girdle of enchantment that fenced his realm; and tidings of these great deeds in the north came south to Menegroth, and to the havens of Brithombar and Eglarest. Then all the Elves of Beleriand were filled with wonder and with hope at the coming of their mighty kindred, who thus returned unlocked-for from the West in the very hour of their need, believing indeed at first that they came as emissaries of the Valar to deliver them. But even in the hour of the death of Fanor an embassy came to his sons from Morgoth, acknowledging defeat, and offering terms, even to the surrender of a Silmaril. Then Maedhros the tall, the eldest son, persuaded his brothers to feign to treat with Morgoth, and to meet his emissaries at the place appointed; but the Noldor had as little thought of faith as had he. Wherefore each embassy came with greater force than was agreed; but Morgoth sent the more, and there were Balrogs. Maedhros was ambushed, and all his company were slain; but he himself was taken alive by the command of Morgoth, and brought to Angband. Then the brothers of Maedhros drew back, and fortified a great camp in Hithlum; but Morgoth held Maedhros as hostage, and sent word that he would not release him unless the Noldor would forsake their


them in spring. Oh, Marilla, can't you just imagine you see them? It actually takes away my breath. I named it Violet Vale. Diana says she never saw the beat of me for hitting on fancy names for places. It's nice to be clever at something, isn't it? But Diana named the Birch Path. She wanted to, so I let her; but I'm sure I could have found something more poetical than plain Birch Path. Anybody can think of a name like that. But the Birch Path is one of the prettiest places in the world, Marilla." It was. Other people besides Anne thought so when they stumbled on it. It was a little narrow, twisting path, winding down over a long hill straight through Mr. Bell's woods, where the light came down sifted through so many emerald screens that it was as flawless as the heart of a diamond. It was fringed in all its length with slim young birches, white stemmed and lissom boughed; ferns and starflowers and wild lilies-of-the-valley and scarlet tufts of pigeonberries grew thickly along it; and always there was a delightful spiciness in the air and music of bird calls and the murmur and laugh of wood winds in the trees overhead. Now and then you might see a rabbit skipping across the road if you were quiet-which, with Anne and Diana, happened about once in a blue moon. Down in the valley the path came out to the main road and then it was just up the spruce hill to the school. The Avonlea school was a whitewashed building, low in the eaves and wide in the windows, furnished inside with comfortable substantial old-fashioned desks that opened and shut, and were carved all over their lids with the initials and hieroglyphics of three generations of school children. The schoolhouse was set back from the road and behind it was a dusky fir wood and a brook where all the children put their bottles of milk in the morning to keep cool and sweet until dinner hour. Marilla had seen Anne start off to school on the first day of September with many secret misgivings. Anne was such an odd girl. How would she get on with the other children? And how on earth would she ever manage to hold her tongue during school hours? Things went better than Marilla feared, however. Anne came home that evening in high spirits. "I think I'm going to like school here," she announced. "I don't think much of the master, through. He's all the time curling his mustache and making eyes at Prissy Andrews. Prissy is grown up, you know. She's sixteen and she's studying for the entrance examination into Queen's Academy at Charlottetown next year. Tillie Boulter says the master is DEAD GONE on her. She's got a beautiful complexion and curly brown hair and she does it up so elegantly. She sits in the long seat at the back and he sits there, too, most of the time-to explain her lessons, he says. But Ruby Gillis says


looks at me. “Felix?” “He was supposed to run the office.” My mind runs in circles. “He missed his shift. I thought he quit.” Bezi puts her hand on my shoulder, and I press the button to look at the next picture even though I’m scared to death of what I might see. The photo’s a blur. The hooded figures are hazy, and Felix is lying on his back on the platform in the exact same spot where we’d found the bloody spot someone had tried to wash away. There’s nothing after that. I turn the camera off and set it back down. I have to grip the edge of the counter to steady myself as a terrible thought claws its way to the front of my mind. “Heather and Jordan were no-shows too.” Bezi blinks once, twice, and then three times before she makes the connection. “We need to keep moving,” I say, pushing all those other thoughts aside. “Let’s find Porter and Paige and get out of here.” Bezi nods, and we leave the kitchen, continuing down the hall. I find a narrow doorway near the rear of the lodge that is fitted with a series of dead bolts, but each of them is in the open position. I exchange glances with Bezi, then put my palm against the door, grasping the handle with my other hand. I ease it open, hoping it doesn’t protest too loudly. As I slowly pull it open, a faint orange light permeates the dark somewhere below. A narrow flight of stairs leads down into a hallway. I take the steps one at a time, easing myself onto each one, then pausing as Bezi follows behind me. When we emerge into the hallway below, there is only one door at the very end, and it is sitting open. A chorus of voices filters out, and the sound echoes down the hall. I can’t make out what is being said but it sounds rhythmic, almost like a song. I grip my hands together to steady the trembling. From where I’m standing, I can just make out the subtle movement of shadows against the rear wall of the room at the end of the hall. I duck down, pressing my back to the wall. “There are people in there,” I whisper as Bezi ducks down beside me. “What are they doing?” she whispers back. I slowly stand and, keeping my back to the wall, make my way to the open door. Peering around the corner, I expect to find myself looking into another room, but instead there is a large rough-cut void, a cavernous opening that looks like it was carved out of the bedrock. It’s sunken even lower than the hall we’re standing in. A sloping ramp leads down to the floor of the cave-like room lit by a series of torches. There’s a large structure in the center of the earthen floor. It looks like a wide wooden plank sticking straight out of the ground. Four figures in hooded black robes stand staring up at


And an Arceneaux Consecration is a special occasion; I shouldn’t expect it to be the same as others I’ve seen.” It sounded like Gabriel had gotten very good at rationalizing whatever Anton did. The man could probably strip naked and waltz around the South Sanctuary, and Gabriel would think it had some higher spiritual purpose. Lore pulled off the cork of the wine bottle with her teeth. It smelled vinegary, and her nose wrinkled when she poured it. “It’s shit,” she warned, handing a glass to Gabriel, “but so is this day.” She half expected him to refuse—she wasn’t clear on how the Presque Mort felt about alcohol—and for a moment, it looked like he would, eyeing the glass balefully. “If you don’t help me drink this, I’ll just throw back the whole bottle,” Lore said. “I promise you don’t want that. I sing when I’m drunk, and I’m a very bad singer.” Gabriel studied the glass a moment longer before plucking it from her fingers. “Fine.” He tossed back a swallow, pulling a face. “Apollius’s wounds, that’s awful.” “But it is better than thinking about the situation in which we find ourselves.” Lore sat back on the carpet with her own glass, crossing her legs beneath her borrowed skirt. “I still don’t know how I’m supposed to get close to Bastian. Or why we had to attend his extremely… eccentric… Consecration.” “It won’t be hard,” Gabriel said darkly, taking another sip of wine. He avoided the subject of the Consecration entirely. “Like August said, Bastian likes pretty people. Just let him come to you.” “That could’ve been a compliment, if you didn’t say pretty with the same tone that most people say pus.” Lore tossed back the rest of her vinegary wine and poured more. “But this is the most words you’ve said to me since yesterday, so I suppose I should be grateful.” Gabriel said nothing, staring down into the crimson depths of his glass. “Being here is… difficult,” he said finally. They sat in silence for a moment. “I’m sorry,” Lore murmured. He looked at her, then, brows lowered. “Sorry for what?” “That you have to stay here. With me.” He snorted. “You’re not the worst company in the Citadel.” “You really need to work on your compliments.” Gabriel lifted his wine her direction, a mock toast. She raised her glass in kind, and they both drank. It was strangely easy, being with the Mort. He wasn’t one to talk, but his silence was soothing, like sitting with an old friend, someone you’d known for ages. Lore frowned into her wine. She’d barely known Gabriel for two whole days; their relationship began with a fight in an alley. And he was obviously deeply loyal to Anton, while Lore didn’t really trust the Priest Exalted or his brother. Getting too comfortable with the one-eyed Mort was surely not a good idea—and she knew better, besides. What was it about him that made her want to toss out years of experience teaching her trust was a commodity to be hoarded? It


“Look at me, I’m Celine. I want to be friends with Brad, but I would rather choke to death on a crab stick—” Her braids whip my shoulder as she spins around to face me. “Why would I be eating a crab stick? I hate crab sticks!” “I know,” I explain patiently, “that’s the point. Now shut up and let me finish.” I clear my throat and start again. “I’m Celine and I would rather choke to death on a crab stick than admit I like Brad because I think I can replace all emotional conversations with power moves and epic stink eye.” “Oh my God.” Her voice lowers to a hiss, like air rushing out of a hot-air balloon. “Fine! Okay! You’re not so bad and I…I might understand why you did what you did when we were kids, and I…forgive you. Okay? So will you shut up?” Did I just annoy Celine into saying we’re cool? I think I might have. Funny how it’s not as satisfying as I imagined. “Maybe.” I shrug. “Maybe?” “Hey. You’re not the only one who can hedge.” “Ugh. Can we just…talk for five minutes without you making me think about myself?” she asks, which is a sentence I never thought I’d hear come out of her mouth. She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not like you. I really don’t have the whole emotional intelligence thing down.” I blink, and the tension in me pops like a cork. My smile is slow but this time I’m satisfied because she’s talking to me. Actually talking, like we know each other again. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted that until it happened. We walk down the path side by side. “You know,” I say casually, “I have a theory that everyone needs therapy. Like going to the dentist.” “Yeah? Tell that to the NHS.” She snorts. My parents paid for my therapist Dr. Okoro privately because, between Dad’s job and Mum’s dental practice, we’re not exactly struggling. I scratch the back of my head. Celine’s grin is razor sharp. “Nothing to say, rich boy?” “I could say that we’re not rich,” I mutter, “but I’m sure you’d have a field day with that.” She laughs. My heart thuds. “Thanks, by the way,” she murmurs after a moment. “For. You know. Saying that. In there.” I have been on such a roller coaster since I left the Beech Hut, I’d almost forgotten Max Donovan even existed. Now it comes thundering back, and I wince. “Does he talk to you like that all the time?” “Why?” she asks. “What are you going to do, fight him?” Would it be bad to say yes? I think it would be bad. Violence is not the answer. Although, history suggests it is occasionally the answer— She laughs. “What is going on with your face right now? I’m joking.” I roll my eyes. “You’re the bane of my existence. Did you know that?” She grins. “I hoped.” I really can’t stand this girl. I wonder how long I get to walk with her.


time they set it upon her head.

It looked heavy. It also looked magical. The more we stared, the brighter

it got—was that possible? And the glow was seemingly internal. The jewels

did their part, but the crown seemed to possess some inner energy source,

something beyond the sum of its parts, its jeweled band, its golden fleurs-

de-lis, its crisscrossing arches and gleaming cross. And of course its ermine

base. You couldn’t help but feel that a ghost, encountered late at night inside

the Tower, might have a similar glow. I moved my eyes slowly,

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appreciatively, from the bottom to the top. The crown was a wonder, a

transcendent and evocative piece of art, not unlike the poppies, but all I

could think in that moment was how tragic that it should remain locked up

in this Tower.

Yet another prisoner.

Seems a waste, I said to Willy and Kate, to which, I recall, they said

nothing.

Maybe they were looking at that band of ermine, remembering my

wedding remarks.

Maybe not.

76.

A WEEKS LATER, after more than a year of talking and planning,

thinking and worrying, seven thousand fans packed into the Queen

Elizabeth Olympic Park for the opening ceremony. The Invictus Games

were born.

It had been decided that the International Warrior Games was a tongue

twister, a mouthful. A clever Royal Marine had then come up with this far

better alternative.

As soon as he suggested it we all said: Of course! After the William

Ernest Henley poem!

Every Brit knew that poem. Many had the first line by heart.

Out of the night that covers me...

And what schoolboy or schoolgirl didn’t encounter at least once those

sonorous final lines?

I am the master of my fate,

Iam the captain of my soul.<span


it 'uz dis way. Ole missus -- dat's Miss Watson -- she pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn' sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun' de place considable lately, en I begin to git oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do' pooty late, en de do' warn't quite shet, en I hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans, but she didn' want to, but she could git eight hund'd dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she couldn' resis'. De widder she try to git her to say she wouldn' do it, but I never waited to hear de res'. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you. "I tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so I hid in de ole tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go 'way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun' all de time. 'Long 'bout six in de mawnin' skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine every skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en say you's killed. Dese las' skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to see de place. Sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk I got to know all 'bout de killin'. I 'uz powerful sorry you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no mo' now. "I laid dah under de shavin's all day. I 'uz hungry, but I warn't afeard; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp- meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. De yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way. "Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what I's agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's arter; it doan' MAKE no track. "I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half way acrost de river, en got


hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes's question. 'Not long gone seven,' said the girl. 'How do you feel to-night, Bill?' 'As weak as water,' replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. 'Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow.' Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardnewss, and struck her. 'Whining are you?' said Sikes. 'Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?' 'I hear you,' replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. 'What fancy have you got in your head now?' 'Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?' growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. 'All the better for you, you have.' 'Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill,' said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. 'No!' cried Mr. Sikes. 'Why not?' 'Such a number of nights,' said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: 'such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't.' 'Well, then,' rejoined Mr. Sikes, 'I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!' 'It's nothing,' said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. 'Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over.' 'What'll be over?' demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. 'What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense.' At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do,


experience with actors, I have a feeling telling one that he’s not very good in bed might spark a reaction I’m not entirely ready for. At the very least, it’s enough to get me booted from this assignment. Blacklisted from publishing. The server returns with a new wrap, extra tzatziki. Finn barely glances at it, instead flicking his eyes around the restaurant to make sure no one’s paying attention to us. Then he asks in this low, uncertain voice, “So was it . . . not good for you?” A dozen lies wait on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t pick a single one. My silence gives me away. “Holy shit.” He leans back in the booth, running a hand down his face, along the reddish stubble that’s just started to reappear. “It was that bad?” “No, no, no,” I rush to say. The restaurant isn’t busy, and yet I’m suddenly certain everyone in here knows what we’re talking about. A neon sign declaring This Mere Mortal slept With a Beloved Actor and Had the Gall to Insinuate He Was Anything Less Than Godlike. “But you sounded like . . .” Finn trails off, the pieces seeming to come together. My forced gasps. My faked orgasm. The escape. I stare down at my nails, picking at the burnt-orange polish I applied the night before I left solely so I’d have something to keep the anxiety at bay. This is how I die, I think: confessing to Finnegan Walsh over falafel that he did not rock my world. “I guess we could call it acting.” He has the nerve to look genuinely astonished. “I don’t know if that’s ever happened to me before.” “Right. Because most women dissolve into ecstasy the instant you touch them?” A twitch of his mouth. “I’m sure sometimes it can take up to three whole instants.” Despite the joke, I can see him deflating right in front of me, his cheeks turning crimson, his posture sagging. This is not the Finnegan Walsh from the panel—I’m not sure who this version is. “I’m so sorry, Chandler. I could have done something different. You could have told me.” As though it’s that simple. “I tried.” Finn’s blush deepens. “Look—it’s not a big deal,” I say, desperate to salvage this. “People have bad sex all the time. It was a weird onetime thing, and it stays completely between us.” Now that we’re discussing it, I’m not sure I see a way out. But plenty went wrong that night unrelated to Finn’s lackluster bedroom skills. So I decide to focus on that. “Maybe we were doomed the moment I smacked my leg on that luggage rack.” By some miracle, he plays along. “Almost certainly by the moment I couldn’t get your bra off.” A self-deprecating laugh, one that makes me realize it’s okay to join in. For both of us to laugh about it. “Okay. Wow. I guess I was off my game or something. Because now I’m replaying everything and . . . it was kind of a disaster,


the crafty upraising of his head, a movement that loosed his hold for the time; at that moment his hand had made one final effort to push the boat out of the bite. But only slipping further into the whale's mouth, and tilting over sideways as it slipped, the boat had shaken off his hold on the jaw; spilled him out of it, as he leaned to the push; and so he fell flat-faced upon the sea. Ripplingly withdrawing from his prey, Moby Dick now lay at a little distance, vertically thrusting his oblong white head up and down in the billows; and at the same time slowly revolving his whole spindled body; so that when his vast wrinkled forehead rose --some twenty or more feet out of the water --the now rising swells, with all their confluent waves, dazzlingly broke against it; vindictively tossing their shivered spray still higher into the air. So, in a gale, the but half-baffled Channel billows only recoil from the base of the Eddystone, triumphantly to overleap its summit with their scud. But soon resuming his horizontal attitude, Moby Dick swam swiftly round and round the wrecked crew; sideways churning the water in his vengeful wake, as if lashing himself up to still another and more deadly assault. The sight of the splintered boat seemed to madden him, as the blood of grapes and mulberries cast before Antiochus's elephants in the book of Maccabees. Meanwhile Ahab half smothered in the foam of the whale's insolent tail, and too much of a cripple to swim, --though he could still keep afloat, even in the heart of such a whirlpool as that; helpless Ahab's head was seen, like a tossed bubble which the least chance shock might burst. From the boat's fragmentary .. <p 543 > stern, Fedallah incuriously and mildly eyed him; the clinging crew, at the other drifting end, could not succor him; more than enough was it for them to look to themselves. For so revolvingly appalling was the White Whale's aspect, and so planetarily swift the ever-contracting circles he made, that he seemed horizontally swooping upon them. And though the other boats, unharmed, still hovered hard by; still they dared not pull into the eddy to strike, lest that should be the signal for the instant destruction of the jeopardized castaways, Ahab and all; nor in that case could they themselves hope to escape. With straining eyes, then, they remained on the outer edge of the direful zone, whose centre had now become the old man's head. Meantime, from the beginning all this had been descried from the ship's mast heads; and squaring her yards, she had borne down upon the scene; and was now so nigh, that Ahab in the water hailed her; -- Sail on the --but that moment a breaking sea dashed on him from Moby Dick, and whelmed him for the time. But struggling out of it again, and chancing to rise on a towering crest, he shouted, -- Sail on the whale! --Drive him off! The Pequod's prows were


at any moment to hike the mountains. She said, “We were always so worried about her, especially at the end there. There are those students you just worry about. And look at her, turning out so successful, so put-together.” I was glad to be on Brigitte’s eye level rather than hers. The dog licked my face, and I marveled at the little pocket her wrinkles made between her eyes. You could stash a spare piece of kibble in there. We walked toward campus, the two of them discussing the lawsuit in the paper, the details of which I couldn’t grasp. Petra said to me, “Granby is always being sued. So is every other school in the country.” “For what?” “Oh God,” Madame Mancio said, “anything. Mostly it’s families threatening to sue. Suspensions, grades, negligence, the kid didn’t get into the right college, a coach didn’t put the kid on varsity. I wish I were kidding. All those lawyers the school pays? They’re busy.” I said, “I didn’t know.” Beneath the bridge, the Tigerwhip was surely frozen solid under its blanket of snow. I could see boot prints heading down the ravine slope and across the flat surface that was, now, only a suggestion of water. (We’d sat on those slopes during junior year bio, Ms. Ramos making us each sketch ten plants. I wore a sweater long enough to hide my backside, and it got ruined in the dirt.) Fifteen miles away, where the creek emptied into the Connecticut River, the ice would be looser, chunkier, yielding to slush and running water. “Has the campus changed much?” Petra asked me. Madame Mancio, whom I ought to be thinking of as Priscilla if I were to have any chance of a normal conversation with her, said, “Not as much as Bodie! I remember when I saw your picture on that cover. I thought, my God, she’s gone and done something! I don’t remember everyone that well, but I had you all four years, didn’t I?” I nodded, although it wasn’t true; I’d had Mr. Granson freshman year. Then she said, with sudden urgency: “Who’s watching your kids while you’re away?” As if I might have overlooked this detail. “Their father.” “Oh, good. They must miss you so much!” Brigitte panted casually, and I got the impression this was a dog who never retracted her tongue. When Lance and I toured for Starlet Fever, people would often ask me where my children were, how they felt about my absence, how my husband felt about it—but they never asked Lance, who had three kids. We stepped onto Lower Campus, onto the quad path, its snow packed down to gray ice. Priscilla said, “Now, who are you still in touch with?” “More faculty than students. Mostly through Facebook.” “Oh, Facebook, pffft.” Priscilla dismissed it with the hand that wasn’t holding the leash. “I believe in phone calls and letters. I’m out there every reunion weekend. You know who I still exchange Christmas cards with, is Denny Bloch and his wife. Weren’t you an orchestra kid?” She


unusual at that day) being covered with a carpet, so skilfully and richly wrought that it seemed to glow as with living flowers. In one corner stood a marble woman, to whom her own beauty was the sole and sufficient garment. Some pictures--that looked old, and had a mellow tinge diffused through all their artful splendor--hung on the walls. Near the fireplace was a large and very beautiful cabinet of ebony, inlaid with ivory; a piece of antique furniture, which Mr. Pyncheon had bought in Venice, and which he used as the treasure-place for medals, ancient coins, and whatever small and valuable curiosities he had picked up on his travels. Through all this variety of decoration, however, the room showed its original characteristics; its low stud, its cross-beam, its chimney-piece, with the old-fashioned Dutch tiles; so that it was the emblem of a mind industriously stored with foreign ideas, and elaborated into artificial refinement, but neither larger, nor, in its proper self, more elegant than before. There were two objects that appeared rather out of place in this very handsomely furnished room. One was a large map, or surveyor's plan, of a tract of land, which looked as if it had been drawn a good many years ago, and was now dingy with smoke, and soiled, here and there, with the touch of fingers. The other was a portrait of a stern old man, in a Puritan garb, painted roughly, but with a bold effect, and a remarkably strong expression of character. At a small table, before a fire of English sea-coal, sat Mr. Pyncheon, sipping coffee, which had grown to be a very favorite beverage with him in France. He was a middle-aged and really handsome man, with a wig flowing down upon his shoulders; his coat was of blue velvet, with lace on the borders and at the button-holes; and the firelight glistened on the spacious breadth of his waistcoat, which was flowered all over with gold. On the entrance of Scipio, ushering in the carpenter, Mr. Pyncheon turned partly round, but resumed his former position, and proceeded deliberately to finish his cup of coffee, without immediate notice of the guest whom he had summoned to his presence. It was not that he intended any rudeness or improper neglect,--which, indeed, he would have blushed to be guilty of,--but it never occurred to him that a person in Maule's station had a claim on his courtesy, or would trouble himself about it one way or the other. The carpenter, however, stepped at once to the hearth, and turned himself about, so as to look Mr. Pyncheon in the face. "You sent for me," said he. "Be pleased to explain your business, that I may go back to my own affairs." "Ah! excuse me," said Mr. Pyncheon quietly. "I did not mean to tax your time without a recompense. Your name, I think, is Maule, --Thomas or Matthew Maule,--a son or grandson of the builder of this house?" "Matthew Maule," replied the carpenter,--"son of him who built the house,--grandson of the rightful


you hear why?" asked Reverend Sykes. "Helen's got three little'uns and she can't go out to work-" "Why can't she take 'em with her, Reverend?" I asked. It was customary for field Negroes with tiny children to deposit them in whatever shade there was while their parents worked- usually the babies sat in the shade between two rows of cotton. Those unable to sit were strapped papoose-style on their mothers' backs, or resided in extra cotton bags. Reverend Sykes hesitated. "To tell you the truth, Miss Jean Louise, Helen's finding it hard to get work these days... when it's picking time, I think Mr. Link Deas'll take her." "Why not, Reverend?" Before he could answer, I felt Calpurnia's hand on my shoulder. At its pressure I said, "We thank you for lettin' us come." Jem echoed me, and we made our way homeward. "Cal, I know Tom Robinson's in jail an' he's done somethin' awful, but why won't folks hire Helen?" I asked. Calpurnia, in her navy voile dress and tub of a hat, walked between Jem and me. "It's because of what folks say Tom's done," she said. "Folks aren't anxious to- to have anything to do with any of his family." "Just what did he do, Cal?" Calpurnia sighed. "Old Mr. Bob Ewell accused him of rapin' his girl an' had him arrested an' put in jail-" "Mr. Ewell?" My memory stirred. "Does he have anything to do with those Ewells that come every first day of school an' then go home? Why, Atticus said they were absolute trash- I never heard Atticus talk about folks the way he talked about the Ewells. He said-" "Yeah, those are the ones." "Well, if everybody in Maycomb knows what kind of folks the Ewells are they'd be glad to hire Helen... what's rape, Cal?" "It's somethin' you'll have to ask Mr. Finch about," she said. "He can explain it better than I can. You all hungry? The Reverend took a long time unwindin' this morning, he's not usually so tedious." "He's just like our preacher," said Jem, "but why do you all sing hymns that way?" "Linin'?" she asked. "Is that what it is?" "Yeah, it's called linin'. They've done it that way as long as I can remember." Jem said it looked like they could save the collection money for a year and get some hymn-books. Calpurnia laughed. "Wouldn't do any good," she said. "They can't read." "Can't read?" I asked. "All those folks?" "That's right," Calpurnia nodded. "Can't but about four folks in First Purchase read... I'm one of 'em." "Where'd you go to school, Cal?" asked Jem. "Nowhere. Let's see now, who taught me my letters? It was Miss Maudie Atkinson's aunt, old Miss Buford-" "Are you that old?" "I'm older than Mr. Finch, even." Calpurnia grinned. "Not sure how much, though. We started rememberin' one time, trying to figure out how old I was- I can remember back just a few years more'n he can, so I'm not much older, when you take off the fact that men