again and the silence became full of doubt and wonder. Piggy whispered urgently. "Rescue." "Oh yes. Without the fire we can't be rescued. So we must stay by the fire and make smoke." When he stopped no one said anything. After the many brilliant speeches that had been made on this very spot Ralph's remarks seemed lame, even to the littluns. At last Bill held out his hands for the conch. "Now we can't have the fire up there--because we can't have the fire up there--we need more people to keep it going. Let's go to this feast and tell them the fire's hard on the rest of us. And the hunting and all that, being savages I mean--it must be jolly good fun." Samneric took the conch. "That must be fun like Bill says--and as he's invited us--" "--to a feast--" "--meat--" "--crackling--" "--I could do with some meat--" Ralph held up his hand. "Why shouldn't we get our own meat?" The twins looked at each other. Bill answered. "We don't want to go in the jungle." Ralph grimaced. "He--you know--goes." "He's a hunter. They're all hunters. That's different." No one spoke for a moment, then Piggy muttered to the sand. "Meat--" The littluns sat, solemnly thinking of meat, and dribbling. Overhead the cannon boomed again and the dry palm fronds clattered in a sudden gust of hot wind. "You are a silly little boy," said the Lord of the Flies, "just an ignorant, silly little boy." Simon moved his swollen tongue but said nothing. "Don't you agree?" said the Lord of the Flies. "Aren't you just a silly little boy?" Simon answered him in the same silent voice. "Well then," said the Lord of the Flies, "you'd better run off and play with the others. They think you're batty. You don't want Ralph to think you're batty, do you? You like Ralph a lot, don't you? And Piggy, and Jack?" Simon's head was tilted slightly up. His eyes could not break away and the Lord of the Flies hung in space before him. "What are you doing out here all alone? Aren't you afraid of me?" Simon shook. "There isn't anyone to help you. Only me. And I'm the Beast." Simon's mouth labored, brought forth audible words. "Pig's head on a stick." "Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!" said the head. For a moment or two the forest and all the other dimly appreciated places echoed with the parody of laughter. "You knew, didn't you? I'm part of you? Close, close, close! I'm the reason why it's no go? Why things are what they are?" The laughter shivered again. "Come now," said the Lord of the Flies. "Get back to the others and we'll forget the whole thing." Simon's head wobbled. His eyes were half closed as though he were imitating the obscene thing on the stick. He knew that one of his times was coming on. The Lord of the Flies was expanding like a balloon. "This is ridiculous. You know perfectly well you'll


stood on top of aluminum-colored tile. Titanium tables holding cadavers were lined in rows in the stark, laboratory-like space. Twenty-three-year-old Vivian Leigh stood next to her lab partner, twenty-four-year-old Griffin McKenna. She hadn’t known the guy with the movie-star smile long—two weeks tops. Good looks will only get you so far, she thought. No way he’ll make it past the first year. “Who do you think he is?” Griffin asked, chinning toward the table. “Who? The cadaver?” Viv asked as if he had just said the world was flat. “Yes. This cadaver used to be a human being. Had a job, friends … maybe a golden retriever.” “This is Male 5448. My guess is he was a homeless man. Died from the elements and because no one claimed his body, it was donated to the university,” she said, as if reading off a grocery list. “I think there’s more to this guy. You see this?” Griffin pointed at the shoulder and clavicle bones on the skeletal frame. “Yeah, so?” Viv didn’t like this game. “Those are broad shoulders, and he looks tall … maybe six-three. We could be looking at an Olympian swimmer.” Griffin smiled, pleased with his analysis. Viv took in the cadaver, as if just now seeing it. His form had clumps of fat deposits here and there, but mostly the skin lay taut on protruding bones. Unlike the rest of the body, the head was wrapped in white gossamer bandages. She struggled to get past the gauze that covered his face. “Sure, if you say so,” Viv said, wanting to move past this ridiculous conversation. “Don’t do that.” Griffin’s tone shifted, an octave lower. “Do what?” Viv felt her shoulders tighten. “You’re blocking out possibilities because you won’t allow yourself to see something beyond the status quo.” Viv could feel him staring at her. Judging her. Back off, asshole. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Griffin.” Viv made a mental note to request a new lab partner. “Okay, let’s begin.” The professor’s bass voice echoed in the cavernous room. “Whoever is closest to the torso … pick up a ten blade and make a medial incision; remember, we’ll be excising the appendix. Target your incision appropriately.” “That would be you.” Griffin handed Viv a Zap-Blade with a wink. Was he teasing her? She grabbed the scalpel-like device and shot him daggers with her eyes. Without hesitation, she performed a perfectly executed slice at the lower right abdomen. Back in the present, she saw that Griffin’s twenty-four-year-old cockiness had since been replaced by someone else, someone who’d, perhaps, suffered hardships, loss. He still spoke with humor, but it was tempered with humility now. She still couldn’t believe he had surpassed her back in medical school all those years ago, took her place at the top of the dean’s list, summa cum laude, relegating her to second place, magna cum laude. Turned out they’d been good together—she the practical one, him the dreamer. Both highly intelligent. The pair quickly had become inseparable, their love for each other growing by the day. They dreamt of


and manner? I turned a fierce scowl inward. The Sultana’s nonsense about lovers had clearly scrambled my senses. Arin was attractive—it was as obvious and indisputable as the sun. But I had spent nearly twenty-one years capable of acknowledging attractiveness without being attracted myself. I had never wanted anyone, never yearned for the physical relationships Marek chased. I finally empathized with the girls in the keep. Especially Gana. The fanciful ward used to dress in Raya’s finest gowns every week, sing warbling ballads while dabbing fragrances on her wrists and behind her ear. “There is power in conquering the unconquerable,” Gana had said one year, after rejecting yet another fellow’s advances. The keep had gone to Zeila’s for celebratory tea and ahwa after a successful market. Zeila laid reed rugs on the floor, and we sat on beaded cushions, a wooden table wobbling at our feet. I’d been a few cushions down with Sefa and Marek, sipping my bitter ahwa from a chipped cup. Gana’s conversation with Daleel had reached my ears. “Men don’t see women, dear Daleel. They see power. Which one of us has more of it, and how easily they can drain it out of her.” Apparently, this wasn’t a trait reserved for men, because a dark thrill raced through me at the thought of conquering the Nizahl Heir. Stealing a piece of Arin’s power in the surrender. The breeze ruffled Arin’s hair. He chuckled, drawing me back to the present. “No attendants are permitted in my quarters. Vaida has long resigned herself to my eccentricities.” Disturbed at the ghoulish direction of my thoughts, I moved away from him. “I should get ready for the banquet.” Without looking back, I walked through the shadow of a Ruby Hound protruding from the buttress and hurried into the palace. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Without the necessary exhaustion, my body rebelled against sleep in a strange place. I circled my room, opening drawers and laying out my gown for the Banquet. The night grew deeper, and still, sleep evaded me. I exchanged my bedgown for loose linen pants and a neat tunic. If I wanted any hope of sleeping tonight, I needed to walk. Ren startled when I pulled open the door. He looked over my clothing and frowned. “No.” “I need the washroom,” I said. “I will accompany you.” “That hardly seems appropriate.” Bending Ren to my will was easier than I anticipated. His antipathy for me was the boring kind—not as powerful as Vaun’s, nor as malleable as Wes’s. After a few minutes of arguing how insulting Vaida would find it if I felt unsafe enough to take a guard to the bathroom, Ren stepped aside, his unhappiness clear in the rigid lines of his shoulders. “Make haste.” In the hush of darkness, the eyes of the Ivory Palace followed me as I walked across the hall. Usr Jasad had also been large, with separate wings and plenty of unexplored rooms to tantalize a bored child. But it had always been a home first, a palace second. Menace and magnificence beat as


a revelation of my motive, I should throw across the rest of the mystery the long halter of my boldness? This thought held me sufficiently to make me cross to his threshold and pause again. I preternaturally listened; I figured to myself what might portentously be; I wondered if his bed were also empty and he too were secretly at watch. It was a deep, soundless minute, at the end of which my impulse failed. He was quiet; he might be innocent; the risk was hideous; I turned away. There was a figure in the grounds--a figure prowling for a sight, the visitor with whom Flora was engaged; but it was not the visitor most concerned with my boy. I hesitated afresh, but on other grounds and only for a few seconds; then I had made my choice. There were empty rooms at Bly, and it was only a question of choosing the right one. The right one suddenly presented itself to me as the lower one-- though high above the gardens--in the solid corner of the house that I have spoken of as the old tower. This was a large, square chamber, arranged with some state as a bedroom, the extravagant size of which made it so inconvenient that it had not for years, though kept by Mrs. Grose in exemplary order, been occupied. I had often admired it and I knew my way about in it; I had only, after just faltering at the first chill gloom of its disuse, to pass across it and unbolt as quietly as I could one of the shutters. Achieving this transit, I uncovered the glass without a sound and, applying my face to the pane, was able, the darkness without being much less than within, to see that I commanded the right direction. Then I saw something more. The moon made the night extraordinarily penetrable and showed me on the lawn a person, diminished by distance, who stood there motionless and as if fascinated, looking up to where I had appeared--looking, that is, not so much straight at me as at something that was apparently above me. There was clearly another person above me--there was a person on the tower; but the presence on the lawn was not in the least what I had conceived and had confidently hurried to meet. The presence on the lawn--I felt sick as I made it out-- was poor little Miles himself. XI It was not till late next day that I spoke to Mrs. Grose; the rigor with which I kept my pupils in sight making it often difficult to meet her privately, and the more as we each felt the importance of not provoking--on the part of the servants quite as much as on that of the children--any suspicion of a secret flurry or that of a discussion of mysteries. I drew a great security in this particular from her mere smooth aspect. There was nothing in her fresh face to pass on to others my horrible confidences. She believed me, I was sure, absolutely:


from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!-- The two Abbots and I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole." "This is an alliance which, whoever--whatever your friends may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to see you happily married, here is a man whose amiable character gives every assurance of it;--if they wish to have you settled in the same country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the common phrase, be well married, here is the comfortable fortune, the respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy them." "Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other. This charade!--If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any thing like it." "I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it yesterday." "I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read." "I never read one more to the purpose, certainly." "It is as long again as almost all we have had before." "I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things in general cannot be too short." Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind. "It is one thing," said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--"to have very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like this." Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's prose. "Such sweet lines!" continued Harriet--"these two last!--But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that?" "Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your soft eyes shall chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good." "Leave out


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

with a hand holding it up at the front, smiling over her shoulder at me. “I’m gonna change in the bathroom; you get the episode pulled up.” I find the remote, connect to the right app, and get it ready to play. With Fizzy still changing, I duck out onto the balcony to call Stevie. The cool sea air washes over my flushed skin, and I draw in a steadying breath before pulling my phone from my pocket. When Nat answers, I can hear another breathless, adrenaline-fueled voice chattering in an excited stream in the background. “Greetings from fangirl central,” Nat says. “Again?” I ask, laughing. I wasn’t sure Stevie would still be awake but should have known better. The Wonderland concert DVD has been viewed no fewer than ten times in the week since Fizzy gave it to my kid. “She’s watching with Insu and giving him a blow-by-blow of the concert with you and Fizzy. You’re a shoo-in for parent of the year, you jackass. How’s the wedding?” “Gorgeous.” “How’s Fizzy?” Ahh, the real question. “Equally gorgeous,” I say on a pained exhale. “I see.” “We’re in her hotel room to watch the show. She’s changing.” I can almost hear Nat’s brows lift through the line. “I seeeeee.” I push away the image of Fizzy’s bare back before she turned to grab her pajamas from the drawer and duck into the loo. “It’s fine,” I tell her. What I don’t tell Nat is that I slipped a couple of condoms into my wallet this morning. I’m not having sex with Fizzy. I’m not. But my lesson in being unprepared for this kind of thing turns eleven in January. You don’t have to tell me twice. I move to the railing on the balcony. During the day, Fizzy’s room would have a stunning view of the ocean. I can see it now, but only as a dark mass of churning movement in the distance. The proximity is underscored by the loud tumble of waves as they crash. The unremitting turbulence mirrors what’s happening in my chest. “Anyway, I called to tell Stevie good night, but if she’s busy, I’ll just catch her in the morning.” “You sure? I can grab her.” “No, let her educate Insu. He must learn exactly what he’s in for.” I turn at the sound of Fizzy moving around in the room behind me. “I should go anyway. Make sure you watch tonight. Give me those ratings.” “Don’t I always?” I smile because, yeah, she does. “Tell the squirt I love her, and have a good night, Nat.” “I will. Love you.” “Love you, too.” I step inside and come to a stop with one foot in, one foot out. Fizzy said she was changing into something comfy. I foolishly hoped that meant long-sleeved flannel pajamas, not tiny shorts and a soft cropped sweatshirt. There’s just… so much skin. “What the fuck ’ave you got on?” I ask, accent turning coarse. “They’re my jammies. You want me sleeping in a snowsuit?” “Yes.” She lifts her chin to


the utter cluelessness. “I suppose you were, weren’t you? Businessmen from birth.” We had at that point spent so much time with Carol that we didn’t need to pay her compliments back, could just smile and nod and say “Thank you” or “We so appreciate all your help,” could ask without hesitation for more and more money. “It really does feel surreal,” Orson said, taking a sip from his seltzer. “It seems like it was just seconds ago we were hauling your luggage.” “You always had heavy luggage, Carol,” I said. She laughed. “I have to bring all my suits with me wherever I go. I have to dress up to meet the future businessmen of America.” Just as it began to thunder, Dmitri Argyros limped into the room in a silk bathrobe, the liver spots on his head still visible in the compromised light. He was recovering from a recent stroke but refused to use a walker or a cane, so he was always a little off-balance, and his face was frozen in a permanent half grimace. Carol rushed to him, offering her arm for support. Dmitri looked at us in a way that could have been inquisitive or menacing—it was difficult to tell which. “Mitri, dearest, you remember Orson and Ezra, don’t you?” Dmitri grunted, ignoring his wife. “Who are you?” Orson stood and offered his hand. “Orson Ortman, sir,” he said. “I think we may have met once or twice before, from across the room.” Dmitri didn’t reciprocate the handshake. I stood up as well. “Ezra Green,” I said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Dmitri looked from us to Carol. “These are those boys with the fancy machine?” “The Bliss-Mini,” Carol said. “You remember.” He wheezed a laugh. “It’s not possible to make magic like that. You can’t make magic like that,” he said. “Not if I can’t.” He shifted more of his weight onto Carol’s arm and began to shuffle forward, toward the kitchen. Carol cast us an apologetic look as they disappeared through the doorway. “He’s jealous,” Orson whispered to me, and I felt his hand at the small of my back. “He’s the dinosaur and we’re the comet.” SIX THE UNFAIRNESS OF THE HEALTHY eye lies in its globelike smoothness, its agile perception, its chatty relationship with the optic nerve. A healthy eye is taken for granted—can be taken for granted—by the kind of person for whom the world appears unwarped and undisturbed. Undisturbing. I’ve seen thousands of people like this. They walk past me in the street and scan their periphery as they move, taking for granted the fact that they can see not only ahead of them but to their left and right, interpreting this information effortlessly, relying on absolutely nothing but their vision to move from point A to point B. Meanwhile I’m snatching brief and distorted snapshots of the murky steps down into the subway or I’m listening to the sounds of my feet, which are either accentuated by wood floors and pavement or dampened by rugs and grass. I want badly


to be amazing so that your career takes off and you fall back in love with me. But sadness is an ache I feel I need to continually swallow around, and turns out, sadness also makes it hard to laugh. I reach for the water off to the side and twist off the cap, taking a sip. Count to ten, one more sip, and do your damn job, Fizzy. “Last night was hard because I realize it might have been the last date ever with Isaac.” There. Just there. A tiny tic in his jaw. “Unless he wins, which it seems your parents would like very much.” He’s making his voice warm and amiable, leaning into his accent and that honeyed charm, but I know him. I see the tightness in his expression. We do know each other, he’d said. Getting to know each other has been our singular focus for months. I try to put on a natural grin. “Yes, my parents loved him.” He swallows. “We had a long conversation last night about why Isaac would be perfect for you.” “Is that right?” Connor reaches for his own water, strangling down some unreadable expression. “They’ve met Evan before, right?” I am genuinely impressed—and annoyed—with how quickly he reined that in. I’m trash for his jealousy. I want to eat it slathered on toast. “Yes,” I say. “He’s my brother’s friend.” “And what did they think?” “I don’t think he made much of an impression at the time. But he is objectively amazing. And hot.” “Well, as producer and part of the team who cast him, I’ll take that compliment,” Connor says smoothly, the little gleam in his eye telling me he sees exactly what I’m doing. “As our One That Got Away, he’ll be having dinner with your best friend, Jessica, and her husband, River Peña, who also happens to be the inventor of the DNADuo technology.” “That’s right. Make sure to mention that a lot. River loves attention.” Connor laughs, shoulders relaxing. “You’re going to be in top form tonight, I see.” “It’s my last date night. How disappointed would everyone be if I was tame and well behaved?” “We would all be devastated.” The heat of his smile warms me to my marrow. How can he not see how good we are together? “How are you feeling entering this final date?” “Relieved.” “Relieved why?” “Because it means soon I can stop pretending I want someone other than you.” Connor goes silent, looking jerkily around at the cameras aimed at each of us. “Fizzy, you—you can’t say that.” “Edit it out, then.” He reaches forward and gently switches one camera off, then the other. We both reach up, turning off our mics. Connor removes his earpiece and lets out a long exhale. “Shit.” “I miss you,” I say once I know we’re really alone. “I wish I could tell you how sorry I am for what I did. I know I said you aren’t the man I thought you were, but I was just scared.” “I know.” “You’re exactly


of Convoke Wyvern and Caveman Glory games. They get killed off, and voila! They come back to life in the next iteration of the games.” Eyes narrowed, lips pursed, and arms crossed, she stared back at me. “What?” I said, befuddled. She waited. And then I got it. There was a virtual factory up on Adams’ high decks where the Symbio-Poths were not only fabricated but stored within their customized sleep pods. Without the quansporter being operational, all that would be lost. And to those like Sonya and Ensign Plorinne, this was unthinkable, tantamount to losing loved family members. “We’ll think of something, I promise,” I said, hoping I could keep that commitment. Chapter 42 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Doctor Vivian Leigh Doc Viv trudged wearily toward her quarters onboard USS Adams. Her wrinkled baby-blue scrubs were dotted with perspiration and copious mystery blotches. Wavy blonde hair was tightly pulled back into a high ponytail, strands breaking free and tumbling around her face. The demanding day in HealthBay had taken its toll, leaving her emotionally and physically spent. Her body felt heavy, as if gravity itself was conspiring against her. As she entered her spartan quarters, the soft hum of the ship’s AI, Sir Calvin, filled the air. The holographic interface flickered to life, illuminating the room with a faint blue glow. A notification blinked insistently, indicating an incoming communication. With a sigh, she motioned for Sir Calvin to play the message, bracing herself for yet another trivial report or administrative task. The small bulkhead halo display materialized before her eyes, and there stood Griffin McKenna—now Dr. Griffin McKenna. “Hi, Vivian. It’s Griffin.” He lowered his square jaw and flashed a smile. “Ha, like you don’t know it’s me.” Weird. How did this transmission go through? “Sir Calvin, stop transmission.” Griffin’s image freeze-framed. “Sir Calvin, am I able to send messages now? This function appears to be operational, but I was not updated on this matter.” I WILL CHECK ON THIS, DR. LEIGH. PLEASE ALLOW ME SOME TIME TO CONNECT WITH COMMUNICATIONS “Fine. But let me know the minute you learn something. Please resume current transmission.” Griffin continued, “Anyway, at the risk of scaring you away, I just wanted to see if you have come to a decision … about, um, relocating here? I know it’s a big decision.” A pang of nostalgia washed over Viv as she flashed back to their shared past. The sterile university classroom lingered with the faint scent of disinfectant, which was overpowered by the stench of formaldehyde. Stainless-steel refrigeration units stood on top of aluminum-colored tile. Titanium tables holding cadavers were lined in rows in the stark, laboratory-like space. Twenty-three-year-old Vivian Leigh stood next to her lab partner, twenty-four-year-old Griffin McKenna. She hadn’t known the guy with the movie-star smile long—two weeks tops. Good looks will only get you so far, she thought. No way he’ll make it past the first year. “Who do you think he is?” Griffin asked, chinning toward the table. “Who? The cadaver?” Viv asked as if he had just


to see. This was the cry of the first bird ever pushed from its nest, tentative wings stretching for flight. The first thunder of a restless sky. The waters moving under the Awaleen as they rested on their thrones beneath Sirauk, kept alive by their magic and trapped by it, too. I was a gnat fluttering toward the surface of the sun, burning from the mere flight. “Baira’s seal is for her Sultanas alone. Do not breach her commandment again.” The thing primly returned to its former position, and with a last smile at me, its eyes rolled forward. Vaida collapsed into the same position from which she had risen. There were footsteps at the door, and I heard Marek’s teasing voice trying to cajole the guard away. At a loss, I kicked the ring under the dresser and prayed Vaida would think she knocked it from its nail during her drunken stupor. I squeezed outside. Marek framed the guard’s face in his hands, blocking her periphery as I snuck down the hall. “Where is it?” Sefa exclaimed when I rounded the corner. “Did it start to burn?” I massaged my wrists, rattled by the echo of power waiting to devour me in the cavernous empty. “Yes, it did.” CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE For the second trial, we had the privilege of an escort by carriage to the starting location. Diya pressed her forehead to the window, counting each tree we passed under her breath. Mehti handled stress the same way he seemed to handle everything: in excess. He maintained a steady stream of chatter about the dancers from yesterday’s festivals, then dove into a detailed description about the basturma he’d eaten wrapped around a roasted chicken. Mehti tossed his feet up between us, huffing when Diya shoved them off the bench. “The children in our town tell stories about Dar al Mansi. A boy offered to trade me his rock when we were in school if I stepped inside its bounds.” “Did you?” Diya asked grudgingly. Mehti was entertaining in his own odd way, and I enjoyed the distraction from listening to the carriage wheels rumble. “It was a very nice rock.” He sniffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “The other boys were impressed.” “What does it matter?” Diya returned to the window. “Dar al Mansi is only dangerous during the Alcalah. The captured creatures stay in Nizahlan prisons the rest of the time.” Unlike Ayume Forest, Dar al Mansi lacked any corruption at its core. Called “home of the forgotten” after the village buried within it, Dar al Mansi was a new addition to the Alcalah. Preparing for this trial caused Arin no small amount of tension. Two years after the Blood Summit, groups of Jasadis fleeing Rawain’s siege stumbled across the lonely Omalian village. On Arin’s map, Dar al Mansi was linked to Omal proper in a warped hourglass shape. Dar al Mansi sat at the bottom, shrouded in Essam Woods, and Omal at the top. The village was already abandoned when the Jasadis happened upon it, left to the


Kasim assessed the damage and the strength of this resistance. Liza thought this a good moment to repeat her claim: ‘These families will not be broken up.’ Kasim shrugged. ‘Tell me how four snow vehicles can carry all these people.’ THE TRANS-ANTARCTICA FREEWAY WEST ANTARCTIC ICE SHEET LANDMARK PLATEAU NEXT DAY ECHO SAT ON THE ROOF of the snow vehicle together with the other ice-adapted students. Her solution to the lack of space was inspired by a photo she’d once seen of a crowded Himalayan bus – a beautifully painted multi-coloured bus so crowded there must have been fifty or more people on the roof as it cornered a hairpin bend. The ice-adapted students didn’t need to be inside the convoy; they could easily tolerate the prolonged exposure. Indeed, they much preferred to sit together on the roof compared to the stuffy cabins, which were intolerably warm. During the journey this motley crew of ice-adapted students from the three survivor settlements, many who had never met before, asked about each other’s genetic abilities and their experiences of growing up around ordinary-born people. Echo spoke about how she’d only recently discovered her ability to control temperature and transfer heat. None of the others had been able to freeze the barrel of a gun or revive a hypothermic patient, but they were each gifted with other remarkable adaptations, taking turns to share the stories of their own genetic particularities. One young man was covered in dense prickly red and black hairs, closely resembling an Arctic woolly bear caterpillar. Though an excellent modification for survival on this continent, it had left him feeling isolated growing up since it was physically impossible to hug him. The strands were so sharp they could cut through even the toughest of jackets. While his colours were beautiful, hairs the colour of sunset, he too, like many of the others, felt alone in this world, and he, like the others, was excited to return to McMurdo, where he hoped the streets would be filled with a mix of ordinary-born and cold-adapted. Though Echo felt a deep and meaningful solidarity with these people, sharing the same anti-freeze blood pumped by the same oversized heart, she also felt a bond to the three ordinary-born humans huddled in the warmth below. They’re my family, she thought, still trying to grasp the dimensions of that word. Directly below her, in the trailer cabin, Atto and Liza were seated together with Tetu. Echo’s hearing allowed her to follow their conversation over the rumble of the motorized truck. Since leaving Survivor Town Station, Tetu had hardly said a word, missing his cues when Kasim asked about his family or ambitions. Though he was eighteen years old, this was his first trip in a motorized vehicle. Echo could tell that he was struggling with motion sickness, and she wondered why his discomfort troubled her so much. Perhaps it was because the others were unaware of it, since he hadn’t complained, not wanting to make a fuss, which was typical of him, never wanting to be a burden.


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

sort of innocent and transformed Marius brooding among the ruins of Carthage! For the first time in my life a feeling of overpowering stinging melancholy seized me. Before, I had never experienced aught but a not-unpleasing sadness. The bond of a common humanity now drew me irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal melancholy! For both I and Bartleby were sons of Adam. I remembered the bright silks and sparkling faces I had seen that day, in gala trim, swan-like sailing down the Mississippi of Broadway; and I contrasted them with the pallid copyist, and thought to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we deem the world is gay; but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad fancyings—chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and silly brain—led on to other and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The scrivener’s pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers, in its shivering winding sheet. Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby’s closed desk, the key in open sight left in the lock. I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity, thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the files of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt something there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings’ bank. I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I remembered that he never spoke but to answer; that though at intervals he had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him reading—no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand looking out, at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick wall; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating house; while his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went any where in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk, unless indeed that was the case at present; that he had declined telling who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives in the world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill health. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of pallid—how shall I call it?—of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from his long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his. Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered


said don’t touch me!” “Leave her.” Marek. “Now,” Sefa added. The noise receded, and the door scraped shut behind them. I tore the wrappings around my hands, revealing perfectly healed palms. I hadn’t needed Arin’s touch to bring my magic to the surface this time. Good. Rawain likes his property in faultless condition, Hanim sneered. I wrapped my arms around my middle and rocked. At the root of all chaos is reason. It was a comfort Dawoud would share with me when I was especially afraid or angry. He was raised in Ahr il Uboor, a wilayah with a population of seven hundred and, according to him, more fanciful stories than sense. But the error of my existence was a chaos my mind couldn’t reason. Four kingdoms living in harmony with Jasad for thousands of years had elected to invade and reduce us to rubble. We must have done something to deserve it. We must have earned the fate that befell us. Right? I quaked in the corner and pressed my forehead to the wall. For hundreds of years, Jasad has bled its glory from the lives it ruined. Everyone talked about the fortress, Sylvia. It allowed Jasad to get away with doing whatever it wanted. … it is time for the sun to rise over Jasad, Essiya. Because if we did not deserve our fate, I could not bear the alternative much longer. The next time the door opened, I stood in front of a row of gowns. My neck tingled as I adjusted the towel around my body. “Which dress would the Supreme prefer for his Champion?” My voice sounded as empty as I felt. “I would not want to displease him.” When the silence lengthened, I glanced over my shoulder. Arin had stalled a mere foot away, staring at my back. I clicked my mouth shut. I had forgotten to cover the evidence of Hanim’s favorite hobby. Until now, Rory and Raya were the only two with the misfortune of seeing my graveyard of scars. “Who did this to you?” I moved to face him. A glove to my shoulder kept me turned. “That’s none of your concern.” “These are old,” he murmured. “Layered.” When his hand ghosted over my skin, I couldn’t stop a shiver. He traced the gnarled path of flesh along my back. Assessing the defective condition of his Champion. I dropped my forehead against the wardrobe, forcing my ragged breathing to stabilize. I was not in a sane enough state to handle the Heir. “These are from a jalda whip,” he guessed. The pressure moved to my right side. “A switch.” I eased the towel’s knot enough to reveal my lower back, morbidly curious. Could he put a name to every instrument Hanim had used against me? I couldn’t. “Is this an arakin?” he gasped, sprawling his palm against the base of my spine. I jumped. “A what?” “These were banned decades ago. Your scars—they can’t be more than six or seven years old.” He sounded furious. “Those crops do real damage. You might have


there. A sickening thunk as a fist crashed into his temple; he slumped to the ground. Someone grabbed Lore’s braid, fallen from its jet pins, and jerked it backward. She snarled, but the Presque Mort’s arms closed around her, kept her confined. It took two to do the same to Bastian; the Sun Prince thrashed, shouting curses that echoed through the slowly darkening atrium. One of the monks struck out with a dagger; the sharp edge sliced through Bastian’s eyebrow, sheeting blood and shocking him into enough stillness to be subdued, arms twisted behind his back. The shadow of the moon moved closer to the low-hanging sun. The Presque Mort who held Lore steered her toward August’s throne. The Sainted King stood motionless and aloof, hands behind his back. Another Presque Mort—the one from the leak, walking almost normally on a prosthetic foot—approached the dais and handed the King a dagger, cast in silver and scrolled over with gold. It matched his throne, a marriage of night and day, sun and moon. “It was always meant to be this way,” he said quietly, pitched so only Lore and Bastian could hear. “Mortem and Spiritum, bound together, held by the same person. The age of many gods is past; now, there’s only room for one.” “So you decided it should be you?” Lore’s voice was harsh, made hoarse by the way the Presque Mort held on to her hair, her neck stretched forward like an offering. She had to strain to see August, fingering his fine knife. “Apollius decided it should be someone in our family.” August shrugged. “He chose incorrectly, when deciding on the specific person, but that can be easily remedied. When we are one—when I become His avatar, His vessel— He will understand.” The Presque Mort hauled Bastian up on the platform as he spat and cursed, twisting in their grip like a cat. His flailing fists had connected with more than one of them—the Mort who held his arms had a rapidly blackening eye, and a bruise bloomed on another’s cheek as his hand tangled in Bastian’s hair and wrenched his head back, just like Lore’s. Bastian squinted through the blood from his head wound, chest heaving, teeth bared. August sighed as he looked at his son, always the disappointed father. In return, Bastian laughed, quick and sharp. “How fitting,” he snarled. “You always did have to do things as ostentatiously as possible.” The King shook his head. A streak of sorrow crossed his face, quick and bright as a passing comment, made more terrible for how genuine it was. “It never could’ve been you,” he murmured. “No matter what Anton’s vision said.” “Because I’m not pious enough?” There was no chance of escape; still, Bastian fought against the Mort holding him, muscles straining. “Would it be me if I’d killed my own people and farmed their bodies for an army?” “I didn’t kill them, Bastian.” The sorrow on August’s face turned cold. “That’s one sin you can’t lay at my feet.” His eyes turned to Lore, slow and


the strings went taut, and Sticks lifted his head. Most marionettes are fussy and clattery. This one felt alive. Sticks hesitated, turned his head to the side, raised his blind face, and sniffed the air. Then he climbed to his feet and stood on the porch between us. Clark turned invisible. I no longer saw Sticks’s strings. He didn’t hang like a marionette with his feet barely skimming the ground. Sticks stood solidly on the porch, his center of gravity not in the strings but rooted in his belly. Sticks rubbed his face thoughtfully with one hand, then seemed to catch a scent and turned his blind face toward me. He regarded me and I felt seen, not by Clark but by whatever creature stood on this porch with us. Sadie’s leg lay between the two of us, and Sticks gestured and she drew it back, then Sticks walked across the floor and stopped when he reached me, leaned over, and sniffed my jeans. I remember thinking very clearly, He’s getting used to my scent, even though he wasn’t anything but a bunch of blocks of wood tied to strings. He reached out his small wooden hand and laid it on my leg. It wasn’t Clark manipulating a string to poke me with a piece of wood, Sticks laid his hand on my leg. I stopped breathing. He turned his blind face up to me, and even though I could see the chisel marks that indicated his eyes, somehow he made eye contact. Sticks trembled between us, vibrating with life, and he placed another hand on my leg, then his foot, then he carefully brought his other foot around and now he was standing on my calf, one hand balancing himself on my knee. He weighed less than a cricket. And I heard Clark say, “A puppet is a possession that possesses the possessor.” Then Sticks flew into the air and the life went out of him and all the tension drained from the porch and there were only the four of us again. Clark hovered Sticks over the paper bag and dropped him in. They all watched to see my reaction. “Can you teach me how to do that?” I asked. Clark smiled, and I knew I’d asked the right question. I overslept and missed Monday’s Scene Study class, and Derrick chewed me out for not showing proper respect to my fellow actors, so I decided to skip Thursday’s class. In fact, I decided to never go back to his class again. Instead, I went to the library and read everything I could find about puppets. I read about Bread and Puppet in Vermont and their antiwar puppet shows that ended with the entire audience breaking homemade bread together. I read about Little Angel’s Wild Night of the Witches, and Handspan Theatre, and Charles Ludlam’s The Ventriloquist’s Wife, and Javanese holy shadow puppet plays, and how puppet shows used to be so dangerous that in sixteenth-century England some cities banned them while other cities paid puppeteers to stay away. By the


the screened door swinging behind us. “Oh, I’m great. For sure. I guess I’m just worried that, despite our efforts, Holly Springs won’t make it.” “Are you sure that’s all?” I asked, lengthening my stride to match hers. “Absolutely! We’re at camp! What could be better? You’ll man sailing all day, I’ll be overseeing the blob—we’re living the dream, my friend.” I laughed. “Oh, the blob. I’ve always had a bit of a love-hate relationship with that one, as you might remember from the time that someone insisted I go on it.” The blob was like a giant pillow in the lake. One person jumped off the platform, landed on it, and scurried to the end. Then the next person would jump off the platform as hard as they could to “blob” the other person. The first jumper would fly into the air and land in the lake. Well, ideally. Sometimes, if you were really, really small, you’d just fly into the air and land back on the blob. Ask me how I know. Daphne winced. “Sorry about that. You had a pretty good bruise for like two weeks.” I bumped my hip against hers. “I’d do anything for you, including the blob. You know that, right?” “Absolutely.” Daphne squeezed my hand as she waved bye to me. As she walked off, I wondered: Would I do anything for her? She would do anything for me. She always tried to help, never judged me. I always thought I was doing the same, but I was still, seven years after a run-in with drugs and alcohol, watching her a little too closely, was a little too protective when it came to what she should or shouldn’t do. She was grown-up, stable, and an amazing mother. Maybe I wasn’t giving her the trust she had earned. I vowed to let go of my fear, to be as good a friend to her as she was to me. Before I could decide exactly how to do that, the sun broke through the clouds and, hand to God, a ray of light shone on Rich as he effortlessly made his way out of the river, up the bank, water beading off his perfectly toned abs. He was a work of art and, as he grinned, I was speechless. He grabbed a towel off the bench and rubbed his hair. “What are you doing here?” He pointed toward the pier as he walked up to meet me. “I wasn’t going to let you man the docks all day by yourself. Do you have any idea how many idiots are going to be out here trying to sail, not to mention run the powerboats?” “That is really kind of you.” I stared at him again, this time not entranced by his handsomeness but his kindness. “Rich, honestly. I don’t know if I’d even talk to me.” “Lanie, I don’t hold grudges, especially for years on end. You know that.” I nodded, my mind flashing to that fateful night off during camp, when we’d sat on the edge of


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

now grave again, slowed his pace and said: --Alone, quite alone. You have no fear of that. And you know what that word means? Not only to be separate from all others but to have not even one friend. --I will take the risk, said Stephen. --And not to have any one person, Cranly said, who would be more than a friend, more even than the noblest and truest friend a man ever had. His words seemed to have struck some deep chord in his own nature. Had he spoken of himself, of himself as he was or wished to be? Stephen watched his face for some moments in silence. A cold sadness was there. He had spoken of himself, of his own loneliness which he feared. --Of whom are you speaking? Stephen asked at length. Cranly did not answer. * * * * * MARCH 20. Long talk with Cranly on the subject of my revolt. He had his grand manner on. I supple and suave. Attacked me on the score of love for one's mother. Tried to imagine his mother: cannot. Told me once, in a moment of thoughtlessness, his father was sixty-one when he was born. Can see him. Strong farmer type. Pepper and salt suit. Square feet. Unkempt, grizzled beard. Probably attends coursing matches. Pays his dues regularly but not plentifully to Father Dwyer of Larras. Sometimes talks to girls after nightfall. But his mother? Very young or very old? Hardly the first. If so, Cranly would not have spoken as he did. Old then. Probably, and neglected. Hence Cranly's despair of soul: the child of exhausted loins. MARCH 21, MORNING. Thought this in bed last night but was too lazy and free to add to it. Free, yes. The exhausted loins are those of Elizabeth and Zacchary. Then he is the precursor. Item: he eats chiefly belly bacon and dried figs. Read locusts and wild honey. Also, when thinking of him, saw always a stern severed head or death mask as if outlined on a grey curtain or veronica. Decollation they call it in the gold. Puzzled for the moment by saint John at the Latin gate. What do I see? A decollated percursor trying to pick the lock. MARCH 21, NIGHT. Free. Soul free and fancy free. Let the dead bury the dead. Ay. And let the dead marry the dead. MARCH 22. In company with Lynch followed a sizeable hospital nurse. Lynch's idea. Dislike it. Two lean hungry greyhounds walking after a heifer. MARCH 23. Have not seen her since that night. Unwell? Sits at the fire perhaps with mamma's shawl on her shoulders. But not peevish. A nice bowl of gruel? Won't you now? MARCH 24. Began with a discussion with my mother. Subject: B.V.M. Handicapped by my sex and youth. To escape held up relations between Jesus and Papa against those between Mary and her son. Said religion was not a lying-in hospital. Mother indulgent. Said I have a queer mind and have read too much. Not true. Have read little and understood


yes sir.” Honourable shut the book he’d been reading and studied Ẹniọlá. Ẹniọlá scratched his thigh, worried that there might be a follow-up question. If he were to name titles, what would he say? Mention the copies of Hearts and Better Lover that Sàámú had been passing on to him? And if Honourable asked him to talk about what he’d read? Lai lai, he could not discuss “Ten Ways to Fuck a Busy Woman” or the escapades of Peter Stringfellow, who according to Better Lover had slept with four thousand women. Maybe he could talk about the Bible. He remembered enough stories to give the impression that he’d read it himself. “You should sit down.” Honourable gestured towards one of the armchairs. “Yes sir.” Ẹniọlá took off his shoes before moving towards the seating area. “Thank you sir.” Honourable stood, waited until Ẹniọlá was seated, then settled into the chair opposite his. “Thank you sir,” Ẹniọlá said after several moments passed in silence. Honourable wrinkled his nose. “You stink.” Ẹniọlá clenched his jaw and said nothing. He stared at his dusty feet while he chewed on all the things he longed to say in response. So I stink? You are bald and your stomach is bigger than a nine-month-old pregnancy. Your eyes look like a frog’s. His imagined replies did not take the sting out of the Honourable’s words. He bathed twice a day, with soap whenever there was some. His mother always made sure his clothes, though threadbare, were clean before each wear. On Saturdays, she washed everyone’s clothes with soda, the round yellow bars peeling back her skin with each soak. She did not allow her children to wash their own clothes because of how harsh the soda soaps were. Her hands, she often said, were ruined already. Ẹniọlá and Bùsọ́lá should keep theirs as long as they could. “I’ll tell my wife to give you a spray before you leave,” Honourable said. “Some anti-perspirant. I sweat a lot too, so I understand what’s going on with you.” Ẹniọlá looked up. Honourable seemed sincere. He was not mocking him. Honourable leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to one side. “Stand up, let me see you.” Ẹniọlá stood, pressing his bare feet firmly into the plush rug because he worried that he might sway on his feet. He felt his throat dry up as the older man’s gaze swept over his body. Honourable’s face was expressionless, as though he were looking not at a human being but an unpainted concrete wall. “How old are you?” Honourable asked. “Sixteen sir.” “You’re eighteen, do you understand?” Honourable said. “Yes sir.” Ẹniọlá nodded. Maybe Honourable would ask him to register to vote in the next year’s election. He had to be eighteen to get a voter’s card. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done.” “Sir?” “Out with it. At eighteen, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Stabbed someone? Now, don’t lie. Your friends must have told you that is the number one rule here, all liars end up in


was beautifully flushed with her exertions and she held her hand to her side. "I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson," said she. "I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application whatever to you." "But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir Henry's friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to London." "A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do." "No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remembe the look in your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for ever since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with little green patches everywhere into which one may sink and with no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry." An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me. "You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. "My brother and I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was distressed therefore when another member of the family came down to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger which he will run. That was all which I intended to convey. "But what is the danger?" "You know the story of the hound?" "I do not believe in such nonsense." "But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him away from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The world is wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of danger?" "Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir Henry's nature. I fear that unless you can give me some more definite informa- tion than this it would be impossible to get him to move." "I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything definite." "I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant no more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not wish your brother to overhear what you said? There


you'll help me to be good then," said I. "Ecod," replied Wemmick, shaking his head, "that's not my trade." "Nor is this your trading-place," said I. "You are right," he returned. "You hit the nail on the head. Mr. Pip, I'll put on my considering-cap, and I think all you want to do, may be done by degrees. Skiffins (that's her brother) is an accountant and agent. I'll look him up and go to work for you." "I thank you ten thousand times." "On the contrary," said he, "I thank you, for though we are strictly in our private and personal capacity, still it may be mentioned that there are Newgate cobwebs about, and it brushes them away." After a little further conversation to the same effect, we returned into the Castle where we found Miss Skiffins preparing tea. The responsible duty of making the toast was delegated to the Aged, and that excellent old gentleman was so intent upon it that he seemed to me in some danger of melting his eyes. It was no nominal meal that we were going to make, but a vigorous reality. The Aged prepared such a haystack of buttered toast, that I could scarcely see him over it as it simmered on an iron stand hooked on to the top-bar; while Miss Skiffins brewed such a jorum of tea, that the pig in the back premises became strongly excited, and repeatedly expressed his desire to participate in the entertainment. The flag had been struck, and the gun had been fired, at the right moment of time, and I felt as snugly cut off from the rest of Walworth as if the moat were thirty feet wide by as many deep. Nothing disturbed the tranquillity of the Castle, but the occasional tumbling open of John and Miss Skiffins: which little doors were a prey to some spasmodic infirmity that made me sympathetically uncomfortable until I got used to it. I inferred from the methodical nature of Miss Skiffins's arrangements that she made tea there every Sunday night; and I rather suspected that a classic brooch she wore, representing the profile of an undesirable female with a very straight nose and a very new moon, was a piece of portable property that had been given her by Wemmick. We ate the whole of the toast, and drank tea in proportion, and it was delightful to see how warm and greasy we all got after it. The Aged especially, might have passed for some clean old chief of a savage tribe, just oiled. After a short pause for repose, Miss Skiffins - in the absence of the little servant who, it seemed, retired to the bosom of her family on Sunday afternoons - washed up the tea-things, in a trifling lady-like amateur manner that compromised none of us. Then, she put on her gloves again, and we drew round the fire, and Wemmick said, "Now Aged Parent, tip us the paper." Wemmick explained to me while the Aged got his spectacles out, that this was according to custom,


more than ever, into the house. She seemed to delight in teasing me, which was a change in her I wondered at very much. The tea table was ready, and our little locker was put out in its old place, but instead of coming to sit by me, she went and bestowed her company upon that grumbling Mrs. Gummidge: and on Mr. Peggotty's inquiring why, rumpled her hair all over her face to hide it, and could do nothing but laugh. 'A little puss, it is!' said Mr. Peggotty, patting her with his great hand. 'So sh' is! so sh' is!' cried Ham. 'Mas'r Davy bor', so sh' is!' and he sat and chuckled at her for some time, in a state of mingled admiration and delight, that made his face a burning red. Little Em'ly was spoiled by them all, in fact; and by no one more than Mr. Peggotty himself, whom she could have coaxed into anything, by only going and laying her cheek against his rough whisker. That was my opinion, at least, when I saw her do it; and I held Mr. Peggotty to be thoroughly in the right. But she was so affectionate and sweet-natured, and had such a pleasant manner of being both sly and shy at once, that she captivated me more than ever. She was tender-hearted, too; for when, as we sat round the fire after tea, an allusion was made by Mr. Peggotty over his pipe to the loss I had sustained, the tears stood in her eyes, and she looked at me so kindly across the table, that I felt quite thankful to her. 'Ah!' said Mr. Peggotty, taking up her curls, and running them over his hand like water, 'here's another orphan, you see, sir. And here,' said Mr. Peggotty, giving Ham a backhanded knock in the chest, 'is another of 'em, though he don't look much like it.' 'If I had you for my guardian, Mr. Peggotty,' said I, shaking my head, 'I don't think I should FEEL much like it.' 'Well said, Mas'r Davy bor'!' cried Ham, in an ecstasy. 'Hoorah! Well said! Nor more you wouldn't! Hor! Hor!' - Here he returned Mr. Peggotty's back-hander, and little Em'ly got up and kissed Mr. Peggotty. 'And how's your friend, sir?' said Mr. Peggotty to me. 'Steerforth?' said I. 'That's the name!' cried Mr. Peggotty, turning to Ham. 'I knowed it was something in our way.' 'You said it was Rudderford,' observed Ham, laughing. 'Well!' retorted Mr. Peggotty. 'And ye steer with a rudder, don't ye? It ain't fur off. How is he, sir?' 'He was very well indeed when I came away, Mr. Peggotty.' 'There's a friend!' said Mr. Peggotty, stretching out his pipe. 'There's a friend, if you talk of friends! Why, Lord love my heart alive, if it ain't a treat to look at him!' 'He is very handsome, is he not?' said I, my heart warming with this praise. 'Handsome!' cried Mr. Peggotty. 'He stands up to you like - like a - why I don't


they fought in his office and he hit her head on a poster on his wall, that he choked her and threw her in the water and left her for dead. He recanted his confession less than twenty-four hours later, saying it was coerced. Omar appeared on-screen in a forest green jumpsuit, head shaved, his last name written on a piece of medical tape on his chest. His face had thickened along with the rest of his body, but he had the same broad chin and sharp eyes. He said, “They came up with a story, they wrote the story in their own words, and they made it sound like if I just said this stuff, they’d put it down to an accident, like that was my best shot.” When I first saw this, I’d firmly believed he was lying here. I’d stared hard at my TV, trying to see his tells. This time, all I saw was resignation, exhaustion, a lingering bewilderment. “Jesus,” Alder said. “This is why you always wait for a lawyer. You think it’ll make you look guilty, but dude. You have to.” The kids’ talking drowned out the rest of the show: Omar’s conviction and appeal, Thalia’s family fighting to keep him in prison, Lester Holt straining hard at the end for Camelot parallels, something about “no happy-ever-afters.” 42 The slow, slow wheel of my brain finally turned. There was alcohol in Thalia’s stomach, but it wasn’t in her bloodstream yet. If I was right that she’d drunk from that flask backstage, she died very soon after Camelot ended. If she died soon after the show ended, she died while Omar was on the phone. Oh. I did the math again. Jesus. But who would remember, after all this time, if she sipped something backstage that particular night? Who could ever testify to that? 43 “Can we listen to music?” Jamila asked, so we did. It seemed we were waiting for midnight. These kids were young enough that the stroke of twelve still connoted mischief, parties, ghosts, rather than work deadlines and colicky babies and red-eye flights. I had not yet mentioned the flask, the timing. I wanted to think about it, clearheaded, in the morning. I wanted to triple-check my math. “We should turn the lamps off,” Alder said at 11:58. “We should sit totally silent and send out welcoming vibes. And we should record again!” Jamila said she’d fall asleep—she was already lounging on the floor—but Alder’s motion passed. Let’s say that instead of Britt and Alder giggling uncontrollably, shushing each other, instead of Lola shrieking when Alyssa tickled their neck, instead of the hush that finally settled over us, let’s say that Thalia showed up, that her face glowed in the window. Say she had a flask in her hand. I’d been thrown back, that week, to a mental state in which I could remember the sound of her voice. The way, for instance, she said “How random!” The way she’d get hiccups when she laughed. The way she’d sing choir music as she


many people. Despite my toxic marriage, I was privileged. I promised to return with medicine and tea because her illness was my fault. After my frigid dip in the ocean, I’d gone home to a hot shower and dry clothes. Lee had sat chilled in her car, her immunity lowered, and she had picked up a virus somewhere. With an exhilarating sense of purpose, I sprinted back home, ensuring I returned suitably sweaty and out of breath. When Benjamin emerged fresh from the shower, I greeted him brightly. “Morning, Chief.” “Good morning.” He was in a crisp white shirt and light gray pants, his suit jacket slung over his arm. “I want eggs. You’ll have two slices of toast.” “Yes, Chief.” In the kitchen, I prepared his scrambled eggs the French way—stirring constantly with a pat of butter. Benjamin was on his laptop at the breakfast bar, but we didn’t chat. The silence had less to do with our M/s agreement, and more to do with his disinterest in me. I couldn’t blame him. My universe had dwindled over our years together and I had little, if anything, of interest to contribute. When I set the plate in front of him, he spoke. “I’m worried about you.” “Me?” My voice was tight. “Why?” “I think you have an exercise addiction.” “I don’t,” I said breezily. “I just like to stay in shape for you.” His gray eyes appraised me over a forkful of eggs. “You’ve gotten too thin again. You know I don’t like it.” “I’m going to build up my lower body,” I said. “Get more muscle on my thighs and booty.” “You can go to the gym for one hour from now on. Not two.” I couldn’t question his dictate; that was our agreement. I followed his rules or there were repercussions. But one hour was not long enough for me to sneak out the back and go to Jesse’s apartment. We would barely arrive when we’d have to turn around. Again, I worried that Benjamin knew about the affair, but passive-aggressive punishment was not his style. If he knew I was cheating on him, I would feel it. “David Vega’s wife is planning a breast cancer gala. I told him you’d help out.” “Of course,” I said, though I already had a charity case. “May I go to the drugstore today? I need some vitamins. And a few toiletries.” “You may.” He swallowed the last forkful of eggs. “You need to find a way to contribute to society, Hazel. It’s embarrassing to have a wife who does nothing but jog and lift weights.” My face felt hot with humiliation, though I should have been used to it by now. “What about your little bakery idea?” I’d told him my dream in the early stages of our relationship, when I thought he was kind and nurturing. It resurfaced on occasion—as a way to demean me and my puny goals. “You’re obviously not an entrepreneur.” He slid his empty plate toward me. “But you could design a menu, decorate the place.


my love, I'll No longer stay. What can't be cured, sure, Must be injured, sure, So I'll go to Amerikay. My love she's handsome, My love she's bony: She's like good whisky When it is new; But when 'tis old And growing cold It fades and dies like The mountain dew. The consciousness of the warm sunny city outside his window and the tender tremors with which his father's voice festooned the strange sad happy air, drove off all the mists of the night's ill humour from Stephen's brain. He got up quickly to dress and, when the song had ended, said: --That's much prettier than any of your other COME-ALL-YOUS. --Do you think so? asked Mr Dedalus. --I like it, said Stephen. --It's a pretty old air, said Mr Dedalus, twirling the points of his moustache. Ah, but you should have heard Mick Lacy sing it! Poor Mick Lacy! He had little turns for it, grace notes that he used to put in that I haven't got. That was the boy who could sing a COME-ALL-YOU, if you like. Mr Dedalus had ordered drisheens for breakfast and during the meal he cross-examined the waiter for local news. For the most part they spoke at cross purposes when a name was mentioned, the waiter having in mind the present holder and Mr Dedalus his father or perhaps his grandfather. --Well, I hope they haven't moved the Queen's College anyhow, said Mr Dedalus, for I want to show it to this youngster of mine. Along the Mardyke the trees were in bloom. They entered the grounds of the college and were led by the garrulous porter across the quadrangle. But their progress across the gravel was brought to a halt after every dozen or so paces by some reply of the porter's. --Ah, do you tell me so? And is poor Pottlebelly dead? --Yes, sir. Dead, sir. During these halts Stephen stood awkwardly behind the two men, weary of the subject and waiting restlessly for the slow march to begin again. By the time they had crossed the quadrangle his restlessness had risen to fever. He wondered how his father, whom he knew for a shrewd suspicious man, could be duped by the servile manners of the porter; and the lively southern speech which had entertained him all the morning now irritated his ears. They passed into the anatomy theatre where Mr Dedalus, the porter aiding him, searched the desks for his initials. Stephen remained in the background, depressed more than ever by the darkness and silence of the theatre and by the air it wore of jaded and formal study. On the desk he read the word FOETUS cut several times in the dark stained wood. The sudden legend startled his blood: he seemed to feel the absent students of the college about him and to shrink from their company. A vision of their life, which his father's words had been powerless to evoke, sprang up before him out of the word cut in the desk. A broad-shouldered student with a moustache


like this, I’ve never been handed a glass of wine specifically selected for the night, and the last person to cook for me was my mother. “So how old are you?” Ben asks. “I’m twenty-five.” “Oh, great,” he says. “Would you mind stirring this for just a second?” “Sure.” I put down my wine and lean over to take the wooden spoon for the risotto. “Thanks.” He then cradles his face with his hands. “Fuck.” I laugh but keep stirring. “Too young?” He takes the spoon back, and I can see his cheeks are pink. “Nine years’ difference is … You’re very young and potentially have more wild oats to sow.” I never considered this. Ben is my first proper date in my adult life; do I expect many more to follow him? How many men is too many men when you factor in my mother, God’s wrath, and my reluctance to contract an STI? “How old did you think I was when we met?” “I knew you were young,” he answers, “but I couldn’t help myself when I saw you, so I’d hoped to push at twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight.” I blink. “You couldn’t help yourself?” He considers me. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those women who are obviously beautiful but pretend not to be.” I drop my head. Obviously beautiful. No one has ever called me “obviously beautiful.” Does he mean it? How can I be so beautiful he had to stop and talk to me? I’ve been silent for so long that Ben uses his finger to lift my chin. I wish I could look him in the eye, maybe shrug, and say, “I’ve heard it a few times,” but that would be a lie. “Has no one said that to you before?” he asks quietly. “I find that hard to believe.” He gently strokes my cheek with his thumb, and I finally look at him. I’m breathing heavily and my chest makes it visible. He smiles slowly and takes my face with both hands and the warmth of his skin makes me close my eyes. His lips are soft on mine and my skin tingles. He inhales as I lean deeper in. When we pull away, I tell him, “That was nice, Ben.” “I’m glad it wasn’t just me.” He squeezes my thigh. “Let’s have dinner.” * * * At the table, he tops up my wine and pours me a glass of water before putting our starters on top of what I already thought was my plate. (I later google it to find it’s what’s called a “charger” plate, intended to “add to the visual effect of your table.” Again, fancy.) The tabbouleh tastes like rice but lighter and fresher. “Ben, this is delicious!” He smiles. “You think so?” I pile on another forkful. “I really do.” Slow down, Maddie. Try not to go from smooth kiss to grains falling out of your mouth. “I haven’t had anything like it.” “Do you cook much?” “When I lived at home with my dad, I’d batch cook on


platform or scaffold, black and weather-stained with the storm or sunshine of seven long years, and foot-worn, too, with the tread of many culprits who had since ascended it, remained standing beneath the balcony of the meeting-house. The minister went up the steps.% It was an obscure night in early May. An unwearied pall of cloud muffled the whole expanse of sky from zenith to horizon. If the same multitude which had stood as eye-witnesses while Hester Prynne sustained her punishment could now have been summoned forth, they would have discerned no face above the platform nor hardly the outline of a human shape, in the dark grey of the midnight. But the town was all asleep. There was no peril of discovery. The minister might stand there, if it so pleased him, until morning should redden in the east, without other risk than that the dank and chill night air would creep into his frame, and stiffen his joints with rheumatism, and clog his throat with catarrh and cough; thereby defrauding the expectant audience of to-morrow's Thesaurus catarrh: (n) cold, rheum, redness, defrauding: (n) defraudment, theft. otalgia, neuralgia, earache, inflammation, Qatar, ptyalism, pose, pall: (v) cloy, tire, jade, fatigue; (n) cephalalgia, odontalgia, sciatica. murr, salivation. curtain, coffin, shroud, cloak, somnambulism: (n) noctambulism, clog: (n, v) block, bar, glut; (v) choke, cerement, mantle; (adj, v) disgust. sleepwalking, noctambulation, obstruct, foul, hinder, encumber, redden: (adj, v) flush; (v) color, somnambulation, sleep walking, back up; (n) obstruction, patten. crimson, glow, go red, encrimson, sleeping. ANTONYMS: (v) free, clear, open, rubify, rubricate, rose; (adj) mantle, unwearied: (adj) indefatigable, unblock. color up. ANTONYMS: (v) blench, untiring, tireless, untired, dank: (adj) damp, wet, moist, humid, blanch. indomitable, unflagging, industrious, sticky, soggy, sultry, muggy, juicy, rheumatism: (n) arthritis, atrophic tolerant, persistent, persevering, rheumy, musty. ANTONYMS: (adj) arthritis, juvenile rheumatoid laborious. ANTONYM: (adj) arid, parched, bright. arthritis; (v) lumbago, podagra, impatient. 140 The Scarlet Letter prayer and sermon. No eye could see him, save that ever-wakeful one which had seen him in his closet, wielding the bloody scourge. Why, then, had he come hither? Was it but the mockery of penitence? A mockery, indeed, but in which his soul trifled with itself! A mockery at which angels blushed and wept, while fiends rejoiced with jeering laughter! He had been driven hither by the impulse of that Remorse which dogged him everywhere, and whose own sister and closely linked companion was that Cowardice which invariably drew him back, with her tremulous gripe, just when the other impulse had hurried him to the verge of a disclosure. Poor, miserable man! what right had infirmity like his to burden itself with crime? Crime is for the iron-nerved, who have their choice either to endure it, or, if it press too hard, to exert their fierce and savage strength for a good purpose, and fling it off at once! This feeble and most sensitive of spirits could do neither, yet continually did one thing or another, which intertwined, in the same inextricable knot, the agony of heaven-defying guilt and vain repentance.% And thus,


those ‘shamals’ in the Middle East—those sandstorms that block out the sun? That’s what immigration did to the Department of Homeland Security during the Trump administration,” she explained. “There was no light, no air, no room for anything else.” Another far-right president would create the same environment, with potentially dire consequences. I raised the possibility with an advisor who was appointed by Trump to manage national security programs. She saw what happened to DHS under her former boss. “If MAGA comes back,” the woman told me, “the department created to stop 9/11 will be willfully closing its eyes to the next big attack, cyber breach, you name it.” First, the White House will make life miserable for undocumented immigrants living in the United States. Stephen Miller once bragged to me that he had a “locked drawer of executive orders” on immigration that were intended for a “shock-and-awe blitz” when Trump got re-elected. The Next Trump will unlock the drawer. “Right off the bat, [they] would completely ignore the thirty-year court decision that it’s a constitutional requirement to supply education, regardless of immigration status,” predicted Josh Venable, Trump’s former Education Department chief of staff. The idea was a “cockroach that wouldn’t die,” he said. In summer 2018, Venable was with Education Secretary Betsy DeVos in the Netherlands on a work trip when they got a call from the White House. It was Stephen Miller. The Trump aide demanded that department leaders figure out how to cut off money to states that allowed undocumented immigrants to enroll in public schools. DeVos and her team had already told the White House it wasn’t legal. “Just find a way to do it,” Miller told her. “Are you afraid of getting sued, Betsy?” Miller was apparently fine with breaking the law. “Their plan was ignore it, get sued, and litigate it up to the Supreme Court,” Venable recalled. Like this, there are dozens of levers the White House could pull to make daily life harder for undocumented immigrants. None would be as powerful as the threat of mass deportation. The Next Trump will almost certainly break with long-standing U.S. policy of prioritizing the deportation of criminal aliens by ordering a widespread roundup of innocent immigrants and their families, regardless of whether they’ve committed crimes. Trump realized Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) didn’t have sufficient resources to do this. According to former ICE officials, his successor may use presidential powers to “deputize” other agencies to assist with deportation operations. Many of the anti-immigrant policies eyed by MAGA forces would be difficult to unravel. “It will be rule-making warfare from Day One,” a current CBP official told me, referring to the process of codifying new policies into permanent U.S. immigration rules. “You can’t just turn those off overnight. It takes years to undo them.” Second, the White House will turn migrants into political pawns. MAGA acolytes in Florida and Texas are already doing this by implementing “bus and dump” programs of the kind we once told Trump were illegal. The Next Trump will use federal resources to ship migrants


unimpassioned way of looking at the subject. The cake did rise, however, and came out of the oven as light and feathery as golden foam. Anne, flushed with delight, clapped it together with layers of ruby jelly and, in imagination, saw Mrs. Allan eating it and possibly asking for another piece! "You'll be using the best tea set, of course, Marilla," she said. "Can I fix the table with ferns and wild roses?" "I think that's all nonsense," sniffed Marilla. "In my opinion it's the eatables that matter and not flummery decorations." "Mrs. Barry had HER table decorated," said Anne, who was not entirely guiltless of the wisdom of the serpent, "and the minister paid her an elegant compliment. He said it was a feast for the eye as well as the palate." "Well, do as you like," said Marilla, who was quite determined not to be surpassed by Mrs. Barry or anybody else. "Only mind you leave enough room for the dishes and the food." Anne laid herself out to decorate in a manner and after a fashion that should leave Mrs. Barry's nowhere. Having abundance of roses and ferns and a very artistic taste of her own, she made that tea table such a thing of beauty that when the minister and his wife sat down to it they exclaimed in chorus over it loveliness. "It's Anne's doings," said Marilla, grimly just; and Anne felt that Mrs. Allan's approving smile was almost too much happiness for this world. Matthew was there, having been inveigled into the party only goodness and Anne knew how. He had been in such a state of shyness and nervousness that Marilla had given him up in despair, but Anne took him in hand so successfully that he now sat at the table in his best clothes and white collar and talked to the minister not uninterestingly. He never said a word to Mrs. Allan, but that perhaps was not to be expected. All went merry as a marriage bell until Anne's layer cake was passed. Mrs. Allan, having already been helped to a bewildering variety, declined it. But Marilla, seeing the disappointment on Anne's face, said smilingly: "Oh, you must take a piece of this, Mrs. Allan. Anne made it on purpose for you." "In that case I must sample it," laughed Mrs. Allan, helping herself to a plump triangle, as did also the minister and Marilla. Mrs. Allan took a mouthful of hers and a most peculiar expression crossed her face; not a word did she say, however, but steadily ate away at it. Marilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. "Anne Shirley!" she exclaimed, "what on earth did you put into that cake?" "Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla," cried Anne with a look of anguish. "Oh, isn't it all right?" "All right! It's simply horrible. Mr. Allan, don't try to eat it. Anne, taste it yourself. What flavoring did you use?" "Vanilla," said Anne, her face scarlet with modification after tasting the cake. "Only vanilla. Oh, Marilla, it


and quick to resentment, and Caranthir was haughty and scarce concealed his scorn for the unloveliness of the Naugrim, and his people followed their lord. Nevertheless since both peoples feared and hated Morgoth they made alliance, and had of it great profit; for the Naugrim learned many secrets of craft in those days, so that the smiths and masons of Nogrod and Belegost became renowned among their kin, and when the Dwarves began again to journey into Beleriand all the traffic of the dwarf-mines passed first through the hands of Caranthir, and thus great riches came to him. When twenty years of the Sun had passed, Fingolfin King of the Noldor made a great feast; and it was held in the spring near to the pools of Ivrin, whence the swift river Narog rose, for there the lands were green and fair at the feet of the Mountains of Shadow that shielded them from the north. The joy of that feast was long remembered in later days of sorrow; and it was called Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting. Thither came many of the chieftains and people of Fingolfin and Finrod; and of the sons of Fanor Maedhros and Maglor, with warriors of the eastern March; and there came also great numbers of the Grey-elves, wanderers of the woods of Beleriand and folk of the Havens, with Crdan their lord. There came even Green-elves from Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers, far off under the walls of the Blue Mountains; but out of Doriath there came but two messengers, Mablung and Daeron, bearing greetings from the King. At Mereth Aderthad many counsels were taken in good will, and oaths were sworn of league and friendship; and it is told that at this feast the tongue of the Grey-elves was most spoken even by the Noldor, for they learned swiftly the speech of Beleriand, whereas the Sindar were slow to master the tongue of Valinor. The hearts of the Noldor were high and full of hope, and to many among them it seemed that the words of Fanor had been Justified, bidding them seek freedom and fair kingdoms in Middle-earth; and indeed there followed after long years of peace, while their swords fenced Beleriand from the ruin of Morgoth, and his power was shut behind his gates. In those days there was joy beneath the new Sun and Moon, and all the land was glad; but still the Shadow brooded in the north. And when again thirty years had passed, Turgon son of Fingolfin left Nevrast where he dwelt and sought out Finrod his friend upon the island of Tol Sirion, and they journeyed southward along the river, being weary for a while of the northern mountains; and as they journeyed night came upon them beyond the Meres of Twilight beside the waters of Sirion, and they slept upon his banks beneath the summer stars. But Ulmo coming up the river laid a deep sleep upon them and heavy dreams; and the trouble of the dreams remained after they awoke, but neither said


waiting for Kúnlé to bring a Mothers’ Union souvenir bag his mother wanted to pass on to hers. He emerged with the cloth bag, holding it aloft until his mother nodded to indicate he had gotten the right one. “You’ll take her home, àbí? Do you have any other plans for the evening?” “Well, Wúrà likes to play superwoman and sometimes I let her,” Kúnlé said. “Óyá, give him the keys, you can even take a nap while he drives.” Kúnlé began talking about the campaign once they got into the car. “We can’t let it look like a campaign yet, we’ll have to continue the community projects for a while and make sure his name is more prominent on them.” “Projects? Isn’t there just one borehole?” “We can easily drill like six more, distribute them across the state. Then some skills acquisition thing for young people. We can put his photos on the poster for those.” “What skills?” Kúnlé frowned. “As in?” “What skills are you going to focus on? For the skills acquisition thing?” “Anything—what are women learning these days? Beadmaking or what?” Wúràọlá shook her head. “How would I know?” “You’re a woman?” “That doesn’t make me an expert on what skill all women are learning at this point in time. At best, I can give you anecdotal information, but you should probably try a feasibility study?” “It could be baking or whatever. And something just for the young guys too.” “What’s your plan, really?” “I’m explaining it to you.” “I mean your father’s platform, what will it be? You can refract everything you do through that. It could be your organising principle.” “Better healthcare, good roads, good education. We can’t put those on the skills acquisition project yet. We should find a way to use his initials, that can go on everything as soon as we roll out, so it’ll be consistent with what we’ll use for the campaign proper. What do you think?” “Everyone calls him Prof B in the hospital, to differentiate him from your mom, I guess.” “ ‘Prof B’ is too weak. Babájídé Coker. We could use Professor BJ.” Wúràọlá stifled a chuckle. “ ‘BJ’ might be unfortunate.” It took a moment for him to get it. “PJC then, Professor Jídé Coker. We need to keep the ‘Professor’ in somehow, it’s more impressive.” “I was asking you about the measurable metrics. Better healthcare, what does that mean? More primary health centres? How many? Is he improving pay for state doctors? Post-qualification training? Working conditions? Isn’t that what you’re going to build his media campaign around? Even this skills acquisition thing, you’re sounding like it’s really about getting his photos on posters, not the youth.” “You don’t understand politics.” “That’s condescending.” “It’s a fact.” His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “You don’t fucking know everything.” “Lakúnlé Coker.” Sometimes this was enough, calling him a fuller version of his name could reset his senses. “I’m sorry, but the point I was trying to make is, that’s not how politics works in this country, okay. We


were almost upon them now. Reggie looked downright petrified, while Hardy had now resorted to banging a catcher’s mitt–sized metal fist on the bulkhead. Ensign Polk said, “It’s 123456.” “Seriously?” I said, looking back at her. Chen said, “Sending Hardy the code now.” I watched as Hardy continued with his hissy fit, then suddenly stopped to enter the transmitted code. The massive hatch doors slowly began to separate. Not having time to even turn around, Hardy was shoved inside the cargo airlock. “Someone get me a feed from inside that airlock!” I yelled. “Hold on,” Akari snapped back. As the wide-angle feed came into view, there was a collective gasp. It was like looking into the workings of a beehive, or an anthill, insects scurrying around everywhere with no rhyme or reason to their movements. I could see Reggie; he was hard to miss standing there, looming over the bugs while trying to snap at them. But there were too many. I looked to Sonya, but she had already turned her back to the halo display. She was talking to her Jadoo ring, where I caught a quick glance at Ensign Plorinne. “No! Do it now! Shut him off. Shut Reggie off!” And with that, Reggie dropped to the deck, lifeless. It was as if a dinner bell had been rung; the beetles swarmed into a frenzy, crawling over one another to get to Reggie’s carcass. I leaned forward, trying to get a bead on Hardy. “There he is,” Akari said. “Oh no …” I saw him now too. At least he was standing … even if he did have half a dozen beetles clamped onto each of his appendages. “Captain, he’s not supposed to be there.” Sonya was quietly sobbing, no longer paying attention. “Be specific, Akari. Be where?” “He’s supposed to be by the back corridor doors, not there at the outer hull doors.” I still didn’t get it. So what? A spinning, flashing red overhead light had come on within the cargo airlock. I shook my head. “No … he needs to get out of the way. What the hell is he doing!” No one answered. The outer hull cargo airlock doors were now opening. Hardy was the first to disappear out into the void. The beetles were being sucked out two, three at a time. Only then did Reggie’s not-insignificant form lift and get pulled out into deep space. Still, no one spoke. No one moved. Then I said, “We’ll find him. This isn’t the first time he’s floundered off into space. We’ll find him,” I repeated. Perhaps if I said it enough times, I could convince myself it was true. “Cap! The frigates are here and firing,” Chen said. Adams shook; the lights flickered. Akari suddenly stood, hands going to her mouth. “Oh God, no!” I’d seen it too. The sudden, incredibly brilliant explosion off our aft starboard side. Chen said, “She’s gone … Portent … her comms have gone silent.” Taking her seat, Akari said, “Absolutely nothing left of her … totally obliterated,” “She must have


and wizen, his eyes dim and colorless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become ignoble, hideous, and uncouth. [19] As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck like a knife across him, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and a mist of tears came across them. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. "Don't you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad's silence, and not understanding what it meant. "Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn't like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it." "It is not my property, Harry." "Whose property is it?" "Dorian's, of course." "He is a very lucky fellow." "How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gray, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrid, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June. . . . If it was only the other way! If it was I who were to be always young, and the picture that were to grow old! For this--for this--I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!" "You would hardly care for that arrangement, Basil," cried Lord Henry, laughing. "It would be rather hard lines on you." "I should object very strongly, Harry." Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say." Hallward stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed almost angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning. "Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I will kill myself." Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, "don't talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?" "I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must


on mine; or passing suddenly from mine to Steerforth's; or comprehending both of us at once. In this lynx-like scrutiny she was so far from faltering when she saw I observed it, that at such a time she only fixed her piercing look upon me with a more intent expression still. Blameless as I was, and knew that I was, in reference to any wrong she could possibly suspect me of, I shrunk before her strange eyes, quite unable to endure their hungry lustre. All day, she seemed to pervade the whole house. If I talked to Steerforth in his room, I heard her dress rustle in the little gallery outside. When he and I engaged in some of our old exercises on the lawn behind the house, I saw her face pass from window to window, like a wandering light, until it fixed itself in one, and watched us. When we all four went out walking in the afternoon, she closed her thin hand on my arm like a spring, to keep me back, while Steerforth and his mother went on out of hearing: and then spoke to me. 'You have been a long time,' she said, 'without coming here. Is your profession really so engaging and interesting as to absorb your whole attention? I ask because I always want to be informed, when I am ignorant. Is it really, though?' I replied that I liked it well enough, but that I certainly could not claim so much for it. 'Oh! I am glad to know that, because I always like to be put right when I am wrong,' said Rosa Dartle. 'You mean it is a little dry, perhaps?' 'Well,' I replied; 'perhaps it was a little dry.' 'Oh! and that's a reason why you want relief and change - excitement and all that?' said she. 'Ah! very true! But isn't it a little - Eh? - for him; I don't mean you?' A quick glance of her eye towards the spot where Steerforth was walking, with his mother leaning on his arm, showed me whom she meant; but beyond that, I was quite lost. And I looked so, I have no doubt. 'Don't it - I don't say that it does, mind I want to know - don't it rather engross him? Don't it make him, perhaps, a little more remiss than usual in his visits to his blindly-doting - eh?' With another quick glance at them, and such a glance at me as seemed to look into my innermost thoughts. 'Miss Dartle,' I returned, 'pray do not think -' 'I don't!' she said. 'Oh dear me, don't suppose that I think anything! I am not suspicious. I only ask a question. I don't state any opinion. I want to found an opinion on what you tell me. Then, it's not so? Well! I am very glad to know it.' 'It certainly is not the fact,' said I, perplexed, 'that I am accountable for Steerforth's having been away from home longer than usual - if he has been: which


of delivering himself, new evidence of his having thought of this one topic, in every feature it presented. 'According to our reckoning,' he proceeded, 'Mas'r Davy's here, and mine, she is like, one day, to make her own poor solitary course to London. We believe - Mas'r Davy, me, and all of us - that you are as innocent of everything that has befell her, as the unborn child. You've spoke of her being pleasant, kind, and gentle to you. Bless her, I knew she was! I knew she always was, to all. You're thankful to her, and you love her. Help us all you can to find her, and may Heaven reward you!' She looked at him hastily, and for the first time, as if she were doubtful of what he had said. 'Will you trust me?' she asked, in a low voice of astonishment. 'Full and free!' said Mr. Peggotty. 'To speak to her, if I should ever find her; shelter her, if I have any shelter to divide with her; and then, without her knowledge, come to you, and bring you to her?' she asked hurriedly. We both replied together, 'Yes!' She lifted up her eyes, and solemnly declared that she would devote herself to this task, fervently and faithfully. That she would never waver in it, never be diverted from it, never relinquish it, while there was any chance of hope. If she were not true to it, might the object she now had in life, which bound her to something devoid of evil, in its passing away from her, leave her more forlorn and more despairing, if that were possible, than she had been upon the river's brink that night; and then might all help, human and Divine, renounce her evermore! She did not raise her voice above her breath, or address us, but said this to the night sky; then stood profoundly quiet, looking at the gloomy water. We judged it expedient, now, to tell her all we knew; which I recounted at length. She listened with great attention, and with a face that often changed, but had the same purpose in all its varying expressions. Her eyes occasionally filled with tears, but those she repressed. It seemed as if her spirit were quite altered, and she could not be too quiet. She asked, when all was told, where we were to be communicated with, if occasion should arise. Under a dull lamp in the road, I wrote our two addresses on a leaf of my pocket-book, which I tore out and gave to her, and which she put in her poor bosom. I asked her where she lived herself. She said, after a pause, in no place long. It were better not to know. Mr. Peggotty suggesting to me, in a whisper, what had already occurred to myself, I took out my purse; but I could not prevail upon her to accept any money, nor could I exact any promise from her that she would do so at another time. I represented to her that


fun?" answered Jo, yawning dismally. "We shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties, and drive home, and read and rest,and not work. It's like other people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I'm so fond of luxury," said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the least shabby. "Well, we can't have it, so don't let us grumble but shoulder our bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I'm sure Aunt March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I've learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get so light that I shan't mind her." This idea tickled Jo's fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children, seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair in the most becoming way. "Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross midgets, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not?" she muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk. "I shall have to toil and moil all my days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly and sour, because I'm poor and can't enjoy my life as other girls do. It's a shame!" So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn't at all agreeable at breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to croak. Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with the cat and three kittens. Amy was fretting because her lessons were not learned, and she couldn't find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and make a great racket getting ready. Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn't suit her. "There never was such a cross family!" cried Jo, losing her temper when she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon her hat. "You're the crossest person in it!" returned Amy, washing out the sum that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate. "Beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down cellar I'll have them drowned," exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of reach. Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was. "Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry," cried Mrs. March, crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter. There was a