you say; but that there forest man never did save us to stay here. He done save us so we all could get AWAY from here. I expect he be mighty peevish when he find we ain't got no more sense than to stay right here after he done give us the chance to get away. "I hoped I'd never have to sleep in this here geological garden another night and listen to all them lonesome noises that come out of that jumble after dark." "I don't blame you a bit, Esmeralda," said Clayton, "and you certainly did hit it off right when you called them `lonesome' noises. I never have been able to find the right word for them but that's it, don't you know, Chapter 24 135 lonesome noises." "You and Esmeralda had better go and live on the cruiser," said Jane, in fine scorn. "What would you think if you HAD to live all of your life in that jungle as our forest man has done?" "I'm afraid I'd be a blooming bounder as a wild man," laughed Clayton, ruefully. "Those noises at night make the hair on my head bristle. I suppose that I should be ashamed to admit it, but it's the truth." "I don't know about that," said Lieutenant Charpentier. "I never thought much about fear and that sort of thing--never tried to determine whether I was a coward or brave man; but the other night as we lay in the jungle there after poor D'Arnot was taken, and those jungle noises rose and fell around us I began to think that I was a coward indeed. It was not the roaring and growling of the big beasts that affected me so much as it was the stealthy noises--the ones that you heard suddenly close by and then listened vainly for a repetition of--the unaccountable sounds as of a great body moving almost noiselessly, and the knowledge that you didn't KNOW how close it was, or whether it were creeping closer after you ceased to hear it? It was those noises--and the eyes. "MON DIEU! I shall see them in the dark forever--the eyes that you see, and those that you don't see, but feel--ah, they are the worst." All were silent for a moment, and then Jane spoke. "And he is out there," she said, in an awe-hushed whisper. "Those eyes will be glaring at him to-night, and at your comrade Lieutenant D'Arnot. Can you leave them, gentlemen, without at least rendering them the passive succor which remaining here a few days longer might insure them?" "Tut, tut, child," said Professor Porter. "Captain Dufranne is willing to remain, and for my part I am perfectly willing, perfectly willing--as I always have been to humor your childish whims." "We can utilize the morrow in recovering the chest, Professor," suggested Mr. Philander. "Quite so, quite so, Mr. Philander, I had almost forgotten the treasure," exclaimed Professor Porter. "Possibly we can borrow some men from Captain Dufranne to assist us, and one of the prisoners to point out


his slice of luck, has Dick, and you may lay to hash of this cruise—you’ll be a bold man to say no to that. that.” Second, you let the enemy out o’ this here trap for nothing. But here the long man with the yellow eyes struck in. Why did they want out? I dunno, but it’s pretty plain they “Belay that talk, John Silver,” he said. “This crew has wanted it. Third, you wouldn’t let us go at them upon the tipped you the black spot in full council, as in dooty bound; march. Oh, we see through you, John Silver; you want to just you turn it over, as in dooty bound, and see what’s wrote play booty, that’s what’s wrong with you. And then, fourth, there. Then you can talk.” there’s this here boy.” “Thanky, George,” replied the sea-cook. “You always was “Is that all?” asked Silver quietly. brisk for business, and has the rules by heart, George, as I’m “Enough, too,” retorted George. “We’ll all swing and sun- pleased to see. Well, what is it, anyway? Ah! ‘Deposed’— dry for your bungling.” that’s it, is it? Very pretty wrote, to be sure; like print, I “Well now, look here, I’ll answer these four p’ints; one swear. Your hand o’ write, George? Why, you was gettin’ after another I’ll answer ‘em. I made a hash o’ this cruise, did quite a leadin’ man in this here crew. You’ll be cap’n next, I I? Well now, you all know what I wanted, and you all know shouldn’t wonder. Just oblige me with that torch again, will if that had been done that we’d ‘a been aboard the you? This pipe don’t draw.” HISPANIOLA this night as ever was, every man of us alive, Contents “Come, now,” said George, “you don’t fool this crew no and fit, and full of good plum-duff, and the treasure in the more. You’re a funny man, by your account; but you’re over hold of her, by thunder! Well, who crossed me? Who forced Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 242 243 my hand, as was the lawful cap’n? Who tipped me the black that?’ says one. ‘That! Why, that’s John Silver. I knowed spot the day we landed and began this dance? Ah, it’s a fine him well,’ says another. And you can hear the chains a- jangle dance—I’m with you there—and looks mighty like a horn- as you go about and reach for the other buoy. Now, that’s pipe in a rope’s end at Execution Dock by London town, it about where we are, every mother’s son of us, thanks to him, does. But who done it? Why, it was Anderson, and Hands, and Hands, and Anderson, and other ruination fools of you. and you, George Merry! And you’re the last above board of And if you want to know about number four, and that boy, that same meddling crew; and you have the Davy Jones’s in- why, shiver my timbers, isn’t he a hostage? Are we a-going to solence to up and stand for


"Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don't keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands." Lord Henry went out to the garden, and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him, and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely-chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. [16] "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life,-- to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creature. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know." Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic olive-colored face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low, languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between then had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a school-boy, or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened. "Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not let yourself become sunburnt. It would be very unbecoming to you." "What does it matter?" cried Dorian, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have now the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don't feel that, Lord Henry." "No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are


concede your victory. They will write off your arguments as old-fashioned and claim that everything you know came from a textbook written in 1950, even though you just learned it five minutes ago from a pastel-colored social justice infographic your most earnest friend shared. Their information is FRESH and CURRENT and their ideas are NEW and HOT and come courtesy of a young man on YouTube YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW ABOUT BUT HE’S THE TRUTH. Reconcile yourself to this now: all the ways you do things and everything you believe is old and wrong, and your best year was 1997, before they were even born, so hang it up and let them lead the way. Teenagers have endless amounts of energy, especially the ones with no real problems. I’m not gonna yell myself hoarse trying to convince someone with a belly full of my food standing in a house whose deed has my name on it of some political point that, if we’re being honest, I don’t really care about that much. What I am gonna do is walk away and remind myself that my outdated public school education is perfectly fine before screaming into a pillow about “the olden days.” (More on that in a sec.) Do not invite them to watch your preferred television programs. They’ll fucking ruin it. It’ll feel good at first, to have your decisions endorsed by someone whose smooth, uncalloused fingers are on the cultural pulse that just slipped through your desiccated, liver-spotted hands. They’ll sit down next to you on the couch, dig their grimy paws into your TV snack, and you’ll be stoked that this young person, who would otherwise step over your flaming corpse to get to a pair of AirPods, is showing interest in a thing that is interesting to you. Until ten minutes (if you’re lucky) into it, when they start workshopping their new open-mic set, cracking wise (but not funny) every time someone on-screen so much as pauses to take a breath. Even if the teen in question is marginally amusing, the shit’s irritating. But since most of them don’t have the lifetime of discouragement and misery you need to truly develop a good sense of humor, it becomes an exercise in how hard you can grind your teeth and grip the remote until they all shatter from the pressure. Because a child who mainlined seven seasons of The Office in one sitting won’t stop saying “That’s what she said” during the climax of that austere Icelandic crime drama you’ve been watching. So just don’t even bother inviting them to watch with you. By default, everyone will think you have a mysterious secret show you don’t want them to know about, which is fucking cool, and you won’t have to worry about cruel mockery or rejection. “Taco Bell? Sure why not!!!” JUST SAY THAT. Pretend you are not bothered by noise. I just bought these fancy earplugs that are “discreet” and claim to reduce noise by twenty-five to twenty-seven decibels. And no I don’t know what those words mean, but


of summer, with his wife and children, watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of its light fading from the distant landscape, till the shadows of twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St. Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence of those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting right diffused a serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing. The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite plane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening melancholy. The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though, in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he restrained the expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteract those traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from happiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this charm was too dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits of self- command; to teach her to reject


she recognized Winnie’s voice, if it triggered a memory, or understanding, then she didn’t show it. She showed nothing at all. “I have a personal fund,” she said, at last. “Emergency reserves, which sit outside the household accounts.” She paused. “I will need to keep that money.” Winnie hadn’t bargained for this. Mrs. King had not discussed it with her. How much money could there be? she wondered. Enough to form a dowry, or a new household? Enough to make a deal with the devil? “Keep my things,” said Miss de Vries, “but give me my independence.” It stirred Winnie, to hear those words. She couldn’t help it. “Very well,” she said. “Do we have your agreement?” Miss de Vries remained silent. Then she said, “What have you done with my father’s portrait?” Winnie looked around, chest contracting. Mrs. Bone, hidden at the back of the throng, shouted, “We’ve thrown it on the rubbish heap.” Miss de Vries surveyed the ranks of silent men, her eyes passing over Mrs. Bone without even a flicker. “I comply,” she said. She moved like a wraith, still clad in black mourning silks, making for the front porch. “Go,” Winnie breathed, to the others. And then, louder: “Go.” 39 4:00 a.m. Hephzibah watched it play out from the pavement. Miss de Vries emerged from the house, shoulders bare, eyes on the crowd. A cry went up: “Are you safe? The fire!” “There is no fire,” she said to those near at hand. “And no cause for alarm. Everybody should go home.” Disbelief and confusion rippled out across the crowd. It was strange, thought Hephzibah, watching Miss de Vries: this tiny creature, guarding the front porch. It was the men who tried to push their way in first. Shepherd. Then Lord Ashley. But she held her hands to the door frame, a small smile on her face, barring the way. Hephzibah couldn’t hear what Lord Ashley said. She only saw what everybody else witnessed, too. His betrothed didn’t bow to him, didn’t bend: she sent him on his way. Mr. Lockwood was next. He knifed his way across the pavement. But Hephzibah was on him. “No, no,” she murmured, gripping his arm. He swung around, startled. “Come with me.” He resisted. “What on earth?” He shook her off. “I can assure you,” she said, keeping her voice low, “it will be worth your client’s while.” Earlier, while the crowds were surging outside the house, Winnie had grabbed Hephzibah. She’d given her the paper, pressed it right into her hands. “We’re going to put this right,” she’d said. She was out of breath, eyes fierce, clinging to the Inventory. “I promise you. On my honor.” Hephzibah had unfolded the paper, reading the names: Eunice, Eileen, Ada... It had stopped the breath in her throat. “When?” she had said, voice dry. “Now,” Winnie had said. “We’re going to fix it now.” So Hephzibah led Mr. Lockwood to Tilney Street. The dessert trolley was laden high with trifles. They smelled sour, as if they’d begun curdling in the heat. She


he said to me was worse. We’d slowly grown allergic to each other, eventually realized we were each unfairly shackled to a person who was sick of our face. “And right around then,” I did tell her, “Jerome’s mom went into hospice. She’d been in the other half of our duplex, so he moved over there.” He’s a painter, and the decision was partly practical: He could use the second bedroom as a studio and stop paying rent on the one downtown. We could stay married, with one address, for tax reasons and convenience—and, honestly, out of sheer laziness. The kids could go back and forth, we figured, but really Jerome ended up going back and forth, and so, for instance, while I was at Granby he stayed in my bed, which was our old bed, which occasionally he also stayed in when I was in it, because he was good at sex and now that we didn’t see each other all day, we didn’t hate each other. I was actually enormously fond of him: grateful when he took the kids, nostalgic when we slept together, bemused by his dating life, equal parts flattered and revolted and possessive when he came to me for romantic advice. I found everyone he dated borderline crazy, couldn’t figure out if that was on him or on me. Fran said, “You know I love how you never give up on people, but it’s kind of hilarious that your way of breaking up involves him still living in your house.” “Well, next door.” “So the upshot is,” she said, “you’re single?” “Essentially. Married but single.” “It’s funny that my marriage is more traditional than yours.” I hadn’t told her about Yahav, maybe because I didn’t want to jinx it. Yahav was skittish and unpredictable, a handsome Israeli bunny rabbit, equally likely to drive straight here as to vanish into the woods forever. I’d texted him from the airport that afternoon: As warned, I’ve invaded New England. He texted back only an exclamation point. I had not yet been sleeping with Yahav when I split from Jerome, but his friendship then had been a helpful reminder that not everyone was tired of me, not everyone blamed me for the weather. Yahav had enormous, warm hands. He had dark stubble so thick it consumed his chin and neck, more darkness than light, more night sky than stars. Anne returned and we poured new drinks and the evening turned to a sort of retroactive gossip session. (Wait, remember Dani Michalek? Remember how she tried to pierce her own nose and it got so infected? Yeah, and she had to go home for a month. We were paired for lab and I didn’t do a thing. She hated me. Me too. Whatever happened to her? Didn’t I tell you? She’s a Lutheran minister!) Anne’s encouraging laughter, her bewildered questions, egged us on. If she hadn’t been there, we might’ve said “Remember the Kurt shrine?” and left it at that. But with Anne present, we wound up describing for her sake (and


dreams: You listen in her place now. I've just had a waking dream. Do you know why?" "You must calm yourself," she said. "If there's--" "The spice," he said, "It's in everything here--the air, the soil, the food. The geriatric spice. It's like the Truthsayer drug. It's a poison!" She stiffened. His voice lowered and he repeated: "A poison--so subtle, so insidious . . . so irreversible. It won't even kill you unless you stop taking it. We can't leave Arrakis unless we take part of Arrakis with us." The terrifying presence of his voice brooked no dispute. "You and the spice," Paul said. "The spice changes anyone who gets this much of it, but thanks to you, I could bring the change to consciousness. I don't get to leave it in the unconscious where its disturbance can be blanked out. I can see it." "Paul, you--" "I see it!" he repeated. She heard madness in his voice, didn't know what to do. But he spoke again, and she heard the iron control return to him: "We're trapped here." We're trapped here, she agreed. And she accepted the truth of his words. No pressure of the Bene Gesserit, no trickery or artifice could pry them completely free from Arrakis: the spice was addictive. Her body had known the fact long before her mind awakened to it. So here we live out our lives, she thought, on this hell-planet. The place is prepared for us, if we can evade the Harkonnens. And there's no doubt of my course: a broodmare preserving an important bloodline for the Bene Gesserit Plan. "I must tell you about my waking dream," Paul said. (Now there was fury in his voice.) "To be sure you accept what I say, I'll tell you first I know you'll bear a daughter, my sister, here on Arrakis." Jessica placed her hands against the tent floor, pressed back against the curving fabric wall to still a pang of fear. She knew her pregnancy could not show yet. Only her own Bene Gesserit training had allowed her to read the first faint signals of her body, to know of the embryo only a few weeks old. "Only to serve," Jessica whispered, clinging to the Bene Gesserit motto. "We exist only to serve." "We'll find a home among the Fremen," Paul said, "where your Missionaria Protectiva has bought us a bolt hole." They've prepared a way for us in the desert, Jessica told herself. But how can he know of the Missionaria Protectiva? She found it increasingly difficult to subdue her terror at the overpowering strangeness in Paul. He studied the dark shadow of her, seeing her fear and every reaction with his new awareness as though she were outlined in blinding light. A beginning of compassion for her crept over him. "The things that can happen here, I cannot begin to tell you," he said. "I cannot even begin to tell myself, although I've seen them. This sense of the future--I seem to have no control over it. The thing just happens. The


district. They stood there, embracing in the cold wind, and Judy murmured in her ear, “I’ll come to see you.” “You will?” Marion almost fell in her surprise, her skate sliding out from under her, but Judy caught her right in time and they both laughed. “Next Thursday is the opening day for the Christmas Spectacular. I’ll leave a ticket for you for the six-o’clock show. Is that all right? You’ll come?” Judy gave a quick nod. “I’ll be there.” CHAPTER THIRTEEN The first two shows of the Christmas Spectacular went by in a whirlwind for Marion, and while she adored the applause and the smiling faces of the children who waited for autographs outside the stage door, she blew past them, apologizing profusely, in order to meet Judy at the Rehearsal Club. She’d convinced her sister—over a rushed call—to come early so she could properly show her around her new life. Once Judy saw how well she was doing, she would report back to Simon and his curiosity might get the best of him, and he’d overcome his stubbornness. Judy was waiting near the steps to the Rehearsal Club’s front door, clutching her purse tightly to her side. She’d dressed up for the occasion, wearing her camel hair coat instead of her work trench, her hair tied back in a red bow. The fact that she’d made an effort moved Marion almost to tears. “You look marvelous,” she said. “The bow’s a nice touch. Do you remember Mom dressed us up in gorgeous red velvet dresses when we went to the Christmas Spectacular? We looked like a couple of princesses.” “I remember the collar being very itchy and wanting to throw it on the floor,” said Judy. Some things would never change. “Well, why don’t you come on up and I can show you my new digs?” Inside, a couple of the actresses screeched with laughter in the parlor while another boarder trying to use the telephone yelled for them to quiet down. “It’s not usually so crazy,” said Marion over the din. “The woman who runs it, Mrs. Fleming, is very strict about things like curfews and not letting boys up. Sort of like the Barbizon Hotel for Women, but for creative types. Noisy creative types,” she joked. Judy gave a wan smile. Upstairs, Marion threw open the door to her room, which she’d spent a couple of hours that morning dusting and straightening up. The lumpy beds were a far cry from the sturdy cast-iron ones in Bronxville, and the orange curtains were just as ugly as they had ever been, but she’d done the best she could. To her dismay, Bunny’s side of the room looked like a cyclone had hit. Her dresser drawers were open, clothes tossed on the bed as well as the floor. From the bathroom, Bunny’s voice rang out. “I cannot find my good garter belt and bra. I know they’re here somewhere, but you have to help me look.” “Bunny, I—” “Don’t tell Mrs. Fleming, but I’m going to stay at a hotel


if I were an estate and he the finest species of surveyor, and gave himself such a world of trouble that I felt that no suit of clothes could possibly remunerate him for his pains. When he had at last done and had appointed to send the articles to Mr. Pumblechook's on the Thursday evening, he said, with his hand upon the parlour lock, "I know, sir, that London gentlemen cannot be expected to patronize local work, as a rule; but if you would give me a turn now and then in the quality of a townsman, I should greatly esteem it. Good morning, sir, much obliged. - Door!" The last word was flung at the boy, who had not the least notion what it meant. But I saw him collapse as his master rubbed me out with his hands, and my first decided experience of the stupendous power of money, was, that it had morally laid upon his back, Trabb's boy. After this memorable event, I went to the hatter's, and the bootmaker's, and the hosier's, and felt rather like Mother Hubbard's dog whose outfit required the services of so many trades. I also went to the coach-office and took my place for seven o'clock on Saturday morning. It was not necessary to explain everywhere that I had come into a handsome property; but whenever I said anything to that effect, it followed that the officiating tradesman ceased to have his attention diverted through the window by the High-street, and concentrated his mind upon me. When I had ordered everything I wanted, I directed my steps towards Pumblechook's, and, as I approached that gentleman's place of business, I saw him standing at his door. He was waiting for me with great impatience. He had been out early in the chaise-cart, and had called at the forge and heard the news. He had prepared a collation for me in the Barnwell parlour, and he too ordered his shopman to "come out of the gangway" as my sacred person passed. "My dear friend," said Mr. Pumblechook, taking me by both hands, when he and I and the collation were alone, "I give you joy of your good fortune. Well deserved, well deserved!" This was coming to the point, and I thought it a sensible way of expressing himself. "To think," said Mr. Pumblechook, after snorting admiration at me for some moments, "that I should have been the humble instrument of leading up to this, is a proud reward." I begged Mr. Pumblechook to remember that nothing was to be ever said or hinted, on that point. "My dear young friend," said Mr. Pumblechook, "if you will allow me to call you so--" I murmured "Certainly," and Mr. Pumblechook took me by both hands again, and communicated a movement to his waistcoat, which had an emotional appearance, though it was rather low down, "My dear young friend, rely upon my doing my little all in your absence, by keeping the fact before the mind of Joseph. - Joseph!" said Mr. Pumblechook, in the way


“Still low on spikes, Cap,” Polk said. “Then let’s not miss.” “Shit! Think I overdid it with Portent; EMP totally knocked out their shields,” Akari said. “So … Neither Portent nor Wrath has shields, and Adams’ shields are faltering. I got that straight?” I asked. “The good news is both Portent and Wrath are nanite free. It’ll just take a while for their shields to come back online.” The deck plates vibrated as Adams’ rail guns came alive. “It’s not going to be enough, Captain,” Bosun Polk said. I watched as the incoming Liquilid missiles evaded our rail spikes, having lost only three thus far to the barrage of weapons fire. “We’re firing everything we’ve got, rail guns, what Phazon Pulsar cannons are still active …” Akari said, frustrated. FIRST WAVE …. TEN SMART MISSILES CONTACT IN ONE MINUTE “Turn the EMP guns on them,” I said. Both Akari and Polk looked back at me, brows raised. I shrugged. “What do we have to lose? Do it. Kick them up to full power.” The overheads dimmed; even the blaring, constant sound of the klaxon seemed to falter. As if being repetitively kicked in the ass, Adams shook with each discharge of EMPs. FIRST WAVE … TEN SMART MISSILES … DESTROYED SECOND WAVE, TWELVE SMART MISSILES INBOUND … CONTACT IN TWO MINUTES “We lost all of our EMP cannons with that last salvo,” Akari said. Polk pointed to the halo display. “Both Wrath and Portent are engaging thrusters … moving out from behind us.” Both warships engaged their own EMP cannons, obliterating the second wave of Liquilid smart missiles. In unison, the bridge crew cheered. Chen raised a hand, getting my attention. “Captain Loggins has a special message just for you, sir.” Before I could answer, Adams’ shields were literally sizzling with multiple incoming EMP blasts. When it finally stopped, much of the bridge was in the dark. Darkened control boards attempted to reboot to life. Chen said, “Captain Loggins says, ‘What’s good for the goose…’” “Well, I hope he’s satisfied,” Akari said, “Those frigates are still out there, and I’m betting they have a few more smart missiles to throw our way.” I nodded. “Yeah, but I’ll take the win, even if it is short-lived.” Bosun Polk stood and walked toward the halo display. She was chewing at her inside lip, the gears spinning in her head. “Captain?” “Bosun?” “These Liquilids are advanced. Maybe they have more advanced tech than we do … but their lack of protection against electromagnetic pulses is … well, it’s shocking, to be honest.” “Probably haven’t had to deal with it in the past. EUNF Space-Navy ship ordinances are protected … but I’m sure there are technologies, even simplistic ones, we’re just as unprepared for.” She looked back to the display, to the enemy frigates. Frigates that, for some reason, were holding back. Were, most definitely, not attacking us. “What are they waiting for? I mean, all our shields are down for the most part. We’re stuck here like flies on flypaper. We’re about as vulnerable as


mother and father could see us now. The daughter in love with the shy, bookish Omal Heir, and the granddaughter in love with the Nizahl Commander. Which do you think is worse?” Her trilling laughter didn’t reach her eyes. Fire licked at her dress, orange tendrils climbing up her immobilized form. I turned in a circle. There had to be a way out. Every spell had seams, corners you could slip your fingers beneath and yank. Better yet, where was Soraya? I’d use her head to break the ice. “I am not in love with the Nizahl Heir.” “Don’t lie to me, Essiya,” Niphran said, stern. The flames danced around her waist. “Can we focus?” On the shore, the shadow figures swayed faster. Straining to hear our ludicrous conversation? “The fire—” Gold and silver churned in her eyes. “He’s very handsome. Before I met your father, I was infatuated with boys like him. All the ice and sharp edges. The Nizahl Heir, though! I don’t think I could have ever been so audacious, even in my youth. I am impressed.” The kitmer clawed, unable to escape its silk prison. The flames gleefully consumed my mother. The moment she disappeared from view, she shrieked. Shrill, ear-piercing shrieks. “Help me!” I beat my fists against the ice. Ripped my crown from my hair and scraped it against the thick layer of frozen lake. Why wouldn’t the ice break? Smoke stung my eyes. I scrubbed them, Niphran’s harrowing screams intensifying. It happened as it had in a hundred dreams. I glanced down to see smooth, bare skin where my cuffs had been. I knew how it would go. The fire would burst. Eat the shadow people and then feast on me. I couldn’t watch it happen again. If my freed magic wasn’t the solution, what was? Hanim’s old taunt. You could possess all the magic in the world, and you would still give Jasad your back. “Essiya!” I had already watched my mother die once today. I threw myself into the fire and collided with Niphran, wrapping my arms around her. The shadow creatures rushed forward. Instead of consuming us, the fire shot up, crawling over the night sky. Bringing dawn to the shadows. Not shadows—Dawoud, Niyar, Palia. Countless Jasadis, given faces and names at last. Niphran’s eyes shone. “You saved me.” My arms closed around empty air as my mother vanished, taking the lake and the Jasadis with her. It was just Soraya and me, standing in my old palace bedroom. Soraya fell, clutching her stomach as my magic rippled around us. I sat on the ground beside her, and sadness swelled in my chest. The best memories of my childhood were in this room with her and Dawoud. “I’m sorry Hanim betrayed you, Soraya. She trained us to be pawns in her game.” I touched the crown of Soraya’s bent head. Grief. Rage. Fear. I had let them lead me, but Soraya had let herself become them. “If I had never gone to Mahair, I would have become as empty and lost as


heart mine is from your own. It is not my impulse, as regards these two individuals, either to help or hinder; but to look on, to analyze, to explain matters to myself, and to comprehend the drama which, for almost two hundred years, has been dragging its slow length over the ground where you and I now tread. If permitted to witness the close, I doubt not to derive a moral satisfaction from it, go matters how they may. There is a conviction within me that the end draws nigh. But, though Providence sent you hither to help, and sends me only as a privileged and meet spectator, I pledge myself to lend these unfortunate beings whatever aid I can!" "I wish you would speak more plainly," cried Phoebe, perplexed and displeased; "and, above all, that you would feel more like a Christian and a human being! How is it possible to see people in distress without desiring, more than anything else, to help and comfort them? You talk as if this old house were a theatre; and you seem to look at Hepzibah's and Clifford's misfortunes, and those of generations before them, as a tragedy, such as I have seen acted in the hall of a country hotel, only the present one appears to be played exclusively for your amusement. I do not like this. The play costs the performers too much, and the audience is too cold-hearted." "You are severe," said Holgrave, compelled to recognize a degree of truth in the piquant sketch of his own mood. "And then," continued Phoebe, "what can you mean by your conviction, which you tell me of, that the end is drawing near? Do you know of any new trouble hanging over my poor relatives? If so, tell me at once, and I will not leave them!" "Forgive me, Phoebe!" said the daguerreotypist, holding out his hand, to which the girl was constrained to yield her own." I am somewhat of a mystic, it must be confessed. The tendency is in my blood, together with the faculty of mesmerism, which might have brought me to Gallows Hill, in the good old times of witchcraft. Believe me, if I were really aware of any secret, the disclosure of which would benefit your friends,--who are my own friends, likewise,--you should learn it before we part. But I have no such knowledge." "You hold something back!" said Phoebe. "Nothing,--no secrets but my own," answered Holgrave. "I can perceive, indeed, that Judge Pyncheon still keeps his eye on Clifford, in whose ruin he had so large a share. His motives and intentions, however are a mystery to me. He is a determined and relentless man, with the genuine character of an inquisitor; and had he any object to gain by putting Clifford to the rack, I verily believe that he would wrench his joints from their sockets, in order to accomplish it. But, so wealthy and eminent as he is, --so powerful in his own strength, and in the support of society on all sides,--what can Judge Pyncheon


thought sadly of all the books the Starks had gathered over the centuries. Then she closed the shutters. When she turned away from the window, the man was in the room with her. "You weren't s'posed to be here," he muttered sourly. "No one was s'posed to be here." He was a small, dirty man in filthy brown clothing, and he stank of horses. Catelyn knew all the men who worked in their stables, and he was none of them. He was gaunt, with limp blond hair and pale eyes deep-sunk in a bony face, and there was a dagger in his hand. Catelyn looked at the knife, then at Bran. "No," she said. The word stuck in her throat, the merest whisper. He must have heard her. "It's a mercy," he said. "He's dead already." 118 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN "No," Catelyn said, louder now as she found her voice again. "No, you can't." She spun back toward the window to scream for help, but the man moved faster than she would have believed. One hand clamped down over her mouth and yanked back her head, the other brought the dagger up to her windpipe. The stench of him was overwhelming. She reached up with both hands and grabbed the blade with all her strength, pulling it away from her throat. She heard him cursing into her ear. Her fingers were slippery with blood, but she would not let go of the dagger. The hand over her mouth clenched more tightly, shutting off her air. Catelyn twisted her head to the side and managed to get a piece of his flesh between her teeth. She bit down hard into his palm. The man grunted in pain. She ground her teeth together and tore at him, and all of a sudden he let go. The taste of his blood filled her mouth. She sucked in air and screamed, and he grabbed her hair and pulled her away from him, and she stumbled and went down, and then he was standing over her, breathing hard, shaking. The dagger was still clutched tightly in his right hand, slick with blood. "You weren't s'posed to be here," he repeated stupidly. Catelyn saw the shadow slip through the open door behind him. There was a low rumble, less than a snarl, the merest whisper of a threat, but he must have heard something, because he started to turn just as the wolf made its leap. They went down together, half sprawled over Catelyn where she'd fallen. The wolf had him under the jaw. The man's shriek lasted less than a second before the beast wrenched back its head, taking out half his throat. His blood felt like warm rain as it sprayed across her face. The wolf was looking at her. Its jaws were red and wet and its eyes glowed golden in the dark room. It was Bran's wolf, she realized. Of course it was. "Thank you," Catelyn whispered, her voice faint and tiny. She lifted her hand, trembling. The wolf padded closer, sniffed at her


sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move. But Spitz, cold and calculating even in his supreme moods, left the pack and cut across a narrow neck of land where the creek made a long bend around. Buck did not know of this, and as he rounded the bend, the frost wraith of a rabbit still flitting before him, he saw another and larger frost wraith leap from the overhanging bank into the immediate path of the rabbit. It was Spitz. The rabbit could not turn, and as the white teeth broke its back in mid air it shrieked as loudly as a stricken man may shriek. At sound of this, the cry of Life plunging down from Life's apex in the grip of Death, the fall pack at Buck's heels raised a hell's chorus of delight. Buck did not cry out. He did not check himself, but drove in upon Spitz, shoulder to shoulder, so hard that he missed the throat. They rolled over and over in the powdery snow. Spitz gained his feet almost as though he had not been overthrown, slashing Buck down the shoulder and leaping clear. Twice his teeth clipped together, like the steel jaws of a trap, as he backed away for better footing, with lean and lifting lips that writhed and snarled. In a flash Buck knew it. The time had come. It was to the death. As they circled about, snarling, ears laid back, keenly watchful for the advantage, the scene came to Buck with a sense of familiarity. He seemed to remember it all,--the white woods, and earth, and moonlight, and the thrill of battle. Over the whiteness and silence brooded a ghostly calm. There was not the faintest whisper of air--nothing moved, not a leaf quivered, the visible breaths of the dogs rising slowly and lingering in the frosty air. They had made short work of the snowshoe rabbit, these dogs that were ill-tamed wolves; and they were now drawn up in an expectant circle. They, too, were silent, their eyes only gleaming and their breaths drifting slowly upward. To Buck it was nothing new or strange, this scene of old time. It was as though it had always been, the wonted way of things. Spitz was a practised fighter. From Spitzbergen through the Arctic, and across Canada and the Barrens, he had held his own with all manner of dogs and achieved to mastery over them. Bitter rage was his, but never blind rage. In passion to rend and destroy, he never forgot that his enemy was in like passion to rend and destroy. He never rushed till he was prepared to receive a rush; never attacked till he had first defended that attack. In vain Buck strove to sink his teeth in the neck of the big white dog. Wherever his fangs struck for the softer flesh, they were countered by the


eye to scan the nightstand for the usual checklist. Keys, wallet, phones. Neither of my devices were there, or in the condo. Maybe they were in the car. In flip-flops, with a baseball cap on my head, I crossed the lobby downstairs and out to the parking lot. My spot was empty, and I felt a jolt of panic. Where the fuck was the car? I thought back to the night before but couldn’t piece together what had happened. Tequila shots under the yellow lights of the bar. The rest was spotty. I remembered opening the trunk in front of other people. Back in the lobby, I rushed to the elevator. The front desk attendant hollered at me. “Your girlfriend called!” That was a weird thing to say, I thought. “Excuse me?” I asked. “I got it this morning when I came in. ‘Anna Bell’ called for you. She left a voicemail message.” “Oh, yeah. Thank you. I lost my phone.” “You lose your mind, too? You can’t park in the loading zone, sweetie.” The car was on the other side of the building. I wanted to hug her. “Yes, sorry. I wasn’t sure which one was mine.” It was a stupid lie. The unit numbers were spray-painted in each parking spot. “All right, well just be careful out there. Take care of yourself, and make sure you’re watching out for others. Okay?” “Always,” I replied, my cheeks filling with hot shame. She knew I’d driven drunk. Out in the car, everything was there, untouched. Personal phone. Burner phone. Briefcase. I was relieved, but I lost a day of writing. I was too hungover and consumed by continuous self-flagellation, as my brain fought itself. How could you be so stupid? This put everything at risk. My capacity for self-preservation was continuous, too. Not a big deal. This hasn’t happened before. It won’t happen again. All three reassurances were lies. Nevertheless, the incident became a scared-sober cliché for a period of time. I emptied the liquor bottles in the kitchen, and my nightly routine at the bar ceased. I doubled down on writing, afraid of losing more time. I also became a touch paranoid. Shaken by the potential that I could have exposed the project if the car had been stolen, I started taking extra steps to guard my possessions. I placed tamper tape on the trunk. I also attached it to the condo door when I left, so I’d know if someone entered. Weeks later at a hotel, I came back from grabbing food to find the tamper tape breached. My iPad had been in the room with the manuscript on it. What if someone had come in and installed malware? The cleaning staff probably missed the “Do Not Disturb” sign, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I went to a shopping center, smashed the device against a brick wall outside with my foot, and bought a new one. Despite the setbacks, I finished the book titled A Warning on time. It was an unsparing indictment of Donald Trump with a two-pronged


She wasn’t talking about Persephone. It was something else. The last thing she’d said to me was a promise—our promise. To be here in the morning. If that was the lie … She wouldn’t have hurt herself. Not again. Fear seeped into me, slow and cold and unrelenting. “Damn it,” I muttered. I called Cass, but she didn’t pick up either. “Something’s up with Liv. I’m going to her place to check on her. Call me when you get this,” I said to her voicemail. I got dressed hurriedly and hustled out the door. The sun, breaking through the clouds, hit me like it had a personal grudge. “Morning.” Ethan Schreiber was standing a few feet away. He had a coffee cup in one hand, three fingers lifted in a wave. “Are you stalking me?” I asked him. “This is the only motel in town,” he said, pointing vaguely at the door two down from mine. “Everything all right?” “Why wouldn’t it be?” I asked him. “You look … Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. I strode to my car. “Nice to see you again,” he called after me. I slammed the door, cutting short his last word, and whipped out of the parking lot. I dialed Liv’s number again on the way. Once again, she didn’t answer. The gate was closed and locked. I didn’t have the code and I didn’t want to panic Liv’s parents if it was nothing—it was probably nothing, I told myself, Liv hardly ever remembered to charge her phone, that was all—so I parked and hopped the fence on foot, jogging the rest of the way up toward the house. I thought of it as Liv’s place, but it was her parents’ house, of course. They’d lived in the same house, set back among the trees, since they moved to Chester three decades ago. They’d remodeled along the way, expanding the tiny enchanted cottage they’d started with, adding energy-efficient windows and solar panels. Kimiko’s kitchen garden was a marvelous sight, bursting with kale and snap peas and pole beans, along with the few tomatoes she always coaxed along in the cool, overcast weather. I’d lived on a diet of instant noodles, canned chili, and saltines most of the time. Coming over to Liv’s place and picking fresh sugar snap peas off the vine had felt like its own kind of magic. Some days when Liv wasn’t up for company, Kimiko had let me join her out there, teaching me how to fertilize the plants, how to thin the carrots to give them room to grow. She would let me hold the tender seedlings cupped in my palms as she dug a hole for them, nestling them in where their roots could stretch. Before you could plant a seedling, she would tell me, you had to harden it. It was used to the indoors, a consistent temperature and moisture and light. Little by little each day you had to set the seedlings outside, sheltered, first for only an hour, then two, slowly introducing them to wind


a relief.” Then he said, “Good night, Sally. This was very fun.” “I agree,” I said. “Good night, Noah.” But he didn’t email the next day; instead, at noon my time, he texted, Hope it’s OK I just ordered these for you, followed by a screenshot of a pink pillow that said Good Vibes Please in white cursive, followed by another screenshot of an orange pillow that said Good Vibes Welcome with an image of a sun below the words, followed by another text that said It was hard to decide so I got both. I texted back, That’s an incredible coincidence because I just ordered this for you, and sent a screenshot of a distressed wooden sign that said In this house, we keep it real, we give hugs, and we dance badly. He texted back, Truly amazing because for your kitchen I just ordered, followed by a screenshot of a different distressed wooden sign that said ’Bout to Stir Up Some Shit and featured an image of a whisk. And then we texted for three hours and then we talked again that night from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. central. At 9:50 p.m. I had applied foundation and mascara and lip gloss, then I had wiped the lip gloss off, then I had reapplied it. At ten, the notification of a facetime call had appeared on my phone, but before I could see him, it had disappeared, and a regular call had come through. Four hours later, at the end of that conversation, he said, “I just wanted to mention that I, well—I shaved my head. I don’t have long hair anymore.” I thought of Henrietta kneeling beside me in my TNO office, waking me up as I lay on the couch to tell me about Noah’s wig. Twenty-seven months had passed since then, which didn’t seem like enough to account for how irretrievable that moment now felt. I tried to sound casual as I said, “Cool.” “I didn’t want you to be shocked if we facetime tomorrow.” “I’d like to think I’m harder to shock than that.” “Just since some people say my hair is, you know—” He paused, and when he continued, he seemed embarrassed for the first time that I could recall. “Like my trademark.” Again, I tried to sound light but sincere, and not at all mocking, as I said, “Aren’t your songwriting and guitar playing your trademark?” The next night, especially for the first minute or two, it was shocking and thrilling to see Noah on the screen of my phone. He looked both a little different and still joltingly, unreasonably handsome. His head was indeed shaved, with a few millimeters of stubble that was darker than the blond locks of yore but matched the stubble on his cheeks. He looked paler or more tired than in online images, which of course I’d inspected many times in the last week, meaning he looked like he wasn’t wearing makeup and hadn’t otherwise been professionally styled, and it was a pure and reflexive joy to gaze at


audible hum of excitement. Apparently, we are all the competitive type. “The losers,” Victor continues, “will be on washing-up duty for the rest of the week, starting tomorrow. And I’ll warn you; we’ve only the one Brillo pad left in the cupboard.” He guffaws as if this is the funniest statement ever made. I have no idea if anyone else laughs along; I’m too busy panicking about my crappy sense of direction and what happened that one time I tried orienteering in a year-eight PE class (I fell down a hill). I knew this whole thing was going to be hands-on, but this is, er, quite hands-on. Also, teams of ten are huge. How are we supposed to collaborate effectively? Do I establish myself as a leader early on, or is that bossy? Do I hold back and try to be a good teammate, or is that too meek? And, Christ, why am I standing next to Bradley? Now he’s on my team! As if things couldn’t get any worse, the gray sky does as it’s been threatening all morning and releases a gentle but miserable shower of rain. I hope these booklets are laminated. BRAD I know as soon as the rain begins that I’ve messed up, clothes-wise, but in my defense, this is a travel outfit. As in, a comfortable outfit for traveling. How was I supposed to know they’d throw us into the forest within five minutes? “Excuse me,” I call, raising my hand. “Sorry—can I change?” Victor snorts. “No.” Then he stalks off into the cabin, where it’s dry. Ugh. I suppose I could’ve changed when we arrived, but I needed that time for my social plan; I found some easygoing guys to talk football with, so I’d have a ready-made group for the week. Turns out that was a complete waste of time, though, because the only guy from said ready-made group who’s part of my current team is my roommate Thomas, and he’s already busy making eyes at Celine… Who is busy glaring at me. God only knows what I’m supposed to have done now. Probably I caused the rain, or something. “We should take cover,” someone says—a short girl with silky, straightened hair and a voice that reminds me of Coach, a friendly authority that’ll steamroll you with its sheer enthusiasm. Maybe that’s why we all follow her without question into the woods. Watching mud creep up the edges of my Nikes is severely pissing me off, my fingers are already aching in this icy drizzle, and I am definitely being contaminated by dirt and animal urine as we speak—but fear is the mind killer, so I kick that worry into a river and focus on the issue at hand. I wonder if our supervisor—Holly, I think her name is—will score me 5 out of 5 for creative thinking because I’m the best dressed Explorer here. She is very sensibly wearing a raincoat, combat trousers, and walking boots, while my socks are already damp, so…probably not. This little corner of Sherwood Forest smells like wet


making personal remarks now?' the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. `Why did they live at the bottom of a well?' The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, `It was a treacle-well.' `There's no such thing!' Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went `Sh! sh!' and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, `If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself.' `No, please go on!' Alice said very humbly; `I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be ONE.' `One, indeed!' said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. `And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--' `What did they draw?' said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. `Treacle,' said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. `I want a clean cup,' interrupted the Hatter: `let's all move one place on.' He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: `But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?' `You can draw water out of a water-well,' said the Hatter; `so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?' `But they were IN the well,' Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. `Of course they were', said the Dormouse; `--well in.' This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. `They were learning to draw,' the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; `and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--' `Why with an M?' said Alice. `Why not?' said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: `--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness-- you know you say things are "much of a muchness"--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?' `Really, now you ask me,' said Alice, very much confused, `I don't think--' `Then you shouldn't talk,' said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

a little broody over there.” “Not at all. Just calmly watching this very well edited episode.” “Uh-huh.” My gaze snares on the way her lips come away wet from a drag of champagne and she swipes them clean with the back of her hand. I’m infatuated with the blast of her laugh when she does something newly embarrassing on-screen. Her complete lack of self-consciousness or pretense wrecks me. As does the absent way she kicks her feet behind us, her bare legs sliding against one another, so visibly soft and supple. Fizzy does a double take when she glances at me. “You’re staring.” “Because you’re hogging the champagne.” I know I should take it easy, but, truthfully, that ship has sailed. “Hand it over.” She passes it to me with a smirk and then adjusts her position, flattening down to rest her chin on her folded hands as she watches Isaac’s confessional moment with me toward the end of the show where he admits that Fizzy intimidates him, but he thinks that’s a good thing for a man to feel when he really likes a woman. “He’s a good guy.” The fire reignites in my rib cage. “He is.” She looks over her shoulder at me. “Wow, you really choked on that admission, didn’t you?” I point to my throat. “Champagne. I was swallowing a sip.” “Why is it so hot when you lie?” I ignore this and she rolls to her back, staring up at me with the light from the television illuminating her face. “Who do you think will win?” “No idea.” “You must have some idea. We’ll be down to four next week.” “I think Isaac has a pretty good shot. Brenna tells me the Internet loves him.” “Brenna tells you? Don’t you go online at all?” “I’m online frequently. But I don’t go on social media if it can be helped.” “This tracks.” She takes the bottle again. “I stalked your Insta. You have a picture of Stevie’s tiny feet on bike pedals and then a picture of a dog from, like, four years ago. That’s it.” I laugh. “I don’t need the world to know what I’m doing every second.” “Hot.” She studies me. “But as the producer, don’t you need to know what’s trending?” “We need some of us to watch the show as its own thing, in isolation, so the story arc about finding you an actual soulmate stays consistent and true.” Her brows go up like I’ve just confessed to being a principled vegan. “Fizzy, I’m not altruistic. Others on the team track the voting. I just get the final numbers. It’s really a giant mess until the window closes and I don’t relish watching it in real time.” She rolls up to her side facing me. “So you want Isaac to win?” There’s no good way to reply to this honestly without sounding possessive or jealous or delusional. “I think he’s the best remaining contestant.” “That’s not really an answer.” “Too bad, because it’s the only one I’m going to give.” “Are there


washing her hands. "For Heaven's sake, pop thy hands under the pump, Deb! Upon my soul, if the London folk only knowed of thee and thy slovenly ways, they'd swaller their milk and butter more mincing than they do a'ready; and that's saying a good deal." The milking progressed, till towards the end Tess and Clare, in common with the rest, could hear the heavy breakfast table dragged out from the wall in the kitchen by Mrs Crick, this being the invariable preliminary to each meal; the same horrible scrape accompanying its return journey when the table had been cleared. XXI There was a great stir in the milk-house just after breakfast. The churn revolved as usual, but the butter would not come. Whenever this happened the dairy was paralyzed. Squish, squash, echoed the milk in the great cylinder, but never arose the sound they waited for. Dairyman Crick and his wife, the milkmaids Tess, Marian, Retty Priddle, Izz Huett, and the married ones from the cottages; also Mr Clare, Jonathan Kail, old Deborah, and the rest, stood gazing hopelessly at the churn; and the boy who kept the horse going outside put on moon-like eyes to show his sense of the situation. Even the melancholy horse himself seemed to look in at the window in inquiring despair at each walk round. "'Tis years since I went to Conjuror Trendle's son in Egdon--years!" said the dairyman bitterly. "And he was nothing to what his father had been. I have said fifty times, if I have said once, that I DON'T believe in en; though 'a do cast folks' waters very true. But I shall have to go to 'n if he's alive. O yes, I shall have to go to 'n, if this sort of thing continnys!" Even Mr Clare began to feel tragical at the dairyman's desperation. "Conjuror Fall, t'other side of Casterbridge, that they used to call 'Wide-O', was a very good man when I was a boy," said Jonathan Kail. "But he's rotten as touchwood by now." "My grandfather used to go to Conjuror Mynterne, out at Owlscombe, and a clever man a' were, so I've heard grandf'er say," continued Mr Crick. "But there's no such genuine folk about nowadays!" Mrs Crick's mind kept nearer to the matter in hand. "Perhaps somebody in the house is in love," she said tentatively. "I've heard tell in my younger days that that will cause it. Why, Crick--that maid we had years ago, do ye mind, and how the butter didn't come then---" "Ah yes, yes!--but that isn't the rights o't. It had nothing to do with the love-making. I can mind all about it--'twas the damage to the churn." He turned to Clare. "Jack Dollop, a 'hore's-bird of a fellow we had here as milker at one time, sir, courted a young woman over at Mellstock, and deceived her as he had deceived many afore. But he had another sort o' woman to reckon wi' this time, and it was not the girl herself. One Holy Thursday of all days in


this place alive. I stare at Bezi and then Kyle, both of whom are silent and clearly scared to death. I am too. I shift my gaze to the office counter and see the game book sitting open, the names of the guests and staff penciled in. I’ve been playing the part of a girl who escapes a serial killer every night for months. It’s not a game this time. The consequences are real, but we still have to play. “I’m the final girl,” I say. “It’s literally my job to survive the night. We don’t have any good choices here.” I grab the game book and look at the roster, trying to think of a way to make any of this work in my favor. “It’s just the three of us here for right now. Javier and Tasha aren’t going to leave us here alone. I’m sure that as soon as they can, they’ll get somebody else up here to help us.” “What about the pickup truck?” Kyle asks. “We don’t have the keys,” I say. “Mr. Lamont has them, and even if he didn’t, the tires are probably cut.” “Why would you say that?” Bezi asks, her eyes wide. “Your tires are cut,” I say. A dreadful silence settles over us. “We have to dig in and wait for help,” I say. “Keep trying the cell phones. We’ll get a spotty signal at some point, and we can use it to call Mr. Lamont, but until then, we have to play the game. We get our stuff together, we use the tunnels, we stay hidden. We survive the night. It’s the only way we get out of here alive.” Kyle shakes his head. “I can’t believe this is happening.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “They’re not the only people who can put on masks and scare people.” We make our way back to the Western Lodge and bar the doors, cut out the main lights, and take stock of what we have to defend ourselves. It’s not much, but it’s all we have to work with—an assortment of dull kitchen knives, table legs, a half-empty can of bear spray, and the headsets we use to communicate during the game. We plug in our cell phones, and I help Bezi get her headset on. “Just leave the channel open—that way you won’t have to toggle it on and off,” I say. “One of us should get to the control center and see if the cameras are still working. The lock on that outside door is the real deal, so you can lock yourself in there and be pretty safe.” “I’ll go,” Kyle says. “If the cameras are working, we can just avoid these weirdos until help gets here.” “Should we all go to the control center?” Bezi asks. “Just lock ourselves in there?” “I know that’s probably what we should do,” I say. “But Paige might still be out there, and maybe if we can listen in on these people, we can find out if they know where she


all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive any thing extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency without fashion which is intolerable.'' Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a determination of making him speak she continued, ``I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, "_She_ a beauty! -- I should as soon call her mother a wit." But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.'' ``Yes,'' replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, ``but _that_ was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.'' He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself. Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every thing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's beginning the subject. __ CHAPTER IV (46) ELIZABETH had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third, her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill. They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must be first attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

you copy a small paper for me this morning? or help examine a few lines? or step round to the post-office? In a word, will you do any thing at all, to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the premises?” He silently retired into his hermitage. I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but prudent to check myself at present from further demonstrations. Bartleby and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate Adams and the still more unfortunate Colt in the solitary office of the latter; and how poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and imprudently permitting himself to get wildly excited, was at unawares hurried into his fatal act—an act which certainly no man could possibly deplore more than the actor himself. Often it had occurred to me in my ponderings upon the subject, that had that altercation taken place in the public street, or at a private residence, it would not have terminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being alone in a solitary office, up stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed by humanizing domestic associations—an uncarpeted office, doubtless, of a dusty, haggard sort of appearance;—this it must have been, which greatly helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the hapless Colt. But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me concerning Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the divine injunction: “A new commandment give I unto you, that ye love one another.” Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside from higher considerations, charity often operates as a vastly wise and prudent principle—a great safeguard to its possessor. Men have committed murder for jealousy’s sake, and anger’s sake, and hatred’s sake, and selfishness’ sake, and spiritual pride’s sake; but no man that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet charity’s sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in question, I strove to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don’t mean any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be indulged. I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to comfort my despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him. Bartleby, of his own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some decided line of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past twelve o’clock came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby remained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead-wall reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon I left


he lets go, he is panting. She clasps the back of her neck, feeling the pain where he touched her. She swallows, then says, “I’d rather die than submit to you.” She can’t tell if he heard her. He has turned his back on her and left the room. 20 The Prophecy CLYTEMNESTRA IS IN the megaron when the envoy breaks in, panting, claiming to have urgent news. It is early morning, and the frescoes burn in the red light of dawn. She has been talking to Orestes about trade; her son pointed to some of the swords and axes hanging on the walls, and Clytemnestra told him where the gold, crystal, and lapis lazuli came from. “Should I call Father?” Orestes asks as the envoy tries to catch his breath. His hands are purple with cold, and he tucks each into the opposite sleeve in a vain attempt to warm them. “I have a message for the queen,” the envoy blurts out. “From the palace of Alea.” Clytemnestra sits up. Of all the possible news, this is the most unexpected. “Is Queen Timandra safe?” She must look ready to lash out, because the man seems afraid to speak. He gulps. “Timandra has deserted King Echemus, my queen.” His voice is low, and for a moment. she thinks she hasn’t heard correctly. The envoy looks up and, seeing that she isn’t reacting, continues, “She was seen riding away in the night. They say she married King Phyleus in secret and now is pregnant by him.” The name tells her nothing. She frowns, trying to understand. “This message isn’t from Timandra, then.” The envoy shakes his head. “It is King Echemus who sends me. He claims Timandra went mad after he sent her friend away from the palace.” Chrysanthe. “He says he wants her back.” “Where is Timandra’s friend now?” “No one knows.” “Is Echemus looking for her?” The envoy frowns, as though Clytemnestra’s questions were missing the point. “Echemus only wants Timandra back, my queen.” Orestes stares at him. Behind the columns near the hearth, Leon is waiting for Clytemnestra’s instructions. “You can rest here tonight,” she tells the envoy. “Leon will take you to the bathhouse. Tomorrow you will go back to your king.” “What should I tell him?” “That I grieve for his loss, but I can’t bring his wife back. Timandra is someone else’s wife now.” The envoy pulls a face, torn between laughter and gravity. “Yes, my queen,” he says, then leaves the room, following Leon. Alone with his mother once more, Orestes walks to the wall and starts tracing the contours of the painted lions with his fingers. He used to do it all the time when he was a child, touching the frescoes as though they were windows to another world. “Why did Aunt Timandra go mad?” he asks. There are fresh cuts on his face—he has been wrestling harder in the practice field, like a fighting dog that has learned the only way out of the arena is to take the others down. Clytemnestra takes


mysterious journals in illegible reverse handwriting; he believed he possessed the alchemic power to turn lead into gold and even cheat God by creating an elixir to postpone death; and his inventions included horrific, never-before-imagined weapons of war and torture. Misunderstanding breeds distrust, Langdon thought. Even Da Vinci's enormous output of breathtaking Christian art only furthered the artist's reputation for spiritual hypocrisy. Accepting hundreds of lucrative Vatican commissions, Da Vinci painted Christian themes not as an expression of his own beliefs but rather as a commercial venture-a means of funding a lavish lifestyle. Unfortunately, Da Vinci was a prankster who often amused himself by quietly gnawing at the hand that fed him. He incorporated in many of his Christian paintings hidden symbolism that was anything but Christian-tributes to his own beliefs and a subtle thumbing of his nose at 33 the Church. Langdon had even given a lecture once at the National Gallery in London entitled: "The Secret Life of Leonardo: Pagan Symbolism in Christian Art." "I understand your concerns," Langdon now said, "but Da Vinci never really practiced any dark arts. He was an exceptionally spiritual man, albeit one in constant conflict with the Church." As Langdon said this, an odd thought popped into his mind. He glanced down at the message on the floor again. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint! "Yes?" Fache said. Langdon weighed his words carefully. "I was just thinking that Saunire shared a lot of spiritual ideologies with Da Vinci, including a concern over the Church's elimination of the sacred feminine from modern religion. Maybe, by imitating a famous Da Vinci drawing, Saunire was simply echoing some of their shared frustrations with the modern Church's demonization of the goddess." Fache's eyes hardened. "You think Saunire is calling the Church a lame saint and a Draconian devil?" Langdon had to admit it seemed far-fetched, and yet the pentacle seemed to endorse the idea on some level. "All I am saying is that Mr. Saunire dedicated his life to studying the history of the goddess, and nothing has done more to erase that history than the Catholic Church. It seems reasonable that Saunire might have chosen to express his disappointment in his final good-bye." "Disappointment?" Fache demanded, sounding hostile now. "This message sounds more enraged than disappointed, wouldn't you say?" Langdon was reaching the end of his patience. "Captain, you asked for my instincts as to what Saunire is trying to say here, and that's what I'm giving you." "That this is an indictment of the Church?" Fache's jaw tightened as he spoke through clenched teeth. "Mr. Langdon, I have seen a lot of death in my work, and let me tell you something. When a man is murdered by another man, I do not believe his final thoughts are to write an obscure spiritual statement that no one will understand. I believe he is thinking of one thing only." Fache's whispery voice sliced the air. "La vengeance. I believe Saunire wrote this note to tell us who killed him." Langdon stared. "But that makes no sense whatsoever."


toast. “Ah, a sudden enlightenment. Better late than never.” Pushing his chair back from the table, Grantworth says, “I must confer with the director immediately.” “You go confer. Form a committee of experts. They can devise a strategy. That’s always effective.” Grantworth hates his underling almost as much as he fears him. Getting to his feet, he looks as if he is marshalling the nerve to upbraid Calaphas for his insolence or even remove him from the case—but he isn’t able to summon enough courage to act. His expanding chest deflates, even as the swollen artery in his left temple pulses more rapidly, more visibly. He issues only a statement that is in fact a question: “You’re staying on the case.” “After I’ve had dinner.” “Woodbine and Santana at nine o’clock.” “Wouldn’t miss it. One thing.” “What?” The other tables in this quadrant of the restaurant are still vacant, but Calaphas lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “It’ll be next to impossible to apprehend Mace and hard to find him. But if I can find him, I can kill him.” “The director might have other ideas.” “He’s a man of big ideas.” “Take no executive action until you receive instructions.” “‘Executive action.’ How you thrive on euphemisms.” Grantworth chews on his lower lip, contemplating a forceful response, but again he lacks the fortitude to do what he knows he should. He is no doubt thinking about his second wife, the stunning Giselle, whose great beauty makes him the envy of other men, and of his first wife, Martha, whose looks were as common as her husband’s and who died in a tragic accident that not only freed Julian but also enriched him with an inheritance of thirty-two million dollars. Calaphas and Grantworth both know to whom he owes his good fortune, though they have never discussed the matter; Calaphas is willing to speak the truth about what happened to Martha, but her widower dares not raise the subject. Grantworth lifts his chin, and his nostrils flare like those of a show horse entering a dressage competition, and he looks down at Calaphas with what he imagines is withering contempt. “Woodbine and Santana at nine o’clock.” He turns and makes his way through the restaurant. He is tall, slim, with the ramrod posture of a guard at Buckingham Palace, his exquisitely tailored suit the summation of him. He thinks he’s good at the game, but he doesn’t understand the rules of the simulation in which they exist. TRIGGER In the library of the ocean-view Corona del Mar house, all the books are as white as the bleached sycamore shelves on which they are ordered. The spines feature no titles, no authors’ names, no publishers’ logos. Michael examines several and discovers that the original jackets were replaced by thick but flexible white vellum trimmed to fit each volume precisely. Thrillers by Janet Evanovich and David Baldacci, novels by John Irving and Don DeLillo, romances by Nora Roberts, and nonfiction tomes on a variety of topics are shelved with no regard to subject or


and she’d had wonderful Houdini, her black cat who’d always had a hint of mystery, plus little Hairy S, a scruff of a terrier mix. All now gone, she thought sadly. As was Jay. But there was the new little kitten and soon, hopefully, another dog. With renewed determination, she shook off her melancholy and walked into the house, hesitating inside, but sensing no one had entered. The technician wasn’t due for another couple of hours, so she decided to take Bella’s advice and go for a run. She even considered calling her friend, but thought better of it. She wasn’t ready for company yet, but she would be and soon. She’d need her friends and she’d just have to gut through all their happy little stories about their lives, the tales of their husbands’ foibles, their kids’ accomplishments, the constant struggle with their co-workers and bosses, even their pets’ hilarious antics. It was time to get out of her own whirlpool of self-pity and get on with her life. True, her life was somewhat isolated and lonely, the nature of being a writer, and the subject matter of violent crime could be a real downer, but she’d just have to make an effort. She discovered the kitten curled on her bed, a little fluff of black fur with round eyes that was already burrowing into her heart, a female that she’d dubbed Lenore in honor of one of her favorite poems by Poe. She spent some time petting the little purring beast, then located her favorite Nikes, kicked off by the back door, slipped them on, and took off, running through the neighborhood and following her usual route. She noticed the houses as she passed, many with pumpkins, even jack-o’-lanterns on the porches. There was a new strength in her pace, a fierceness in her stride, a determination to find herself. And not only that, she thought as she crossed the streetcar’s tracks, then jogged under the canopy of huge live oak trees and past the grand old homes of the Garden District, but she was going to quit moping around and find the son of a bitch who had killed her husband, the prick who had robbed her unborn child of ever knowing his or her father. At the corner of Washington and Fourth Street, she had the sensation she was being followed, but a quick look over her shoulder told her that she was imagining anyone tailing her. That was the problem. Ever since the attack, she’d felt unseen eyes upon her and she’d been jumpy. Paranoid. Then, discovering that someone had actually been in her house to leave her the disturbing card only increased her case of nerves. She cut past Lafayette Cemetery with its graying marble tombs and wrought iron fence, then headed back to her house where she showered and dressed. Next up? The local animal shelter where she intended to find a big, fierce-looking dog, one that would run with her, cuddle with her, and most of all, deter anyone from daring to think they


a laugh. “Poached by who?” “If the Daily News and the Journal-American haven’t tried yet, they will.” “You’re crazy.” “I was in the meeting when your raise was approved.” Nick scoffs. “The Daily News is even crazier if they think I want to write about actresses in bathing suits and the grisly details of mob crime.” He takes a careful bite of toast. “You know the only reason I have the job I do is that the city desk was short-staffed and the old city editor was batty right before he retired.” “You came in ’55, right after the Brooklyn Eagle folded, right?” He already knows Nick’s history. Nick started working at the Eagle as a night copyboy when he was a teenager, then climbed the ranks—obituaries, then the dictation bank, then reporting. “There were plenty of reporters looking for work. Nobody was giving away jobs.” Nick rubs the back of his neck, somehow managing to look skeptical and pleased and extremely embarrassed all at once, which makes Andy want to keep going, keep telling him good things that he ought to already know. The toaster pops up with two more slices. When Andy comes back to the couch, plate in hand, he finds Nick staring into his half-empty coffee cup. “I’m safer than you think,” Nick says. “The left side of your face argues otherwise.” “I mean about—about men. I don’t do anything risky.” “Okay,” Andy says tentatively, because he doesn’t know how it’s possible for a man in Nick’s position to do anything without risk, but he also doesn’t know what he expects Nick to do about it. “I know there are raids, but I steer clear of bars that have back rooms. And I wait for people to approach me. Also, I was joking about the subway men’s rooms. I don’t do anything in public anymore.” That anymore makes Andy slightly hysterical in about ten different ways, but he tries to look unbothered. * * * Nick insists on wearing sunglasses when they go out to breakfast, as if they do anything to conceal the state of the rest of his face. He also insists on stopping at the locksmith and getting his keys copied for Andy. Then, without much discussion, they go to a matinée and watch Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon spend two hours cross-dressing before Jack Lemmon elopes with a man, which is just proof positive that the world has conspired to force Andy to think about queerness. Since when is there queerness in movies? Since never, that’s when. He’s feeling badly put upon by the time they stop at the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner. “I don’t know how you’re going to cook anything with your hands all scraped up,” Andy says. “It’s pasta and some sauce,” Nick says, as if this answers the question. Andy wants to remind Nick that he doesn’t have to entertain Andy like a guest, that he can go and do whatever he ordinarily does on weekends, but it doesn’t feel like Nick is going out of


was to leave, while the servants slept and Pirithous prepared the horses, Theseus broke into Helen’s room and kidnapped her, as silent as air. Clytemnestra woke in the early morning in the empty Egyptian bed. She screamed and ran to her father, her heart beating so fast it hurt. Castor and Polydeuces hurried outside, gathering servants until they found a helot who had seen Theseus riding east. “They are taking Helen to the small town of Aphidnae, my lords,” the helot said when dragged to the megaron. Clytemnestra didn’t know where Aphidnae was or what that meant. Polydeuces punched the painted wall and stormed out of the room. Castor and Clytemnestra followed. At the stables, Castor stopped her. “You stay here,” he said. When Clytemnestra ignored him and took a horse, Polydeuces shouted, “Didn’t you hear your brother? You stay here!” They spurred the horses and were gone in a cloud of dust. Forced to wait without any news of the person she loved most, Clytemnestra took refuge in the temple of Artemis. There, near a spring at the foot of the mountains, she sat between two wooden columns and prayed. She was not very good at it, because she was impatient. She gave up quickly and wandered around the mud-brick walls until she found Tyndareus talking to the priestess. “I don’t understand why your sons went to fetch her, Tyndareus,” the priestess was saying. “It would be an honor for any girl to lie with Theseus. Helen is ripe for marriage, and she is still a virgin.” She had flowers in her hair and a long thin dress that showed her sharp-edged body. “I want Helen back,” Tyndareus said. Then he turned, feeling watched, and saw Clytemnestra. He walked to her, leaving the priestess, and said, “Let us pray together for your sister’s return.” Her brothers came back at nightfall. Helen was slumped over Polydeuces’s horse, her head resting against her brother’s back, her arms scratched. Clytemnestra was still in the temple with her father when she saw them coming. She had never prayed so much in her life. She sprang up and ran to the palace. Two servants left Helen in the gynaeceum, while Castor and Polydeuces spoke with Tyndareus and Leda. “Theseus was already gone when we got there,” Castor said, “but we found her. Two farmers told us where she was hidden.” “What did he do to her?” Leda asked. “She needs to rest. And I am going to ask the women in the kitchen to bring the goose fat to her room.” Leda covered her face with her hands. Clytemnestra didn’t know what it meant then, but goose fat mixed with crushed herbs was helpful for women who were in pain after lying with a man. “We’ll go back tomorrow,” Polydeuces said, “now that Helen is safe. I’ll take ten of our best men and we’ll sack Aphidnae.” He looked wild, distraught. Tyndareus shook his head. “Theseus is now king of Athens. Athens is powerful, and we can’t go to war against it, not for such a


let it sleep with the children. Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with look- ing and listening till peace was restored; then both be- gan searching their father's pockets for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to morsels in the greatcoat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing, earning for her pains a sound blow from her father to teach her cleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hop- ing it might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earn- shaw's door, and there he found it on quitting his cham- ber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there. I was obliged to confess, and in recompense for my coward- ice and inhumanity was sent out of the house. This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual) I found they had christened him "Heathcliff." It was the name of a son who died in childhood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated him, and, to say the truth, I did the same; and we plagued and went on with him shamefully, for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged. He seemed a sullen, patient child, hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment. He would stand Hindley's blows with- out winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious when he discovered his son persecuting the poor, fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely, be- lieving all he said (for that matter, he said precious little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite. So from the very beginning he bred bad feeling in the house; and at Mrs. Earnshaw's death, which hap- pened in less than two years after, the young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his parent's affections and his privileges, and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries. I sympathized a while; but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed my ideas. Heathcliff


a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?" "The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London." "From East London. What do you deduce from that?" "They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship." "Excellent. We have already a clew. There can be no doubt that the probability--the strong probability--is that the writer was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfillment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest anything?" "A greater distance to travel." "But the letter had also a greater distance to come." "Then I do not see the point." "There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the difference between the mailboat which brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer." "It is possible." "More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay." "Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless persecution?" "The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society." "But of what society?" "Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?" "I never have." Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it is," said he presently: "Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by cocking


with land?’ ‘The instructions are to be in Antarctica – this is Antarctica – we made it.’ ‘What if being a thousand metres away doesn’t count? What if being in the airspace doesn’t count? What if being in a boat, anchored offshore, doesn’t count? The only way to be sure is to be in direct contact with the land.’ ‘Sure of what? Sure of death. Look at that land! There’s nothing – no shelter, no food. If we abandon this ship we give up our only protection against the cold. We brought everyone down off the deck because they couldn’t survive outside.’ ‘I know that but—’ ‘I have two hundred thousand people on board. They’re wearing shawls and shirts, not parkas and snow boots. The temperature outside is freezing. The wind is fifteen knots. If I order an evacuation, how many will die? How many will fall in the water or be taken by the cold? And for what? To stand on the shore when the deadline arrives?’ ‘Yes, to stand on the shore of Antarctica when the deadline arrives. We have no reason to believe they will treat us fairly. I know it goes against every human instinct to leave the warmth and venture out into this cold. Think of it like this: what if the shoreline is the finishing line and we’re dealing with an unpredictable power, someone unlikely to be lenient or merciful. Either you cross the finish line or you don’t.’ ‘I am in charge of the last survivors from my country. This ship is all that remains of our nation and its people. It’s been our saviour. It is our home. It’s all we have. I cannot give it up unless they agree. If we evacuate this ship, many will die.’ ‘If we don’t evacuate to land, we might all die. I made a promise to my parents. I can’t stop here. I can’t stop short.’ ‘Then you should go. May God be with you.’ THE ANTARCTIC PENINSULA SUPER-TANKER AXIOS SAME DAY NINE HOURS REMAINING THE BOW OF THE SUPER-TANKER, which bulged out as a giant red sphere to improve fuel efficiency, was crunching against the back of one of the world’s largest cruise liners, The Symphony of the Seas, each impact of such force that the stern of the cruise liner had begun to cave inwards and was in danger of buckling. Owned by Royal Caribbean, incorporated in Liberia with its ships registered in the Bahamas, stateless for tax purposes and now stateless for real, it was filled with families from across the world. Three hundred and fifty metres of whirlpools and waterslides, ice-rinks and tennis courts, transformed into a migrant boat with every room crowded with people to such an extent that even the ocean view verandas were lined with tents to create additional living space. The theatrical auditoriums no longer played nightly renditions of Hairspray but were home to thousands of refugees, the lavish swimming pools were emptied of chlorinated water, lined with sleeping bags and covered with tarpaulin. As far as Liza could


on for a few days after the Emmys ceremony, moving from the downtown hotel where the network put us up to an oceanfront room at a boutique hotel in Santa Monica. This was early on in the time when I could have afforded such a thing, and I’d done little during my stay—I’d read, and walked on the beach, and eaten takeout on the balcony—and, pretty much continuously, I’d experienced disbelief at my good fortune. I didn’t live in Missouri or North Carolina anymore! I didn’t work for a medical newsletter! I wasn’t married to a man who thought I wasn’t funny! I was a TNO writer who had been nominated for an Emmy and could stay at a hotel that cost four hundred dollars a night! Returning to the same boutique hotel, I tried to remind myself that these facts were still true—by now, I’d won Emmys and could afford to stay at a hotel that currently cost five hundred and thirty dollars a night—but I felt bereft. Though the beach was open, the pier, which I could see from my balcony, was eerily empty, and the streets nearby were quiet. A powerful sense of misgiving had begun to grip me in Noah’s guest room, as I set my clothes in my suitcase then loaded my aunt Donna’s car, which I hadn’t driven since pulling onto his property. He had walked out to the driveway with me, and as he kissed my cheek with an unfamiliar formality, I wondered if I’d lost him already. My regret hadn’t been total as I wound south around the roads of Topanga. But my regret was already strong, and grew stronger as the minutes and hours passed. Why had I voluntarily left? What was I proving, and to whom? Was this when my interlude with Noah would begin to recede as a pandemic fever dream? I’d checked into the hotel at 3:30, then lay on the bed for a while, planning to read and instead crying myself to sleep for an afternoon nap. When I awakened, I wasn’t sure what time it was, or at first, where I was, and then I realized: 7:18 p.m., and a hotel. I thought of ordering dinner, but instead I texted Viv and Henrietta: Had bad conversation with NB, now in hotel, maybe things are over From Viv: Oh no what happened From Henrietta: Are you okay From me: Weird part is I think he wants a serious relationship/wants me to stay here From Viv: Of course he does you’re a catch From Henrietta: Is that what fight was about From me: Kind of From me: Would it be crazy if I don’t come back to TNO From Henrietta: Then who will write my sketches about the 35 year old who hasn’t figured out how to use a tampon From Henrietta: JK it’s your one wild and precious From Viv: Do you WANT to stay out there From me: I don’t know From Viv: Pretend it’s Monday and you’re about to leave your apt and come to 66 and