Mexico, waiting for the day when he could pick up Ella and drive her over the border. Maud told Peter that she’d bring up the search with Ella’s therapist, Rita, the next day at Lone Pines. When she sat down in Rita’s office at the end of the session, Ella was playing with a fidget, a stress-relieving toy shaped like a snake, the rainbowed segments clicking as she ran them through her fingers. “Anything you’d like to discuss?” Rita said to Maud. “Ella did an internet search yesterday,” Maud said. She couldn’t say his name. “Yes.” Rita folded her hands over her knees. “She told me.” She turned to Ella. “Maybe your mother needs to hear what we discussed.” “I don’t care what she needs to hear,” Ella said, as the snake clicked. “I thought you said what we talked about stayed between us.” “It does, but if your mom doesn’t hear, she can’t understand. It’s your choice, though.” This is when and where it happens, Maud thought, grinding her teeth. This is where I learn the truth. Ella blinked at Rita, then glanced at Maud. “I wanted to see a picture of him. See what he looked like again.” “And can you tell your mom why?” “Why should I have to?” Her hands moved faster, the clicking louder. “You don’t have to, but I think she’ll worry if you don’t.” Rita tilted her head at Maud. “Is that right?” “Yes,” Maud said. She felt a gratitude for Rita that was close to adoration. “Because I don’t understand why I liked him so much,” Ella said bluntly. “At Montgomery Place, he didn’t seem so old. Or disgusting.” “Why disgusting?” Maud said. Ella shrugged. “He just is.” “Could I have a quick word with your mom?” Rita asked. After Ella had left for the waiting room, Maud said, “Disgusting sounds alarming.” “She knows she had a little crush on him,” Rita said. “She’s said that to you?” “Not in so many words. He listened to her when she was vulnerable. That gave him power. And she understands that his keeping their meetings a secret was inappropriate.” “I keep wondering if more happened with him,” Maud said. “I feel she’s not saying something. It’s this worry that won’t go away.” “Maud,” Rita said, “if I had any suspicion that more had happened, I wouldn’t only tell you and Peter, I’d tell the authorities. Ella is trying to let what happened last summer go. I’m not surprised that she looked him up.” “I can’t let it go,” Maud said. She had pieces of evidence that no one else did. Gabriel had said that he loved her and slept with her, while meeting her daughter in secret over and over. But if she told Rita all this, she would eventually have to tell Peter. And he’d be enraged by her lies. Their marriage wouldn’t survive the blow. “It’s going to be hard to trust Ella again.” Rita leaned forward in her chair, her face both tough and sympathetic. “Self-harm does that. But you’ll have to, eventually.


better for my health." It seemed extraordinary to Philip to hear her talking in this way. With her delicate little features and her pale face she looked cold and maidenly. When he thought of the passions that burnt within her, so unexpected, his heart was strangely troubled. His pulse beat quickly. CHAPTER LXX PHILIP expected to find a letter from Norah when he got back to his rooms, but there was nothing; nor did he receive one the following morning. The silence irritated and at the same time alarmed him. They had seen one another every day he had been in London since the previous June; and it must seem odd to her that he should let two days go by without visiting her or offering a reason for his absence; he wondered whether by an unlucky chance she had seen him with Mildred. He could not bear to think that she was hurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind to call on her that afternoon. He was almost inclined to reproach her because he had allowed himself to get on such intimate terms with her. The thought of continuing them filled him with disgust. He found two rooms for Mildred on the second floor of a house in the Vauxhall Bridge Road. They were noisy, but he knew that she liked the rattle of traffic under her windows. "I don't like a dead and alive street where you don't see a soul pass all day," she said. "Give me a bit of life." Then he forced himself to go to Vincent Square. He was sick with apprehension when he rang the bell. He had an uneasy sense that he was treating Norah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she had a quick temper, and he hated scenes: perhaps the best way would be to tell her frankly that Mildred had come back to him and his love for her was as violent as it had ever been; he was very sorry, but he had nothing to offer Norah any more. Then he thought of her anguish, for he knew she loved him; it had flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful; but now it was horrible. She had not deserved that he should inflict pain upon her. He asked himself how she would greet him now, and as he walked up the stairs all possible forms of her behaviour flashed across his mind. He knocked at the door. He felt that he was pale, and wondered how to conceal his nervousness. She was writing away industriously, but she sprang to her feet as he entered. "I recognised your step," she cried. "Where have you been hiding yourself, you naughty boy?" She came towards him joyfully and put her arms round his neck. She was delighted to see him. He kissed her, and then, to give himself countenance, said he was dying for tea. She bustled the fire to make the kettle boil. "I've been awfully busy," he said lamely. She began to chatter in her bright way, telling


Jo. The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh. "She's right, the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself. If the Laurences had been what Jo called `prim and poky', she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward. But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the finest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying, with the happy look Jo liked to see, "Please give these to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much." They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing room, by Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open. "Do you play?" she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful expression. "Sometimes," he answered modestly. "Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth." "Won't you first?" "Don't know how. Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly." So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in heliotrope and tea roses. Her respect and regard for the `Laurence' boy increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn't put on any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so, only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to his rescue. "That will do, that will do, young lady. too many sugarplums are not good for him. His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important things. Going? well, I'm much obliged to you, and I hope you'll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor Jo." He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him. When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something amiss. He shook his head. "No, it was me. He doesn't like to hear me play." "Why not?" "I'll tell you some day. John is going home with


might look upon a return to civilization -- not right now, but -- Tom withered him with derision! Huck, being uncommitted as yet, joined in with Tom, and the waverer quickly "explained," and was glad to get out of the scrape with as little taint of chicken-hearted home-sickness clinging to his garments as he could. Mutiny was effectually laid to rest for the moment. As the night deepened, Huck began to nod, and presently to snore. Joe followed next. Tom lay upon his elbow motionless, for some time, watching the two intently. At last he got up cautiously, on his knees, and went searching among the grass and the flickering reflections flung by the camp-fire. He picked up and inspected several large semi-cylinders --------------------------------------------------------- -152- of the thin white bark of a sycamore, and finally chose two which seemed to suit him. Then he knelt by the fire and painfully wrote something upon each of these with his "red keel"; one he rolled up and put in his jacket pocket, and the other he put in Joe's hat and removed it to a little distance from the owner. And he also put into the hat certain schoolboy treasures of almost inestimable value -- among them a lump of chalk, an India-rubber ball, three fishhooks, and one of that kind of marbles known as a "sure 'nough crystal." Then he tiptoed his way cautiously among the trees till he felt that he was out of hearing, and straightway broke into a keen run in the direction of the sandbar. --------------------------------------------------------- -153- Chapter XV A FEW minutes later Tom was in the shoal water of the bar, wading toward the Illinois shore. Before the depth reached his middle he was half-way over; the current would permit no more wading, now, so he struck out confidently to swim the remaining hundred yards. He swam quartering upstream, but still was swept downward rather faster than he had expected. However, he reached the shore finally, and drifted along till he found a low place and drew himself out. He put his hand on his jacket pocket, found his piece of bark safe, and then struck through the woods, following the shore, with streaming garments. Shortly before ten o'clock he came out into an open place opposite the village, and saw the ferryboat lying in the shadow of the trees and the high bank. Everything was quiet under the blinking stars. He crept down the bank, watching with all his eyes, slipped into the water, swam three or four strokes and climbed into the skiff that did "yawl" duty at the boat's stern. He laid himself down under the thwarts and waited, panting --------------------------------------------------------- -154- . Presently the cracked bell tapped and a voice gave the order to "cast off." A minute or two later the skiff's head was standing high up, against the boat's swell, and the voyage was begun. Tom felt happy in his success, for he knew it was the boat's last trip for the night. At the end of a long twelve or fifteen


that. Some kind of unique structure. Essentially, we know Finn has a story to tell, and this is our chance to rebrand him, while also capitalizing on what made him popular in the first place.” Strange that his manager would answer this instead of him. I glance over at Finn, waiting for him to add something, given this whole discussion hinges on a book that’s, well, about him. But he just nods, finally seeming to give up on the juice stain and adding one last napkin to the pile to his left. “Joe pretty much covered it.” Okay then. Our food arrives, and I dig into my curried pumpkin soup like the lifeline it is, trying not to estimate the cost-per-spoonful. It doesn’t escape my attention that Finn does the same thing with the utensils that he did at the pizza place. He inspects them in this surreptitious way, as though he doesn’t want anyone to catch him doing it. Then he carefully saws off a hunk of bun and portobello with a knife and fork. Meanwhile, Joe grabs his burger and takes a huge bite, either used to Finn’s habits or unaware. “Let’s talk logistics,” Joe says, dipping a sweet potato fry into eggless aioli. “We’ve made arrangements with the publisher to accommodate Finn’s schedule, so you’d be accompanying him around the country as he attends various conventions he’s already committed to.” “Oh—I see. My agent didn’t mention that. I . . . haven’t really traveled much.” This seems like the most professional way of saying that I can’t afford it. Joe waves this off. “The hotels, the flights—all of that’s covered, along with what I think you’ll find is a very reasonable per diem. And I spoke with your agent, and we’d be happy to negotiate a thirty percent increase on what you were paid for your last book.” I choke on a pomegranate seed, trying and failing to act as though it’s normal to be receiving this kind of offer—if it’s even an offer. I hate how appealing it sounds after the shit show with Maddy. Even with personal trainer Bronson’s book, we were on such an accelerated schedule that our calls and meetings never left much room for the writing to breathe. I’ve never done anything like this: getting to know a subject on a level this deep before writing about them. I try to imagine it, sitting in a corner with my notebook while people dressed as otherworldly creatures pose for photos with Finn. Then I push it all out of my mind, out of the restaurant, into the compost bins outside. There’s just no way that my next project is writing a memoir for my failed one-night stand. I’d laugh if I weren’t thisclose to spontaneously combusting from the sheer embarrassment of it all. “We expect the work to last up until the reunion,” Joe continues. “Reunion?” I repeat, hoping I haven’t missed something else. “For The Nocturnals,” Finn says. It’s the first time he’s spoken directly to me in at least ten minutes. At this


wild wigs and antlers. The parade of musicians followed wearing bright hats, leafy garlands, playing violins, accordions, percussion. A band with trumpets and saxophones sauntered past, each musician in checked clothing, then a choral group in Elizabethan costume walked along sedately, singing madrigals. They were followed by yet more jangling music as revellers leaped and twisted, waving bells and scarves to the squashy breath of an accordion. Minnie smiled. The little carnival in Middleton Ferris, where she’d been May Queen in 1965, was a small affair compared to this packed celebration of tradition and ceremony. Right now, Lin and Josie would be enjoying the fun on the village green. When Minnie first arrived in Oxford, students would hurl themselves from Magdalen Bridge parapets into the Cherwell below. Some students still performed the traditional May Day leap, although the police always advised against it, especially when river levels were low. Minnie had jumped once, to prove to a fellow student that she wasn’t afraid. She’d been the only female to leap that year, and she’d nursed a grazed knee for the next week, but she’d basked in other students’ respect for the rest of the Trinity term. The procession continued, and Minnie decided that the pubs would be packed, so lunch in The Bear or The Slug and Lettuce wouldn’t be a good idea – there would be queues and nowhere to sit. She could install herself in the sunshine on the riverbank and watch the spectacle shuffle past from a distance. Or she could go home, sit in the garden and read a book. There was a good one on the coffee table in her living room that she’d just started, called Et Tu Brute? about the murder of Julius Caesar and political assassination. Minnie was already extremely knowledgeable about all things Roman, but now she was becoming even better. A hand squeezed her shoulder and a voice called, ‘Minnie.’ She whirled round to see Francine Jarvis, and Minnie offered a smile. ‘Francine, nice to see you.’ She gazed over her shoulder. ‘Is Melvyn with you?’ Francine rarely went anywhere without her husband at her elbow. ‘He’s over there somewhere – talking to someone from his newspaper.’ She waved a hand in no particular direction. ‘I saw you and I just had to come over and apologise.’ ‘Whatever for?’ Minnie wrinkled her forehead. ‘The dinner party was wonderful fun.’ ‘For what happened with Jensen Callahan, the American. I should have introduced him properly before all the others started to make ghastly comments – they hadn’t realised he was a New Yorker. Melvyn told me afterwards that he’d tried to change the subject twice but – oh, I felt so dreadful, all that stuff about artists and playwrights. I apologised to Jensen before he left, but he didn’t mind at all. In fact, he found it quite humorous.’ ‘I bet he did,’ Minnie agreed with a smile. ‘He was very taken with you too…’ ‘Oh?’ Minnie tried to make her face appear surprised. ‘I’m not sure we had much in common…’ ‘He said


his ankles to the front legs. He passed a double strand across his chest, under the arm-pits and through the chair-back. He made no mistakes with the knots and left no play in any of the bindings. All of them bit sharply into Bond's flesh. The legs of the chair were broadly spaced and Bond could not even rock it. He was utterly a prisoner, naked and defenceless. His buttocks and the underpart of his body protruded through the seat of the chair towards the floor. Le Chiffre nodded to the thin man who quietly left the room and closed the door. There was a packet of Gauloises on the table and a lighter. Le Chiffre lit a cigarette and swallowed a mouthful of coffee from the glass. Then he picked up the cane carpet-beater and, resting the handle comfortably on his knee, allowed the flat trefoil base to lie on the floor directly under Bond's chair. He looked Bond carefully, almost caressingly, in the eyes. Then his wrists sprang suddenly upwards on his knee. The result was startling. Bond's whole body arched in an involuntary spasm. His face contracted in a soundless scream and his lips drew right away from his teeth. At the same time his head flew back with a jerk showing the taut sinews of his neck. For an instant, muscles stood out in knots all over his body and his toes and fingers clenched until they were quite white. Then his body sagged and perspiration started to bead all over his body. He uttered a deep groan. Le Chiffre waited for his eyes to open. 'You see, dear boy?' He smiled a soft, fat smile. 'Is the position quite clear now?' A drop of sweat fell off Bond's chin on to his naked chest. 'Now let us get down to business and see how soon we can be finished with this unfortunate mess you have got yourself into.' He puffed cheerfully at his cigarette and gave an admonitory tap on the floor beneath Bond's chair with his horrible and incongruous instrument. 'My dear boy,' Le Chiffre spoke like a father, 'the game of Red Indians is over, quite over. You have stumbled by mischance into a game for grown-ups and you have already found it a painful experience. You are not equipped, my dear boy, to play games with adults and it was very foolish of your nanny in London to have sent you out here with your spade and bucket. Very foolish indeed and most unfortunate for you. 'But we must stop joking, my dear fellow, although I am sure you would like to follow me in developing this amusing little cautionary tale.' He suddenly dropped his bantering tone and looked at Bond sharply and venomously. 'Where is the money?' Bond's bloodshot eyes looked emptily back at him. Again the upward jerk of the wrist and again Bond's whole body writhed and contorted. Le Chiffre waited until the tortured heart eased down its laboured pumping and until Bond's eyes dully opened again. 'Perhaps I should explain,'


do I get myself sequestered?” he said. “That sounds delightful.” I mentioned that Jerome’s mess had died down, and it did, but only temporarily. That previous fall had brought a second wave of disaster—for him, if not for me. After the initial hurricane, after he quit his job and his gallery dropped him, there was a long stretch of quiet. People forgot, and his art itself never lost value. The commissions came back, and he found new representation. There wasn’t even much online chatter. But then in October of ’21, Jasmine put on a month-long performance piece in Washington Square Park, during which she ate only the food people brought her and wore only the clothes people brought her. How this wasn’t just vagrancy and an insult to the homeless, I was unsure. It garnered enough attention that in January she was the subject of a lengthy feature in New York magazine. The article revisited her piece about Jerome, included new quotes from her about him, and featured a black-and-white photo of the two of them at a costume party in 2003 as Artemis and Zeus. There was no new revelation, just a bigger platform. Twitter was once again where the fallout happened. People tagged Jerome’s new gallery, telling them to drop him. They asked Jerome for a long-overdue public apology. (This, he’d been advised, was a trap: There was no apology they’d accept. And defending himself would be worse.) They tried to drag me into it again, asking how I could stand by him. Fortunately, they caught on soon enough to the divorce going through, and assumed Jasmine was the reason. I didn’t correct them. You might guess that I had come around on Jasmine Wilde. That I’d realized how wronged she was, how much a victim. Or maybe you’re hoping that I realized: If Jasmine had voluntarily dated Jerome, maybe the love between you and Thalia was just as simple. Absolutely not. I’d thought about it, how Thalia, at seventeen, had only been four years younger than Jasmine was when she dated Jerome. It seemed so little, but then four years is the difference between eleven and fifteen—ages no one could argue are the same. Four years was the length of my entire time at Granby: an entire education. It had been four years now since I’d returned there to teach and my life had changed. The good news was, I was not the arbiter of Jerome’s goodness. And the divorce made that official. I’d seen someone for a few months before the pandemic hit, and then, during that brief wave of postvaccine optimism in the summer of ’21, Yahav flew out to LA for a conference and we spent the weekend sleeping together, which threw me back into full-tilt longing and then into a pained equilibrium, an acceptance that Yahav’s place in my life would be two to forty-eight hours here and there for an unspecified number of years. Like a stomach bug that overtook me entirely for a weekend and then vanished. “By the way, funny thing,” Jerome


in like other people did. Never really felt like I belonged there. Shane’s mother ran the local supermarket on her own after his father’s death and she was often described as a pillar of the community. She had always treated me well, if somewhat standoffishly. She knew there was something different about me too. Or maybe she knew their son better than she let on. Better than I did. Maybe she saw the bruises and wanted to keep me quiet. She couldn’t have a scandal like that ruining her reputation or her trade. And I silently went along with it. I didn’t want to disrupt things either and somehow believed that I was partly to blame for it all. I must have been doing something wrong. Reading her, all I could see was a woman who loved her family to the point of blindness. Madame Bowden had offered to accompany me but I didn’t want her there. I was embarrassed by the town and everyone in it. I just had to get through the day and it would all be over. At least that’s what I told myself. I was in a black car with Shane’s mother. ‘Well, I hope that job in Dublin was worth it.’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘What kind of a wife would put a job before her husband.’ She had been staring straight ahead at the road, but now her red-rimmed eyes were trained on me. ‘I didn’t.’ ‘And my poor Shane, he’d never stand in the way of your dreams. Said he didn’t mind if you were away for a few months. Oh, but he was so looking forward to bringing you home with him.’ He hadn’t told her I’d left him. I took a deep breath in. Of course he didn’t tell anyone. How would he explain it? Either she had no clue about the violence, or her mind wouldn’t let her see what was staring her in the face. Not my son. ‘If it hadn’t been for the accident—’ She broke off, swallowing her words in one big gulp and pressing a handkerchief to her nose. ‘Why weren’t you there, Martha?’ ‘I …’ My voice cracked. ‘I’m sorry.’ She took my hand in hers so tightly I thought my bones would crack. ‘I know what people are saying, that it was a suicide, but I don’t believe them.’ I nodded and felt the mixed sensations of guilt and relief shudder through my body. No one suspected anything. The day passed by in flashes, like some kind of avant-garde movie. His uncle making a speech at the church. The open coffin. Shane’s cold, white face that looked as innocent as a child’s. The graveyard and the cries of his mother when the coffin was lowered into the ground. The hotel afterwards and his friends retelling the story of how Shane and I had first met. Love at first sight. My two brothers toasting pints, saying what a sound man he was. Always fixing their cars at mates’ rates. Never missed his turn paying for a round of drinks.


it in. I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and start when I heard a sound away over the water. I listened. Pretty soon I made it out. It was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from oars working in rowlocks when it's a still night. I peeped out through the willow branches, and there it was -- a skiff, away across the water. I couldn't tell how many was in it. It kept a-coming, and when it was abreast of me I see there warn't but one man in it. Think's I, maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting him. He dropped below me with the current, and by and by he came a-swinging up shore in the easy water, and he went by so close I could a reached out the gun and touched him. Well, it WAS pap, sure enough -- and sober, too, by the way he laid his oars. I didn't lose no time. The next minute I was a- spinning down stream soft but quick in the shade of the bank. I made two mile and a half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the middle of the river, because pretty soon I would be passing the ferry landing, and people might see me and hail me. I got out amongst the driftwood, and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her float. I laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe, looking away into the sky; not a cloud in it. The sky looks ever so deep when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; I never knowed it before. And how far a body can hear on the water such nights! I heard people talking at the ferry land- ing. I heard what they said, too -- every word of it. One man said it was getting towards the long days and the short nights now. T'other one said THIS warn't one of the short ones, he reckoned -- and then they laughed, and he said it over again, and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow and told him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out something brisk, and said let him alone. The first fellow said he 'lowed to tell it to his old woman -- she would think it was pretty good; but he said that warn't nothing to some things he had said in his time. I heard one man say it was nearly three o'clock, and he hoped daylight wouldn't wait more than about a week longer. After that the talk got further and further away, and I couldn't make out the words any more; but I could hear the mumble, and now and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off. I was away below the ferry now. I rose up, and there was Jackson's Island, about two mile and a half down


said, “I must bid you good evening.” * * * Later, Mr. Lockwood came up to see her. “Well?” she asked. She disliked asking Mr. Lockwood his opinion on anything. It made him more self-congratulatory than he already was. But she had no other counselor to whom to turn. Lockwood scratched his chin. “He’s a curious mixture of parts. A fearful snob, of course, but determined to cut his own path in the world. His grasp of economics is dismal, I mean really dismal. We’d have to be mindful of any undue interference. But he wasn’t rattled by any of the things that have troubled us before.” Miss de Vries said coolly, “What troubled us before?” Lockwood examined his notes. “Gracious, where to start? Wrangling over the jointure, election of trustees, talk of thirds and dowers. His sort have been negotiating marriage portions since Magna Carta. But Ashley’s brisk, and not worried by the detail.” Lockwood sniffed. “Perhaps he doesn’t understand it.” “Mr. Lockwood,” said Miss de Vries, “you forget yourself. You are speaking to the future Lady Ashley.” It paid to keep Lockwood in his place. Lockwood raised his eyebrows, not daunted. “The current Lady Ashley is worried by the detail. Her people will spin things out as long as they can afford to. Their pride will see to that, I can assure you. We’ll have several rounds of negotiation, assuming we’re minded to even accept an offer.” Miss de Vries felt her heart skipping with impatience. “Then go and turn the screws on them. You said it yourself: he doesn’t care a jot for detail. If the Ashleys are so desperate for cash, then they can stump up and sign for it. Bring them to the ball. Let him see the rest of the world at my door. Someone else will put in an offer if they don’t.” Lockwood sighed, his expression signaling his disapproval. “This ball.” Miss de Vries regulated her voice. “You take care of your business, Mr. Lockwood. I’ll take care of mine.” * * * Afterward she went upstairs and inspected the invitation cards. She’d discarded several designs. This was the best one. She felt the thickness of the paper between her fingers, the delicate ridges, the gilt edging and black scrolls. Gold for grandeur, black for propriety. “Fine,” she said, and the servants began stacking them up, shoving them into envelopes. Hundreds and hundreds of invitations. She closed her eyes, pictured them vanishing into the postal system, wheeling out across the city at dawn. Hurtling up South Audley Street, along Piccadilly, across Cadogan Place. Skittering, leaping, glittering. Caught on silver platters, handled with cream gloves, sliced open with a sharp blade. A hundred eyes taking in the request—then two hundred, five hundred, a thousand eyes more: The House of de Vries requests the honor of your company... It was time for her to be noticed. * * * Across town, Mrs. King and Winnie sat stuffing envelopes of their own. Short letters and telegrams, going out to the names supplied by Mrs. Bone. Agents in


Becky and the picnickers with, next day; but he was disappointed. No signal came that night. --------------------------------------------------------- -260- Morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven o'clock a giddy and rollicking company were gathered at Judge Thatcher's, and everything was ready for a start. It was not the custom for elderly people to mar the picnics with their presence. The children were considered safe enough under the wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few young gentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts. The old steam ferry-boat was chartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up the main street laden with provision-baskets. Sid was sick and had to miss the fun; Mary remained at home to entertain him. The last thing Mrs. Thatcher said to Becky, was: "You'll not get back till late. Perhaps you'd better stay all night with some of the girls that live near the ferry-landing, child." "Then I'll stay with Susy Harper, mamma." "Very well. And mind and behave yourself and don't be any trouble." Presently, as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky: "Say -- I'll tell you what we'll do. 'Stead of going to Joe Harper's we'll climb right up the hill and stop at the Widow Douglas'. She'll have ice-cream! She has it most every day -- dead loads of it. And she'll be awful glad to have us." "Oh, that will be fun!" Then Becky reflected a moment and said: "But what will mamma say?" --------------------------------------------------------- -261- "How'll she ever know?" The girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly: "I reckon it's wrong -- but -- " "But shucks! Your mother won't know, and so what's the harm? All she wants is that you'll be safe; and I bet you she'd 'a' said go there if she'd 'a' thought of it. I know she would!" The Widow Douglas' splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. It and Tom's persuasions presently carried the day. So it was decided to say nothing anybody about the night's programme. Presently it occurred to Tom that maybe Huck might come this very night and give the signal. The thought took a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations. Still he could not bear to give up the fun at Widow Douglas'. And why should he give it up, he reasoned -- the signal did not come the night before, so why should it be any more likely to come to-night? The sure fun of the evening outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-like, he determined to yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think of the box of money another time that day. Three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at the mouth of a woody hollow and tied up. The crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest distances and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and laughter. All the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone through with, and by and --------------------------------------------------------- -262- by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified with responsible appetites, and


acted the way the former Commander taught them.” The former Commander, his father. The crags cast a long shadow over us. An impenetrable silence hung in the canyon, broken by the sound of hooves clicking against rock. Dust swirled lazily in the gloom, and I struggled to see the soldiers ahead of us. “What would you have done differently?” It dealt him a hard blow, my question. Arin’s breathing changed, coming in harsh bursts. His knuckles whitened around the reins. “I am not—” He inhaled sharply, bowing forward under a sudden pressure. I finally turned to him. “What’s wrong?” I demanded. I searched for a secret assailant. “What’s happening to you?” His gaze emptied. Bluish veins strained under his skin. I doubted he could hear me. “I am not my father,” he whispered. Ren rode forward from the brigade forming the rear, pulling his horse alongside Arin’s. “Sire, our scouts have not reported in. I think we may have lost con—” An arrow speared through Ren’s eye. Screams split the air around us. Arrows rained into the canyon. Ren’s body slid from his horse. A gasp died on my lips. I caught the reins of my horse to keep it from lurching over Ren. Sefa and Marek! Where were Sefa and Marek? I couldn’t leave Arin in this condition. His gaze was glassy, unaware of anything outside his head. Magic. It had to be. But why only him? The amount of power necessary to trap Arin in this state was staggering. It should have passed through him quickly, through whatever breach in his biology allowed him to sense magic in the first place. An arrow flew into the throat of the soldier ahead of us. The Meridian Pass flickered, and suddenly, it was my father on the horse ahead. His features slackening in death as blood poured in an inverted V around the arrow cleaving his throat. “Wake up!” I shouted, shaking Arin’s arm. “Please!” My magic slammed around my cuffs, agitated. I had to stop the arrows. This was a Jasadi attack, and I did not need to venture a guess what they wanted. How could Arin allow us to risk the Meridian Pass? We were waiting targets down here. The soldiers would protect their Heir. Sefa and Marek only had me. Grief. Rage. Fear. I had no doubts as to which was motivating my magic this time. When I pushed my magic toward him, it complied. I could only hope it wouldn’t hurt him more. I had neither the skill nor the time to form a proper shield. With great difficulty, I turned my horse away from him and spurred it on. If anyone was going to kill Arin of Nizahl, it would be me. Dust and pebbles churned over the canyon, obscuring my vision. A boon. The soldiers wouldn’t see me toss my horse’s reins to the side and leap onto the side of the Meridian Pass. The smooth rock face slid beneath my boots, but I had climbed worse. With a push from my magic, I scaled it


just for that little boost of serotonin. They tell authors never to look at Goodreads, but nobody follows that advice—none of us can resist the urge to know how our work is being received. In any case, The Last Front is killing it; its review average is a healthy 4.89, and most of the top reviews are so gushingly positive that the occasional ambivalent three-star review hardly fazes me. One night, though, I glimpse something that makes my heart stop. One star. The Last Front has received its first one-star review, from a user named CandiceLee. No way. I click over to her profile, wondering if it’s just a coincidence. Nope—CandiceLee, NYC, works in publishing. Favorite authors: Cormac McCarthy, Marilynne Robinson, and Jhumpa Lahiri. She’s not particularly active on Goodreads—her last review is for a poetry collection from 2014—meaning this was no accident. Her thumb didn’t just slip. Clearly, Candice went out of her way to log in and give my book one star. Fingers trembling, I screenshot the rating and send it to my editor. Hey Daniella, I know you said not to look at GR, but a friend sent me this and I’m a bit concerned. It seems like a pretty large lapse in professionalism. I guess technically Candice has the right to review my work however she likes in her off time, but after what happened with the SR this feels intentional . . . Best, June Daniella gets back to me first thing in the morning. Thank you for letting me know. That is quite unprofessional. We will handle this internally. I know Daniella’s email voice well enough by now to tell when she’s irritated. Curt, choppy sentences. She didn’t even sign off. Daniella is pissed. Good. Hot vindication coils in my gut. Candice deserves it—putting the sensitivity read kerfuffle aside, what kind of psychopath would fuck around with an author’s feelings like this? Shouldn’t she know how stressful and terrifying it is to launch a book? I bask for a moment, imagining what kind of chaos I’ve sown over at Eden’s office this morning. And though I would never say this out loud about a fellow woman—the industry is tough enough as it is—I hope I got that bitch fired. Six MONTHS BECOME WEEKS BECOME DAYS, AND THEN THE BOOK is out. Last time, I learned the hard way that for most writers, the day your book goes on sale is a day of abject disappointment. The week beforehand feels like it should be the countdown to something grand, that there will be fanfare and immediate critical acclaim, that your book will skyrocket to the top of all the sales rankings and stay there. But in truth, it’s all a massive letdown. It’s fun to walk into bookstores and see your name on the shelves, that’s true (unless you’re not a major front-list release, and your book is buried in between other titles without so much as a face out, or even worse, not even carried by most stores). But other than that, there’s no immediate feedback.


like that. Holding up her hand, shaking it, to let the blood flow back when it was red. Who did you learn that from? Nobody. Something the nurse taught me. O, don't they know! Three years old she was in front of Molly's dressingtable, just before we left Lombard street west. Me have a nice pace. Mullingar. Who knows? Ways of the world. Young student. Straight on her pins anyway not like the other. Still she was game. Lord, I am wet. Devil you are. Swell of her calf. Transparent stockings, stretched to breaking point. Not like that frump today. A. E. Rumpled stockings. Or the one in Grafton street. White. Wow! Beef to the heel. A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. Zrads and zrads, zrads, zrads. And Cissy and Tommy and Jacky ran out to see and Edy after with the pushcar and then Gerty beyond the curve of the rocks. Will she? Watch! Watch! See! Looked round. She smelt an onion. Darling, I saw, your. I saw all. Lord! Did me good all the same. Off colour after Kiernan's, Dignam's. For this relief much thanks. In HAMLET, that is. Lord! It was all things combined. Excitement. When she leaned back, felt an ache at the butt of my tongue. Your head it simply swirls. He's right. Might have made a worse fool of myself however. Instead of talking about nothing. Then I will tell you all. Still it was a kind of language between us. It couldn't be? No, Gerty they called her. Might be false name however like my name and the address Dolphin's barn a blind. HER MAIDEN NAME WAS JEMINA BROWN AND SHE LIVED WITH HER MOTHER IN IRISHTOWN. Place made me think of that I suppose. All tarred with the same brush. Wiping pens in their stockings. But the ball rolled down to her as if it understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I never could throw anything straight at school. Crooked as a ram's horn. Sad however because it lasts only a few years till they settle down to potwalloping and papa's pants will soon fit Willy and fuller's earth for the baby when they hold him out to do ah ah. No soft job. Saves them. Keeps them out of harm's way. Nature. Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam. Children's hands always round them. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not even closed at first, sour milk in their swaddles and tainted curds. Oughtn't to have given that child an empty teat to suck. Fill it up with wind. Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must call to the hospital. Wonder is nurse Callan there still. She used to look over some nights when Molly was in the Coffee Palace. That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat. And Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once like that too, marriageable. Worst of all at night Mrs Duggan told me in the City Arms. Husband rolling in drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have that in your nose in the dark, whiff of stale


actually happy with my life. People like me. They think I’m a nice guy.” “It has nothing to do with whether you’re successful or not,” Louise said. “But if we weren’t related, if we met today, we wouldn’t choose to be friends. We’re different people with different values, and we’re also adults who can choose who we want to spend our time with, and right now I’m choosing to go home to my daughter. I really don’t care about the house, Mark. Mom gave it to you.” She turned to go back inside. “I’ll give you twenty-five percent,” he said. That stopped Louise. “Why?” she asked, turning back around. “I’m not going against Mom’s wishes,” he said. “She gave it to me, and I’m choosing to give some of it to you even though you hate me.” “I don’t hate you, Mark,” Louise said. “But I don’t want to fight with you anymore. So whatever you want.” “I’m giving you twenty-five percent whether you like it or not,” Mark said. “That’s . . .” Louise tried to think of something to say. “That’s very generous.” “I’m a generous person,” Mark said. “So,” Louise said, “how does this work? You’ll put it on the market and send me a check?” “No,” Mark said. “Mercy’s going to sell it.” He held his phone out to Louise, screen first. Mercy waved to her with both hands. “Hey, Louise!” Mercy said from the tiny speaker, scrunching up her nose. “This is so exciting!” “Have you been on there this whole time?” Louise asked. “Mark wanted me to speak with you,” Mercy said, “because I think this is such an exciting opportunity, but we need you to stick around for a few days.” “Oh, no,” Louise said, panic tightening her throat. “I have to go back to San Francisco. I just told Poppy I was coming home.” “And you will,” Mercy cheered as if she hadn’t heard the last part, “but we need to start getting the house ready first.” “I need you to do the estate stuff,” Mark said. “I’m really good at the broad strokes but you’re better at all the boring crap.” Louise realized what had happened. She thought about the missed calls from Brody. “What did Brody say?” she asked Mark. “Nothing,” Mark said, looking so offended Louise knew he was lying. “What did he want?” she asked. “Just stuff,” Mark said. “A chain of claimants, an inventory of the house, and he said I’d have to fill out this stuff for Social Security, and he asked if I’d talked to the C of C about Dad’s pension.” “No,” Louise said. “No way. I’m not breaking a promise to my daughter to do your homework for you. I’m going home.” “Then no split,” Mark said. “Louise,” Mercy said from the phone, “I told Mark I’d handle the house, but—and this is nothing personal, Mark—I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole if you weren’t involved.” “I can talk to other Realtors—” Mark began. “And you remember what we talked about, Mark,” Mercy said.


would study that map and perhaps jump to what 'ingots' meant. The story of the lost gold had been put into all the newspapers now. Nobody could fail to know what the map showed if they studied it carefully. The children did not dare to tell Uncle Quentin what they knew. It was true he was all smiles now, and was promising to buy them new shrimping-nets, and a raft for themselves- but he was such a changeable person. He might fly into a furious temper if he heard that Julian had taken the box and opened it himself, while his uncle was sleeping. When they were alone the children discussed the whole matter. It seemed very serious indeed to them. They half-wondered if they should let Aunt Fanny into the secret-but it was such a precious secret, and so marvellous, that they felt they didn't want to give it away to anyone at all. "Now listen!" said Julian, at last. "We'll ask Aunt Fanny if we can go to Kirrin Island and spend a day or two there- sleep there at night too, I mean. That will give us a little time to poke round and see what we can find. The sightseers won't come after a day or two, I'm sure. Maybe we'll get in before anyone tumbles to our secret. After all, the man who brought the box may not even guess that the map shows Kirrin Castle." They felt more cheerful. It was so awful to do nothing. As soon as they had planned to act, they felt better. They decided to ask their aunt the next day if they might go and spend the week-end at the castle. The weather was gloriously fine, and it would be great fun. They could take plenty of food with them. When they went to ask Aunt Fanny, Uncle Quentin was with her. He was all smiles again, and even clapped Julian on the back. "Well!" he said. "What's this deputation for?" "We just wanted to ask Aunt Fanny something," said Julian, politely. "Aunt Fanny, as the weather is so fine, do you think you would let us go for the week-end to Kirrin Castle, please, and spend a day or two there on the island? You can't think how we would love to!" "Well- what do you think, Quentin?" asked their aunt, turning to her husband. "If they want to, they can," said Uncle Quentin. "They won't have a chance to, soon. My dears, we have had a marvellous offer for Kirrin Island! A man wants to buy it, rebuild the castle as a hotel, and make it into a proper holiday place! What do you think of that?" All four children stared at the smiling man, shocked and horrified. Somebody was going to buy the island! Had their secret been discovered? Did the man want to buy the castle because he had read the map, and knew there was plenty of gold hidden there? George gave a curious choke. Her eyes burned as if they were on fire. "Mother!


him shifted and laughter shivered outwards from among them, light, excited laughter that went echoing among the tall rocks. A voice spoke from behind Ralph. "What do you want?" The twins made a bolt past Ralph and got between him and the entry. He turned quickly. Jack, identifiable by personality and red hair, was advancing from the forest. A hunter crouched on either side. All three were masked in black and green. Behind them on the grass the headless and paunched body of a sow lay where they had dropped it. Piggy wailed. "Ralph! Don't leave me!" With ludicrous care he embraced the rock, pressing himself to it above the sucking sea. The sniggering of the savages became a loud derisive jeer. Jack shouted above the noise. "You go away, Ralph. You keep to your end. This is my end and my tribe. You leave me alone." The jeering died away. "You pinched Piggy's specs," said Ralph, breathlessly. "You've got to give them back." "Got to? Who says?" Ralph's temper blazed out. "I say! You voted for me for chief. Didn't you hear the conch? You played a dirty trick--we'd have given you fire if you'd asked for it--" The blood was flowing in his cheeks and the bunged-up eye throbbed. "You could have had fire whenever you wanted. But you didn't. You came sneaking up like a thief and stole Piggy's glasses!" "Say that again!" "Thief! Thief!" Piggy screamed. "Ralph! Mind me!" Jack made a rush and stabbed at Ralph's chest with his spear. Ralph sensed the position of the weapon from the glimpse he caught of Jack's arm and put the thrust aside with his own butt. Then he brought the end round and caught Jack a stinger across the ear. They were chest to chest, breathing fiercely, pushing and glaring. "Who's a thief?" "You are!" Jack wrenched free and swung at Ralph with his spear. By common consent they were using the spears as sabers now, no longer daring the lethal points. The blow struck Ralph's spear and slid down, to fall agonizingly on his fingers. Then they were apart once more, their positions reversed, Jack toward the Castle Rock and Ralph on the outside toward the island. Both boys were breathing very heavily. "Come on then--" "Come on--" Truculently they squared up to each other but kept just out of fighting distance. "You come on and see what you get!" "You come on--" Piggy clutching the ground was trying to attract Ralph's attention. Ralph moved, bent down, kept a wary eye on Jack. "Ralph--remember what we came for. The fire. My specs." Ralph nodded. He relaxed his fighting muscles, stood easily and grounded the butt of his spear. Jack watched him inscrutably through his paint. Ralph glanced up at the pinnacles, then toward the group of savages. "Listen. We've come to say this. First you've got to give back Piggy's specs. If he hasn't got them he can't see. You aren't playing the game--" The tribe of painted savages giggled and Ralph's mind faltered. He pushed his hair


and affections made no sense to her. All she’d said on the subject was that she couldn’t allow anyone to get hurt on her account. The leaders of Hope Town had travelled with Liza, hoping to mediate the negotiations. After all, they wanted nothing more than to accompany their children, to see what kind of work they’d be doing and how life was progressing in the secretive city of McMurdo. Hearing news of this resistance, the other two Survivor Towns had co-ordinated their efforts, sending representatives from the settlements. New Town was the largest of the three and Trinity Town was located at the tip of the Peninsula. Each of these towns had markedly different characters. New Town considered itself a rival in status to McMurdo, far less bohemian than Hope Town. The citizens placed an overwhelming emphasis on food production, energy and mining, the practicalities of survival. Trinity Town, with the most clement weather, contained a large concentration of people interested in their physical and mental welfare, discovering natural medicines in the ocean, a deeply spiritual community with the most places of worship. To this extent, the Peninsula most closely resembled the division of industry in the nation formerly known as Germany, with an industrial heartland, a bohemian Berlin, the financial city of Frankfurt and the spa towns in the mountains. Kasim stepped forward to address the crowds: ‘My name is Kasim. We are here to collect the last of the ice-adapted students. And those ordinary-born who have been chosen to work at McMurdo.’ Liza declared: ‘I’m the mother of one of those ice-adapted children you’ve come to collect. All we’re asking is to travel with them. To see the kind of life they will have in McMurdo. To make sure they are going to be okay. We want to know what’s going on in McMurdo. You tell us nothing. You ask for everything.’ Kasim gestured at his vehicles. ‘I understand the request. But you can see our convoy. We have four vehicles. We have a limited amount of space. Visits can be arranged another time.’ ‘That’s what you always say. But there are never any visits.’ Kasim read the list of names. None of them stepped forward. One of the security officers walked towards Liza, correctly identifying that she was at the heart of this resistance. ‘Please tell the students to get in the convoy.’ ‘I’m going with my daughter.’ The officer turned to Echo, putting a hand on her arm. Atto raised the harpoon gun, levelling the tip at his chest. ‘Let go.’ In response, the officer raised his gun. As he brought the muzzle up, Echo grabbed it, stepping in front of the barrel to protect her parents. In the muddle, an accidental shot was fired, directed at her stomach, the terrible sound of a gunshot reverberating across the vast plateau. Liza stared at her daughter’s body, searching for streams of blue blood. Her scale skin was tough but surely no match for a bullet fired at point-blank range. Echo unclenched her fist, revealing that the officer’s weapon


told you to come at two o'clock. And it's a quarter to three. I'd like to know why you didn't obey me, Anne." "Why, I meant to, Marilla, as much as could be. But you have no idea how fascinating Idlewild is. And then, of course, I had to tell Matthew about the picnic. Matthew is such a sympathetic listener. Please can I go?" "You'll have to learn to resist the fascination of Idlewhateveryou-call-it. When I tell you to come in at a certain time I mean that time and not half an hour later. And you needn't stop to discourse with sympathetic listeners on your way, either. As for the picnic, of course you can go. You're a Sunday-school scholar, and it's not likely I'd refuse to let you go when all the other little girls are going." "But-but," faltered Anne, "Diana says that everybody must take a basket of things to eat. I can't cook, as you know, Marilla, and-and-I don't mind going to a picnic without puffed sleeves so much, but I'd feel terribly humiliated if I had to go without a basket. It's been preying on my mind ever since Diana told me." "Well, it needn't prey any longer. I'll bake you a basket." "Oh, you dear good Marilla. Oh, you are so kind to me. Oh, I'm so much obliged to you." Getting through with her "ohs" Anne cast herself into Marilla's arms and rapturously kissed her sallow cheek. It was the first time in her whole life that childish lips had voluntarily touched Marilla's face. Again that sudden sensation of startling sweetness thrilled her. She was secretly vastly pleased at Anne's impulsive caress, which was probably the reason why she said brusquely: "There, there, never mind your kissing nonsense. I'd sooner see you doing strictly as you're told. As for cooking, I mean to begin giving you lessons in that some of these days. But you're so featherbrained, Anne, I've been waiting to see if you'd sober down a little and learn to be steady before I begin. You've got to keep your wits about you in cooking and not stop in the middle of things to let your thoughts rove all over creation. Now, get out your patchwork and have your square done before teatime." "I do NOT like patchwork," said Anne dolefully, hunting out her workbasket and sitting down before a little heap of red and white diamonds with a sigh. "I think some kinds of sewing would be nice; but there's no scope for imagination in patchwork. It's just one little seam after another and you never seem to be getting anywhere. But of course I'd rather be Anne of Green Gables sewing patchwork than Anne of any other place with nothing to do but play. I wish time went as quick sewing patches as it does when I'm playing with Diana, though. Oh, we do have such elegant times, Marilla. I have to furnish most of the imagination, but I'm well able to do that. Diana is simply perfect in every other


This, Nick guesses, is Andy’s father’s attempt to get Andy experience covering national news. It makes sense. It also means that Andy’s time at the city desk is probably coming to an end. But it’s good news for Andy, and Nick tries to sound like he’s happy about it. “That’s great,” Nick says. “When are you going?” “Tomorrow morning.” Andy is resolutely looking at some spot just beyond Nick’s ear. “Tomorrow?” Nick frowns. “And the march is next weekend?” “This way I can get the lay of the land beforehand.” Probably this means that Andy is going to spend the week shadowing Bob or meeting other reporters. Still, though. He’s leaving tomorrow and hasn’t thought to mention it until now? That isn’t like Andy. He hasn’t even packed. “What time do you need to wake up?” Nick has a sense that all airplanes leave at ungodly hours. Andy looks away. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to talk to my father.” “He didn’t let you know? Or—wait—you didn’t plan on going until now.” That’s fine. Andy is allowed to make spur-of-the-moment decisions. He doesn’t need to explain his every move to Nick. There’s no reason for Nick to be taking this personally, but he’s doing it anyway. “It’s a good opportunity,” Andy says, which answers none of Nick’s questions. “They’re expecting tens of thousands of marchers.” “I hope—I hope you—I hope it’s good,” Nick says stupidly. “Yeah.” “I’m sorry I put pepper in the eggs,” Nick blurts out, apologizing for the one thing he can apologize for without making everything worse. Andy’s Presbyterian; he can barely handle a shake of black pepper and Nick knows better. “Do you want me to make you something else? A fried egg, maybe?” Andy’s expression softens, and it’s only then that Nick realizes Andy’s been looking—not annoyed, but agitated. Anxious. “No,” Andy says. “I really wasn’t hungry. The eggs were fine.” “Okay.” Nick isn’t convinced. Andy does the dishes—that’s his job, because Nick cooks—and Nick takes a shower. He turns the tap until the water is as hot as he can stand it, then shampoos the hell out of his hair. When he gets out, Andy is on the couch watching television. “What’re you watching?” Nick asks as he sits on the couch beside Andy. “Alfred Hitchcock Presents is about to come on,” Andy answers without turning his head. Something isn’t right. Andy is sitting upright, instead of turning to stick his feet under Nick’s thigh or putting his legs over the arm of the sofa or otherwise abusing both the furniture and his spine. “I really am sorry about the eggs,” Nick says. Andy clenches his jaw. “I told you that I don’t care about the eggs. Can we just watch the show?” Nick wants to say that no, they cannot watch the show, not when things are weird and Andy seems mad at him. But he isn’t going to get anywhere by pestering Andy. “You hate this show,” Nick points out after about thirty seconds. Andy likes sitcoms and shows about dogs, not this creepy


this truly momentous occurrence," and the professor turned slowly in the direction of the jungle. "But, papa," cried the girl, "you haven't said anything about it yet." "Tut, tut, child; tut, tut," responded Professor Porter, in a kindly and indulgent tone, "do not trouble your pretty head with such weighty and abstruse problems," and again he wandered slowly off in still another direction, his eyes bent upon the ground at his feet, his hands clasped behind him beneath the flowing tails of his coat. "I reckon the daffy old bounder don't know no more'n we do about it," growled the rat-faced sailor. "Keep a civil tongue in your head," cried the young man, his face paling in anger, at the insulting tone of the sailor. "You've murdered our officers and robbed us. We are absolutely in your power, but you'll treat Professor Porter and Miss Porter with respect or I'll break that vile neck of yours with my bare hands--guns or no guns," and the young fellow stepped so close to the rat-faced sailor that the latter, though he bore two revolvers and a villainous looking knife in his belt, slunk back abashed. "You damned coward," cried the young man. "You'd never dare shoot a man until his back was turned. You don't dare shoot me even then," and he deliberately turned his back full upon the sailor and walked nonchalantly away as if to put him to the test. The sailor's hand crept slyly to the butt of one of his revolvers; his wicked eyes glared vengefully at the retreating form of the young Englishman. The gaze of his fellows was upon him, but still he hesitated. At heart he was even a greater coward than Mr. William Cecil Clayton had imagined. Two keen eyes had watched every move of the party from the foliage of a nearby tree. Tarzan had seen the surprise caused by his notice, and while he could understand nothing of the spoken language of these strange people their gestures and facial expressions told him much. The act of the little rat-faced sailor in killing one of his comrades had aroused a strong dislike in Tarzan, and now that he saw him quarreling with the fine-looking young man his animosity was still further stirred. Tarzan had never seen the effects of a firearm before, though his books had taught him something of them, but when he saw the rat-faced one fingering the butt of his revolver he thought of the scene he had witnessed so short a time before, and naturally expected to see the young man murdered as had been the huge sailor earlier in the day. So Tarzan fitted a poisoned arrow to his bow and drew a bead upon the rat-faced sailor, but the foliage was so thick that he soon saw the arrow would be deflected by the leaves or some small branch, and instead he launched a heavy spear from his lofty perch. Clayton had taken but a dozen steps. The rat-faced sailor had half drawn his revolver; the other sailors stood


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

I saw clearly it could not be for long. "Not in London at any rate. "I went into the slums towards Great Portland Street, and found myself at the end of the street in which I had lodged. I did not go that way, because of the crowd halfway down it opposite to the still smoking ruins of the house I had fired. My most immediate problem was to get clothing. What to do with my face puzzled me. Then I saw in one of those little miscellaneous shops--news, sweets, toys, stationery, belated Christmas tomfoolery, and so forth--an array of masks and noses. I realised that problem was solved. In a flash I saw my course. I turned about, no longer aimless, and went-- circuitously in order to avoid the busy ways, towards the back streets north of the Strand; for I remembered, though not very distinctly where, that some theatrical costumiers had shops in that district. "The day was cold, with a nipping wind down the northward running streets. I walked fast to avoid being overtaken. Every crossing was a danger, every passenger a thing to watch alertly. One man as I was about to pass him at the top of Bedford Street, turned upon me abruptly and came into me, sending me into the road and almost under the wheel of a passing hansom. The verdict of the cab-rank was that he had had some sort of stroke. I was so unnerved by this encounter that I went into Covent Garden Market and sat down for some time in a quiet corner by a stall of violets, panting and trembling. I found I had caught a fresh cold, and had to turn out after a time lest my sneezes should attract attention. "At last I reached the object of my quest, a dirty fly-blown little shop in a byway near Drury Lane, with a window full of tinsel robes, sham jewels, wigs, slippers, dominoes and theatrical photographs. The shop was old-fashioned and low and dark, and the house rose above it for four storeys, dark and dismal. I peered through the window and, seeing no one within, entered. The opening of the door set a clanking bell ringing. I left it open, and walked round a bare costume stand, into a corner behind a cheval glass. For a minute or so no one came. Then I heard heavy feet striding across a room, and a man appeared down the shop. "My plans were now perfectly definite. I proposed to make my way into the house, secrete myself upstairs, watch my opportunity, and when everything was quiet, rummage out a wig, mask, spectacles, and costume, and go into the world, perhaps a grotesque but still a credible figure. And incidentally of course I could rob the house of any available money. "The man who had entered the shop was a short, slight, hunched, beetle-browed man, with long arms and very short bandy legs. Apparently I had interrupted a meal. He stared about the shop with an expression of expectation. This gave


said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now." "Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps you're judging her too hasty, Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained-Anne's a great hand at explaining." "She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I reckon she'll find it hard to explain that to my satisfaction. Of course I knew you'd take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing her up, not you." It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows. "Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?" "No," was the muffled reply. "Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed. Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself forever from mortal eyes. "No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in the depths of despair and I don't care who gets head in class or writes the best composition or sings in the Sundayschool choir any more. Little things like that are of no importance now because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me." "Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know. "Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is it?" Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. "Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered. Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a very strange appearance. "Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's GREEN!" Green


set dere and ast me if Ah want her tuh go!” “Don’t git mad, Tea Cake, Ah just didn’t want you doin’ nothin’ outa politeness. If dere’s somebody else you’d ruther take, it’s all right wid me.” “Naw, it ain’t all right wid you. If it was you wouldn’t be sayin’ dat. Have de nerve tuh say whut you mean.” “Well, all right, Tea Cake, Ah wants tuh go wid you real bad, but,—oh, Tea Cake, don’t make no false pretense wid me!” “Janie, Ah hope God may kill me, if Ah’m lyin’. Nobody else on earth kin hold uh candle tuh you, baby. You got de keys to de kingdom.” 12 It was after the picnic that the town began to notice things and got mad. Tea Cake and Mrs. Mayor Starks! All the men that she could get, and fooling with somebody like Tea Cake! Another thing, Joe Starks hadn’t been dead but nine months and here she goes sashaying off to a picnic in pink linen. Done quit attending church, like she used to. Gone off to Sanford in a car with Tea Cake and her all dressed in blue! It was a shame. Done took to high heel slippers and a ten dollar hat! Looking like some young girl, always in blue because Tea Cake told her to wear it. Poor Joe Starks. Bet he turns over in his grave every day. Tea Cake and Janie gone hunting. Tea Cake and Janie gone fishing. Tea Cake and Janie gone to Orlando to the movies. Tea Cake and Janie gone to a dance. Tea Cake making flower beds in Janie’s yard and seeding the garden for her. Chopping down that tree she never did like by the dining room window. All those signs of possession. Tea Cake in a borrowed car teaching Janie to drive. Tea Cake and Janie playing checkers; playing coon-can; playing Florida flip on the store porch all afternoon as if nobody else was there. Day after day and week after week. Their Eyes Were Watching God 131 “Pheoby,” Sam Watson said one night as he got in the bed, “Ah b’lieve yo’ buddy is all tied up with dat Tea Cake shon- ough. Didn’t b’lieve it at first.” “Aw she don’t mean nothin’ by it. Ah think she’s sort of stuck on dat undertaker up at Sanford.” “It’s somebody ’cause she looks might good dese days. New dresses and her hair combed a different way nearly every day. You got to have something to comb hair over. When you see uh woman doin’ so much rakin’ in her head, she’s combin’ at some man or ’nother.” “’Course she kin do as she please, but dat’s uh good chance she got up at Sanford. De man’s wife died and he got uh lovely place tuh take her to—already furnished. Better’n her house Joe left her.” “You better sense her intuh things then ’cause Tea Cake can’t do nothin’ but help her spend whut she got. Ah reckon dat’s whut he’s after. Throwin’ away whut Joe Starks


young Zaphod here decides to raid one. On a tri-jet scooter designed for stratosphere work, a mere kid. I mean forget it, it was crazier than a mad monkey. I went along for the ride because I'd got some very safe money on him not doing it, and didn't want him coming back with fake evidence. So what happens? We got in his tri-jet which he had souped up into something totally other, crossed three parsecs in a matter of weeks, bust our way into a megafreighter I still don't know how, marched on to the bridge waving toy pistols and demanded conkers. A wilder thing I have not known. Lost me a year's pocket money. For what? Conkers." "The captain was this really amazing guy, Yooden Vranx," said Zaphod. "He gave us food, booze - stuff from really weird parts of the Galaxy - lots of conkers of course, and we had just the most incredible time. Then he teleported us back. Into the maximum security wing of Betelgeuse state prison. He was a cool guy. Went on to become President of the Galaxy." Zaphod paused. The scene around them was currently plunged into gloom. Dark mists swirled round them and elephantine shapes lurked indistinctly in the shadows. The air was occasionally rent with the sounds of illusory beings murdering other illusory beings. Presumably enough people must have liked this sort of thing to make it a paying proposition. "Ford," said Zaphod quietly. "Yeah?" "Just before Yooden died he came to see me." "What? You never told me." "No." "What did he say? What did he come to see you about?" "He told me about the Heart of Gold. It was his idea that I should steal it." "His idea?" "Yeah," said Zaphod, "and the only possible way of stealing it was to be at the launching ceremony." Ford gaped at him in astonishment for a moment, and then roared with laughter. "Are you telling me," he said, "that you set yourself up to become President of the Galaxy just to steal that ship?" "That's it," said Zaphod with the sort of grin that would get most people locked away in a room with soft walls. "But why?" said Ford. "What's so important about having it?" "Dunno," said Zaphod, "I think if I'd consciously known what was so important about it and what I would need it for it would have showed up on the brain screening tests and I would never have passed. I think Yooden told me a lot of things that are still locked away." "So you think you went and mucked about inside your own brain as a result of Yooden talking to you?" "He was a hell of a talker." "Yeah, but Zaphod old mate, you want to look after yourself you know." Zaphod shrugged. "I mean, don't you have any inkling of the reasons for all this?" asked Ford. Zaphod thought hard about this and doubts seemed to cross his minds. "No," he said at last, "I don't seem to be letting myself into any


‘tall trees’” said he, “about in the right line from Skeleton Island. ‘Spy-glass shoulder,’ I take it, means that lower p’int there. It’s child’s play to find the stuff now. I’ve half a mind to dine first.” “I don’t feel sharp,” growled Morgan. “Thinkin’ o’ Flint— I think it were—as done me.” “Ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he’s dead,” said Chapter 32. Silver. The Treasure-hunt—The Voice Among the Trees. “He were an ugly devil,” cried a third pirate with a shud- der; “that blue in the face too!” Partly from the damping influence of this alarm, partly to “That was how the rum took him,” added Merry. “Blue! rest Silver and the sick folk, the whole party sat down as soon Well, I reckon he was blue. That’s a true word.” as they had gained the brow of the ascent. Ever since they had found the skeleton and got upon this The plateau being somewhat tilted towards the west, this train of thought, they had spoken lower and lower, and they spot on which we had paused commanded a wide prospect on had almost got to whispering by now, so that the sound of either hand. Before us, over the tree- tops, we beheld the their talk hardly interrupted the silence of the wood. All of a Cape of the Woods fringed with surf; behind, we not only sudden, out of the middle of the trees in front of us, a thin, looked down upon the anchorage and Skeleton Island, but high, trembling voice struck up the well-known air and words: saw—clear across the spit and the eastern lowlands—a great “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest— Yo-ho-ho, and a field of open sea upon the east. Sheer above us rose the Spy- bottle of rum!” I never have seen men more dreadfully affected than the Contents glass, here dotted with single pines, there black with preci- pices. There was no sound but that of the distant breakers, pirates. The colour went from their six faces like enchant- mounting from all round, and the chirp of countless insects ment; some leaped to their feet, some clawed hold of others; Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 268 269 Morgan grovelled on the ground. “That fixes it!” gasped one. “Let’s go.” “It’s Flint, by ——!” cried Merry. “They was his last words,” moaned Morgan, “his last words The song had stopped as suddenly as it began—broken above board.” off, you would have said, in the middle of a note, as though Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had someone had laid his hand upon the singer’s mouth. Coming been well brought up, had Dick, before he came to sea and through the clear, sunny atmosphere among the green tree- fell among bad companions. tops, I thought it had sounded airily and sweetly; and the Still Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle effect on my companions was the stranger. in his head, but he had not yet surrendered. “Come,” said Silver, struggling with his ashen lips


respectfully took the curbstone as he passed lady Maxwell at the corner of Dignam's court. Was that not Mrs M'Guinness? Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee from the farther footpath along which she sailed. And Father Conmee smiled and saluted. How did she do? A fine carriage she had. Like Mary, queen of Scots, something. And to think that she was a pawnbroker! Well, now! Such a ... what should he say? ... such a queenly mien. Father Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced at the shutup free church on his left. The reverend T. R. Greene B.A. will (D.V.) speak. The incumbent they called him. He felt it incumbent on him to say a few words. But one should be charitable. Invincible ignorance. They acted according to their lights. Father Conmee turned the corner and walked along the North Circular road. It was a wonder that there was not a tramline in such an important thoroughfare. Surely, there ought to be. A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street. All raised untidy caps. Father Conmee greeted them more than once benignly. Christian brother boys. Father Conmee smelt incense on his right hand as he walked. Saint Joseph's church, Portland row. For aged and virtuous females. Father Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament. Virtuous: but occasionally they were also badtempered. Near Aldborough house Father Conmee thought of that spendthrift nobleman. And now it was an office or something. Father Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and was saluted by Mr William Gallagher who stood in the doorway of his shop. Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter. He passed Grogan's the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a dreadful catastrophe in New York. In America those things were continually happening. Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared. Still, an act of perfect contrition. Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the window of which two unlabouring men lounged. They saluted him and were saluted. Father Conmee passed H. J. O'Neill's funeral establishment where Corny Kelleher totted figures in the daybook while he chewed a blade of hay. A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and Father Conmee saluted the constable. In Youkstetter's, the porkbutcher's, Father Conmee observed pig's puddings, white and black and red, lie neatly curled in tubes. Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw a turfbarge, a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with a hat of dirty straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar above him. It was idyllic: and Father Conmee reflected on the providence of the Creator who had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig it out and bring it to town and hamlet to make fires in the houses of poor people. On Newcomen bridge the very reverend John Conmee S.J. of saint Francis Xavier's church, upper Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward bound tram. Off an inward


her savior, but the truth is that we rescued each other. Neither of us was the easiest person to be friends with. But no matter how many times we fought, we always made up. “Olivia and I went through the usual ups and downs of friendship, but we also faced hardships that no one should. Some of those were inflicted on us by another—by evil that strayed into our community. And some of them came from within. Olivia wasn’t just troubled. She was at war with her own mind from the time we were very young. At first none of us saw it. She was quirky. She was odd. She was, to me, magical. Maybe if the horror of that summer had never occurred, she would have had more time to learn how to live with the lies her brain told her. Instead, she was suddenly lost in the woods, and none of us knew how to help her find the way out. “Olivia believed in me in a way that no one else ever did. And I believed in her. But no amount of faith could fix Olivia. No amount of friendship. And in the end, I gave up. I gave up on her, and on being her friend. I failed her.” She took a shuddering breath. She looked out at the congregation, and her eyes glimmered with unspent tears. “Olivia taught me to believe in magic. I can’t bring her back. But I can honor her, by seeing the magic in this world. She wouldn’t want us to dwell on the darkness, but the stars she saw within it. And that is what I’m going to do.” She walked swiftly away from the podium and back to her seat, her muscles tense with the effort of keeping everything together. She sat beside me and grabbed my hand and Amanda’s, and gripped them both as the next speaker—an uncle—stood and made his way to the podium. I squeezed her hand back and tried to breathe around the cold, white grief lodged in my throat. Is this what Olivia wanted? I wondered. For you to be obsessed with her death, obsessed with the attack all over again? Suspecting your best friend? Cass was right. It was the last thing Olivia would have wanted. She had wanted to find Persephone so we could bring her into the light, not to destroy us, to mire us in the past. But even as I thought it, I knew it didn’t matter. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t stop. I was going to see this through to the end, even if it destroyed me. We held on to each other until the last strains of the final hymn faded. After the recessional, as everyone gathered up their things, Cass tugged me in close for a hug. “Will you come by the house? We’re having a small gathering,” she said. I didn’t have to ask to know that the house meant her parents’ place, not hers. Her eyes cut over to Ethan, who had been pulled into


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

on that mad goose chase for you.” I frowned a little, remembering our strange, one-sided bargain. “Then I shall buy you a fine set of cutlery upon our return,” I said. “As for Aud and the rest, I recommend that you affect a strong predilection for fungi, and declare their debt to you repaid.” “This is all your fault,” he said. “If we had only pretended to go after those two, like I wanted—” “Lilja and Margret would be dead or worse,” I said. “Is that what you wanted?” He took his time in thinking it over. “No, it isn’t. Though I can’t imagine the thought troubles you much, Em. Lilja came by twice to thank you, and will be back again, count on it. I did not bother to tell her that your motives were not kindhearted at all.” I felt a prickle of disquiet. After all, it was true that I had rescued Lilja and Margret not for their own sakes, but for scholarship. From that perspective, there was nothing to thank me for; indeed, I had as much reason to thank them for getting themselves captured and allowing me the opportunity of witnessing the Hidden Ones’ fair. I went back to drumming my fingertips. Something was nagging at me. I recognized the sensation, though I knew not what it signified, other than that I was missing something important. There was a pattern here in Hrafnsvik; I could feel the edges of it. I needed time with my notes. “Oh, God,” he said. “I know that look. What dreadful imposition is in store for me now?” Trust Bambleby to think himself always at the centre of my thoughts. “There is no imposition. I would like you to leave me in peace for a few hours, if that is something within your capabilities.” “I suppose so,” he said grudgingly, though I was not flattered by his reluctance to leave my side; Bambleby hates to be without company to talk at. Well, no doubt he would find ready listeners down at the tavern, if he grew bored. He surprised me, though, when he informed me after breakfast that he intended to go for a stroll. “I thought you had given up hope of finding your door here,” I said. For so I had assumed, given that he had made only the most cursory of efforts. “Did I say anything about a door?” he said over his shoulder as he pulled his cloak on. I groaned. “What is the point in being mysterious now? Are there any secrets of yours I don’t know?” “Oh, I’d say there are a few outstanding.” I rolled my eyes and went back to my notes. I couldn’t be bothered with him now. “Well, don’t go harassing poor Poe again. You’re not likely to find such a door in the Karrðars–kogur. The courtly fae of Ljosland move their realm about, yes? But only spatially; they dwell forever in winter. The door you seek must be fixed, given that your own realm is fixed—I say must, though I am


steadily before myself. The better I loved her, the more it behoved me never to forget it. I walked through the streets; and, once more seeing my old adversary the butcher - now a constable, with his staff hanging up in the shop - went down to look at the place where I had fought him; and there meditated on Miss Shepherd and the eldest Miss Larkins, and all the idle loves and likings, and dislikings, of that time. Nothing seemed to have survived that time but Agnes; and she, ever a star above me, was brighter and higher. When I returned, Mr. Wickfield had come home, from a garden he had, a couple of miles or so out of town, where he now employed himself almost every day. I found him as my aunt had described him. We sat down to dinner, with some half-dozen little girls; and he seemed but the shadow of his handsome picture on the wall. The tranquillity and peace belonging, of old, to that quiet ground in my memory, pervaded it again. When dinner was done, Mr. Wickfield taking no wine, and I desiring none, we went up-stairs; where Agnes and her little charges sang and played, and worked. After tea the children left us; and we three sat together, talking of the bygone days. 'My part in them,' said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his white head, 'has much matter for regret - for deep regret, and deep contrition, Trotwood, you well know. But I would not cancel it, if it were in my power.' I could readily believe that, looking at the face beside him. 'I should cancel with it,' he pursued, 'such patience and devotion, such fidelity, such a child's love, as I must not forget, no! even to forget myself.' 'I understand you, sir,' I softly said. 'I hold it - I have always held it - in veneration.' 'But no one knows, not even you,' he returned, 'how much she has done, how much she has undergone, how hard she has striven. Dear Agnes!' She had put her hand entreatingly on his arm, to stop him; and was very, very pale. 'Well, well!' he said with a sigh, dismissing, as I then saw, some trial she had borne, or was yet to bear, in connexion with what my aunt had told me. 'Well! I have never told you, Trotwood, of her mother. Has anyone?' 'Never, sir.' 'It's not much - though it was much to suffer. She married me in opposition to her father's wish, and he renounced her. She prayed him to forgive her, before my Agnes came into this world. He was a very hard man, and her mother had long been dead. He repulsed her. He broke her heart.' Agnes leaned upon his shoulder, and stole her arm about his neck. 'She had an affectionate and gentle heart,' he said; 'and it was broken. I knew its tender nature very well. No one could, if I did not. She loved me dearly, but was never happy. She was always labouring,


farthest shore. Othrys is topographically an alpine lake: the line from the peak to the trench is smooth, and the water is as deep as the mountains are high. Anything you throw in falls for a clear four thousand metres to a cold darkness that keeps its secrets well and never lets them go. Anything, or anyone. “Oh bloody fucking fuck,” Musgrave growls at her tablet. It’s not true what they say: good workmen do indeed blame their tools, at least when they have to use what the department can afford. Felton and his uniform buddy can’t even be bothered to laugh. Just two of them: there’s a serious incident in the Heights. There always is when you need one. Gratton giving me space—or maybe rope. I go back to the desk and run my hand along the flat surface. It’s clean and cold. There’s a university terminal, a block of cartridge paper by the printer. The drawers have bamboo dividers to keep everything in its proper place: one cubby for staples, one for rubber bands, one for pens. There is nothing, but nothing, out of place in this room, in this entire apartment, except for the nerd who owns it, dead between the display case and the fish tank. Koi carp, two, one orange, and one orange and white. I shuffle all the way back on the dead man’s office chair until my feet come off the floor and then I push off with my right hand so that I’m spinning slowly around. The chair is a science chair, translucent and nasty. They take a seed from your ear cartilage and grow it and then you sit in it because something something immune response something biota. Supposedly it’s good for you, but who knows? High-ticket item. Round and round I go in the dead nerd’s chair, which I guess is technically part of the corpse. “Hey, Musgrave, you gonna autopsy this chair?” “Nope.” “Because you know—” “Yes I do. Technically it’s still alive so it would be a vivisection, but let me say again: no, I do not at this time propose to vivisect the chair, because I have an annual budget and it’s fucking ridiculous.” “Just figure it’s made of his body. If he was maybe poisoned—” “He was shot in the head,” Musgrave says, like she doesn’t really want to talk about it any more. There are no family pictures around the terminal, or on the mantel, or in the display case. There are none in the living room with its view of the harbour, thirty-six storeys down. There are none in the bathrooms. There is a box in the lumber room full of bric-a-brac, and no doubt he intended, one day, to go through it and set some of those things out. Or perhaps he just didn’t give a damn. Sometimes you keep things because you don’t have time to throw them away. Alastair Rodney Tebbit, went by Roddy. This address plus a teaching room on campus. Not married, at least for the present. Manicure his only obvious


life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness, and accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian Gray had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry's voice outside. "My dear Dorian, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can't bear your shutting yourself up like this." He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued, and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "I am so sorry for it all, my dear boy," said Lord Henry, coming in. "But you must not think about it too much." [46] "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked Dorian. "Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair, and slowly pulling his gloves off. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry,--perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse, and tearing your nice hair." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head, and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more,--at least not before me. I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up, and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian--" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days


to do so, and who had never stopped to consider that cleanliness and comfort are two of the costliest items in a modest budget, regarded Winsett's attitude as part of the boring "Bohemian" pose that always made fashionable people, who changed their clothes without talking about it, and were not forever harping on the number of servants one kept, seem so much simpler and less self-conscious than the others. Nevertheless, he was always stimulated by Winsett, and whenever he caught sight of the journalist's lean bearded face and melancholy eyes he would rout him out of his corner and carry him off for a long talk. Winsett was not a journalist by choice. He was a pure man of letters, untimely born in a world that had no need of letters; but after publishing one volume of brief and exquisite literary appreciations, of which one hundred and twenty copies were sold, thirty given away, and the balance eventually destroyed by the publishers (as per contract) to make room for more marketable material, he had abandoned his real calling, and taken a sub-editorial job on a women's weekly, where fashion- plates and paper patterns alternated with New England love-stories and advertisements of temperance drinks. On the subject of "Hearth-fires" (as the paper was called) he was inexhaustibly entertaining; but beneath his fun lurked the sterile bitterness of the still young man who has tried and given up. His conversation always made Archer take the measure of his own life, and feel how little it contained; but Winsett's, after all, contained still less, and though their common fund of intellectual interests and curiosities made their talks exhilarating, their exchange of views usually remained within the limits of a pensive dilettantism. "The fact is, life isn't much a fit for either of us," Winsett had once said. "I'm down and out; nothing to be done about it. I've got only one ware to produce, and there's no market for it here, and won't be in my time. But you're free and you're well-off. Why don't you get into touch? There's only one way to do it: to go into politics." Archer threw his head back and laughed. There one saw at a flash the unbridgeable difference between men like Winsett and the others--Archer's kind. Every one in polite circles knew that, in America, "a gentleman couldn't go into politics." But, since he could hardly put it in that way to Winsett, he answered evasively: "Look at the career of the honest man in American politics! They don't want us." "Who's `they'? Why don't you all get together and be `they' yourselves?" Archer's laugh lingered on his lips in a slightly condescending smile. It was useless to prolong the discussion: everybody knew the melancholy fate of the few gentlemen who had risked their clean linen in municipal or state politics in New York. The day was past when that sort of thing was possible: the country was in possession of the bosses and the emigrant, and decent people had to fall back on sport or culture.


letting it go at last, with a screw at parting that brought the water into my eyes. 'I'm a Tartar.' 'A Tartar,' said the man with the wooden leg. 'When I say I'll do a thing, I do it,' said Mr. Creakle; 'and when I say I will have a thing done, I will have it done.' '- Will have a thing done, I will have it done,' repeated the man with the wooden leg. 'I am a determined character,' said Mr. Creakle. 'That's what I am. I do my duty. That's what I do. My flesh and blood' - he looked at Mrs. Creakle as he said this - 'when it rises against me, is not my flesh and blood. I discard it. Has that fellow' - to the man with the wooden leg -'been here again?' 'No,' was the answer. 'No,' said Mr. Creakle. 'He knows better. He knows me. Let him keep away. I say let him keep away,' said Mr. Creakle, striking his hand upon the table, and looking at Mrs. Creakle, 'for he knows me. Now you have begun to know me too, my young friend, and you may go. Take him away.' I was very glad to be ordered away, for Mrs. and Miss Creakle were both wiping their eyes, and I felt as uncomfortable for them as I did for myself. But I had a petition on my mind which concerned me so nearly, that I couldn't help saying, though I wondered at my own courage: 'If you please, sir -' Mr. Creakle whispered, 'Hah! What's this?' and bent his eyes upon me, as if he would have burnt me up with them. 'If you please, sir,' I faltered, 'if I might be allowed (I am very sorry indeed, sir, for what I did) to take this writing off, before the boys come back -' Whether Mr. Creakle was in earnest, or whether he only did it to frighten me, I don't know, but he made a burst out of his chair, before which I precipitately retreated, without waiting for the escort Of the man with the wooden leg, and never once stopped until I reached my own bedroom, where, finding I was not pursued, I went to bed, as it was time, and lay quaking, for a couple of hours. Next morning Mr. Sharp came back. Mr. Sharp was the first master, and superior to Mr. Mell. Mr. Mell took his meals with the boys, but Mr. Sharp dined and supped at Mr. Creakle's table. He was a limp, delicate-looking gentleman, I thought, with a good deal of nose, and a way of carrying his head on one side, as if it were a little too heavy for him. His hair was very smooth and wavy; but I was informed by the very first boy who came back that it was a wig (a second-hand one HE said), and that Mr. Sharp went out every Saturday afternoon to get it curled. It was no other than Tommy Traddles who gave me this piece of