how open you were the other day. I was thinking about it afterward, how awful that must have been for you—the thing about Stiles’s house. That was assault.” “Sure.” “It was assault from all of them, from everyone who saw it.” “By modern standards, sure.” She brought her ice water halfway to her lips but put it down again. “There was such a code of silence around things like that. All those boys. They made an impenetrable wall together, wherever they went.” She shrugged. “Well, the girls, too.” “I was thinking,” I said, as if I’d been driving by this resort and it had just occurred to me. “The night of March third. You were there in the woods.” “You want to ask about that? Yes, I was in the woods. I was not in the pool with Thalia or whatever the fuck you’re thinking.” “It’s only one thing, hang on. You remember walking back with Robbie at the end of the night, along with everyone else.” “Sure.” “Do you remember walking there with him? Like, do you have specific memories of him being there on the walk out?” She squinted at me like I was crazy, then looked up at Bing Russell’s photo. “What I remember,” she said, “is he jumped out from behind a tree and scared the shit out of me.” This was new. “How so?” “Like—we were all up there, drinking, and suddenly he’s jumping out at us, like, Ha ha, I was hiding back here and you didn’t even know, what if I was an axe murderer, blah blah blah.” “So he just appeared?” “That thing—you remember how in middle school, boys were always riding their skateboards straight at you, and at the last minute they’d swerve and laugh at you for being scared? Or they’d cover your eyes from behind and if you didn’t find it funny you were frigid or something? You just have to roll with the abuse, otherwise you’re a crazy bitch.” “So, how long, would you say? Before he popped out?” My heart was an entire percussion section. “Long enough that it was weird and funny. Not five minutes. Like half an hour.” “And you hadn’t seen him up there before then?” “No. That was the joke.” I said, “Okay. Okay.” “Why. What.” “Let me show you something,” I said, and I brought up the photo of Robbie’s sweatshirt back, zoomed in on the streak of mud splatter, explained Alder’s theory and what that would mean for the timing. She said, “I see what you’re seeing, but I think you’re grasping at straws.” “You don’t think this might be interesting to the defense team?” “Jesus.” “I don’t mean—” “Jesus. You’re not, like, recording this, are you?” I wasn’t, this time, but just to prove my point I set my phone on the table, pressed the side button till it powered down. She said, “What I do not want, Bodie, is to be, like, a key witness or something. I wanted nothing to do with this. I would like to forget those entire


with him.” “That night?” “Immediately. He wanted to head west. Maybe to California. He said he heard people there were more tolerant. He said there was a chance we could be happy there. But I knew better.” Archie shuffles to a stool. He sits, slumped, as if the sad memories he’s recalling are literally weighing him down. “Running away is never as easy as it seems. I know because I’d already done it, fleeing a family who hated me because I was different, because I wasn’t like most other boys. But I found my way here—and to Virginia.” “Did she know?” I say. Archie responds with a nod. “It’s one of the reasons I loved her so much. She didn’t judge me. Or shame me. Or, thank goodness, try to change who I am. She simply accepted me. And I couldn’t leave her. Not when she was pregnant. Not when she needed me. Because that’s another thing Ricardo told me—that Berniece had spotted her the night before and knew of her condition. That meant everyone would soon know. When that happened, Virginia would need me more than ever.” “So you stayed,” I say, meaning not just that night but all the ones after it. Decades of nights in which he’d sneak into Virginia’s room to check on her and wish her pleasant dreams. “I stayed,” Archie says. “Ricardo left. I never heard from him again.” The sadness of his story leaves me convinced that Hope’s End is cursed in some way. Maybe it was merely bad luck. Or perhaps because of Winston Hope’s hubris in building a mansion at the edge of a cliff despite knowing it was only a matter of time before it crumbled into the ocean. Whatever the cause, no one here got the life they wanted. No one was granted a happy ending. Not Archie. Not Lenora. And certainly not Virginia. Yet despite now knowing all their tragic tales, one question remains unanswered. “Then who was Ricky?” “One of the local boys hired for seasonal help,” Archie says. “A bunch of them came and went all the time. Virginia never told me his last name. Or his first. She just used the nickname, making it impossible to track him down after the murders. I suspect by that point, he didn’t want to be found.” A strange mix of emotions swirls through me. There’s disappointment from the reality that Ricky wasn’t the person I assumed he was. In fact, he wasn’t anyone important at all. Just a boy who took advantage of a girl so desperately lonely she gave away her innocence and, ultimately, her freedom. But Virginia isn’t blameless. I’m angry at her. Not for being naïve. She was just a child when Ricky came along. She didn’t know any better. But what she did to her parents was so unimaginably terrible that I simultaneously hate her, feel sorry for her, and, despite everything I’ve learned tonight, still hold out hope that Archie and Lenora are wrong. I suppose that makes me the naïve one. “The murders still


“Of course,” the Night Sister murmured. “A deal is a deal.” “Precisely. I see why the Sisters made you the Night Priestess.” Anton’s eyes shone with unsound light. “I hope you do better by the title than the last one.” Lore’s mother—the Night Priestess—simply inclined her head. Three mothers, two betrayals, all for some greater good that Lore couldn’t bring herself to care about. She only cared about living. The greater good could hang. “Please don’t let him kill me.” Lore knew she sounded pathetic. She was pathetic, limp between two Presque Mort, bleeding out and helpless to stop it. “I haven’t done anything, I didn’t choose it, please…” “Oh, dear heart.” The Night Priestess’s hand came up, then fell, like if they’d been closer she would’ve cradled Lore’s cheek. “It’s the only thing we can do. The world wouldn’t survive you.” “A deal is a deal,” Anton said, turning to face Lore. “Now let’s settle our accounts, and we can all be on our way.” The Night Priestess’s lips flattened in distaste. She waved a hand. “Take what you’re owed, then.” “I’m thankful for your cooperation,” Anton said, though there was a sneer in his voice. “Thankful that you understand there is only room for one god, this time.” “There certainly isn’t room for six again,” the Night Priestess said softly. “Gods are not content to share power.” “That’s the trouble with ascensions,” Anton agreed. “When humans become gods, they bring their natures with them.” The Priest Exalted bared his teeth, a triumphant rictus as he stepped toward Lore. One hand raised. It was the same tugging feeling she’d felt in her dreams, but without the buffer of sleep, it was agonizing. Her heart stilled, just so much meat, and felt like it was being pulled slowly from behind her ribs. Strands of dark Mortem leaked from her chest, seeping out slowly like blood from a million tiny wounds. The mad priest knotted raw death in the air, gnarling the strands together. “Apollius,” he murmured, looking up at the sky as if he could find his god there. A rapturous tear slid down his cheek. “See what I do for You. How I manipulate the power of Your treasonous wife and turn it to Your glory.” He still pulled power from her as he spoke to the empty sky, weaving it between his fingers. It coalesced above their heads, a writhing, intricate knot, pulsing like an organ as it took shape. Tendrils reached from the central mass, curling into the eclipse-shrouded sky, seeping outward as if they were looking for something. Looking for another village. More people to kill, more corpses for Anton’s undead army. Using her to do it; Mortem channeled from her goddess-touched body, fashioned to do things no other channeler could do. “You’ve given us Your sign,” Anton murmured to the sky. “Your promise that a new world awaits, one You will shape for Your faithful. Remember, Bleeding God, how I helped usher it in, here when two opposite powers can be held in concert.” Opposite powers. Even


he hated this departure from his regular routine. Though necessary as they had to get out of the city quickly, it didn’t feel right, like a scratchy sweater that rubbed and chafed. “What?” his terrified captive asked, quaking in her fear again as the lights of the city disappeared behind them. She was twisting in her seat, looking back through the rear window as New Orleans faded into darkness. “What will come very soon?” “You will see, my child,” he said, telling himself that a change of plan, an altering of routine was good, would keep those who would thwart him guessing. He just had to get his mind around it and he would. They were close now and he could feel that special little thrum in his veins, the twitching of his cock as he contemplated what was to come. The darkened countryside loomed around them. A car passed, speeding rapidly in the opposite direction, headlight beams washing through the bug-spattered windshield to cast her face in a weird unworldly light, and in that nanosecond he saw her fear and a flash of something else . . . determination? In the set of her jaw. But that was wrong. She was so meek. Again he felt her tremble, caught just a glimpse of a quivering lower lip. Whatever he’d thought he’d caught sight of was his imagination. This one would be easy, despite the change in venue. He would take her into the swamp, kill her, and dispose of her in the dark water . . . no, wait. The cabin. Where two other bodies were rotting. He’d leave her there along with his trademark hundred-dollar bill because he’d want the cops to know if and when they found her remains, that it was his doing. Yes . . . it would be difficult. He’d have to kill her, then haul her in the canoe through the winding, treacherous waters of the bayou, deep into the thickets of cypress and muddy, mounded alligator nests, but it would be worth it. Turning off the main road, he rained on her what he hoped was a beatific smile, and adjusted his reflective sunglasses even though it was the dead of night. CHAPTER 26 Bentz followed Samantha Wheeler to her house. She’d refused to call her husband, insisting that she would be all right, that she didn’t want to wake him or bother her sons, and Bentz had relented. In his Jeep, he’d kept a close tail on her Prius as they eased through the night-dark streets of the city that still pulsed with life in the French Quarter. She drove through the gates of her home near the lake without incident, but Bentz followed her through. Ty Wheeler greeted his wife at the back door, a black dog at his side. Wheeler’s dark hair was rumpled, his jaw covered in a day’s worth of stubble. He was wearing a faded T-shirt from a Nirvana concert and equally washed-out navy pajama bottoms, but his eyes were sharp and intense as Samantha explained about her


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

easily have distanced his middle-aged pursuer under ordinary circumstances, but the position in which Wicksteed's body was found suggests that he had the ill luck to drive his quarry into a corner between a drift of stinging nettles and the gravel pit. To those who appreciate the extraordinary irascibility of the Invisible Man, the rest of the encounter will be easy to imagine. But this is pure hypothesis. The only undeniable facts--for stories of children are often unreliable--are the discovery of Wicksteed's body, done to death, and of the blood-stained iron rod flung among the nettles. The abandonment of the rod by Griffin, suggests that in the emotional excitement of the affair, the purpose for which he took it--if he had a purpose--was abandoned. He was certainly an intensely egotistical and unfeeling man, but the sight of his victim, his first victim, bloody and pitiful at his feet, may have released some long pent fountain of remorse to flood for a time whatever scheme of action he had contrived. After the murder of Mr. Wicksteed, he would seem to have struck across the country towards the downland. There is a story of a voice heard about sunset by a couple of men in a field near Fern Bottom. It was wailing and laughing, sobbing and groaning, and ever and again it shouted. It must have been queer hearing. It drove up across the middle of a clover field and died away towards the hills. That afternoon the Invisible Man must have learnt something of the rapid use Kemp had made of his confidences. He must have found houses locked and secured; he may have loitered about railway stations and prowled about inns, and no doubt he read the proclamations and realised something of the nature of the campaign against him. And as the evening advanced, the fields became dotted here and there with groups of three or four men, and noisy with the yelping of dogs. These men-hunters had particular instructions as to the way they should support one another in the case of an encounter. He avoided them all. We may understand something of his exasperation, and it could have been none the less because he himself had supplied the information that was being used so remorselessly against him. For that day at least he lost heart; for nearly twenty-four hours, save when he turned on Wicksteed, he was a hunted man. In the night, he must have eaten and slept; for in the morning he was himself again, active, powerful, angry, and malignant, prepared for his last great struggle against the world. Chapter 27 The Siege of Kemp's House Kemp read a strange missive, written in pencil on a greasy sheet of paper. "You have been amazingly energetic and clever," this letter ran, "though what you stand to gain by it I cannot imagine. You are against me. For a whole day you have chased me; you have tried to rob me of a night's rest. But I have had food in spite of you, I have slept in spite


We make the smart investments that put us ahead and give us room to play and then we short technologies, pharma, oil based on bold predictions and market trends. And I’m not just talking about the United States. We’re going to monitor markets and how consumers respond in every geographical location on the face of the earth, taking everything down to the fucking weather patterns into account. If your money isn’t tripled in the first quarter, I’ll give you back every cent of your initial investment.” A muscle hopped in Savage’s cheek. August’s pride was evident in every line of his body, but she couldn’t risk looking at him or she’d lose her cool. “I’ll move some numbers around and call you on Monday,” Savage said finally, holding out his hand for another shake from August, then he traded a shake with Natalie one more time and rejoined his friends at the bar. “Holy shit, that was incredible,” August whispered to her out of the side of his mouth. “Be cool. Pretend I go off like that all the time.” “Done. But let’s get out of here, princess,” he exhaled. “These pants are too tight in the ball region.” Natalie shook her head to hide the creeping amusement, breezing past her husband and beginning the journey toward the exit. “Only you would make the romantic gesture of flying across the country and ruin it with ball talk in, like, eight seconds.” August followed so close behind her, she could feel his body heat through the clingy material of her dress. “Eight seconds is a lifetime when a man has no testicular circulation.” “Is this a ploy?” she asked over her shoulder. “When we get to my room, you’re going to tell me you’re medically required to get your pants off as soon as possible?” “Well, not now, since you’ve called me on it. I’ll have to save that idea for next time.” “Next time?” He grunted. They were passing by Natalie’s ex and his fiancée. Both of them sipped their drinks and looked coolly at Natalie and August as they passed. Or maybe they were just wary? If she recalled correctly, she and her partner’s daughter had gotten along great at company functions. The situation itself was simply awkward. Just not for Natalie. For some reason, she felt totally comfortable stopping beside the couple, laying a hand on both of their backs, and saying a heartfelt congratulations. She’d never really loved Morrison, so what was the sense in begrudging the fact that he’d found love elsewhere? Her ex smiled at his intended. She smiled back. Simultaneously, they thanked Natalie. Then she took August’s hand and after a little tugging—August clearly wanted to say something to her ex—they continued toward the elevator that would bring them down to street level. “What were you going to say to him?” she asked as they stepped inside, the gold doors snapping together in front of them. “I don’t know. All I could think of was Julia Roberts’s line in Pretty Woman. You know? ‘Big mistake. Big.


he think of attack at a time like this? she asked herself. "An entire planet full of spice," she said. "How can you hit them there?" She heard him stirring, the sound of their pack being dragged across the tent floor. "It was sea power and air power on Caladan," he said. "Here, it's desert power. The Fremen are the key." His voice came from the vicinity of the tent's sphincter. Her Bene Gesserit training sensed in his tone an unresolved bitterness toward her. All his life he has been trained to hate Harkonnens, she thought. Now, he finds he is Harkonnen . . . because of me. How little he knows me! I was my Duke's only woman. I accepted his life and his values even to defying my Bene Gesserit orders. The tent's glowtab came alight under Paul's hand, filled the domed area with green radiance. Paul crouched at the sphincter, his stillsuit hood adjusted for the open desert--forehead capped, mouth filter in place, nose plugs adjusted. Only his dark eyes were visible: a narrow band of face that turned once toward her and away. "Secure yourself for the open," he said, and his voice was blurred behind the filter. Jessica pulled the filter across her mouth, began adjusting her hood as she watched Paul break the tent seal. Sand rasped as he opened the sphincter and a burred fizzle of grains ran into the tent before he could immobilize it with a static compaction tool. A hole grew in the sandwall as the tool realigned the grains. He slipped out and her ears followed his progress to the surface. What will we find out there? she wondered. Harkonnen troops and the Sardaukar, those are dangers we can expect. But what of the dangers we don't know? She thought of the compaction tool and the other strange instruments in the pack. Each of these tools suddenly stood in her mind as a sign of mysterious dangers. She felt then a hot breeze from surface sand touch her cheeks where they were exposed above the filter. "Pass up the pack." It was Paul's voice, low and guarded. She moved to obey, heard the water literjons gurgle as she shoved the pack across the floor. She peered upward, saw Paul framed against stars. "Here," he said and reached down, pulled the pack to the surface. Now she saw only the circle of stars. They were like the luminous tips of weapons aimed down at her. A shower of meteors crossed her patch of night. The meteors seemed to her like a warning, like tiger stripes, like luminous grave slats clabbering her blood. And she felt the chill of the price on their heads. "Hurry up," Paul said. "I want to collapse the tent." A shower of sand from the surface brushed her left hand. How much sand will the hand hold? She asked herself. "Shall I help you?" Paul asked. "No." She swallowed in a dry throat, slipped into the hole, felt static-packed sand rasp under her hands. Paul reached down, took


which it hung. His mind was haunted with the many and strange tales which he had heard, attributing mysterious if not supernatural endowments to these Maules, as well the grandson here present as his two immediate ancestors. Mr. Pyncheon's long residence abroad, and intercourse with men of wit and fashion, --courtiers, worldings, and free-thinkers,--had done much towards obliterating the grim Puritan superstitions, which no man of New England birth at that early period could entirely escape. But, on the other hand, had not a whole Community believed Maule's grandfather to be a wizard? Had not the crime been proved? Had not the wizard died for it? Had he not bequeathed a legacy of hatred against the Pyncheons to this only grandson, who, as it appeared, was now about to exercise a subtle influence over the daughter of his enemy's house? Might not this influence be the same that was called witchcraft? Turning half around, he caught a glimpse of Maule's figure in the looking-glass. At some paces from Alice, with his arms uplifted in the air, the carpenter made a gesture as if directing downward a slow, ponderous, and invisible weight upon the maiden. "Stay, Maule!" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon, stepping forward. "I forbid your proceeding further!" "Pray, my dear father, do not interrupt the young man," said Alice, without changing her position. "His efforts, I assure you, will prove very harmless." Again Mr. Pyncheon turned his eyes towards the Claude. It was then his daughter's will, in opposition to his own, that the experiment should be fully tried. Henceforth, therefore, he did but consent, not urge it. And was it not for her sake far more than for his own that he desired its success? That lost parchment once restored, the beautiful Alice Pyncheon, with the rich dowry which he could then bestow, might wed an English duke or a German reigning-prince, instead of some New England clergyman or lawyer! At the thought, the ambitious father almost consented, in his heart, that, if the devil's power were needed to the accomplishment of this great object, Maule might evoke him. Alice's own purity would be her safeguard. With his mind full of imaginary magnificence, Mr. Pyncheon heard a half-uttered exclamation from his daughter. It was very faint and low; so indistinct that there seemed but half a will to shape out the words, and too undefined a purport to be intelligible. Yet it was a call for help!--his conscience never doubted it;--and, little more than a whisper to his ear, it was a dismal shriek, and long reechoed so, in the region round his heart! But this time the father did not turn. After a further interval, Maule spoke. "Behold your daughter." said he. Mr. Pyncheon came hastily forward. The carpenter was standing erect in front of Alice's chair, and pointing his finger towards the maiden with an expression of triumphant power, the limits of which could not be defined, as, indeed, its scope stretched vaguely towards the unseen and the infinite. Alice sat in an attitude of profound repose, with the long


come in handy now, but new words would have to be made and said to fit them. “Green Cove Springs,” he told the driver. So they were married there before sundown, just like Joe had said. With new clothes of silk and wool. They sat on the boarding house porch and saw the sun plunge into the same crack in the earth from which the night emerged. 5 On the train the next day, Joe didn’t make many speeches with rhymes to her, but he bought her the best things the butcher had, like apples and a glass lantern full of candies. Mostly he talked about plans for the town when he got there. They were bound to need somebody like him. Janie took a lot of looks at him and she was proud of what she saw. Kind of portly like rich white folks. Strange trains, and people and places didn’t scare him neither. Where they got off the train at Maitland he found a buggy to carry them over to the colored town right away. It was early in the afternoon when they got there, so Joe said they must walk over the place and look around. They locked arms and strolled from end to end of the town. Joe noted the scant dozen of shame-faced houses scattered in the sand and palmetto roots and said, “God, they call this a town? Why, ’tain’t nothing but a raw place in de woods.” “It is a whole heap littler than Ah thought.” Janie admit- ted her disappointment. “Just like Ah thought,” Joe said. “A whole heap uh talk Their Eyes Were Watching God 41 and nobody doin’ nothin’. I god, where’s de Mayor?” he asked somebody. “Ah want tuh speak wid de Mayor.” Two men who were sitting on their shoulderblades under a huge live oak tree almost sat upright at the tone of his voice. They stared at Joe’s face, his clothes and his wife. “Where y’all come from in sich uh big haste?” Lee Coker asked. “Middle Georgy,” Starks answered briskly. “Joe Starks is mah name, from in and through Georgy.” “You and yo’ daughter goin’ tuh join wid us in fellow- ship?” the other reclining figure asked. “Mighty glad tuh have yuh. Hicks is the name. Guv’nor Amos Hicks from Buford, South Carolina. Free, single, disengaged.” “I god, Ah ain’t nowhere near old enough to have no grown daughter. This here is mah wife.” Hicks sank back and lost interest at once. “Where is de Mayor?” Starks persisted. “Ah wants tuh talk wid him.” “Youse uh mite too previous for dat,” Coker told him. “Us ain’t got none yit.” “Ain’t got no Mayor! Well, who tells y’all what to do?” “Nobody. Everybody’s grown. And then agin, Ah reckon us just ain’t thought about it. Ah know Ah ain’t.” “Ah did think about it one day,” Hicks said dreamily, “but then Ah forgot it and ain’t thought about it since then.” “No wonder things ain’t no better,” Joe commented. “Ah’m buyin’ in here, and buyin’ in big. Soon’s we


Ella,” Maud said. “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Louise singsonged and waved her bouquet. “I know that,” Ella said. “It’s just—he kind of freaks me out. The way he looks without looking.” “I see what you mean,” Maud said. “But he’s nice. I promise. He’s just different.” Chris had looked at Ella the same way he looked at Louise, which was the same way that he sometimes looked at Maud or Gabriel or his father. There was nothing sexual to the gaze. But maybe it was enough to be stared at by a man for Ella to feel uncomfortable. As they took the shortcut through the orchard, Maud remembered visiting a public pool with her friend when she was eleven. There was one man on a plastic lounger who, every time they passed, would inspect them from head to toe with a half-smile on his face. She’d felt exposed, embarrassed, felt something was wrong, although she wasn’t sure what. Thirty years later, she could still see it clearly: the Coke balanced on the man’s hirsute belly, his thick purple lips and hungry eyes. At five o’clock, as she skewered chicken and peppers on kebab sticks in the kitchen, she listened tensely while Louise told Peter about how Gabriel had helped her and Ella catch a frog in the pond the previous night. “We let him go,” she said. “Because, you know, freedom and liberty.” Things with Gabriel and Ella had improved since Maud’s conversation with him at lunch. He’d eaten dinner with them several more times over the past week and had taken Maud’s advice, bringing no gifts and no longer trying to joke with Ella. Last night, when Louise asked Gabriel to help them catch the frog, Ella jumped up and said she’d get a jar from the house, and the four of them went to the pond until dark. “Sounds like your charming neighbor has become a regular,” Peter said when Maud took the phone back from Louise. “I hope you’re collecting rent.” She went out to the porch, shutting the door behind her. “He likes the girls,” she said, “and the girls like him.” “Clearly, you like him too.” “We’re friends,” she said. She noticed a wasp nest tucked under an eave, like a gray papier-mâché outcrop of coral. “Anyway, Peter. We’re separated.” “It’s a trial separation.” “It’s a separation.” The phone weighed down her hand. “And my feelings haven’t changed.” “Have you figured out how I’m going to support two households on my salary in the Bay Area?” Peter asked. “I’ll get a full-time job.” “That’s been going well.” It was the first time he’d struck out at her in months, and she almost enjoyed the blow, because it was real. “I’ll stop looking for historical work. I’ll be more open. I’ll do landscaping.” “You’d hate that.” “Then I’ll hate it.” “Is something going on with that guy?” “No.” “Okay. I trust you. And you can trust me.” “Why? What’s changed?” “I don’t want to lose you, Maud.” But I’m already gone, she thought. I


definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all: though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn't really want it, and I do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I will never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray. "And I don't allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don't really mind being called a boy." "I should have minded very much this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock to the door, and the butler entered with the tea- tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a [21] rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured the tea out. The two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White's, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire and say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have the surprise of candor." "It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry, dreamily, "the costume of our day is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only color- element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?" "Before either." "I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won't you?" "I can't, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do." "Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray." "I should like that awfully." Basil Hallward bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I will stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly. "Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, running across to him. "Am I really like that?" "Yes; you are just like that." "How wonderful, Basil!" "At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," said Hallward. "That is something." "What a fuss people make about fidelity!" murmured Lord Henry. "And, after all, it is purely a question for physiology. It


if you want to earn enough to pay off your loans.” I notice she doesn’t mention anything about being a writer. Probably because it doesn’t matter what you study or where you work—you can only write the book by writing the book. Spoiler alert: I still haven’t written the book. “You might even be hesitant to study at all—not everyone wants to start their adult life with mountains of debt,” Katharine says, and I know that’s right. Would you believe when my parents went to uni it was free? Injustice stalks my generation, I swear to God. “Maybe you dream of a certain professional future,” Katharine goes on, “but you’re well aware that you’re rarely the highest flyer in your academic cohort, and thus you might secure a degree by the skin of your teeth and struggle to find employment as a result. The BEP,” she says with relish, “is here to help you with that. This program is sponsored by a diverse range of employers within our region—why should Midlanders have to move south just to succeed?” There is a ripple of agreement across the crowd, which, yeah, okay. She didn’t lie. “Being a BEP graduate means something, both here and across the country,” she says, and the slide changes again. I’m not a numbers person, but she’s got graphs illustrating the career trajectories of BEP alums that look impressive. “You’ll distinguish yourselves to potential employers just by finishing the program, and you won’t be doing it by swallowing textbooks and regurgitating them in an exam hall. Our unique enrichment program combines outdoor education with the patented BEP Success Assessment Matrix.” The slide switches to an image of a dark, dramatic forest. “Two outdoor expeditions,” she says, “each taking place during a school holiday. The first is a training session, intended to teach you the necessary skills to survive and weed out those who can’t hack it. The second is the real deal, independently executed by yourselves in the Scottish woodlands. Both expeditions are an opportunity to show you’ve got the skills elite employers desire.” The new slide tells us these skills are: Resilience Commitment Creative thinking Relationship building Leadership I smirk and glance over at Celine. Maybe she predicted my reaction, because our eyes meet, and she scowls. “Relationship building?” I whisper. “Shut up,” she mouths. “Tell me the last relationship you built. Quickly.” “I could build one right now, between my foot and your arse.” “Shh,” I tut. “Don’t talk over Katharine. I’m trying to listen.” Very, very quietly, Celine screams. It’s drowned out by Katharine’s microphone boom. “Can you commit to the rules needed to survive out in the wild, and think of creative ways to apply them?” she asks. The next slide shows a woodland with the words SHERWOOD FOREST: THE EDUCATION EXPEDITION written over the top. She keeps going. “And do you have the determination and teamwork skills to combine all you’ve learned and complete a miles-long trek independently, hunting down Golden Compasses along the way? You’ll have the opportunity to prove it here….” Click. A


"You just try it," urged Martha, handing her the skipping- rope. "You can't skip a hundred at first, but if you practice you'll mount up. That's what mother said. She says, `Nothin' will do her more good than skippin' rope. It's th' sensiblest toy a child can have. Let her play out in th' fresh air skippin' an' it'll stretch her legs an' arms an' give her some strength in 'em.'" It was plain that there was not a great deal of strength in Mistress Mary's arms and legs when she first began to skip. She was not very clever at it, but she liked it so much that she did not want to stop. "Put on tha' things and run an' skip out o' doors," said Martha. "Mother said I must tell you to keep out o' doors as much as you could, even when it rains a bit, so as tha' wrap up warm." Mary put on her coat and hat and took her skipping-rope over her arm. She opened the door to go out, and then suddenly thought of something and turned back rather slowly. "Martha," she said, "they were your wages. It was your two-pence really. Thank you." She said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her. "Thank you," she said, and held out her hand because she did not know what else to do. Martha gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if she was not accustomed to this sort of thing either. Then she laughed. "Eh! th' art a queer, old-womanish thing," she said. "If tha'd been our 'Lizabeth Ellen tha'd have given me a kiss." Mary looked stiffer than ever. "Do you want me to kiss you?" Martha laughed again. "Nay, not me," she answered. "If tha' was different, p'raps tha'd want to thysel'. But tha' isn't. Run off outside an' play with thy rope." Mistress Mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room. Yorkshire people seemed strange, and Martha was always rather a puzzle to her. At first she had disliked her very much, but now she did not. The skipping-rope was a wonderful thing. She counted and skipped, and skipped and counted, until her cheeks were quite red, and she was more interested than she had ever been since she was born. The sun was shining and a little wind was blowing--not a rough wind, but one which came in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly turned earth with it. She skipped round the fountain garden, and up one walk and down another. She skipped at last into the kitchen-garden and saw Ben Weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin, which was hopping about him. She skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted his head and looked at her with a curious expression. She had wondered if he would notice her. She wanted him to see her skip. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Upon my word. P'raps tha' art a young 'un, after


guns and defend the weakening of the travel ban. I told her I wasn’t worried at all. “Trust the experts.” That was Elaine’s maxim. She may not have been a terrorism specialist, but in three decades of managing government programs, she had been a fierce defender of the career civil service. She promised to get the president to accept the outcome. Or she’d leave. Her conversation with Donald Trump went as expected. He was seething. At his golf resort in Bedminster, New Jersey, the president railed against Elaine and the other cabinet members who were present. The “weak-ass travel ban,” in his words, was too small and went too easy on his least favorite countries “Somalia? Come on, they have fucking pirates!” he vented. To be sure, there was a piracy threat from armed militants off the coast of Somalia, but Trump seemed to picture swashbuckling Jack Sparrows stumbling across the beaches. And he didn’t want anyone from that country allowed into ours. Elaine held firm. The acting secretary had an ace up her sleeve. She laid it on the table as Trump rattled off nationalities he wanted to block from entering America. If the president rejected the independent assessment of the agencies, she said, our lawyers predicted the courts would strike down whatever arbitrary list he came up with. That got Trump’s attention. He dreaded judges. They could proclaim the final word against him. They could make him into a loser. After a long debate and the president’s realization that he was boxed in, Trump very begrudgingly approved the plan. An equally angry White House punted much of the rollout to DHS, directing me speak to news outlets as a “senior administration official” to describe the changes. I told reporters the measures were certainly “tough” on the listed countries but thankfully more “tailored” than before. What may have started in Trump’s mind as a Muslim ban no longer was one. He’d been outmaneuvered. Containment was working. Elaine went further when speaking to Congress, deliberately contradicting Trump’s vision of a sweeping blockade. “This has nothing to do with race or religion, and our goal is not to block people from visiting the United States,” she declared. “America has a proud history as a beacon of hope to freedom-loving people from around the world who want to visit our country or become a part of our enduring democratic republic.” I heard from an irritated Stephen Miller afterward. He wanted to know who had approved this language. Who had written Elaine’s pro-immigrant remarks? I had. Any sense of victory was fleeting. My anxiety swelled during a bloody October. The first day of the month, a Las Vegas gunman murdered more than sixty festival-goers, indiscriminately firing into a crowd from an upper floor of a hotel on the strip. And on Halloween, an ISIS-inspired terrorist mowed down a dozen civilians with a white pickup truck in New York City. We scrambled to elevate security levels around the country to prevent copycat terrorist attacks. On top of that, I was on hair-trigger alert about another looming


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

Englishman of about my own age, that is, somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, one might say, his face was of a fine florid hue, but after twelve o’clock, meridian—his dinner hour—it blazed like a grate full of Christmas coals; and continued blazing—but, as it were, with a gradual wane—till 6 o’clock, P.M. or thereabouts, after which I saw no more of the proprietor of the face, which gaining its meridian with the sun, seemed to set with it, to rise, culminate, and decline the following day, with the like regularity and undiminished glory. There are many singular coincidences I have known in the course of my life, not the least among which was the fact, that exactly when Turkey displayed his fullest beams from his red and radiant countenance, just then, too, at that critical moment, began the daily period when I considered his business capacities as seriously disturbed for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. Not that he was absolutely idle, or averse to business then; far from it. The difficulty was, he was apt to be altogether too energetic. There was a strange, inflamed, flurried, flighty recklessness of activity about him. He would be incautious in dipping his pen into his inkstand. All his blots upon my documents, were dropped there after twelve o’clock, meridian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless and sadly given to making blots in the afternoon, but some days he went further, and was rather noisy. At such times, too, his face flamed with augmented blazonry, as if cannel coal had been heaped on anthracite. He made an unpleasant racket with his chair; spilled his sand-box; in mending his pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, and threw them on the floor in a sudden passion; stood up and leaned over his table, boxing his papers about in a most indecorous manner, very sad to behold in an elderly man like him. Nevertheless, as he was in many ways a most valuable person to me, and all the time before twelve o’clock, meridian, was the quickest, steadiest creature too, accomplishing a great deal of work in a style not easy to be matched—for these reasons, I was willing to overlook his eccentricities, though indeed, occasionally, I remonstrated with him. I did this very gently, however, because, though the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of men in the morning, yet in the afternoon he was disposed, upon provocation, to be slightly rash with his tongue, in fact, insolent. Now, valuing his morning services as I did, and resolved not to lose them; yet, at the same time made uncomfortable by his inflamed ways after twelve o’clock; and being a man of peace, unwilling by my admonitions to call forth unseemly retorts from him; I took upon me, one Saturday noon (he was always worse on Saturdays), to hint to him, very kindly, that perhaps now that he was growing old, it might be well to abridge his labors; in short, he need not come to my chambers after twelve o’clock, but,


of the first suspect, along with his date of birth listed in the case file. A red D pops on his screen beside the suspect’s name, indicating he is deceased. The date of the death is listed as September 6, 2020. Ethan searches the database for the second suspect, Samuel David Lucas, and another red D appears on his screen beside the result. The date of his death was October 27 of this year. Only two days after Ethan shot Brody Carr in his home. His cause of death is listed as sepsis. Ethan pulls out his phone and dials the office for the investigators who work for the medical examiner. He glances at the time on his laptop as it rings, knowing his call will probably go to voicemail. “Investigator Macedo.” Ethan sits forward. “Hey, it’s Ethan from homicide.” “Oh! Hey, Ethan, I heard you were back. And evidently working the same hours! Good for you, man. What can I do for you?” Macedo’s warm tone gives no indication that he’s holding a grudge or something, like the people in his own office. “I was wondering if you could give me some information on a death that occurred about a month ago.” “Sure.” “Great. The name of the deceased is Samuel David Lucas, and he died on October 27th.” Ethan hears Macedo’s fingertips tap against his keyboard. “Yep. Got the report right here. There’s not much to it. Oh, yeah. I remember this one. I was the one who picked up his body from Bayside. His cause of death was sepsis. IV drug user.” Ethan goes still. “Bayside?” “Yeah. He’d been in the ICU for a couple of days before we got the call. He was brought to the ER after passing out at a bus stop.” Ethan brings his hand to his temple. If he was brought to the ER two days before he died, it was likely during Sloane’s shift. “There was no next of kin so we—” “Thanks, Macedo. I gotta run, but I really appreciate your help.” Ethan slams his laptop closed and stands from his chair while slipping his phone into his pocket. “See ya tomorrow, Marks,” one of his coworkers says as he marches out of the homicide unit. “Good night,” Ethan calls over his shoulder. He throws the door open to the seventh-floor parking area adjacent to the homicide unit, seething with rage as he rushes to his car. Sloane lied about everything. Carr hadn’t brought a gun to their home that night. Sloane was so desperate to get rid of Brody Carr that she stole a gun off her patient in the ER. She planned the whole damn thing. Chapter 51 Perched on one of her barstools, Sloane smiles at Ethan when he walks into the kitchen. “I have something to tell you. Two things, actually.” He presses his trembling hands against the kitchen island countertop, trying to control the anger seething through his body. He’s never been this enraged in his life. “Like that you lied about Carr bringing a gun to


or two details from you. It is really too early for this talk, but I wish to set your mind at rest so that we can proceed with the task of repairing your body without bothering too much about your mind.' Nurse Gibson pulled up a chair for the doctor and left the room. 'You have been here about two days,' continued the doctor. 'Your car was found by a farmer on the way to market in Royale and he informed the police. After some delay Monsieur Mathis heard that it was your car and he immediately went to Les Noctambules with his men. You and Le Chiffre were found and also your friend, Miss Lynd, who was unharmed and according to her account suffered no molestation. She was prostrated with shock, but is now fully recovered and is at her hotel. She has been instructed by her superiors in London to stay at Royale under your orders until you are sufficiently recovered to go back to England. 'Le Chiffre's two gunmen are dead, each killed by a single .35 bullet in the back of the skull. From the lack of expression on their faces, they evidently never saw or heard their assailant. They were found in the same room as Miss Lynd. Le Chiffre is dead, shot with a similar weapon between the eyes. Did you witness his death?' 'Yes,' said Bond. 'Your own injuries are serious, but your life is not in danger though you have lost a lot of blood. If all goes well, you will recover completely and none of the functions of your body will be impaired.' The doctor smiled grimly. 'But I fear that you will continue to be in pain for several days and it will be my endeavour to give you as much comfort as possible. Now that you have regained consciousness your arms will be freed, but you must not move your body and when you sleep the nurse has orders to secure your arms again. Above all, it is important that you rest and regain your strength. At the moment you are suffering from a grave condition of mental and physical shock.' The doctor paused. 'For how long were you maltreated?' 'About an hour,' said Bond. 'Then it is remarkable that you are alive and I congratulate you. Few men could have supported what you have been through. Perhaps that is some consolation. As Monsieur Mathis can tell you, I have had in my time to treat a number of patients who have suffered similar and not one has come through it as you have done.' The doctor looked at Bond for a moment and then turned brusquely to Mathis. 'You may have ten minutes and then you will be forcibly elected. If you put the patient's temperature up, you will answer for it.' He gave them both a broad smile and left the room. Mathis came over and took the doctor's chair. 'That's a good man,' said Bond. 'I like him.' 'He's attached to the Bureau,' said Mathis. 'He is a


some of these orphans as riders, to help defend Seiiki.’ Unora smiled. ‘Dumai would have liked that very much, I think.’ The Grand Empress glanced up at the dragon, who returned the look, blowing fog through her nostrils. ‘You should be patient, Lady Nikeya,’ the Grand Empress said, the corners of her mouth tweaking. ‘My granddaughter may yet guide you herself. The dead whisper through the crash of the waves. Sometimes, they may even choose to return to us – we, who are left on the shore.’ **** Thanks to Clan Kuposa, the House of Noziken had lived a long way from the coast. Nikeya would make no such mistake. Ginura was the last place Dumai had visited, apart from the city where she had fallen. Once they had received the order in person from the Grand Empress, the few surviving members of the Council of State – most had been in the palace when it burned – had confirmed her as Warlord of Seiiki. Nikeya knew she would have to work hard to win over Lady Mithara and Lord Tajorin. That is one of your gifts, a distant impression of Dumai reminded her. The Nadama were flocking to her court at Ginura Castle. Nikeya meant to bring greater change to Seiiki, as the years went on – but she would still have to be slow, always slow. She would rule for a time as if she were queen, and see what other ways opened for her. The remaining Kuposa had not been pleased with her choice of name. Still, without her father, they were already proving less of a force. Most of them wanted to distance themselves from the man who had betrayed Seiiki. She could work them to her will, now they were shaken from his web of intrigue. Soon she would spin a web of her own. The wyrms and their creatures had gone into a deep sleep, as the gods once had. Every last one would need to be hunted, to ensure they could never rise again. The red sickness would not only have to be forced out, but kept out. As for the imbalance that had caused it all, that would need to be rightened, and soon. Nikeya meant to righten it. She was Dowager Queen and First Warlord. For her crest, she took the golden fish with the rainbow arching over it, and two swords to defend them, as if the bell had been reforged – silver, to balance the gold. She would not let anyone forget the House of Noziken. She would not let them forget Queen Dumai. Her throne overlooked the sea without end. By day, she was the iron leader, laughing and strong. At night, she wandered alone through her castle, listening to the waves, dreaming of what could have been. For the rest of her life, she would be wrapped around an emptiness. I will see you in the Palace of Many Pearls, she thought. Wait for me, Mai. I will not be long. **** Months into the Age of Starlight, the


I have been out to Streatham since I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very sweet little problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal. However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable self." I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for satisfaction than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was even a touch of color upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door, which told me that he was off once more upon his congenial hunt. I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came in, but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh and trim as possible. "You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson," said he, "but you remember that our client has rather an early appointment this morning." "Why, it is after nine now," I answered. "I should not be surprised if that were he. I thought I heard a ring." It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and lethargy which was even more painful than his violence of the morning before, and he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed forward for him. "I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried," said he. "Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonored age. One sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted me." "Deserted you?" "Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty, and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note: "'MY DEAREST UNCLE:--I feel that I have brought trouble upon you, and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune might never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever again be happy under your roof, and I feel that


discoveries must be turned over to McMurdo.’ ‘That’s the whole point. I’m going to hand them over. And hope that they pick me.’ ‘Why wouldn’t they pick you? You’re one of the smartest people in Hope Town.’ ‘McMurdo is taking fewer ordinary-born people. They’re only interested in ice-adapted people now. And everyone will have told them how difficult I am. If they don’t take me… I can’t imagine my future on the Peninsula. I won’t survive in Hope Town.’ ‘What’s wrong with Hope Town?’ ‘For a start, everyone is under so much pressure to be happy all the time. Our only job is joy, planning the next music festival, or organizing sports leagues. What are the opportunities? Working on the algae farms, or the canneries, or the recycle plants? I get the survival strategy; life is to be enjoyed and it’s a smart approach. But I can’t be here, in this town, stitching seal pelts, looking forward to the next party. That can’t be my life.’ ‘What do you want your life to be?’ ‘Something bigger.’ What he didn’t say was that he couldn’t imagine a life without her. Tetu’s parents had both been taken by the cold when he’d been young and there were many orphaned children living with foster parents; it was rare for a family not to have at least one adopted child. He’d skipped from family to family over the years, never finding anyone he could settle with. Recently he’d stopped even unpacking his bag, certain that each placement would last only a few months. Since the death of his parents the only unbroken relationship in his life had been with Echo. They hiked together, explored the mountains together. They’d always watch the last sunset of summer and the first sunrise after winter. For the first time in his life, he’d experienced happiness. He was in love with someone who might not even experience love in the same way. Echo undressed, remarking: ‘These clothes are useless in the water.’ Trying not to stare, Tetu mumbled: ‘Yes, I guess they are.’ Standing naked, her scales giving her the appearance of wearing an elegant outer shell, she turned to Tetu. ‘Are you embarrassed by the fact I’m naked?’ Silent for a moment, he eventually overcame his awkwardness. ‘Echo, you don’t have to ask every question that comes into your head.’ ‘I’m curious.’ ‘No, I’m not embarrassed. I’m trying to be respectful.’ ‘You can look, I don’t mind.’ She thought to herself how thin-skinned ordinary-born people were – skin too thin for this cold, too thin for conversation. He touched her arm. ‘Be careful. The ocean is dangerous. Even for you.’ ‘You are much more likely to die, fully clothed, standing here, than I am swimming in that water.’ Tetu laughed. He often thought that Echo was funny even if she didn’t mean to be. ‘I’ll be careful, then.’ Echo perched on the edge of the ice and, like an Antarctic mermaid, slipped into the freezing waters. Watching her disappear Tetu crouched out of the wind. No doubt about it: he


after he has performed some valorous deed, as though he were a disembodied spirit. Then we have another weird neighbor, who printed a beautiful sign in English and tacked it on the door of his cabin, which we have preempted, warning us to destroy none of his belongings, and signing himself "Tarzan of the Apes." We have never seen him, though we think he is about, for one of the sailors, who was going to shoot Mr. Clayton in the back, received a spear in his shoulder from some unseen hand in the jungle. The sailors left us but a meager supply of food, so, as we have only a single revolver with but three cartridges left in it, we do not know how we can procure meat, though Mr. Philander says that we can exist indefinitely on the wild fruit and nuts which abound in the jungle. I am very tired now, so I shall go to my funny bed of grasses which Mr. Clayton gathered for me, but will add to this from day to day as things happen. Lovingly, JANE PORTER. TO HAZEL STRONG, BALTIMORE, MD. Tarzan sat in a brown study for a long time after he finished reading the letter. It was filled with so many new and wonderful things that his brain was in a whirl as he attempted to digest them all. So they did not know that he was Tarzan of the Apes. He would tell them. In his tree he had constructed a rude shelter of leaves and boughs, beneath which, protected from the rain, he had placed the few treasures brought from the cabin. Among these were some pencils. He took one, and beneath Jane Porter's signature he wrote: I am Tarzan of the Apes He thought that would be sufficient. Later he would return the letter to the cabin. In the matter of food, thought Tarzan, they had no need to worry--he would provide, and he did. The next morning Jane found her missing letter in the exact spot from which it had disappeared two nights before. She was mystified; but when she saw the printed words beneath her signature, she felt a cold, clammy chill run up her spine. She showed the letter, or rather the last sheet with the signature, to Clayton. Chapter 18 "And to think," she said, "that uncanny thing was probably watching me all the time that I was writing--oo! It makes me shudder just to think of it." "But he must be friendly," reassured Clayton, "for he has returned your letter, nor did he offer to harm you, and unless I am mistaken he left a very substantial memento of his friendship outside the cabin door last night, for I just found the carcass of a wild boar there as I came out." From then on scarcely a day passed that did not bring its offering of game or other food. Sometimes it was a young deer, again a quantity of strange, cooked food--cassava cakes pilfered from the village of Mbonga--or a boar, or leopard,


books and new songs which she found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what isn't always the case, that her granted wish was all she had hoped. Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing that a greater was given her. At any rate she deserved both. "Mother, I'm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so kind to me, I must thank him, and I don't know any other way. Can I do it?" asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his. "Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making up," replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Beth's requests because she so seldom asked anything for herself. After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen, the materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet cheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground was pronounced very appropriate and pretty, and beth worked away early and late, with occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needlewoman, and they were finished before anyone got tired of them. Then she wrote a short, simple note, and with Laurie's help, got them smuggled onto the study table one morning before the old gentleman was up. When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen. All day passed a a part of the next before any acknowledgement arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crochety friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four heads popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her, several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed . . . "Here's a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!" "Oh, Beth, he's sent you . . ." began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly energy, but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down the window. Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door her sisters seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all pointing and all saying at once, "Look there! Look there!" Beth did look, and turned pale with delight and surprise, for there stood a little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed like a sign board to "Miss Elizabeth March." "For me?" gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and feeling as if she should tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether. "Yes, all for you, my precious! Isn't it


on the floor. “Very good,” Master Yang says. “You may continue.” It is a new wife’s duty to serve tea to her in-laws. My hands shake, but I’m comforted to see the gift from my grandparents—the canister of loose tea leaves. I know the tea will be of the highest quality. I brew tea, pour it, and, with my head bowed in deference, offer the first cup to my father-in-law. Once I hand the second cup to my mother-in-law, I sit back on my heels. “A family’s fortune can be foretold by whether or not its members are early risers.” My mother-in-law’s tone is no less gruff or demanding than when she shushed the children in the marriage chamber last night. “Rise before dawn and do not retire until my son is ready.” “Yes, Mother—” “I would prefer you call me Lady Kuo.” I’m not sure how to feel about this desire for formality. Does she not see me as part of the family? I will need to work hard to win her approval. “I will rise earlier tomorrow,” I promise, keeping my gaze lowered. “So be it.” And that is that. They dismiss me. I haven’t even had a chance to see their faces. By the time I get back to my room, my husband is gone. My eyes fall on one of the decorations hung on the walls. It shows two birds perched together on a peony branch. This image sends the message of happiness and longevity to newlyweds. Red characters written in flowing script unfurl down the right side of the painting: White-haired, growing old together. * * * Three days later, as tradition requires, my husband and I go to my family home. As I suspected, the palanquin transporting me to the Garden of Fragrant Delights had taken a roundabout route. In fact, my grandparents live only fifteen minutes away. I could walk there if I had to. Without any hesitancy, I can send Poppy to deliver letters to my grandparents and brother, but also to Grandmother to give to Meiling. My grandparents host a banquet for our family, but now I am only a visiting guest. Over the next two days, I barely see my husband, who spends his time with Grandfather. Perhaps they are discussing Maoren’s upcoming examinations or what position he might take once he passes, if he passes. I stay in the inner chambers. “Was your husband kind on your wedding night?” Miss Zhao inquires. “What does the house look like?” Lady Huang probes. “Tell us of your father-in-law,” White Jade urges. “Will your mother-in-law make a place for you in the household?” Green Jade wants to know. “Or in her heart?” Red Jade asks, even more pointedly. I answer that my husband was kind, but I have no one and nothing else to compare my wedding night to. The Garden of Fragrant Delights is too big for me to grasp, let alone explain. My father-in-law seemed nice enough, but I have no idea when I’ll see him again. As for my mother-in-law… “I


Buck's delight to join. With the aurora borealis flaming coldly overhead, or the stars leaping in the frost dance, and the land numb and frozen under its pall of snow, this song of the huskies might have been the defiance of life, only it was pitched in minor key, with long- drawn wailings and half-sobs, and was more the pleading of life, the articulate travail of existence. It was an old song, old as the breed itself--one of the first songs of the younger world in a day when songs were sad. It was invested with the woe of unnumbered generations, this plaint by which Buck was so strangely stirred. When he moaned and sobbed, it was with the pain of living that was of old the pain of his wild fathers, and the fear and mystery of the cold and dark that was to them fear and mystery. And that he should be stirred by it marked the completeness with which he harked back through the ages of fire and roof to the raw beginnings of life in the howling ages. Seven days from the time they pulled into Dawson, they dropped down the steep bank by the Barracks to the Yukon Trail, and pulled for Dyea and Salt Water. Perrault was carrying despatches if anything more urgent than those he had brought in; also, the travel pride had gripped him, and he purposed to make the record trip of the year. Several things favored him in this. The week's rest had recuperated the dogs and put them in thorough trim. The trail they had broken into the country was packed hard by later journeyers. And further, the police had arranged in two or three places deposits of grub for dog and man, and he was travelling light. They made Sixty Mile, which is a fifty-mile run, on the first day; and the second day saw them booming up the Yukon well on their way to Pelly. But such splendid running was achieved not without great trouble and vexation on the part of Francois. The insidious revolt led by Buck had destroyed the solidarity of the team. It no longer was as one dog leaping in the traces. The encouragement Buck gave the rebels led them into all kinds of petty misdemeanors. No more was Spitz a leader greatly to be feared. The old awe departed, and they grew equal to challenging his authority. Pike robbed him of half a fish one night, and gulped it down under the protection of Buck. Another night Dub and Joe fought Spitz and made him forego the punishment they deserved. And even Billee, the good-natured, was less good-natured, and whined not half so placatingly as in former days. Buck never came near Spitz without snarling and bristling menacingly. In fact, his conduct approached that of a bully, and he was given to swaggering up and down before Spitz's very nose. The breaking down of discipline likewise affected the dogs in their relations with one another. They quarrelled and bickered more than ever among themselves,


the action and raised a perfect black brow, signaling August forward for his turn at the judging table, like a princess summoning a commoner—and didn’t that fit their roles to a T? August didn’t belong in this sunny five-star resort and spa courtyard on a Saturday afternoon ferrying wine on a silver tray to these wealthy birdbrains who overinflated the importance of wine so much it felt like satire. He didn’t belong in sophisticated St. Helena. Wasn’t cut out to select the best bunch of grapes at the grocery store, let alone cultivate soil and grow them from scratch to make his very own brand of wine. I tried, Sammy. He’d really fucking tried. This contest had a grand prize of ten thousand dollars and that money was August’s last hope to keep the operation alive. If given another chance, he would be more hands-on during the fermentation process. He’d learned the hard way that “set it and forget it” didn’t work for shit with wine. It required constant tasting, correcting, and rebalancing to prevent spoilage. He might do better if given another season to prove himself. For that, he needed money. And he had a better chance of getting Natalie in the sack than winning this competition, which was to say, he had no chance whatsoever—because, yeah. His wine blew chunks. He’d be lucky if they managed to let it rest on their taste buds for three seconds, let alone declare him the winner. But August would try to the bitter end, so he would never look back and wonder if he could have done more to bring this secondhand dream to life. August strode to the judge’s table and set the glasses of wine in front of Natalie with a lot less ceremony than his competitors had, sniffed, and stepped back, crossing his arms. Disdain stared back at him in the form of the two most annoyingly beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Sort of a whiskey gold, ringed in a darker brown. He could still remember the moment the expression in those eyes had gone from take-me-to-bed-daddy to please-drink-poison. Witch. This was her domain, however. Not his. At six-foot-three and with a body still honed for the battles of his past life as a Navy SEAL, he fit into this panorama about as well as Rambo at a bake sale. The shirt the entrants had been asked to wear for the competition didn’t fit, so he’d hung it from the back pocket of his jeans. Maybe he could use it to clean up the wine when the judges spit it out. “August Cates of Zelnick Cellar,” Natalie said smoothly, handing glasses of wine to her fellow judges. Outwardly, she appeared cool as ever, her unflappable New York demeanor on full display, but he could see her breath coming faster as she geared herself up to drink what amounted to sludge in a glass. Of the three judges, Natalie was the only one who knew what was coming, because she’d tasted his wine once before—and had promptly compared it to demon


weaver or as a herb-healer--are regarded by the villagers. Watch how his grief over his robbery and his care of Eppie pull him into village life. Other readers place more emphasis on the passages where Eliot dissects Silas' psychological processes. She explains how he felt when he left Lantern-Yard, how he became a miser, how he reacts to the theft of his gold, how Eppie's presence heals him and draws him back into the mainstream of life. She gives you a medical reason for his fits and shows you how his poor vision often confuses him. In comparison to her analysis of Godfrey Cass' mind, of course, Silas' psychology seems rudimentary. But those who think Silas is realistic point out that Eliot is trying to portray a limited mind stunted by a poor education and a lifetime of ceaseless work. The debate over Silas' realism goes on and on. But one thing seems clear--Eliot is sympathetic toward him. She constantly shifts from his perspective to that of the community surrounding him and back again, to show how misunderstood he is. She reminds you that he once had a mother and a sister and a childhood. Silas doesn't act in grand sweeping gestures, but Eliot interprets the strong emotions lying behind his timid little actions. Thus, by the time he makes his meek, stammering appearance at the Rainbow to report his theft, you've already seen him go through an internal agony of disbelief and despair at home. Even though he quietly tells Eppie that she herself must choose between him and her real father, Godfrey, Eliot makes you feel how hard this is for Silas, how devastated he would be if he lost her. Though he is only a simple linen-weaver, she feels his story is worth telling. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: GODFREY CASS Godfrey is in many ways the direct opposite of Silas. He's young, handsome, well-off, and charming. The villagers admire him, even when they suspect he isn't acting right. Unlike Silas, who's alone in the world, Godfrey has too much family--a gruff father, a troublesome brother, a wife and child he doesn't want, and a sweetheart anxiously waiting for him to propose. Silas works hard, but Godfrey has no particular work to do. While Silas endures his exile from society, Godfrey is impatient and a moral coward. Whereas Silas is unjustly punished, time and again Godfrey manages to escape punishment, even for sins he has committed. Some readers, therefore, see Godfrey as the villain of this novel. His weakness sets Dunstan on a path that ends with Dunstan robbing Silas. While Silas is grieving over his lost gold, Godfrey is relieved because Dunstan has disappeared. He is relieved, too, when his wife Molly is found dead in the snow, because it clears the way for him to marry Nancy Lammeter. At the end of the book, Godfrey selfishly tries to take Eppie away from Silas. But he's finally punished, by Eppie's rejection, for having lied to the world for so many years. Yet other readers look beyond this formal structure, in


Philip. "Why not?" "There's nothing to talk about." He saw the pain come into Lawson's eyes, he could not help it, he was sorry, but he had to think of himself; he could not bear the thought of discussing his situation, he could endure it only by determining resolutely not to think about it. He was afraid of his weakness if once he began to open his heart. Moreover, he took irresistible dislikes to the places where he had been miserable: he remembered the humiliation he had endured when he had waited in that studio, ravenous with hunger, for lawson to offer him a meal, and the last occasion when he had taken the five shillings off him. He hated the sight of Lawson, because he recalled those days of utter abasement. "Then look here, come and dine with me one night. Choose your own evening." Philip was touched with the painter's kindness. All sorts of people were strangely kind to him, he thought. "It's awfully good of you, old man, but I'd rather not." He held out his hand. "Good-bye." Lawson, troubled by a behaviour which seemed inexplicable, took his hand, and Philip quickly limped away. His heart was heavy; and, as was usual with him, he began to reproach himself for what he had done: he did not know what madness of pride had made him refuse the offered friendship. But he heard someone running behind him and presently Lawson's voice calling him; he stopped and suddenly the feeling of hostility got the better of him; he presented to Lawson a cold, set face. "What is it?" "I suppose you heard about Hayward, didn't you?" "I know he went to the Cape." "He died, you know, soon after landing." For a moment Philip did not answer. He could hardly believe his ears. "How?" he asked. "Oh, enteric. Hard luck, wasn't it? I thought you mightn't know. Gave me a bit of a turn when I heard it." Lawson nodded quickly and walked away. Philip felt a shiver pass through his heart. He had never before lost a friend of his own age, for the death of Cronshaw, a man so much older than himself, had seemed to come in the normal course of things. The news gave him a peculiar shock. It reminded him of his own mortality, for like everyone else Philip, knowing perfectly that all men must die, had no intimate feeling that the same must apply to himself; and Hayward's death, though he had long ceased to have any warm feeling for him, affected him deeply. He remembered on a sudden all the good talks they had had, and it pained him to think that they would never talk with one another again; he remembered their first meeting and the pleasant months they had spent together in Heidelberg. Philip's heart sank as he thought of the lost years. He walked on mechanically, not noticing where he went, and realised suddenly, with a movement of irritation, that instead of turning down the Haymarket he had sauntered along Shaftesbury


think you’d come,” Kyle says. He edges in with his back to the lake, keeping a wide distance between us. “I almost didn’t,” I lie. There is nothing that would have stopped me from being here. “I’m glad you did,” he says. He looks taller and a little more gaunt than the last time I saw him, which was when he stepped over me, thinking I was dead, and disappeared into the dark like some kind of ghost. “You said you were going to share something with me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. He nods and takes a step toward me. “This.” He takes from his pocket a piece of folded paper and holds it out in front of him. “It’s the incantation that the Owl Society used. That my grandfather used when he—” “When he thought he’d killed me,” I say. Kyle nods. “He thought he’d succeeded. But you didn’t die and your body didn’t go in the lake, so it wouldn’t have worked anyway.” I take the paper from him, but I don’t unfold it. I don’t need to. “What is it you think this will help me with?” I ask as I stare into his eyes without blinking. He shrugs and kicks at the rocks on Mirror Lake’s shore with the toe of his shoe. “I don’t know. Whatever you want.” I press him. I want to know how he thinks this will make amends. “What does that mean?” He comes another step closer. “You can have anything you want. Or almost anything. My grandfather didn’t get what he wanted the first time around when he killed all those kids.” A shudder runs through me. “What did he want this time around?” “Money, fame,” Kyle says, shaking his head. “Maybe that’s not so bad.” “And you think that’s what I want?” I ask, looking up into his face that is now covered with a length of unkempt beard. “You think power, or money, or influence will make this better?” He shakes his head. “I’m not saying it can undo what happened, but think about it—what if you never had to worry about money or what if you wanted to be in charge? Come on, Bezi. The Owl Society has been using this power for whatever they want. Why shouldn’t you use it to get something you want?” “It requires a sacrifice,” I say. Kyle gestures to the lake. “Do you know how many bodies are in there? How many people have been sacrificed to the land and the lake? What’s one more if it means you can have some peace?” I glance down at the ground, then back up to Kyle. “You know what, Kyle? You’re absolutely right.” He smiles and nods, clapping his hand down on my shoulder. I quietly slip the knife from my pocket and stick it into Kyle’s abdomen, just below his ribs on the right side. I grasp the handle with both hands and drag it across his belly. There is a terrible ripping sound, a warm splash across my hands.


canal with its poplars, and they felt a desire to try their hands at what was so typical of France; but they were frightened of its formal beauty, and set themselves deliberately to avoid it. Miss Chalice, who had a clever dexterity which impressed Lawson notwithstanding his contempt for feminine art, started a picture in which she tried to circumvent the commonplace by leaving out the tops of the trees; and Lawson had the brilliant idea of putting in his foreground a large blue advertisement of _chocolat Menier_ in order to emphasise his abhorrence of the chocolate box. Philip began now to paint in oils. He experienced a thrill of delight when first he used that grateful medium. He went out with Lawson in the morning with his little box and sat by him painting a panel; it gave him so much satisfaction that he did not realise he was doing no more than copy; he was so much under his friend's influence that he saw only with his eyes. Lawson painted very low in tone, and they both saw the emerald of the grass like dark velvet, while the brilliance of the sky turned in their hands to a brooding ultramarine. Through July they had one fine day after another; it was very hot; and the heat, searing Philip's heart, filled him with languor; he could not work; his mind was eager with a thousand thoughts. Often he spent the mornings by the side of the canal in the shade of the poplars, reading a few lines and then dreaming for half an hour. Sometimes he hired a rickety bicycle and rode along the dusty road that led to the forest, and then lay down in a clearing. His head was full of romantic fancies. The ladies of Watteau, gay and insouciant, seemed to wander with their cavaliers among the great trees, whispering to one another careless, charming things, and yet somehow oppressed by a nameless fear. They were alone in the hotel but for a fat Frenchwoman of middle age, a Rabelaisian figure with a broad, obscene laugh. She spent the day by the river patiently fishing for fish she never caught, and Philip sometimes went down and talked to her. He found out that she had belonged to a profession whose most notorious member for our generation was Mrs. Warren, and having made a competence she now lived the quiet life of the _bourgeoise_. She told Philip lewd stories. "You must go to Seville," she said--she spoke a little broken English. "The most beautiful women in the world." She leered and nodded her head. Her triple chin, her large belly, shook with inward laughter. It grew so hot that it was almost impossible to sleep at night. The heat seemed to linger under the trees as though it were a material thing. They did not wish to leave the starlit night, and the three of them would sit on the terrace of Ruth Chalice's room, silent, hour after hour, too tired to talk any more, but in voluptuous enjoyment


James Is Mum back now? Maddie Yep James You still moving out? Maddie Yes James It’s about time but are we sure we wanna leave Dad with Mum? Maddie You can always move in for a bit. My room will be empty. James Lol that room is a shoebox Mads. And no one can look after Dad like you. You’re his favorite Chapter Eight Unbelievable. I was hoping to open my emails and find a job interview offer but instead I’m greeted with a single-line response from HR at CGT. From: HR@thetheatre.com To: Mad.Wright@gmail.com Subject: RE: Injustice I tell you! Thank you for your email, Maddie. We will consider this matter further in due course. Sincerely, The HR team My bedroom door handle rattles and Mum lets herself in. I close my laptop and frown at her. “Do come in,” I say. Mum shrugs. “It’s my house,” she says. “Technically, it’s Dad’s. His name is on the mortgage.” She swipes at me. “Did I not bear his heavy children, hmm? You were the heaviest, you know. James wasn’t allowed to carry you in case he hurt himself. Come help me in the garden.” * * * “… And you shouldn’t be cooking him lunch and dinner every day,” Mum says. “That’s why the carer is here; I don’t know how many times I must tell you that.” Mum squints in the sun as I hand her a peg and she throws a clean sheet over the garden dryer line. This is nice, hanging up the washing; a nice, normal mother-and-daughter activity. All that’s missing are sun hats, lemonade, and enjoyable conversation. “You’ll wear yourself out,” she continues. “No wonder you were sounding so miserable on the phone as of late. You’ve been doing too much. Your father isn’t well and he needs professionals looking after him, not a twenty-three-year-old.” “I’m twenty-five, Mum.” “Yes, of course.” She raises her eyebrows. “It’s because you’re not married, so my brain thinks you must be younger.” Wow. “How has your father been doing anyway? I try to talk to him, but he doesn’t understand me, I think.” “He’s better,” I answer truthfully. “You were right about that.” She stops to look at me as if I’ve stated the obvious. “I am never wrong,” she says. “All is well. Maybe now you can feel comfortable living your life in your new flat. Do you have a boyfriend yet?” I remember Ben’s text and how I’ve yet to reply. The longer I leave it, the more I feel it’s too late. “No, Mum, I don’t.” She drops her arms from the line. “That’s weird, isn’t it?” she says, looking at me. “You know, you’re so pretty. I know all mothers say that about their daughters, but many mothers are lying. You actually are beautiful, so I don’t understand it. Twenty-five and no boyfriend, ever.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re not into girls, are you?” “No, Mum, I’m not.” “Huh, very weird then.” She pushes her mouth down, hitching up the sleeves of her tunic. “When do you plan


them as Sabrina fills a mug for me. “No way,” she says, “are your last few minutes in Knott’s Harbor going to be with a stranger.” “Actually,” I say, “my last few minutes in Knott’s Harbor will be spent with Ray.” “All the more reason to give you a ride. These could be the last minutes of your life, period,” Sabrina says. Cleo spits a mouthful of tea into her mug. “Sabrina.” “Kidding!” she says. “Is Wyn coming?” “I let him sleep,” I say. She and Cleo exchange a look. “I know,” I say, heading them off. “But it’s what I need.” Sabrina slings an arm over my shoulder. “Then that’s what you get, my girl.” We drive to the airport in the Rover, and Sabrina and Cleo insist on parking and walking me inside. We linger by the security gate for a while— we’re way too early for an airport this tiny—but I can’t stand long goodbyes. Every second gets harder. I make it through our tight group hug without crying. I keep my stiff upper lip as we take turns promising we’ll see each other soon. And when Sabrina reminds me that there’s room on her couch in New York anytime. I still don’t know what I’m going to do when I get back to San Francisco, and when I came clean with them about how I’d been feeling at work, they’d both been adamant that they couldn’t tell me what to do either. I need to figure out what I want. As if reading my mind, Cleo touches my elbow and says, “There’s no wrong answer.” One last hug apiece, and then we put our index fingers, with their matching little burn scars from our first trip to the cottage, together in a silent promise. Without another word, I join the two-person security line. I tell myself I won’t look back. But I do. My best friends are crying, which makes me start crying, which makes all three of us start laughing. “Ma’am,” the TSA agent says, waving me forward, and I’m still laugh- crying in the body scanner and as I make my way down the hallway beyond it, looking back every few feet to see them wave from the far end of the airport, until finally the hall curves to the right and I’m forced to give one final wave goodbye and round the corner. By the time I reach my gate, I’ve gotten it together. The seating area is empty. Any reasonable person would’ve shown up to this particular airport twenty minutes before takeoff, but I’ve left the standard two-hour window, and now I have hours to sit with my thoughts. I pull out the book I got from Murder, She Read and stare at the first page for probably twenty minutes without taking anything in other than the words crown molding. I stuff the book into my bag and pull my phone out. My heart stutters at the image on-screen. The website I had Wyn type in for me last night is still pulled up.


shifted on his thighs. She gripped his sleeves, as if the world was spinning around them. He made a sound—a slip of breath—that made her heart race. “I’ll hurt you, Kitt!” She started to lean back, but he touched her hips, holding her steady. “You’re not going to hurt my leg,” he said with a smile. “Don’t worry about hurting me.” He drew her closer, closer until she gasped. “Now, before we can proceed with anything else, I have a very important question for you.” “Go on,” Iris said. This must be the moment. He was about to propose again. Mirth shone in his eyes. “Were you serious when you told the nurse that you wouldn’t snog me again?” Iris gaped, and then she laughed. “Is that what you’re most worried about?” Roman’s hands tightened on her hips. “I fear that once you taste something like that … you don’t forget it, Iris. And now I must see if your words from three days ago hold, or if you will rewrite them with me here, in this moment.” She was quiet, full of heady thoughts as Roman’s statement sank in. She had never wanted someone so fiercely—it nearly felt like she was falling ill —and she caressed his hair. The black strands were soft between her fingers, and Roman shut his eyes, wholly captive to her touch. She took that moment to study his face, the slant of his mouth as his breaths skipped. “I suppose I can be persuaded to rewrite those words,” she whispered in a teasing cadence, and he opened his eyes to regard her. His pupils were large and dark, like new moons. Iris could nearly see herself within them. “But only with you, Kitt.” “Because I excel at writing?” he countered. Iris smiled. “That, among other things.” She kissed him—a light brushing of her lips against his—and he was still, as if she had enchanted him. But soon his mouth eagerly opened beneath hers, his hands tracing the curve of her spine. It sent a shiver through her, to feel his fingertips memorize her, to feel his teeth nip at her bottom lip as they began to explore each other. She touched him in return, learning the broad slope of his shoulders and the dip of his collarbone and the sharp cut of his jaw. She felt like she was drowning; she felt like she had run up the bluff. There was a pleasant ache within her—bright and vibrant and molten—and she realized that she wanted to feel his skin against hers. He broke their kiss, his eyes glazed as they briefly met hers. He pressed his mouth to her neck, as if drinking in the scent of her skin. His fingers were splayed over her back, holding her close against him, and his breath was warm on her throat. “Marry me, Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman whispered, drawing back to look at her. “I want to spend all my days and all my nights with you. Marry me.” Iris, heart full of fire, framed his face with


he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow." There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool. "There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of." "An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes. "About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free." "Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes. "Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to him." "Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?" "We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade, winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies." "You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard to tackle the facts." "Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth. "And that is--" "That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine." "Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes, laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left." "Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the gray walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes's request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the


into themselves. Soon her music was woven with the sound of hundreds of snores, and she stood alone in the hall, the only one still awake. She wondered how long they would sleep. How long would her music hold them ensorcelled? She left the hall and decided to wait and see. And while she waited, she roamed Dacre’s underground fortress, those old ley lines of magic, memorizing its twists and bends and its many secret doorways to above. Three days and three nights later, Dacre finally awoke, closely followed by his brothers, and then the remainder of his court. His mind was foggy; his hands felt numb. He lumbered to his feet, uncertain what had happened, but the fires in the hall had burned down, and it was dark. “Enva?” he called to her. His voice carried through the rock to find her. “Enva!” He feared she had gone, but she emerged into the hall, carrying a torch. “What happened?” he demanded, but Enva was poised and calm. “I’m not certain,” she replied with a yawn. “I only just woke, a minute before you.” Dacre was disconcerted, but in that moment, he thought Enva beautiful, and he trusted her. Not a week passed before he was hungry for her music again, and he called another assembly in the hall, so she could entertain them. She played for sorrow. For joy. And then for sleep. This time, she sang her lullaby twice as long, and Dacre and his court slept for six days and six nights. By the time Dacre stirred awake, cold and stiff, when he called to Enva through the stone there was no answer. He reached to feel her presence, which was like a thread of sunlight in his fortress, but there was only darkness. Enraged, he realized she had gone above. He rallied his creatures and his servants to fight, but when they emerged through the secret doorways into the world above, Enva and a Skyward host were awaiting them. The battle was bloody and long, and many of the Underlings fled, deep into the earth. Dacre was wounded by Enva’s own arrow; she shot him in the shoulder, and he had no choice but to retreat, down into the bowels of his fortress. He blocked every passageway so no one and nothing from above could trespass below. He descended to the fire of the earth, and there he plotted his revenge. But Dacre was never victorious. He could not best the Skywards, and so he chose to terrorize the mortals above. He never realized that Enva had learned all the passages of his realm while he slept beneath her charm. And when she decided to step into his hall again, two centuries later, she carried her harp with a vow lodged in her heart. To make him and his court sleep for a hundred years. Some say she was successful, because there was a time of peace, and life was pleasant and golden for the mortals above. But others say she was unable to sing that long without


bouquets, she read to it, took it out to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and never went to be without kissing its dirty face and whispering tenderly, "I hope you'll have a good night, my poor dear." Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but a very human little girl, she often `wept a little weep' as Jo said, because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn't keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, " I know I'll get my music some time, if I'm good." There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind. If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, "My nose." When she was a baby,Jo had accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor `Petrea's', it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself. "Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, "When Papa was rich we did so-and-so," which was very touching, and her long words were considered `perfectly elegant' by the