went over to the station house. The long platform was almost deserted; the only living creature in sight being a girl who was sitting on a pile of shingles at the extreme end. Matthew, barely noting that it WAS a girl, sidled past her as quickly as possible without looking at her. Had he looked he could hardly have failed to notice the tense rigidity and expectation of her attitude and expression. She was sitting there waiting for something or somebody and, since sitting and waiting was the only thing to do just then, she sat and waited with all her might and main. Matthew encountered the stationmaster locking up the ticket office preparatory to going home for supper, and asked him if the five-thirty train would soon be along. "The five-thirty train has been in and gone half an hour ago," answered that brisk official. "But there was a passenger dropped off for you-a little girl. She's sitting out there on the shingles. I asked her to go into the ladies' waiting room, but she informed me gravely that she preferred to stay outside. `There was more scope for imagination,' she said. She's a case, I should say." "I'm not expecting a girl," said Matthew blankly. "It's a boy I've come for. He should be here. Mrs. Alexander Spencer was to bring him over from Nova Scotia for me." The stationmaster whistled. "Guess there's some mistake," he said. "Mrs. Spencer came off the train with that girl and gave her into my charge. Said you and your sister were adopting her from an orphan asylum and that you would be along for her presently. That's all I know about it-and I haven't got any more orphans concealed hereabouts." "I don't understand," said Matthew helplessly, wishing that Marilla was at hand to cope with the situation. "Well, you'd better question the girl," said the stationmaster carelessly. "I dare say she'll be able to explainshe's got a tongue of her own, that's certain. Maybe they were out of boys of the brand you wanted." He walked jauntily away, being hungry, and the unfortunate Matthew was left to do that which was harder for him than bearding a lion in its den-walk up to a girl-a strange girl-an orphan girl-and demand of her why she wasn't a boy. Matthew groaned in spirit as he turned about and shuffled gently down the platform towards her. She had been watching him ever since he had passed her and she had her eyes on him now. Matthew was not looking at her and would not have seen what she was really like if he had been, but an ordinary observer would have seen this: A child of about eleven, garbed in a very short, very tight, very ugly dress of yellowish gray wincey. She wore a faded brown sailor hat and beneath the hat, extending down her back, were two braids of very thick, decidedly red hair. Her face was small, white and thin, also much freckled; her mouth was large and so were her eyes, that


told me that, as she was resolved to stay a very little while, I had better hold the pony and remain on horse- back; but I dissented. I wouldn't risk losing sight of the charge committed to me a minute, so we climbed the slope of heath together. Master Heathcliff received us with greater animation on this occasion---not the animation of high spirits though, nor yet of joy; it looked more like fear. "It is late," he said, speaking short and with diffi- culty. "Is not your father very ill? I thought you wouldn't come." "Why won't you be candid?" cried Catherine, swal- lowing her greeting. "Why cannot you say at once you don't want me? It is strange, Linton, that for the second time you have brought me here on purpose, apparently, to distress us both, and for no reason besides." Linton shivered, and glanced at her, half supplicat- ing, half ashamed; but his cousin's patience was not sufficient to endure this enigmatical behaviour. "My father is very ill," she said; "and why am I called from his bedside? Why didn't you send to ab- solve me from my promise when you wished I wouldn't keep it? Come! I desire an explanation; playing and trifling are completely banished out of my mind, and I can't dance attendance on your affectations now!" "My affectations!" he murmured; "what are they? For Heaven's sake, Catherine, don't look so angryl Despise me as much as you please. I am a worthless, cowardly wretch---I can't be scorned enough; but I'm too mean for your anger. Hate my father, and spare me for contempt." "Nonsense!" cried Catherine in a passion. "Foolish, silly boy! And there! he trembles, as if I were really go- ing to touch him! You needn't bespeak contempt, Lin- ton; anybody will have it spontaneously at your service. Get off! I shall return home. It is folly dragging you from the hearthstone, and pretending---what do we pretend? Let go my frock! If I pitied you for crying and looking so very frightened, you should spurn such pity.---Ellen, tell him how disgraceful this conduct is. ---Rise, and don't degrade yourself into an abject rep- tile--don't!" With streaming face and an expression of agony Lin- ton had thrown his nerveless frame along the ground. He seemed convulsed with exquisite terror. "Oh!" he sobbed, "I cannot bear it! Catherine, Cath- erine, I'm a traitor too, and I dare not tell you! But leave me, and I shall be kiljed! Dear Catherine, my life is in your hands; and you have said you loved me, and if you did, it wouldn't harm you. You'll not go then, kind, sweet, good Catherine? And perhaps you will consent ---and he'll let me die with you!" My young lady, on witnessing his intense anguish, stooped to raise him. The old feeling of indulgent tenderness overcame her vexation, and she grew thor- oughly moved and alarmed. "Consent to what?" she asked. "To stay? Tell me the meaning of this strange talk, and I will. You con- tradict your own words and distract


“As you know, it is the last copy in existence. Study my notebooks, which are filled with my best treatments—” “Grandmother, please. Let us have more days together.” She shakes her head. “I wish I could give you that, but death is coming.” My eyes tell me she’s right even as my heart struggles to accept it. I offer to get Grandfather. “No,” she says, grabbing my hand and holding it with surprising vigor. “Just women…” Before I can protest, she goes on. “If you memorize my formulas—as I taught you to do when you were a girl—I will die content.” She tells me of one notebook in particular in which she’s recorded her best successes. “Keep that one extra safe.” I bow my head and promise to do her bidding. A few minutes later, Miss Zhao returns. She pulls a chair next to mine, and we sit together in silence. My father was gone for Respectful Lady’s final hours, just as Grandfather is away from us now, which makes me wonder if a death vigil is something we women are compelled to do. I would not want Maoren to watch my final attempts at breath or see the messy things that happen as my soul departs my body. I have witnessed many people die, but in Grandmother’s last hours, her terrible mask of pain disappears, and a golden hue infuses her cheeks as though she’s lit from within. Her breathing slows, but it isn’t labored. She doesn’t seem frightened. She presses my hand over her heart, and even in the final minutes I can feel her strength. And then she’s gone. Miss Zhao goes outside to inform Inky. Immediately, the sounds of lamentations rise throughout the compound. Miss Zhao brings Grandfather. Tears trickle down his aged face as he stands next to the bed gazing at his wife. I remove myself so I can change into mourning clothes made of the coarsest raw linen. Miss Zhao and Inky help me wash Grandmother’s body and dress her in her burial garments. The next day, Grandfather meets with the geomancer, who chooses a date and place for Grandmother’s burial. My brother is in the capital for his final studies to take the imperial exams, but my father comes to Wuxi to attend his mother’s funeral rites. He brings with him Respectful Lady, who performs her duties well with Miss Zhao’s assistance. As for my father, I had not thought I would see him again, let alone so soon after the re-inquest. He holds me when I weep tears of loss. On the day of Grandmother’s interment, a delegation that includes Master Yang, Lady Kuo, my husband, his uncles, and my two oldest daughters arrives from the Garden of Fragrant Delights. What seems like hundreds of others whom Grandmother treated over the years also come to venerate her and make offerings. I see Midwife Shi, Meiling and her husband. Every mourner wears a shade of white—like the autumn moon, snow, chalk, or mother’s milk—all within the spectrum associated with death and bereavement. I prostrate


only want to correct you for your own good on a soft safe spot. How's that tender behind? O, ever so gently, pet. Begin to get ready. BLOOM: (FAINTING) Don't tear my ... BELLO: (SAVAGELY) The nosering, the pliers, the bastinado, the hanging hook, the knout I'll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old. You're in for it this time! I'll make you remember me for the balance of your natural life. (HIS FOREHEAD VEINS SWOLLEN, HIS FACE CONGESTED) I shall sit on your ottoman saddleback every morning after my thumping good breakfast of Matterson's fat hamrashers and a bottle of Guinness's porter. (HE BELCHES) And suck my thumping good Stock Exchange cigar while I read the LICENSED VICTUALLER'S GAZETTE. Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling from the baking tin basted and baked like sucking pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce. It will hurt you. (HE TWISTS HER ARM. BLOOM SQUEALS, TURNING TURTLE.) BLOOM: Don't be cruel, nurse! Don't! BELLO: (TWISTING) Another! BLOOM: (SCREAMS) O, it's hell itself! Every nerve in my body aches like mad! BELLO: (SHOUTS) Good, by the rumping jumping general! That's the best bit of news I heard these six weeks. Here, don't keep me waiting, damn you! (HE SLAPS HER FACE) BLOOM: (WHIMPERS) You're after hitting me. I'll tell ... BELLO: Hold him down, girls, till I squat on him. ZOE: Yes. Walk on him! I will. FLORRY: I will. Don't be greedy. KITTY: No, me. Lend him to me. (THE BROTHEL COOK, MRS KEOGH, WRINKLED, GREYBEARDED, IN A GREASY BIB, MEN'S GREY AND GREEN SOCKS AND BROGUES, FLOURSMEARED, A ROLLINGPIN STUCK WITH RAW PASTRY IN HER BARE RED ARM AND HAND, APPEARS AT THE DOOR.) MRS KEOGH: (FEROCIOUSLY) Can I help? (THEY HOLD AND PINION BLOOM.) BELLO: (SQUATS WITH A GRUNT ON BLOOM'S UPTURNED FACE, PUFFING CIGARSMOKE, NURSING A FAT LEG) I see Keating Clay is elected vicechairman of the Richmond asylum and by the by Guinness's preference shares are at sixteen three quaffers. Curse me for a fool that didn't buy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about. Just my infernal luck, curse it. And that Goddamned outsider THROWAWAY at twenty to one. (HE QUENCHES HIS CIGAR ANGRILY ON BLOOM'S EAR) Where's that Goddamned cursed ashtray? BLOOM: (GOADED, BUTTOCKSMOTHERED) O! O! Monsters! Cruel one! BELLO: Ask for that every ten minutes. Beg. Pray for it as you never prayed before. (HE THRUSTS OUT A FIGGED FIST AND FOUL CIGAR) Here, kiss that. Both. Kiss. (HE THROWS A LEG ASTRIDE AND, PRESSING WITH HORSEMAN'S KNEES, CALLS IN A HARD VOICE) Gee up! A cockhorse to Banbury cross. I'll ride him for the Eclipse stakes. (HE BENDS SIDEWAYS AND SQUEEZES HIS MOUNT'S TESTICLES ROUGHLY, SHOUTING) Ho! Off we pop! I'll nurse you in proper fashion. (HE HORSERIDES COCKHORSE, LEAPING IN THE SADDLE) The lady goes a pace a pace and the coachman goes a trot a trot and the gentleman goes a gallop


this coast. You're to call me George. Then I'll speak to you. But I shan't if you don't." "Oh!" said Anne, thinking that her new cousin was most extraordinary. "All right! I don't care what I call you. George is a nice name, I think. I don't much like Georgina. Anyway, you look like a boy." "Do I really?" said George, the frown leaving her face for a moment. "Mother was awfully cross with me when I cut my hair short. I had hair all round my neck; it was awful." The two girls stared at one another for a moment. "Don't you simply hate being a girl?" asked George. "No, of course not," said Anne. "You see- I do like pretty frocks- and I love my dolls- and you can't do that if you're a boy." "Pooh! Fancy bothering about pretty frocks," said George, in a scornful voice. "And dolls! Well, you are a baby, that's all I can say." Anne felt offended. "You're not very polite," she said. "You won't find that my brothers take much notice of you if you act as if you knew everything. They're real boys, not pretend boys, like you." "Well, if they're going to be nasty to me I shan't take any notice of them," said George, jumping out of bed. "I didn't want any of you to come, anyway. Interfering with my life here! I'm quite happy on my own. Now I've got to put up with a silly girl who likes frocks and dolls, and two stupid boy-cousins!" Anne felt that they had made a very bad beginning. She said no more, but got dressed herself too. She put on her grey jeans and a red jersey. George put on jeans too, and a boy's jersey. Just as they were ready the boys hammered on their door. "Aren't you ready? Is Georgina there? Cousin Georgina, come out and see us." George flung open the door and marched out with her head high. She took no notice of the two surprised boys at all. She stalked downstairs. The other three children looked at one another. "She won't answer if you call her Georgina," explained Anne. "She's awfully queer, I think. She says she didn't want us to come because we'll interfere with her. She laughed at me, and was rather rude." Julian put his arm round Anne, who looked a bit doleful. "Cheer up!" he said. "You've got us to stick up for you. Come on down to breakfast." They were all hungry. The smell of bacon and eggs was very good. They ran down the stairs and said good-morning to their aunt. She was just bringing the breakfast to the table. Their uncle was sitting at the head, reading his paper. He nodded at the children. They sat down without a word, wondering if they were allowed to speak at meals. They always were at home, but their Uncle Quentin looked rather fierce. George was there, buttering a piece of toast. She scowled at the three children. "Don't look like that, George,"


sun, confirms the location. I touch it with the tip of my boot, and it dissolves into dust that is quickly carried off by the breeze. I can’t help looking up in the tree where Rue secretly 323 perched, waiting to save my life. Tracker jackers. Glimmer’s bloated body. The terrifying hallucinations . . . “Let’s move on,” I say, wanting to escape the darkness that surrounds this place. Peeta doesn’t object. Given our late start to the day, when we reach the plain it’s already early evening. There’s no sign of Cato. No sign of any- thing except the gold Cornucopia glowing in the slanting sun rays. Just in case Cato decided to pull a Foxface on us, we cir- cle the Cornucopia to make sure it’s empty. Then obediently, as if following instructions, we cross to the lake and fill our water containers. I frown at the shrinking sun. “We don’t want to fight him af- ter dark. There’s only the one pair of glasses.” Peeta carefully squeezes drops of iodine into the water. “Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for. What do you want to do? Go back to the cave?” “Either that or find a tree. But let’s give him another half an hour or so. Then we’ll take cover,” I answer. We sit by the lake, in full sight. There’s no point in hiding now. In the trees at the edge of the plain, I can see the mock- ingjays flitting about. Bouncing melodies back and forth be- tween them like brightly colored balls. I open my mouth and sing out Rue’s four-note run. I can feel them pause curiously at the sound of my voice, listening for more. I repeat the notes in the silence. First one mockingjay trills the tune back, then another. Then the whole world comes alive with the sound. “Just like your father,” says Peeta. 324 My fingers find the pin on my shirt. “That’s Rue’s song,” I say. “I think they remember it.” The music swells and I recognize the brilliance of it. As the notes overlap, they compliment one another, forming a lovely, unearthly harmony. It was this sound then, thanks to Rue, that sent the orchard workers of District 11 home each night. Does someone start it at quitting time, I wonder, now that she is dead? For a while, I just close my eyes and listen, mesmerized by the beauty of the song. Then something begins to disrupt the music. Runs cut off in jagged, imperfect lines. Dissonant notes intersperse with the melody. The mockingjays’ voices rise up in a shrieking cry of alarm. We’re on our feet, Peeta wielding his knife, me poised to shoot, when Cato smashes through the trees and bears down on us. He has no spear. In fact, his hands are empty, yet he runs straight for us. My first arrow hits his chest and inexplic- ably falls aside. “He’s got some kind of body armor!” I shout to Peeta. Just in time, too, because Cato is upon us. I brace myself, but he


moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection. `You shan't be beheaded!' said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others. `Are their heads off?' shouted the Queen. `Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!' the soldiers shouted in reply. `That's right!' shouted the Queen. `Can you play croquet?' The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her. `Yes!' shouted Alice. `Come on, then!' roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next. `It's--it's a very fine day!' said a timid voice at her side. She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face. `Very,' said Alice: `--where's the Duchess?' `Hush! Hush!' said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered `She's under sentence of execution.' `What for?' said Alice. `Did you say "What a pity!"?' the Rabbit asked. `No, I didn't,' said Alice: `I don't think it's at all a pity. I said "What for?"' `She boxed the Queen's ears--' the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little scream of laughter. `Oh, hush!' the Rabbit whispered in a frightened tone. `The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the Queen said--' `Get to your places!' shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches. The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a blow with its head, it WOULD twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the conclusion that it was a


a beautiful woman who is aging well and will no doubt be still quite lovely in her eighties. Or would have been. He’s tempted to wake her to see what their conversation might be like. He suspects that she’ll be as cool a customer as her husband, and amusing. Time is not running out, but it is of the essence, so he shoots her twice in the chest, leaving her face untouched. As she makes an instantaneous transition from mere sleep to eternity, her expression becomes grievous, but only briefly, and then once more she looks as if she is only dreaming. FIGHT OR FLIGHT Maybe they’re safe and no one knows where they are, but they feel as watched as if they’re in a fishbowl. The windows feature motorized shades, with a hand control in every room. “I’ll shut them throughout the ground floor,” Nina declares as she powers down the shades in the large kitchen. The front door can be locked, though anyone can disengage the deadbolt by reaching through the pane that Michael shattered. “We’ll use a chair as a brace, pile lots of noisy things on it,” she says, and hurries off with the boy in tow. Michael stares at the transponder packed into the hollowed-out stack of twenties. Woodbine put it here, of course, to find his cash in the unlikely event that someone took it out of the Bentley. The sedan’s GPS navigation was turned off, so the vehicle hasn’t been trackable that way, but this transponder has been painting a target on Michael for twenty-one hours, since he took the sedan. In all that time, a man with the attorney’s resources—including a small army of murderous drug dealers and his cozy relationship with the ISA—should have found him, killed him, and retrieved the Bentley. He isn’t fool enough to believe that luck has spared him, that the transponder has gone dead. For some other reason, the attorney has been unable to find him. He recalls the conversation that he’d heard between Durand and Julian Grantworth, which the deputy director of the ISA had recorded in a restaurant while the agent was at dinner. If Durand went to the offices of Woodbine, Kravitz, Benedetto, and Spackman as scheduled—more than four hours ago—the frustrated attorney would surely have told him about the hidden transponder. Otherwise, Woodbine would seem to have no reason to turn to the ISA and call in a favor they owed him. If the transponder problem was something like a range-of-transmission issue related to the app that linked it to Woodbine’s phone, whatever, the ISA possessed search resources immeasurably greater than any the attorney could muster. The agency would have located the signal in short order. The ISA is like an ineradicable fungus that has spoored across the country over fifteen years. Their desire to snatch Michael and imprison or kill him is more powerful and urgent than Woodbine’s petty desire to recover his three million dollars and exact revenge. Michael is the most wanted man in the country. At any moment in the


to lend a hand, but the ape-man jabbered to him in a commanding and peremptory tone something which Clayton knew to be orders, though he could not understand them. At last, under their combined efforts, the great body was slowly dragged farther and farther outside the window, and then there came to Clayton's mind a dawning conception of the rash bravery of his companion's act. For a naked man to drag a shrieking, clawing man-eater forth from a window by the tail to save a strange white girl, was indeed the last word in heroism. Insofar as Clayton was concerned it was a very different matter, since the girl was not only of his own kind and race, but was the one woman in all the world whom he loved. Though he knew that the lioness would make short work of both of them, he pulled with a will to keep it from Jane Porter. And then he recalled the battle between this man and the great, black-maned lion which he had witnessed a short time before, and he commenced to feel more assurance. Tarzan was still issuing orders which Clayton could not understand. He was trying to tell the stupid white man to plunge his poisoned arrows into Sabor's back and sides, and to reach the savage heart with the long, thin hunting knife that hung at Tarzan's hip; but the man would not understand, and Tarzan did not dare release his hold to do the things himself, for he knew that the puny white man never could hold mighty Sabor alone, for an instant. Slowly the lioness was emerging from the window. At last her shoulders were out. And then Clayton saw an incredible thing. Tarzan, racking his brains for some means to cope single-handed with the infuriated beast, had suddenly recalled his battle with Terkoz; and as the great shoulders came clear of the window, so that the lioness hung upon the sill only by her forepaws, Tarzan suddenly released his hold upon the brute. With the quickness of a striking rattler he launched himself full upon Sabor's back, his strong young arms seeking and gaining a full-Nelson upon the beast, as he had learned it that other day during his bloody, wrestling victory over Terkoz. With a roar the lioness turned completely over upon her back, falling full upon her enemy; but the black-haired giant only closed tighter his hold. Pawing and tearing at earth and air, Sabor rolled and threw herself this way and that in an effort to dislodge this strange antagonist; but ever tighter and tighter drew the iron bands that were forcing her head lower and lower upon her tawny breast. Higher crept the steel forearms of the ape-man about the back of Sabor's neck. Weaker and weaker became the lioness's efforts. At last Clayton saw the immense muscles of Tarzan's shoulders and biceps leap into corded knots beneath the silver moonlight. There was a long sustained and supreme effort on the ape-man's part--and the vertebrae of Sabor's neck parted with a sharp snap.


Paul, repeating his new troop name. And Paul was passed from embrace to embrace through the troop, hearing the voices, the shadings of tone; "Usul . . . Usul . . . Usul." Already, he could place some of them by name. And there was Chani who pressed her cheek against his as she held him and said his name. Presently Paul stood again before Stilgar, who said: "Now, you are of the Ichwan Bedwine, our brother." His face hardened, and he spoke with command in his voice. "And now, Paul-Muad'Dib, tighten up that stillsuit." He glanced at Chani. "Chani! Paul-Muad'Dib's nose plugs are as poor a fit I've ever seen! I thought I ordered you to see after him! " "I hadn't the makings, Stil," she said. "There's Jamis' of course, but--" "Enough of that!" "Then I'll share one of mine," she said. "I can make do with one until--" "You will not," Stilgar said. "I know there are spares among us. Where are the spares? Are we a troop together or a band of savages?" Hands reached out from the troop offering hard, fibrous objects. Stilgar selected four, handed them to Chani. "Fit these to Usul and the Sayyadina." A voice lifted from the back of the troop: "What of the water, Stil? What of the literjons in their pack?" "I know your need, Farok," Stilgar said. He glanced at Jessica. She nodded. "Broach one for those that need it," Stilgar said. "Watermaster . . . where is a watermaster? Ah, Shimoom, care for the measuring of what is needed. The necessity and no more. This water is the dower property of the Sayyadina and will be repaid in the sietch at field rates less pack fees." "What is the repayment at field rates?" Jessica asked. "Ten for one," Stilgar said. "But--" "It's a wise rule as you'll come to see," Stilgar said. A rustling of robes marked movement at the back of the troop as men turned to get the water. Stilgar held up a hand, and there was silence. "As to Jamis," he said, "I order the full ceremony. Jamis was our companion and brother of the Ichwan Bedwine. There shall be no turning away without the respect due one who proved our fortune by his tahaddi-challenge. I invoke the rite . . . at sunset when the dark shall cover him." Paul, hearing these words, realized that he had plunged once more into the abyss . . . blind time. There was no past occupying the future in his mind . . . except . . . except . . . he could still sense the green and black Atreides banner waving . . . somewhere ahead . . . still see the jihad's bloody swords and fanatic legions. It will not be, he told himself. I cannot let it be. =========================== God created Arrakis to train the faithful. -from "The Wisdom of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan In the stillness of the cavern, Jessica heard the scrape of sand on rock as people moved, the distant


thankfully say that their petticoats were all very strong.'" "For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her-- his anxiety about her health--his concern that she should have no happier prospect! I have heard him express himself so warmly on those points!--Such an admirer of her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him say that he could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred to me--this pianoforte that has been sent here by somebody-- though we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is just the person to do it, even without being in love." "Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously." "I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of things, occur to him." "Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told her so." "There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner." "You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment-- I believe nothing of the pianoforte--and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax." They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;-- and at the same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper


hands? And will the vibration from the sawing raise the swarm? And what if the Careers figure out what I’m doing and move their camp? That would defeat the whole purpose. I realize that the best chance I’ll have to do the sawing without drawing notice will be during the anthem. That could begin any time. I drag myself out of my bag, make sure my 185 knife is secured in my belt, and begin to make my way up the tree. This in itself is dangerous since the branches are becom- ing precariously thin even for me, but I persevere. When I reach the limb that supports the nest, the humming becomes more distinctive. But it’s still oddly subdued if these are track- er jackers. It’s the smoke, I think. It’s sedated them. This was the one defense the rebels found to battle the wasps. The seal of the Capitol shines above me and the anthem blares out. It’s now or never, I think, and begin to saw. Blisters burst on my right hand as I awkwardly drag the knife back and forth. Once I’ve got a groove, the work requires less effort but is almost more than I can handle. I grit my teeth and saw away occasionally glancing at the sky to register that there were no deaths today. That’s all right. The audience will be sated seeing me injured and treed and the pack below me. But the anthem’s running out and I’m only three quarters of the way through the wood when the music ends, the sky goes dark, and I’m forced to stop. Now what? I could probably finish off the job by sense of feel but that may not be the smartest plan. If the wasps are too groggy, if the nest catches on its way down, if I try to escape, this could all be a deadly waste of time. Better, I think, to sneak up here at dawn and send the nest into my enemies. In the faint light of the Careers’ torches, I inch back down to my fork to find the best surprise I’ve ever had. Sitting on my sleeping bag is a small plastic pot attached to a silver para- chute. My first gift from a sponsor! Haymitch must have had it sent in during the anthem. The pot easily fits in the palm of my 186 hand. What can it be? Not food surely. I unscrew the lid and I know by the scent that it’s medicine. Cautiously, I probe the surface of the ointment. The throbbing in my fingertip vanish- es. “Oh, Haymitch,” I whisper. “Thank you.” He has not aban- doned me. Not left me to fend entirely for myself. The cost of this medicine must be astronomical. Probably not one but many sponsors have contributed to buy this one tiny pot. To me, it is priceless. I dip two fingers in the jar and gently spread the balm over my calf. The effect is almost magical, erasing the pain on con- tact, leaving a pleasant cooling


the day was coming. So I took my gun and slipped off towards where I had run across that camp fire, stopping every minute or two to listen. But I hadn't no luck somehow; I couldn't seem to find the place. But by and by, sure enough, I catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. I went for it, cautious and slow. By and by I was close enough to have a look, and there laid a man on the ground. It most give me the fantods. He had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire. I set there behind a clump of bushes in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. It was getting gray daylight now. Pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and it was Miss Watson's Jim! I bet I was glad to see him. I says: "Hello, Jim!" and skipped out. He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together and says: "Doan' hurt me -- don't! I hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'. I alwuz liked dead people, en done all I could for 'em. You go en git in de river agin, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at 'uz awluz yo' fren'." Well, I warn't long making him understand I warn't dead. I was ever so glad to see Jim. I warn't lone- some now. I told him I warn't afraid of HIM telling the people where I was. I talked along, but he only set there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says: "It's good daylight. Le's get breakfast. Make up your camp fire good." "What's de use er makin' up de camp fire to cook strawbries en sich truck? But you got a gun, hain't you? Den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries." "Strawberries and such truck," I says. "Is that what you live on?" "I couldn' git nuffn else," he says. "Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?" "I come heah de night arter you's killed." "What, all that time?" "Yes -- indeedy." "And ain't you had nothing but that kind of rub- bage to eat?" "No, sah -- nuffn else." "Well, you must be most starved, ain't you?" "I reck'n I could eat a hoss. I think I could. How long you ben on de islan'?" "Since the night I got killed." "No! W'y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun. Oh, yes, you got a gun. Dat's good. Now you kill sumfn en I'll make up de fire." So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all done with witchcraft. I catched


up the heat that lay buried in it. Some birds chirruped in the forests around. The men trod dry leaves on the sand. All else was silent. Then from the distance came the faint beating of the ekwe. It rose and faded with the wind--a peaceful dance from a distant clan. "It is an ozo dance," the men said among themselves. But no one was sure where it was coming from. Some said Ezimili, others Abame or Aninta. They argued for a short while and fell into silence again, and the elusive dance rose and fell with the wind. Somewhere a man was taking one of the titles of his clan, with music and dancing and a great feast. The footway had now become a narrow line in the heart of the forest. The short trees and sparse undergrowth which surrounded the men's village began to give way to giant trees and climbers which perhaps had stood from the beginning of things, untouched by the axe and the bush-fire. The sun breaking through their leaves and branches threw a pattern of light and shade on the sandy footway. Ikemefuna heard a whisper close behind him and turned round sharply. The man who had whispered now called out aloud, urging the others to hurry up. "We still have a long way to go," he said. Then he and another man went before Ikemefuna and set a faster pace. Thus the men of Umuofia pursued their way, armed with sheathed machetes, and Ikemefuna, carrying a pot of palm-wine on his head, walked in their midst. Although he had felt uneasy at first, he was not afraid now. Okonkwo walked behind him. He could hardly imagine that Okonkwo was not his real father. He had never been fond of his real father, and at the end of three years he had become very distant indeed. But his mother and his three-year-old sister... of course she would not be three now, but six. Would he recognise her now? She must have grown quite big. How his mother would weep for joy, and thank Okonkwo for having looked after him so well and for bringing him back. She would want to hear everything that had happened to him in all these years. Could he remember them all? He would tell her about Nwoye and his mother, and about the locusts... Then quite suddenly a thought came upon him. His mother might be dead. He tried in vain to force the thought out of his mind. Then he tried to settle the matter the way he used to settle such matters when he was a little boy. He still remembered the song: Eze elina, elina! Sala Eze ilikwa ya Ikwaba akwa ogholi Ebe Danda nechi eze Ebe Uzuzu nete egwu Sala He sang it in his mind, and walked to its beat. If the song ended on his right foot, his mother was alive. If it ended on his left, she was dead. No, not dead, but ill. It ended on the right. She was alive and well.


their ability to pass for normal, the agency considers them a priceless resource, and it is pleased to have Calaphas because his “utter lack of conscience and his pleasure in the application of extreme force” make him a valuable asset. Those who run the ISA are hard men and hard women. Ambitious and dedicated to their ideology, they believe that the means justify the ends, that evil actions sanctioned in the service of their agenda aren’t only defensible but also courageous. Their top-secret case files reveal their world as a dark wonderland of self-righteous deception, cruelty, violence, and atrocities committed as casually as Onan seeded the soil of Judea. Dr. Gifford Calaphas, older brother of Durand, was a prominent and much admired virologist whose research was in part funded by the National Institutes of Health. Judging by all evidence, I believe he was a good and honest man. He came into possession of proof that a high official of the NIH had over the years taken tens of millions in kickbacks from numerous scientists that received the institute’s grants. He brought this information to the FBI, from whence it was leaked to a senator who was the brother-in-law of the NIH official and who shared the kickbacks. The senator was an ardent protector of the Internal Security Agency, assuring it ever-greater funding. When Durand Calaphas was informed that Gifford was a traitor and national security threat, only the most superficial—and faked—evidence was provided, but the assassin needed nothing more. If I end up dead again, this time permanently, and if by then another like me somehow arises to follow in my footsteps, that other will be you who is reading this. You might understand, as I do, that evil is real and that the viciousness of your enemy has no limits, but if you have any doubt, dwell for a while on Durand Calaphas and the people who sent him after Gifford, and then absorb their other case files. You must never be like them, but you must always try to think like them to avoid underestimating the depths of wickedness to which they’re capable of descending. VOICES AS MEANINGLESS AS WIND IN DRY GRASS Above the storm, the sun is sliding away from this half of the planet. Here in the tempest, all the paycheck pussies are on their way to happy hour for a few glasses of whatever might smooth the wrinkles out of their minds. The freeway pilgrims who can’t afford several cocktails are crawling home to their nothing houses to say a prayer before they eat the beans and rice their god provides, their workday done, and nothing for them now but to stream a movie and get ready to kiss the boss’s ass again tomorrow. For Aleem Sutter, his average workday is three hours long, at most four, thirty minutes here and fifteen there, ragging the swing men to stay true to their promises to supply the goods, making sure the mules don’t forget how bad they’ll be jacked up if the weight of a shipment goes


-- we both know. But kindness forces me to tell you there's little chance your lad will be the Bene Gesserit Totality. You mustn't let yourself hope too much." Jessica shook tears from the corners of her eyes. It was an angry gesture. "You make me feel like a little girl again -- reciting my first lesson." She forced the words out: " 'Humans must never submit to animals.' " A dry sob shook her. In a low voice, she said: "I've been so lonely." "It should be one of the tests," the old woman said. "Humans are almost always lonely. Now summon the boy. He's had a long, frightening day. But he's had time to think and remember, and I must ask the other questions about these dreams of his." Jessica nodded, went to the door of the Meditation Chamber, opened it. "Paul, come in now, please." Paul emerged with a stubborn slowness. He stared at his mother as though she were a stranger. Wariness veiled his eyes when he glanced at the Reverend Mother, but this time he nodded to her, the nod one gives an equal. He heard his mother close the door behind him. "Young man," the old woman said, "let's return to this dream business." "What do you want?" "Do you dream every night?" "Not dreams worth remembering. I can remember every dream, but some are worth remembering and some aren't." "How do you know the difference?" "I just know it." The old woman glanced at Jessica, back to Paul. "What did you dream last night? Was it worth remembering?" "Yes." Paul closed his eyes. "I dreamed a cavern . . . and water . . . and a girl there -- very skinny with big eyes. Her eyes are all blue, no whites in them. I talk to her and tell her about you, about seeing the Reverend Mother on Caladan." Paul opened his eyes. "And the thing you tell this strange girl about seeing me, did it happen today?" Paul thought about this, then: "Yes. I tell the girl you came and put a stamp of strangeness on me." "Stamp of strangeness," the old woman breathed, and again she shot a glance at Jessica, returned her attention to Paul. "Tell me truly now, Paul, do you often have dreams of things that happen afterward exactly as you dreamed them?" "Yes. And I've dreamed about that girl before." "Oh? You know her?" "I will know her." "Tell me about her." Again, Paul closed his eyes. "We're in a little place in some rocks where it's sheltered. It's almost night, but it's hot and I can see patches of sand out of an opening in the rocks. We're . . . waiting for something . . . for me to go meet some people. And she's frightened but trying to hide it from me, and I'm excited. And she says: 'Tell me about the waters of your homeworld, Usul.' " Paul opened his eyes. "Isn't that strange? My homeworld's Caladan. I've never even heard of a planet


stock-still. His wound is nothing compared to mine. I might have remained like that forever if not for a sound coming from the hallway. A sharp clack as Lenora Hope finishes loading her shotgun before stepping into the bedroom. Upon hearing it, my father raises his hands and turns to face her. “Hello, Lenora,” he says. Lenora levels the shotgun barrel at his chest. “Who are you? Why are you here?” “I’m Patrick.” Unlike me, Lenora easily matches my father’s name with the boy her sister had loved all those years ago. It even dawns on her, decades too late, that he and not Virginia is responsible for at least some of the violence that claimed the lives of her parents. “It was you,” she says. My father responds with a curt nod. “Mostly, yes.” “Give me one reason not to shoot you dead right now.” “Because my daughter shouldn’t be here to see it,” my father says as he jerks his head in my direction. Lenora looks to me, astonished. “Did you know?” I shake my head. As Lenora watches me do it, the barrel of the shotgun drifts away from my father to the floor. Sensing an opportunity, my father lunges forward and shoves Lenora into the hallway. “No!” I scream, not knowing which of them I’m actually screaming at. I do it again, even though they ignore me, too intent on destroying each other. I can only run into the hallway while continuing to scream as it all unfolds like a slow-motion car crash in front of me. My father rushing Lenora. Smashing into her. The barrel of the shotgun moving, tilting, firing. There’s a blast of heat and noise as the gun goes off. A chunk of the wall behind my father explodes, spraying plaster, wood, and wallpaper. He and Lenora continue to collide, edging closer to the top of the Grand Stairs. My father stops. Lenora doesn’t. She falls onto her back, the shotgun leaving her hands as she shudders down the steps and does a single flip onto the landing. I push past my father and start down the Grand Stairs, stopping after only a few steps because I notice something strange. The entire staircase is trembling. As is the entire house. I look around, suddenly terrified. The light fixture in the foyer sways back and forth. From above come several thuds as furniture on the third floor topples over. From below, the earth lets out a low groan, like a beast about to wake. Hearing it, I know in my gut it’ll only be a matter of time—minutes, maybe even seconds—before it does. When that happens, all of Hope’s End will come tumbling down. “Get out of the house!” I call to Lenora. “I’m going to get Virginia.” I start back up the stairs. They’re shaking so hard I can no longer stand and must crawl up them. I continue crawling when I reach the second floor, scrambling past my father. “What are you doing?” he says, shouting to be heard over the steadily building


was stepping into the carriage. It was a chestnut." "Tired-looking or fresh?" "Oh, fresh and glossy." "Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your most interesting statement." "Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in silence all the time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced in his direction, that he was looking at me with great intensity. The country roads seem to be not very good in that part of the world, for we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to see something of where we were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the journey, but the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us, and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove away. "It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand. "'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which several


tone, and my armpits feel damp. “Of course,” I mumble. “It’s just… Hazel said she was treating me.” “Perhaps you could put it on your credit card and settle up with her later?” She doesn’t understand. It’s not that I can’t afford it—I literally can’t pay. I don’t have enough cash, and I no longer have a credit card. “My credit card was stolen,” I tell her, my voice wavering. “Let me call Hazel.” I step away from the desk and open my phone. Finding Hazel’s number in my contacts, I dial. “Hello?” Her voice sounds small, far away. “Hazel, it’s Lee.” I feel awkward and embarrassed, but I have no choice but to press on. “I’m at the spa. They’re saying—” The line goes dead. Panic sets in for real now. Hazel hung up on me. Or we were disconnected. I dial again. “Hi. You’ve reached Hazel Laval.” It’s her voice mail. “Please leave me a message.” “Hazel, please. Can you come to the spa? Or call them? They’re saying I have to pay for these treatments, and…” My voice cracks. “I can’t.” I hang up. Maybe Benjamin is there, monitoring her. That means that Hazel is not coming to my rescue. That means I owe this spa over five hundred dollars that I do not have. I dial again, just in case. “Hi. You’ve reached Hazel Laval.” Fuck! The woman at the counter is watching me, the weight of her gaze heavy. I feel anxious as I hit redial. I know it is hopeless, but I am stalling for time, trying to figure this out. Hazel’s cheerful recorded voice answers again. Jesse. He is my only hope. He will help me out of this mess. If only I had gotten his number last night, but at least I know where he lives. I return to the counter. “Hazel’s not answering,” I tell the receptionist. “But I can go to my boyfriend’s place and come back with a credit card. Or cash.” “Can’t you call him?” Her tone is suspicious and rightly so. I can’t admit that I don’t know my boyfriend’s phone number. “He’s working,” I say, which might be true. “I can leave something. So you know I’ll come back.” She breathes out heavily, exasperated with me. “I guess that’s fine.” But I have nothing. My flip phone is not worth the cost of a painted fingernail. And then I remember… “I have a netsuke in my car. It’s worth a thousand bucks.” “I have no idea what that is.” She’s no longer trying to sound pleasant. “I think I should call my manager.” “Let me show it to you,” I say quickly. “My car is right there.” I indicate the battered Toyota through the window and realize it doesn’t instill confidence in my ability to pay. But she lets me go to my vehicle, rummage through my belongings for the netsuke. I am moving slowly, hoping beyond hope that Hazel will rescue me. When I return, I hold the bone carving out to the receptionist. “I had this


dangling. “Who’s my big girl?” “Me!” she cried in delight. “That’s right, honey, you sure are.” This one, he thought, carrying her into the living area, he could protect. For the moment. But his other daughter? God, he hoped he could. He’d have to find a way. His arms tightened around his youngest. Have to. * * * She’d lied to her father. Again. God, when would she ever learn, Kristi wondered as she drove home. Yes, a security tech was scheduled, but she wasn’t going jogging with Bella or anyone else for that matter. Not yet. Her stomach was queasy and she attributed the slight case of nausea to her lying and, of course, the pregnancy. Soon she’d go to the ob-gyn to confirm what she’d learned in the hospital, and talk to a specialist who would give her more information about her pregnancy. Then she would give her father the happy news, but she wasn’t ready yet. Telling anyone about her baby, Jay’s baby, seemed a bit of a betrayal somehow, since she’d never been able to confide in her own husband. “Don’t go there,” she said, and drove home. To an empty house. She and Jay had each had pets when they’d gotten together, but over the years the animals had aged and eventually passed on. As a couple, they’d talked about adopting another dog or cat but hadn’t gotten around to it. Jay’s half-blind dog Bruno had been his constant companion when he and Kristi had reconnected, and she’d had wonderful Houdini, her black cat who’d always had a hint of mystery, plus little Hairy S, a scruff of a terrier mix. All now gone, she thought sadly. As was Jay. But there was the new little kitten and soon, hopefully, another dog. With renewed determination, she shook off her melancholy and walked into the house, hesitating inside, but sensing no one had entered. The technician wasn’t due for another couple of hours, so she decided to take Bella’s advice and go for a run. She even considered calling her friend, but thought better of it. She wasn’t ready for company yet, but she would be and soon. She’d need her friends and she’d just have to gut through all their happy little stories about their lives, the tales of their husbands’ foibles, their kids’ accomplishments, the constant struggle with their co-workers and bosses, even their pets’ hilarious antics. It was time to get out of her own whirlpool of self-pity and get on with her life. True, her life was somewhat isolated and lonely, the nature of being a writer, and the subject matter of violent crime could be a real downer, but she’d just have to make an effort. She discovered the kitten curled on her bed, a little fluff of black fur with round eyes that was already burrowing into her heart, a female that she’d dubbed Lenore in honor of one of her favorite poems by Poe. She spent some time petting the little purring beast, then located her favorite Nikes, kicked off by


are not you tired? Hadn't you better lie down now? You'll be sick keeping up so long, Ellen." "No, no, dear; I'm not tired," I returned continually. Perceiving me immovable, she essayed another method of showing her disrelish for her occupation. It changed to yawning and stretching, and--- "Ellen, I'm tired." "Give over, then, and talk," I answered. That was worse. She fretted and sighed, and looked at her watch till eight, and finally went to her room, com- pletely overdone with sleep, judging by her peevish, heavy look, and the constant rubbing she inflicted on her eyes. The following night she seemed more impa- tient still, and on the third from recovering my com- pany she complained of a headache and left me. I thought her conduct odd; and having remained alone a long while, I resolved on going and inquiring whether she were better, and asking her to come and lie on the sofa, instead of upstairs in the dark. No Catherine could I discover upstairs, and none below. The servants af- firmed they had not seen her. I listened at Mr. Edgar's door; all was silence. I returned to her apartment, ex- tinguished my candle, and seated myself in the window. The moon shone bright; a sprinkling of snow cov- ered the ground, and I reflected that she might possibly have taken it into her head to walk about the garden for refreshment. I did detect a figure creeping along the inner fence of the park, but it was not my young mistress. On its merging into the light I recognized one of the grooms. He stood a considerable period, viewing the carriage-road through the grounds, then started off at a brisk pace, as if he had detected something, and re- appeared presently leading miss's pony; and there she was, just dismounted, and walking by its side. The man took his charge stealthily across the grass towards the stable. Cathy entered by the casement window of the drawing-room, and glided noiselessly up to where I awaited her. She put the door gently to, slipped off her snowy shoes, untied her hat, and was proceeding, un- conscious of my espionage, to lay aside her mantle, when I suddenly rose and revealed myself. The surprise petrified her an instant; she uttered an inarticulate ex- clamation, and stood fixed. "My dear Miss Catherine," I began, too vividly im- pressed by her recent kindness to break into a scold, "where have you been riding out at this hour? And why should you try to deceive me by telling a tale? Where have you been? Speak!" "To the bottom of the park," she stammered. "I didn't tell a tale." "And nowhere else?" I demanded. "No," was the muttered reply. "O Catherine!" I cried sorrowfully. "You know you have been doing wrong, or you wouldn't be driven to uttering an untruth to me. That does grieve me. I'd rather be three months ill than hear you frame a delib- erate lie." She sprang forward, and bursting into tears, threw her arms round my neck. "Well,


and he stood before the King like a tower, iron-crowned, and his vast shield, sable on-blazoned, cast a shadow over him like a stormcloud. But Fingolfin gleamed beneath it as a star; for his mail was overlaid with silver, and his blue shield was set with crystals; and he drew his sword Ringil, that glittered like ice. Then Morgoth hurled aloft Grond, the Hammer of the Underworld, and swung it down like a bolt of thunder. But Fingolfin sprang aside, and Grond rent a mighty pit in the earth, whence smoke and fire darted. Many times Morgoth essayed to smite him, and each time Fingolfin leaped away, as a 'lightning shoots from under a dark cloud; and he wounded Morgoth with seven wounds, and seven times Morgoth gave a cry of anguish, whereat the hosts of Angband fell upon their faces in dismay, and the cries echoed in the Northlands. But at the last the King grew weary, and Morgoth bore down his shield upon hint Thrice he was crushed to his knees, and thrice arose again and bore up his broken shield and stricken helm. But the earth was all rent and pitted about him, and he stumbled and fell backward before the feet of Morgoth; and Morgoth set his left foot upon his neck, and the weight of it was like a fallen hill. Yet with his last and desperate stroke Fingolfin hewed the foot with Ringil, and the blood gashed forth black and smoking and filled the pits of Grond. Thus died Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, most proud and valiant of the Elven-kings of old. The Orcs made no boast of that duel at the gate; neither do the Elves sing of it, for their sorrow is too deep. Yet the tale of it is remembered still, for Thorondor King of Eagles brought the tidings to Gondolin, and to Hithlum afar off. And Morgoth took the body of the Elven-king and broke it, and would cast it to his wolves; but Thorondor came hasting from his eyrie among the peaks of the Crissaegrim, and he stooped upon Morgoth and marred his face. The rushing of the wings of Thorondor was like the noise of the winds of Manw, and he seized the body in his mighty talons, and soaring suddenly above the darts of the Orcs he bore the King away. And he laid him upon a mountain-top that looked from the north upon the hidden valley of Gondolin; and Turgon coming built a high cairn over his father. No Orc dared ever after to pass over the mount of Fingolfin or draw nigh his tomb, until the doom of Gondolin was come and treachery was born among his kin. Morgoth went ever halt of one foot after that day, and the pain of his wounds could not be healed; and in his face was the scar that Thorondor made. Great was the lamentation in Hithlum when the fall of Fingolfin became known, and Fingon in sorrow took the lordship of the house of Fingolfin and the


a buffer. “I feel like there’s something else,” he says. “Something you’re not telling me.” I whirl around, meeting his eyes, increasingly frustrated by how casual he sounds. If he knows I have feelings for him, he’s apparently going to make me spell them out. “You want to know what I’m not telling you? Fine. I hate thinking about you with someone else, even though that’s the whole point of this—so you can be good for the next person. And I just . . .” Want to be the next person so badly. “Forget it. It’s stupid.” He’s just looking at me, features inscrutable. “I agree. We should stop the lessons.” I’m not expecting him to acquiesce so quickly. To just sever this connection between us. The shock of it is an instant gust of cold air, a painful clenching of my heart. But then he steps closer, a hip pressing against mine. “Because those lessons imply that what’s happening between us isn’t real. That it’s just practice. And that’s not true.” A soft smile, his expression changing into one I’ve seen on TV but never directed at me. “It’s felt real to me for a while now.” “It—has?” His eyes crinkle at the edges. “Chandler. Were you not there when I was waxing poetic about all the different expressions your face makes? Haven’t you realized that I want to touch you . . . pretty much all the time? I’ve tried a hundred times to give you a hundred different hints.” And he has, hasn’t he? I’ve been too stuck in my head to see them for what they are. “But you don’t date outside of Hollywood,” I say dumbly, as though this will negate everything he’s confessed so far. “Yeah. Until now.” A slow shake of his head. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we left New York. You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met, and I’m not sure you realize it. You’re driven and loyal and compassionate, and Jesus—you’re so beautiful, it makes my heart hurt to look at you sometimes.” He pauses, swallows hard, and even though I’m not the one talking, I’m left struggling to catch my breath. I want so badly to reach out and touch his face, to see if his reddened cheeks would be warm against my fingertips. “We could have spent this entire trip in bed, and it wouldn’t have been enough. We could have spent it just talking, twenty-four hours a day, and I’d still want to hear your voice,” he says. “I’ve felt this way for a while. At least since Memphis.” A laugh slips out as he mashes a fist on the countertop. “Hell, I told you I had a crush on you!” “While you were high on DayQuil!” I say, and then more softly: “You remember that?” He steps closer, a whisper of space between us. “I remember everything,” he says, rich hazel eyes never leaving mine. He is so open, so vulnerable, and it’s making me fall even harder. “I thought it would pass.


find herself in if a photographer hadn’t contorted her that way. Of course I read her entry: These two years have been the longest four years of my life! “What is done in love is done well”—Van Gogh Rach-a-Beth: Can we all fit in one limo? Schmove you both!! S-B krewww: puja, donna, jenny, michelle—remember to clean my messssssssss Dorian: Don’t EVEN Sakina, Booboo, Fizzy, Stiles: We made it! Remember, senioritis is inflammation of the senior . . . Mrs. Ross, Mr. Dar, Mr. W., Ms. Arena: Thanks for seeing me through. Mom, Dad, Vanessa, Brad: You’re the best people to call home. Deeb: When you know, you know. (I know you know.) Don’t start collecting things. Robbie: My luuuuuv. You’re my 100% and my CHEEP! I won’t be far! Varsity tennis, 11, 12 October Follies, 11, 12 Granby Chorus, 11 Choristers, 11, 12 Spring Musical, 11, 12 Theta Society, 11, 12 “Rach-a-Beth” would be Rachel and Beth. “S-B krewww” meant her friends in Singer-Baird. “Deeb.” Was that you? I said, “Hold on, I’m gonna take a photo.” I laid the book on a round wooden table that had probably been there a hundred years, held my phone still long enough for the flash to overexpose the whole thing. I thought I’d show it to Britt at the séance, but then she’d surely already found it. Yahav knew the basic story of Thalia, and I explained that this was her, the roommate who died. He said, “She looks wise.” I led him outside and we walked toward Upper Campus, where I could offer him one of the beers Oliver had stashed in the fridge. That was usually all he needed to melt back into me. Deeb. I’d never heard anyone call you that, but it had to be you, in this place of honor between her family and Robbie. It must have been, because she hadn’t listed you with the other teachers, and she’d never leave you out. I tried to think if there’d been a Debbie, a Deepak. But Denny Bloch—that worked. What the hell did Don’t start collecting things mean? I walked Yahav toward South Bridge—not the most direct route to my guesthouse, but still a way there. Every time we made eye contact, he’d smile apologetically and then find something over my shoulder to look at. I could drag him around a corner, I could grab him by the belt loops and kiss him, but there was a nonzero chance this would ruin everything. Even if I just took his hand—I didn’t know if he’d grip it for dear life or pull away like it burned. Don’t start collecting things might be from a song, something they’d done in choir. Half a tune buzzed at the back of my brain. I told Yahav that right below this bridge was where we’d placed hula hoops for junior year biology, recording every change within that space from February to May. We’d been split into groups of four; mine included Carlotta, Mike Stiles, and Rachel Popa—Rachel flirting constantly with Mike, bending all


guessed it was at least half true. He said, “We legalized last year, in Connecticut. It takes some of the fun away, actually. I miss that thrill of sneaking around.” I said, “And why would Omar meet her in the shed?” “Huh?” I realized it was a non sequitur. I was still half-drunk, so cold my brain was shrinking. “Omar’s an adult with an office and a car and an apartment. If she comes to meet him for sex, why would they go to this dusty place with old sports equipment? There were mice, remember? If you’re meeting someone you’re involved with, you go somewhere warm and private, or at least somewhere romantic, like here.” Mike blushed—even if I couldn’t quite tell the color of his cheeks, I could see it in his eyes, the sudden downward tilt of his head—and I might have said then that of course that wasn’t what I meant, I wasn’t talking about us, about now, but instead I kept going. “The only reason Omar, who has an office with a couch, takes her to the shed is if it’s premeditated. But that doesn’t fit with anything else. Not with putting her in the pool, which is a panic move. Not with the state’s theory that it was some fit of rage.” Mike said, “I wish they could settle how that exit opened, what key and everything. It kills me they didn’t document every inch of that door in ’95.” Something else started nagging at me: Why would you take her there? Your home was off-limits, obviously. But your classroom? The choir room? You, like Omar, had a car. The shed was dirty. It wasn’t the first time the incongruity had occurred to me: you in your neatly pressed khakis, clearing your way through cobwebs and broken track hurdles. Did Thalia lead you there? Did she show you how to open the door? Pure darkness and the smell of dust. She didn’t understand what a gift she’d just handed you. I said, “I’m really fucking cold. Let me bring you to this party. They have good drinks.” 18 My hangover plus the warning from Hector were reasons enough to hide out in my room all morning. I went down only to grab the bagged breakfast (unsliced cold bagel, one little packet of cream cheese, flimsy plastic knife), then returned to bed to watch HGTV. It was Saturday—no action at the courthouse, nothing to wait for but any buzz about Dane’s video. So far, the comments beneath it were all from Dane fans, agreeing or disagreeing, gossiping about what little they could find online. They were excited—but there was nothing yet from anyone who knew you. I’d fallen asleep again when someone started knocking on my door despite the Do Not Disturb sign. It was one in the afternoon. I saw Alder through the peephole and wanted to yell at him to go away, but also didn’t want to yell, so I opened the door and pulled him in by the arm. I said, “You’re nuts.” “I’m not


day was fair or foul; in descending the drive, I gazed neither on sky nor earth; my heart was with my eyes; and both seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester's frame. I wanted to see the invisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he seemed breasting and resisting.     At the church-yard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out of breath.     "Am I cruel in my love?" he said. "Delay an instant. Lean on me, Jane."     And now I can recall the picture of the gray old house of God rising calm before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of strangers, straying among the low hillocks, and reading the mementoes graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, as they saw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and I doubted not they were going to enter by the side aisle door, and witness the ceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly looking at my face, from which the blood had, I dare say, momentarily fled; for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and lips cold. When I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with me up the path to the porch.     We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his white surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was still. Two shadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct. The strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault of the Rochesters, their backs toward us, viewing through the rails the old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the civil wars; and of Elizabeth, his wife.     Our place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a cautious step behind me, I glanced over my shoulder; one of the strangers a gentleman, evidently was advancing up the chancel. The service began. The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through; and then the clergyman came a step further forward, and, bending slightly toward Mr. Rochester, went on.     "I require and charge you both (as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful."     He paused, as the


that? For the brother you slew, or the child you stole? Tell me, my honorable Lord Eddard, how are you any different from Robert, or me, or Jaime?" "For a start," said Ned, "I do not kill children. You would do well to listen, my lady. I shall say this only once. When the king returns from his hunt, I intend to lay the truth before him. You must be gone by then. You and your children, all three, and not to Casterly Rock. If I were you, I should take ship for the Free Cities, or even farther, to the Summer Isles or the Port of Ibben. As far as the winds blow." "Exile," she said. "A bitter cup to drink from." "A sweeter cup than your father served Rhaegar's children," Ned said, "and kinder than you deserve. Your father and your brothers would do well to go with you. Lord Tywin's gold will buy you comfort A GAME OF THRONES 429 and hire swords to keep you safe. You shall need them. I promise you, no matter where you flee, Robert's wrath will follow you, to the back of beyond if need be." The queen stood. "And what of my wrath, Lord Stark?" she asked softly. Her eyes searched his face. "You should have taken the realm for yourself. It was there for the taking. Jaime told me how you found him on the Iron Throne the day King's Landing fell, and made him yield it up. That was your moment. All you needed to do was climb those steps, and sit. Such a sad mistake." "I have made more mistakes than you can possibly imagine," Ned said, "but that was not one of them." "Oh, but it was, my lord," Cersei insisted. "When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground." She turned up her hood to hide her swollen face and left him there in the dark beneath the oak, amidst the quiet of the godswood, under a blue-black sky. The stars were coming out. DAENERYS The heart was steaming in the cool evening air when Khal Drogo set it before her, raw and bloody. His arms were red to the elbow. Behind him, his bloodriders knelt on the sand beside the corpse of the wild stallion, stone knives in their hands. The stallion's blood looked black in the flickering orange glare of the torches that ringed the high chalk walls of the pit. Dany touched the soft swell of her belly. Sweat beaded her skin and trickled down her brow. She could feel the old women watching her, the ancient crones of Vaes Dothrak, with eyes that shone dark as polished flint in their wrinkled faces. She must not flinch or look afraid. I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself as she took the stallion's heart in both hands, lifted it to her mouth, and plunged her teeth into the tough, stringy flesh. Warm blood filled her mouth and ran down over her chin. The taste


hunter. Starbuck was no crusader after perils; in him courage was not a sentiment; but a thing simply useful to him, and always at hand upon all mortally practical occasions. Besides, he thought, perhaps, that in this business of whaling, courage was one of the great staple outfits of the ship, like her beef and her bread, and not to be foolishly wasted. Wherefore he had no fancy for lowering for whales after sun-down; nor for persisting in fighting a fish that too much persisted in fighting him. For, thought Starbuck, I am here in this critical ocean to kill whales for my living, and not to be killed by them for theirs; and that hundreds of men had been so killed Starbuck well knew. What doom was his own father's? Where, in the bottomless deeps, could he find the torn limbs of his brother? With memories like these in him, and, moreover, given to a certain superstitiousness, as has been said; the courage of this Starbuck which could, nevertheless, still flourish, must indeed have been extreme. But it was not in reasonable nature that a man so organized, and with such terrible experiences and remembrances as he had; it was not in nature that these things should fail in latently engendering an element in him, which, under suitable circumstances, would break out from its confinement, and burn all his courage up. And brave as he might be, it was that sort of bravery chiefly, visible in some intrepid men, which, while generally abiding firm in the conflict with seas, or winds, or whales, or any of the ordinary irrational horrors of the world, yet cannot withstand those more terrific, because more spiritual terrors, which sometimes menace you from the concentrating brow of an enraged and mighty man. But were the coming narrative to reveal, in any instance, the complete abasement of poor Starbuck's fortitude, scarce might I have the heart to write it; for it is a thing most sorrowful, nay shocking, to expose the fall of valor in the soul. Men may seem detestable as joint stock-companies and nations; knaves, .. <p 114 > fools, and murderers there may be; men may have mean and meagre faces; but man, in the ideal, is so noble and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any ignominious blemish in him all his fellows should run to throw their costliest robes. That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so far within us, that it remains intact though all the outer character seem gone; bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man. Nor can piety itself, at such a shameful sight, completely stifle her upbraidings against the permitting stars. But this august dignity I treat of, is not the dignity of kings and robes, but that abounding dignity which has no robed investiture. Thou shalt see it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike; that democratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from God; Himself! The great God absolute! The


fun.” But I recognize the hopeful tone in his voice, like he’s negotiating with himself—I recognize it because sometimes I use it, too. “It’ll be fun,” I repeat carefully. “But not as fun as…?” He huffs out a breath like a frustrated horse. “Come on. I showed you mine; now show me yours.” “God, Celine,” he laughs, and flops back onto the bed, then sits up again. Takes his glasses off, then puts them on again. Rubs his jaw, then mutters, “Sometimes I think I’d like to write a book or two?” A little chain reaction goes off in my brain and a memory unlocks. “Oh yeah. Oh yeah! You wanted to be an author.” He groans and squeezes his eyes shut. “When I was ten!” “But not anymore?” “It’s…not that easy.” “Why not?” Brad bites his lip. I really wish he’d stop doing that; it’s deeply inconsiderate to me, a person who can see him and is tragically vulnerable to the sight of an excellent mouth. “Because,” he says, and stands up abruptly. “Just…look at this.” He fetches his laptop from the desk and sits beside me again, cracking it open. His screensaver is John Boyega being criminally hot in Star Wars. Then he opens a series of folders and I’m faced with a page full of Word files. The labels start small: Draft 1. Draft 4. Draft 9. Before long, letters are introduced. Roman numerals. Bradley has written a lot of drafts. “I can’t finish anything,” he announces, then slaps the laptop shut and puts it on his bedside table. I blink. “Oh my God.” “I know!” He is disgusted with himself. “I keep trying, but—” “No, Brad, that’s what I’m saying. How many times have you tried to write this book?” He glares at me like I just trod on his already-broken toe. “About a thousand, thank you, Celine.” “And you’re still going?” “I realize it’s pointless, but you know what they say about the definition of insanity.” “Are you allowed to say things like that?” “Hang on, let me consult with the mentally ill council.” Brad pauses. “Yes.” “You want to know what I think?” “Unfortunately,” he sighs, “I do.” “I think you’ve got this all wrong. You think it’s a bad thing that you’ve written so much. I don’t.” Brad seems deeply skeptical—but, because he is sweet down to the bone, he props his elbows on his knees, props his chin on his hands, and listens. “Yeah?” “Yeah. You only do something this much if you love it. And if you love it, you should go for it. Plus, I have no idea what it takes to write a book”—actually, I think I’d die of boredom—“but I’m pretty sure you have to be exactly this committed. You know, to finish it.” Brad’s eyes bug out. “But, Celine. Here is the point you are missing. I. HAVEN’T. FINISHED IT!” My laughter spills out without permission. “Yes, Bradley, and here is the point you’re missing: ONE. DAY. YOU. WILL.” That brings him up short. He opens his mouth, closes


I step back to take in the entirety of the massive carving, my foot nearly slips out from under me. I steady myself and point my flashlight at the wooden planks beneath my sneakers. “It’s wet,” I say. “This whole area right here.” I crouch down and touch the damp planks, a watery substance coating my fingers, and as I examine it in the light, I’m almost 100 percent sure it’s blood that somebody has tried to clean up by flooding the area with water. “Look,” Bezi says. She’s got her light pointed at another path that snakes off the opposite side of the outdoor amphitheater. I wipe my hands on my jeans and march toward the path with Bezi at my heel. This pathway is paved and much narrower than the others. The trees and shrubbery that run alongside it are neatly trimmed. Ahead, a large structure unfolds out of the darkness. Bezi and I find ourselves in the shadow of a massive lodge. Three stories high, it looks similar to the Western Lodge but is triple the size, and its entrance is flanked by two massive carved owls. The upper windows are dark and some are boarded up. A tangle of twisted thorny vines snakes its way up the facade of the building. The path leading to the front steps is smooth and even. Lying directly in the center of it is a shoe. I rush forward and snatch it up. It’s covered in mud and the laces are undone, but I recognize it as soon as I wipe it off with the hem of my shirt. It’s a red sneaker with a yellow swoosh on the side. “Porter.” I take a step toward the building, but Bezi grabs my arm and pulls me back. “We cannot go in there,” she says. “Why not?” Bezi shakes her head. “Think about what happened to Tasha. Maybe the person who did that to her is in there. What do you think they’ll do to us? Nah. We gotta get out of here and get some help.” “We don’t have time to go back. We’re here right now.” I glance around. I hold up the shoe. “This is Porter’s. He was here. He might be in there. Maybe Paige too.” Bezi runs her hands over the sides of her face. “I know. I just—” “You’re scared,” I say. “Look at me. I’m scared out of my mind right now, but we gotta get Paige and Porter, and then we’ll get as far away from here as we can. I don’t care if we have to walk out.” Bezi nods. “If we’re going in, let’s not just walk through the front door.” We switch off our flashlights as we bypass the main entrance and move around the side of the building. I peer through the dingy windows, but the screens are so caked with dust and debris that it’s hard to make out anything inside. At the rear of the building, there is another entrance, a doorway whose actual door has long since disappeared.


my fiancé died, I chose to return to Hope’s End and devote my life to Miss Hope’s care.” Not the choice I would have made. Then again, I’ve never had a fiancé. Or even a boyfriend for any significant length of time. The job doesn’t allow it. “Get out while you’ve still got your looks,” a fellow Gurlain Home Health Aide once told me. “Otherwise you’ll never snag a man.” Now I wonder if it’s already too late. Maybe I’m already fated to become like Mrs. Baker—a woman in black with white hair and pale skin, drained of all color. “If you never got married, why are you called Mrs. Baker?” “Because that’s the title given to the head housekeeper, dear, whether she’s married or not. It commands respect.” Continuing down the hallway, I survey my surroundings. Double doors closed tight straight ahead, open doorway to my right. I peek through it to see a formal dining room, unlit but brightened by two sets of French doors that lead to the terrace. Between them is an ornate fireplace so big I could park my car inside it. A pair of chandeliers hang over each end of a table long enough to seat two dozen people. “Hope’s End has thirty-six rooms,” Mrs. Baker says as we reach the closed double doors at the end of the corridor. “You need only concern yourself with three. Miss Hope’s quarters, your own quarters, and here.” I follow Mrs. Baker as she cuts right, around the corner and into a kitchen large enough for a restaurant. There are multiple ovens and burners and a brick-lined fireplace, inside of which a small blaze crackles. Shelves full of porcelain containers line the walls, and dozens of copper pots hang from the ceiling on wrought iron racks. A massive wooden counter sits in the center of the room, running from almost one wall to another. Decades ago, an army of cooks and servers likely scurried over the black-and-white-tiled floor on their way to the adjoining dining room. Now there’s only one—a man with a thick chest and even thicker stomach wearing checkered pants and a white chef’s coat. In his seventies, he has a shaved head and a slightly bent nose, but his smile is wide. “Archibald, this is Miss Hope’s new caregiver,” Mrs. Baker says. “Kit, this is Archibald.” He looks up from the counter, where he’s kneading dough for homemade bread. “Welcome, Kit. And call me Archie.” “All of Miss Hope’s meals are prepared by Archibald, so you won’t be needed in that capacity,” Mrs. Baker tells me. “He also cooks for the rest of the staff. You’re free to prepare your own meals, of course, but I’d advise against it. Archibald is the best cook on the Maine coast.” It dawns on me how quickly my life has changed. This morning, I woke up in the same bed I’ve had since I was ten. Tonight, I’ll be falling asleep in a mansion that has a professional cook. And a maid. And a terrace with a bird’s-eye view


in French and English, magazines, journals and even old posters and postcards. I stopped to browse, wondering at the green metal boxes that held their treasures, hanging on the parapets on the banks of the Seine. They looked like train carriages that had just pulled up overnight, opening their doors to the reading public until nightfall. I was in heaven, on the banks of the river in bright sunshine, lost in a world of books and foreign accents. That was when I spotted it, Histoires Extraordinaires. Bound in cerulean blue, it was a two-volume translation of Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories by Charles Baudelaire. I opened the cover to find that it was a first edition, published by Michel Lévy Frères, Paris, 1856–1857. My father was a fanatic when it came to Mr Poe and I too enjoyed ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ and ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ and so I saw it as a sign. I enquired as to the price of the book, my broken French immediately betraying me as a foreigner. It sounded like one hundred francs too many and after much gesturing (him turning out his pockets to indicate that I was robbing him blind) we agreed a price. I felt drunk with recklessness, spending the little money I had on another book. As he began wrapping the volumes in brown paper and string, I heard a voice I recognised calling my name. ‘Monsieur Hassan,’ I said, surprised when he, yet again, took my hand and kissed it. I flushed immediately and the bookseller smirked. They then began a conversation in French that I could not follow, but the subject matter soon became clear. ‘I see you have purchased my Baudelaire,’ he said, with a devilish smile. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ ‘I told my friend here to keep this translation for me, but I see he has sold it to you … for a much higher price.’ The implication was not lost on me, that I was a silly woman who’d be taken for a fool. I chose to ignore it. ‘Well then, it is not your Baudelaire but mine,’ I said, taking the package and heading back towards my hotel. ‘At least allow me to offer you dinner tonight, as a felicitation for your excellent bargain,’ he said, his long strides easily catching up with me. ‘No thank you, I cannot accept such an unsuitable invitation. We are strangers.’ ‘Oof,’ he said, mockingly taking a dagger to the heart. ‘But we are not strangers and it would seem that you are alone in Paris …’ ‘I’m not alone,’ I said, defensively. ‘I’m staying with my … aunt.’ ‘Ah, I see,’ he said, nodding and almost admitting defeat. ‘Alors, if you change your mind, Mademoiselle Opaline,’ he added, handing me his card. ‘I will not forget this slight easily but, fortunately for you, I have a forgiving nature.’ With a tip of his hat, he disappeared down a side street and I was left standing there, feeling furious. He was an infuriating, pompous, arrogant man. And I


the backdrop of towering pines. His six-foot-eight frame looms in the shadows like a ghost. His mask is horrifying in the dark. It’s a dingy white color, smeared with red and mud. There’s a crack running up the right side. His massive hand grips the handle of a machete, its blade slick with blood. He stalks forward, and the woman doesn’t even see him until it’s too late. He grabs her from behind, lifting her up off the ground. He disappears with her kicking and screaming into the Mason Lodge, a smaller cabin we mostly use for storage. I don’t move. I can’t. One of the guys makes a break for it and bolts toward the camp entrance. The other guy just stands there as a thin film of sweat blankets his forehead. I grab his arm, and he snaps out of whatever terror-induced trance he’s in and starts hollering as loud as he can. “Come on!” I yell. The dirt road that leads to the camp’s main entrance seems too long, and the screams of the terrified woman echo all around us as we race down it. The timbers of the giant sign that flank the entry gate materialize out of the dark. The other man is already there. “Brandon!” he screams. “Get your ass over here! We gotta go!” “What about Leslie?” Brandon asks. “We can’t just leave her!” “Leave her ass here!” the other man screams. A body lies motionless on the ground in the main parking lot. Tasha. My friend, my coworker for the past summer, is lying on her stomach. The glinting handle of a large knife protrudes from her back. A dark stain seeps across her yellow uniform shirt. Brandon sees her and staggers forward, clawing at the iron gate, which is padlocked shut. I stagger to the gate and grab the metal bars. I push on them and scream as loud as I can. “Help us! Please! Somebody help us!” On the other side of the locked gate, the machete-wielding, masked figure appears. “No!” I scream. “Leave us alone! What do you want?” The two dudes cling to each other. Tears trail down Brandon’s face. The masked man stalks forward as I grip the metal entrance gate. I don’t move, even though my gut is telling me to run. He walks up and grabs the front of my shirt through the bars. I struggle in his grip, clawing at him, kicking against the bars. He glares down at me with eyes black as coal. I reach into the waistband of my jeans and pull out a butcher knife. I plunge it into the killer’s chest, and blood flows from the wound. He lets go of my shirt and staggers back. As he cries out, he drops his machete, falls flat on his back, and goes completely limp. It’s over. I slowly turn around and look the last two dudes directly in the eye. I smile. It’s never easy at the end. I’m trying so hard to hold in my laughter, I can’t help but chuckle


“I’ve never seen you like this, Elsie.” “I’ve never felt like this.” I’m a Large Hadron Collider: atomic particles smash angrily about my body, building up the energy to burn Jack to a crisp. Or at least cook him well done. I can’t remember the last time I experienced so many negative emotions. “I should have known. I always had a bad feeling about him, and last night—that’s why he’s so good at Go. He was a physicist all along, that—that piece of Uranus—” “Science insult. Nice.” “I bet he thinks in Fahrenheit—” “Ooh, sick burn.” “—and spends his free time flying to Westminster Abbey to dance on Stephen Hawking’s grave—” “Hawking’s dead?” “—and won’t even bother calling Greg to ask for an explanation, because he’s a sadistic, egotistical, ignorant black hole of sh—” “Elsie, babe, do you need us here for this, or should we go to our room to mourn Stephen?” I stop pacing. Cece and Hedgie are staring, heads tilted at the same angle. “Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “Not gonna lie, it’s kinda fun to see you soapbox it all out, geyser-style. I’m sure there are some serious health benefits to this. But before you pull a machete out of your butt crack and begin the rampage, let me point out, this Smith-Turner dude? He cannot touch you.” “He may not be able to knee me in the groin or poison my tea with a vial of measles, but—” “He also cannot interfere with your interview.” “If Jack tells Volkov or Monica, I—” “Pff.” She waves her hand. “He won’t.” “He won’t?” I squint at Cece. Is she placating me? I wouldn’t know—I never need placating. “First, admitting that he knows you from a nonacademic setting would create a sizable conflict of interest. They’d force him to recuse himself from the search committee. He’d lose the ability to influence the other members.” “Oh.” I nod. First slowly, then not. “You’re right.” “Plus, you’re not contrabanding cigars or organizing illegal cockfights. You told a small, irrelevant lie about your personal life to a passing acquaintance. For all Jack knows, you’re in the witness protection program. Or you misspoke when you were first introduced. Or you and Greg have a role-play kink you expand out of the bedroom: you pretend to be a librarian at his grandma’s birthday, he spanks you with Billy the IKEA bookcase, orgasms are had. Consensual, Swedish, and above all: private.” “That’s . . . intense.” “I’ve been watching HBO with Mrs. Tuttle’s password. Point is, Jack’s not telling anyone shit. Can you imagine if he went to Monica and brought up random details of your romantic relationships that he thinks should be disqualifying? HR would have a field day. Don’t you watch the harassmentprevention webinars?” “I—they’re mandatory.” Cece’s eyes narrow. “Yes, but do you watch them, or do you let them play while you do integral calculus and browse cheese porn on Pinterest?” I flush and look away, and she sighs. “Here’s a recap: Jack can’t ask you about your personal life.” “He already has.” “But


fold as ever drew breath. Stap my vitals, said he, them was always the sentiments of honest Frank Costello which I was bred up most particular to honour thy father and thy mother that had the best hand to a rolypoly or a hasty pudding as you ever see what I always looks back on with a loving heart. To revert to Mr Bloom who, after his first entry, had been conscious of some impudent mocks which he however had borne with as being the fruits of that age upon which it is commonly charged that it knows not pity. The young sparks, it is true, were as full of extravagancies as overgrown children: the words of their tumultuary discussions were difficultly understood and not often nice: their testiness and outrageous MOTS were such that his intellects resiled from: nor were they scrupulously sensible of the proprieties though their fund of strong animal spirits spoke in their behalf. But the word of Mr Costello was an unwelcome language for him for he nauseated the wretch that seemed to him a cropeared creature of a misshapen gibbosity, born out of wedlock and thrust like a crookback toothed and feet first into the world, which the dint of the surgeon's pliers in his skull lent indeed a colour to, so as to put him in thought of that missing link of creation's chain desiderated by the late ingenious Mr Darwin. It was now for more than the middle span of our allotted years that he had passed through the thousand vicissitudes of existence and, being of a wary ascendancy and self a man of rare forecast, he had enjoined his heart to repress all motions of a rising choler and, by intercepting them with the readiest precaution, foster within his breast that plenitude of sufferance which base minds jeer at, rash judgers scorn and all find tolerable and but tolerable. To those who create themselves wits at the cost of feminine delicacy (a habit of mind which he never did hold with) to them he would concede neither to bear the name nor to herit the tradition of a proper breeding: while for such that, having lost all forbearance, can lose no more, there remained the sharp antidote of experience to cause their insolency to beat a precipitate and inglorious retreat. Not but what he could feel with mettlesome youth which, caring nought for the mows of dotards or the gruntlings of the severe, is ever (as the chaste fancy of the Holy Writer expresses it) for eating of the tree forbid it yet not so far forth as to pretermit humanity upon any condition soever towards a gentlewoman when she was about her lawful occasions. To conclude, while from the sister's words he had reckoned upon a speedy delivery he was, however, it must be owned, not a little alleviated by the intelligence that the issue so auspicated after an ordeal of such duress now testified once more to the mercy as well as to the bounty of the Supreme Being. Accordingly he