steeds, prowled the Ivory Palace’s grounds in the night. A century before the Battle of Zinish, the Ruby Hounds began to sicken, dying despite the Sultana’s best efforts. Magic had already disappeared in Omal, and with Lukub’s failing quickly, the Ruby Hounds rotted like fruit planted in tainted soil. Orban followed thirty years later. “They are. To resurrect one is unheard of. The Urabi will be weakened after exerting such a large amount of magic.” Arin’s gaze, though shrouded with discomfort, was still keen on our surroundings. “They must truly wish to impress you.” I knotted the sleeve strips together. “This is going to hurt,” I warned him, and placed the end of a strip between my teeth. The muscles in Arin’s stomach tensed, but he didn’t make a sound as I wrapped the makeshift bandage tightly around his torso. I had to press my knee into his hip to reach around his back. My knuckles grazed everywhere I wrapped the bandages. His chest, his waist, the small of his back. The effect on my magic was significantly duller than when he grasped my hand. I made the mistake of glancing up and found my face inches from Arin’s. Curiosity hooded the gaze fixed on mine, entirely too attentive for someone in his condition. “Stop looking at me,” I demanded. “I am not going to make a mistake.” A soft laugh escaped Arin. The sound reverberated beneath the palm I’d placed on his chest. It was the first time I’d heard him really laugh. Baira’s blessed hair, how much blood had he lost? “Are you aware you have five freckles under your jaw?” He offered this information to me with complete seriousness, as though it had escaped from a vault of secrets. I resisted the impulse to touch my jaw. “They are called hasanas in Jasad, not freckles.” I cursed the heat in my ears that meant they were turning the same shade as the dead Hound and quickly refocused on my task. “You dangle yourself over a rocky riverbed, beat down my guards, wedge your arm into a Hound’s mouth. Yet you blush at a bare chest.” Naturally, this encouraged the redness in my ears to spread to my cheeks. I tied the next strip with more force than intended, pulling a pained grunt from the Heir. “I am not blushing. I’m afraid you have become delirious.” Arin tipped his head back against the tree. “Maybe.” My jest about dragging Arin to the tunnels might be closer to reality than I had imagined. I had forced him to fight past my magic. How much blood had he shed struggling against the barrier? “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should not have trapped you. It’s just—you would have interfered and lost a limb unnecessarily. I knew it was here for me.” “Don’t do it again.” The fleeting humor vanished from his tone. He was completely somber. “If you had been wrong, I wouldn’t have been released until you were dead and your magic’s hold broken.” “You would have had time to run if


my hands at him. Joe nodded, like Cool. “First I’m going to just kind of map you with my hands. And then once I’ve got a really 3-D mental picture, I’ll start sketching.” Joe nodded again, like Let’s go. But I was still hesitating. “I’m going to frame the portrait kind of from the waistband up. So I’m really going to have to touch you everywhere.” “Got it,” Joe said. “And I want you to know,” I went on, “what I’m about to do to you, I’ve also done to myself.” That came out unexpectedly suggestive. I was trying so hard to pretend like this was just another day at the office. Like I did this kind of thing all the time—no big deal. But my hands were weirdly cold. And I was strangely aware of my blood traveling through my body. And then, as I reached out to touch him, just before I made contact, my hand faltered. It just … stopped. Like there was an invisible force field. But that’s when Joe’s hand came up, and he cupped it behind mine, and he pulled my palm to his chest. I felt the impact before I realized what he was doing: the stonelike hardness of his collarbone beneath my fingertips, the spongy firmness of his pecs beneath, the warmth of his skin. I could feel that he was looking at me. I could feel him encouraging me. And something else, too. Something that felt like longing. Was it his or mine? For a second, the air in my lungs felt tight. “Don’t be shy,” Joe said. “I’m fine. Just do what you need to do.” “I’m not being shy,” I said. But neither of us believed me. Anyway, that broke the ice. After that, I closed my eyes and worked my hand around his shoulders and neck and chest before making my way up past the Adam’s apple and over the ridge of the jaw to his face. Was it working? I wasn’t sure. But I’d decided I didn’t have to decide. I was just going to do it. I wasn’t going to overthink it or evaluate it or judge it. I was just going to capture the moment. For better and for worse. This was by far the most self-conscious I’d ever been around a model. Pull it together, I told myself. Doctors touch people all the time. But I was no doctor. Also, I’m assuming, doctors didn’t usually spend a ton of time with patients outside the office. Or have recent memories of altruistically kissing them in front of their ex-wives. Or have crushes on them they were in denial about. The truth is, it was intense. For one thing, we were so close to each other. You’re never just inches away from people for long stretches of time like that. I was close enough to hear him breathing, and even to feel those breaths as they brushed over my arm. I could smell his aftershave, which was scented like cedar and juniper, I decided. For another thing, I


used to marvel at their partnership—but they hadn’t had children. And Peter was nothing like Leonard. When she arrived at the house, he came down the steps as she came up. “Hoping I’ll make it,” he said and yanked open his car door. Inside, Ella sat in bed with a popsicle. Maud put her hand on her forehead, which didn’t feel too hot. “My throat’s on fire and Dad’s pissed,” Ella said. Ignoring the comment, Maud plumped the pillows. “I thought I was going to sit in the nurse’s office all day,” Ella said. “It was only an hour,” Maud said. “It turned out okay, didn’t it?” Going back down the hall, she was annoyed with Peter, with both of them, really, for acting as if she’d done something wrong by being caught up in her work, as Peter always was. She measured out a capful of cold medicine and brought Ella a glass of orange juice. When Ella’s fever rose again, she took her to the doctor’s office for a strep test. The test positive, she ran to the pharmacy for antibiotics after dropping Louise at soccer practice. Standing in line for the bottle of pink medicine, she thought about Juana Briones losing three of her children in the same month, one after the other, from illnesses that Ella and Louise were vaccinated against. She let her ruminations about open marriage go. Gratitude, she thought, handing over the prescription slip, as if the word itself were a dose of medicine. Ella stayed in bed during dinner. Two bites into her meat loaf, Louise asked if she could play sick with her sister, so the two of them cuddled up to watch a movie on Maud’s laptop. Tie still on, flipped over his shoulder, Peter barely spoke as they ate, though he kept clinking his fork on the plate. “What?” Maud said as they cleared the table. “What what?” “Why are you mad?” “You know that I have a standing meeting on Wednesdays.” “Yes, I know. And I have a standing job. For my benefactor.” “You said you’d be done by noon.” “It took longer.” Why hadn’t she said that she’d stayed an extra hour eating lunch with Alice? Then again, why did she have to account for her time? Peter was scrubbing his plate as if trying to remove a layer of porcelain. “You know Ella’s not out of the woods,” he said. “She has strep. Strep has nothing to do with the other issue. What are you talking about?” “I’m not talking about anything,” he said. “Good night.” She was too disconcerted to work, so she went to bed with a novel and turned off her light when she heard Peter coming down the hall from his study. Eyes closed, she listened to him brush his teeth in the bathroom. She thought about Alice’s house and library, those bastions of light made out of dim, discarded buildings. Her cloud of a cover on the bed. Her ceramic mugs. Her diet, determined by her own desires and principles. Her lover and


Kravitz, Benedetto, and Spackman. Ordinarily, Woodbine schedules appointments only between ten o’clock in the morning and four in the afternoon. On this occasion, however, he isn’t meeting with ordinary clients, and even the great man will bestir himself before dawn when the matter requiring his attention is sufficiently rewarding. Like the public spaces in this building, Woodbine’s office is an exacting and fastidious marriage of high drama and good taste. The desk is an uncharacteristically large work by Ruhlmann, circa 1932. The lamp upon it is not from Office Depot, but shines forth from the long-ago studios of Louis Comfort Tiffany; the dragonfly motif is a rare specimen executed largely in gold glass with vivid blue insects and no doubt appeals to Woodbine because it suggests mystery and power, the two cloaks in which he’s wrapped himself throughout his career. Although the attorney owns a fifteen-thousand-square-foot residence on two acres, a half-hour’s drive from his office, he maintains an apartment here on the fifth floor. In addition to a living room, dining room, chef’s kitchen, bedroom, bath, and gym, there is a concealed panic room that can withstand any assault that might be made against it. His third wife, forty-year-old Vanessa, twenty-two years his junior, lives with him in the mansion, but she has no access to his apartment, which she assumes—or pretends to assume—is of modest size and used solely when he’s so overwhelmed by the demands of the law that he can’t spare the time even for a short commute. This allows Woodbine to have a parallel life of quiet but intense debauchery at odds with his public image. The apartment entrance is concealed in the office paneling, behind a large and excruciatingly pretentious cubist painting that might be by Picasso or Braque—or by a barber who cut their hair. The lock responds to a signal when an electronic key is held to a blue triangle that symbolizes something in the painting; a code reader behind the canvas confirms the signal and releases the lock. Michael neither has a key nor needs one to finesse the code reader. The door opens, and he enters a small foyer, proceeding from there into the living room. The apartment security system tracks all occupants by their heat signatures and pinpoints them on a floor plan displayed on a large screen in the panic room. In a crisis, sheltering behind steel plate and concrete, Woodbine would be aware of where each invader could be found, and he would be able to coordinate with a police SWAT team, by phone, to facilitate their efforts to locate the culprits and secure the premises. Michael is now represented by a blinking red dot on that panic-room display, where at the moment there is no one to see it. Three other signifiers are also blinking. Although Michael would prefer to be an ordinary man, he is unique by any standard, and no return to a normal life is possible for him. He proceeds. The three men are gathered at the kitchen island on which packets of hundred-dollar bills


me, flipping through some old works for inspiration. Heard you’re a fan ☺ My dinner crawls up my throat. I run for the bathroom. It’s nearly half an hour of panicked breathing and mental exercises before I’m near calm enough to approach my phone again. I run some searches on Twitter: “Athena Liu Instagram,” “Athena Instagram,” “Athena Insta,” “Ghost Athena,” and all the other possible queries I can think of. No one’s talking about this yet. The post didn’t have any hashtags or tag any other accounts. What’s more, the account, which once had nearly a million followers, now has zero. The person behind this has either blocked or soft-blocked all of Athena’s followers. The only person seeing this post is me. Whoever this is, they’re not trying to go viral—they just want to get my attention. How is this even possible? Don’t social media companies shut down accounts upon the owner’s death? This is so fucking stupid, but I Google “Athena Liu alive” to make sure she hasn’t, like, resurrected thanks to some medical miracle without my knowing. But that search returns nothing useful; the most “relevant” result is an article about how a recent English department event at Yale was dedicated to keeping Athena’s memory alive. Athena is dead, gone, turned to ash. The only person who’s convinced she’s still around is me. I ought to block the account and forget about this. It’s likely just some troll, posting grotesque things to fuck with me. That’s what Brett and Daniella would say. That’s what Rory would say, if I tried to explain why I’m so upset. A troll is the obvious and rational explanation, and I repeat this over and over in my mind as I inhale and exhale into my fist, since the most annoying symptom of anxiety is refusing to believe the obvious and rational explanation. Don’t give it power, I urge myself. Just let it alone. But I can’t. It’s like a splinter digging into my palm; even if it’s tiny, I still can’t rest easy, knowing that it’s under my skin. I don’t sleep a wink that night. I lie with my phone screen inches from my face, staring with aching eyes at Athena’s forceful, mischievous smile. A memory rises unbidden to my mind’s eye, a memory that I’d hoped I’d drowned out or forgotten: Athena in her black boots and green shawl, sitting in the front row of the audience at Politics and Prose, beaming expectantly at me with bright, painted lips. Athena: inexplicably, impossibly alive. It’s late on a Friday night, so I can’t get Brett or my publicity team on the line for another two days. But what good could they do? It’s hardly a problem from a publicity perspective. Aside from me, who cares about this post? And it’s not like I could explain why the account bothers me so much. Yes, see, the thing is that I did steal The Last Front, and I’m riddled with guilt, so you understand why these posts give me such bad anxiety I want to


while her mother talked with the old gatherer of herbs. At first, as already told, she had flirted fancifully with her own image in a pool of water, beckoning the phantom forth, and--as it declined to venture--seeking a passage for herself into its sphere of impalpable earth and unattainable sky. Soon finding, however, that either she or the image was unreal, she turned elsewhere for better pastime. She made little boats out of birch-bark, and freighted them with snailshells, and sent out more ventures on the mighty deep than any merchant in New England; but the larger part of them foundered near the shore. She seized a live horse-shoe by the tail, and made prize of several five-fingers, and laid out a jelly-fish to melt in the warm sun. Then she took up the white foam that streaked the line of the advancing tide, and threw it upon the breeze, scampering after it with winged footsteps to catch the great snowflakes ere they fell. Perceiving a flock of beach-birds that fed and fluttered along the shore, the naughty child picked up her apron full of pebbles, and, creeping from rock to rock after these small sea-fowl, displayed remarkable dexterity in pelting them. One little gray bird, with a white breast, Pearl was almost sure had been hit by a pebble, and fluttered away with a broken wing. But then the elf-child sighed, and gave up her sport, because it grieved her to have done harm to a little being that was as wild as the sea-breeze, or as wild as Pearl herself. Her final employment was to gather seaweed of various kinds, and make herself a scarf or mantle, and a head-dress, and thus assume the aspect of a little mermaid. She inherited her mother's gift for devising drapery and costume. As the last touch to her mermaid's garb, Pearl took some eel-grass and imitated, as best she could, on her own bosom the decoration with which she was so familiar on her mother's. A letter--the letter A--but freshly green instead of scarlet. The Thesaurus beckoning: (adj) irresistible. grieved: (adj) sore, sad, sorry, streaked: (adj) veined, striped, streaky, declined: (adj) less. sorrowful, upset, woeful, pained, brindled, lined, mottled, virgated, drapery: (n) drape, clothing, dress, affected, brokenhearted. patterned; (v) areolar, cancellated, blind, raiment, costume, toilette, imitated: (adj) mimical. grated. furnishings, trim, guise, toilet. mermaid: (n) siren, Oberon, Mab, unattainable: (adj) impossible, fancifully: (adv) fantasticly, hamadryad, sprite, nymph, nixie, inaccessible, impracticable, fantastically, chimerically, unreally, fairy, imaginary being, imaginary impractical, unapproachable, imaginarily, freakishly, bizarrely, creature, kelpie. unobtainable, out of print, not visionarily, ideally, notionally, pelting: (n) successiveness, possible, unassailable, unavailable, fancily. chronological sequence, unbeatable. ANTONYMS: (adj) freighted: (adj) fraught, filled, chronological succession, hail, rain. vulnerable, accessible, possible, charged; (prep) burdened. scampering: (n) running. attainable, feasible. 170 The Scarlet Letter child bent her chin upon her breast, and contemplated this device with strange interest, even as if the one only thing for which she had been sent into the world was to make out its hidden import.% "I wonder if mother will ask me what it


still fly, if they choose. They have simply chosen to conserve their strength.’ ‘Why did their strength wane?’ ‘If a godsinger does not know the answer to that question, surely no one living does.’ An old boardwalk led into the lake, to the small island at its heart. ‘The gods are benign,’ Emperor Jorodu said as they crossed, ‘but they are not of our world. They prefer not to involve themselves in the politics and conflicts of humankind. Even if they were awake, they could not help us counter a threat like the Kuposa. That is why I needed you.’ ‘Why have you brought me to this lake?’ ‘I brought the elder of your two brothers first. In the Empire of the Twelve Lakes, the Imperial Dragon chose a worthy heir from the House of Lakseng, when she was still awake. Here, the firstborn usually succeeds their parent, but I think the Lacustrine had it right. After all, we are made of water, and there is no better judge of water than a god.’ Dumai stopped when she saw what waited on the island. A large bell, cast in bronze. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘it’s forbidden.’ ‘Not for us. In fact, there is a way for us to wake them all, if Seiiki ever had great need. You lived beneath it your whole life.’ ‘The Queen Bell.’ ‘Yes. If the Queen Bell rings, there are people across Seiiki who will strike all the others.’ Her father laid a hand on the bronze. ‘It has been centuries since a dragon was born in Seiiki. The last one to hatch – Furtia Stormcaller – chose to withdraw into this lake.’ ‘Did you wake this dragon when you brought the Crown Prince here?’ ‘Yes. I wanted to see what she made of him.’ ‘What did she say?’ ‘That his light was faded. I assume that she could sense the sickness that would kill him. Now I would like to see what Furtia Stormcaller makes of the child I found on the mountain.’ He nodded to Epabo, who struck the bell. Its call was clean and richly deep; the night seemed to resound with it. The lake bubbled. Dumai watched, certain she was in a dream. First came the pale shine of the crest, spreading through the water; next, the giant horns, the wild eyes and the snout. A shimmering river of black scales followed, and then the mane, like thundercloud. Dumai slid to her knees. She heard her own blood in her ears, her shuddering breaths that verged on laughter. Her father came to kneel at her side. ‘Son of the Rainbow,’ Furtia Stormcaller said, cold and sonorous. ‘How long has it been?’ Dumai tried to catch her breath, tears soaking her face. The dragon sounded like the bell. ‘Eighteen seasons, great Furtia.’ Emperor Jorodu signed with both hands as he spoke, for dragons heard on land as humans did in water. ‘I trust your sleep has been peaceful.’ ‘Do you wake me now to hold the fire at bay?’ Emperor Jorodu faltered. ‘I see no


that it might not escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her friend. When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once, while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable. The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said. The executioner's argument was, that you couldn't cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn't going to begin at HIS time of life. The King's argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren't to talk nonsense. The Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about it in less than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) Alice could think of nothing else to say but `It belongs to the Duchess: you'd better ask HER about it.' `She's in prison,' the Queen said to the executioner: `fetch her here.' And the executioner went off like an arrow. The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Dutchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX The Mock Turtle's Story `You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!' said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. `When I'M a Duchess,' she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), `I won't have any pepper in my kitchen AT ALL. Soup does very well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,' she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, `and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you know--' She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. `You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall


His face remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment! A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while the instructress raised her arms above her head and--one could not say file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (22 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency--bent over and tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes. 'THERE, comrades! THAT'S how I want to see you doing it. Watch me again. I'm thirty-nine and I've had four children. Now look.' She bent over again. 'You see MY knees aren't bent. You can all do it if you want to,' she added as she straightened herself up. 'Anyone under forty-five is perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don't all have the privilege of fighting in the front line, but at least we can all keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what THEY have to put up with. Now try again. That's better, comrade, that's MUCH better,' she added encouragingly as Winston, with a violent lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with knees unbent, for the first time in several years. Chapter 4 With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day's work started, Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk. In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston's arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building. Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled. Each contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated jargon--not actually Newspeak, but consisting largely of Newspeak words--which was used in the Ministry for internal purposes. They ran: times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported africa rectify times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify current issue times 14.2.84 miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling With a faint feeling of satisfaction


I want to air-fry myself out of this plane of existence the second it’s out of my mouth, but Jack’s not listening. His eyes move rapidly all over my body, like I haven’t been almost naked in front of him for the past ten minutes. “You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs. “You said you don’t care. That you barely notice. That there are lots of beautiful women.” “I don’t know.” He’s usually so confident, but right now he sounds as disoriented as I feel. “With you, I notice.” He nips wet kisses down my jaw. “You think you can come again?” Impossible to tell. I haven’t come with another person before, and an improvement rate of 200 percent seems steep, but maybe? I’d rather be present for this, though. Study him. Know what Jack looks like when he’s not fully in control. “I think I don’t want to.” He nods, and what happens next is not really for me. He steps between my thighs and angles the underside of his cock so that it hits my clit. It has us both gasping, but it’s about what he wants. As is the way he slots the head against my opening, and the long moment he leaves it there, grunting, a turning point in the multiverse, where two futures exist: one in which he pushes in and fucks me, the other in which he follows those inflexible rules of his. Unfortunately, Jack Smith-Turner is a stickler. It occurs to me that I could be doing this for him. I could be more than just a warm body and slender arms looped around his neck. “Should I—” “Not tonight.” His movements are picking up, knuckles brushing rhythmically against my slit. “I just want to look at you. Know you’re here.” He uses my slick to make himself wet, hard, fast pulls, and after just a handful of seconds I see the tension in his arms, the muted tremors in his fingers, how close he already is. “Shit, Elsie.” His voice is urgent. A little desperate. His forehead presses against mine. “There were days, these last few months, when you were all I could think about. Even if I didn’t really want to.” Then a choked “Fuck” that feels like a rush of breath against my lips, and I know he’s there. I think he’ll finish with a growl, make a mess out of me, maybe admire his handiwork, but that’s not what happens at all. Instead he pulls back so that his eyes can hold my own till the very last moment, glassy and nearly all black. His free hand searches blindly, frantically. It grabs mine when he finds it, twining our fingers together in a tight grip, and that’s when I know. When I realize deep in my belly that for Jack this is not about friction or about fucking. It’s not even about coming, or about anything else I might have stupidly suspected. This is about him and me. And the possibility of something that goes far


Then she asks, “Shall we continue?” I take a breath. “Rice-and-salt days are the most important years in a woman’s life. They are when I will be busy with wife and mother duties—” “As I am now.” Respectful Lady gracefully tips her head, setting the gold and jade ornaments that hang from her bun to tinkle softly. How pale she is, how elegant. “Each day should begin early. I rise before dawn, cleanse my face, rinse my mouth with fragrant tea, attend to my feet, and fix my hair and makeup. Then I go to the kitchen to make sure the servants have lit the fire and begun the morning meal.” She releases my hand and sighs, as though exhausted by the effort of getting so many words to leave her mouth. She takes a deep breath before continuing. “Memorizing these responsibilities is central to your education, but you can also learn by observing as I supervise the chores that must be done each day: bringing in fuel and water, sending a big-footed servant girl to the market, making sure clothes—including those of Miss Zhao—are washed, and so many other things that are essential to managing a household. Now, what else?” She’s been teaching me like this for four years already, and I know the answer she likes me to give. “Learning to embroider, play the zither, and memorize sayings from Analects for Women—” “And other texts too, so that by the time you go to your husband’s home, you will have an understanding of all you must do and all you must avoid.” She shifts on her stool. “Eventually, you will reach the time of sitting quietly. Do you know what this means?” Maybe it’s because I’m feeling physical pain, but the thought of the sadness and loneliness of sitting quietly causes tears to well in my eyes. “This will come when I can no longer bring children into the world—” “And extends into widowhood. You will be the one who has not died, waiting for death to reunite you with your husband. This is—” A maid arrives with a tray of snacks, so my mother and I can continue our studies through lunch without a break. Two hours later, Respectful Lady asks me to repeat the rules we’ve covered. “When walking, don’t turn my head,” I recite without protest. “When talking, don’t open my mouth wide. When standing, don’t rustle my skirts. When happy, don’t rejoice with loud laughter. When angry, never raise my voice. I will bury all desire to venture beyond the inner chambers. Those rooms are for women alone.” “Very good,” Respectful Lady praises me. “Always remember your place in the world. If you follow these rules, you will establish yourself as a true and proper human being.” She closes her eyes. She’s hurting too. Only she’s too much of a lady to speak of it. A squeal from my little brother interrupts our shared moment. Yifeng runs across the courtyard. His mother, Miss Zhao—free of her performing duties—glides behind him. Her feet are also bound, and


into your head and then worrying about regrets in the morning. By the way…I feel bad about yelling at you. I know you’re not my maid, or my chauffeur. I was angry. And dumb. Very dumb. Sorry.” “Good night, Tristán,” she said, and he felt her fingertips against his forehead for a second, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “Yolanda said we had a codependent relationship. I think she got that from one of those self-help books she loves to read. But I like to think we have a partnership. “I feel so alone sometimes, you have no idea. And the loneliness seems to seep into my bones and I get scared because I feel numb. Not depressed or upset: I’m a blank tape. Like someone dragged a magnet against the tape inside my brain and erased all the information. There’s nothing left to feel. I felt it all and I’ll never feel anything new again and I’ll always be alone. “But when we are together, it’s like when you explained about control tracks. Every videotape has this track that allows it to calibrate properly and ensures it plays back at the right speed. Only sometimes you need to adjust the dial to align it. That’s you and me. You’re this dial, that when it’s turned properly it makes the picture clearer, better. Everything is suddenly in perfect unison and I’m not empty. Do you understand?” There was silence. She had left. Not that he had expected her to stay, or his speech to be anything but a monologue meant for himself. “Momo,” he muttered. When he woke up it was still dark. He rubbed his eyes and made his way to the bathroom. He stubbed his toe against a table in the hallway before stumbling forward and into the bathroom, where he slapped his palm against the wall until he landed on the light switch. The bathroom lights turned on, making him blink in discomfort. The tap was dripping again. He’d have to call the plumber. He peed, then sleepily thrust his hands under the faucet and closed it with a sigh. He left the lights on and the bathroom door open to help guide himself to his bed and avoid crashing into another piece of furniture. As he walked back toward his room, he saw a figure standing in the hallway. The apartment was in semi-darkness, and he was still half asleep, but even in that twilight space he could tell it was a woman. He couldn’t see her clearly, though, because of the angle at which she was standing; her back was to him, and her clothes were dark. She looked like a black smudge against gray paper. “Momo. You stayed?” He took a couple of steps toward her. The woman’s shoulders were slouched, and she was pressing her hands against her face, as if sobbing or hiding from him. The woman shivered. There was something about her posture that didn’t correspond to Montserrat. There was something wrong, very wrong, about her. In the bathroom, the


graven; (prep) ANTONYMS: (adj) undistinguished, Endecott, Endecott insculptured; (v) fixed, imprinted obscure, low, unremarkable, endowed: (adj) gifted, clever, cute, engrossed: (adj) rapt, engaged, intent, 280 The Scarlet Letter occupied, preoccupied, busy, request, conjure, crave, bid. letters, edification, reading, fascinated, obsessed, thoughtful, ANTONYMS: (v) demand, reject learnedness, culture, lore, hooked; (adj, v) immersed. entreaty: (n) plea, prayer, request, eruditeness; (n, v) knowledge; (adj, ANTONYMS: (adj) disinterested, petition, adjuration, supplication, n) wisdom. ANTONYM: (n) bored, distracted, indifferent, suit, demand, desire, invocation; (v) simplicity unconcerned, uninterested, solicitation escaping: (n) evasion, getaway, inattentive, carefree enumerated: (adj) detailed break, breakout, running away, enigma: (adj, n) mystery, riddle; (n) envelop: (v) fold, enfold, encase, running off, run-around; (adj) puzzle, secret, perplexity, poser, enclose, wrap, encircle, conceal, fugitive question, problem, closed book, nut embrace, beset, hide; (n) envelope. escort: (n, v) chaperon, attend, to crack, logogriph. ANTONYMS: ANTONYMS: (v) reveal, release, convoy, guard, guide, conduct, date; (n) clearness, explanation open, unwrap, expose (v) accompany, see; (n) suite, enjoin: (v) command, dictate, direct, enveloped: (adj) convoluted, attendant. ANTONYMS: (v) instruct, tell, charge, require, forbid, enclosed, cover, bounded, abandon, desert, leave, follow disallow, impose, order. Byzantine, clothed, involved, misty, escutcheon: (n) buckler, shield, ANTONYMS: (v) acquiesce, yield, swallowed, vestured, emotionally esquire, protection, plate, arms, a submit, permit, request, let, comply, involved shield, cover plate, escocheon, finger agree, allow, obey enveloping: (n) envelopment, plate enjoined: (adj) lawful enclosure, boxing, enclosing, esoteric: (adj) cryptic, esoterics, enlarged: (adj) inflated, magnified, encasement; (prep) about; (adj) abstruse, arcane, secret, mysterious, extended, expanded, puffy, comprehensive, roundabout, obscure, inner, dark, confidential, increased, augmented, amplified, circuitous. ANTONYM: (adj) mystic. ANTONYMS: (adj) distended, wide, swollen. contained understandable, simple, public, ANTONYM: (adj) atrophied epoch: (n) era, date, period, day, plain, obvious, mainstream, enlivened: (adj) bouncy, active, season, time, term, cycle, crisis, date familiar, known, accessible spirited, alive, bouncing of reference, times especial: (adj) extraordinary, special, enlivening: (adj) cheerful, bracing, erase: (v) delete, efface, blot out, specific, chief, individual, distinct, genial, refreshing, invigorating, obliterate, wipe out, expunge, distinctive, characteristic, thrilling, revitalizing, reviving, annihilate, eradicate, clear, rub out, appropriate, peculiar, express. stimulating, pleasant, vitalizing eliminate. ANTONYMS: (v) restore, ANTONYMS: (adj) general, normal, enmity: (n, v) animosity; (n) record, add, acknowledge common, unexceptional, usual antagonism, animus, hostility, erect: (adj) upright, vertical, esteem: (n) deference, admiration; (n, aggression, rancor, ill will, straightforward; (v) build, raise, v) respect, value, consideration, antipathy, hatred, war, dislike. rear, construct, assemble, lift, put account; (v) appreciate, deem, adore, ANTONYMS: (n) friendship, up, put together. ANTONYMS: (v) admire, count. ANTONYMS: (v) friendliness, affinity, love, kindness, dismantle, wreck, topple, level, scorn, hate, disdain, insult, despise, affection, adoration, amity, demolish, destroy; (adj) prostrate, abominate, abhor, dislike, reject; (n) cooperation, goodwill drooping, prone, flaccid, flat disesteem, disapproval enshrined: (adj) hallowed erie: (n) Lake Erie esteemed: (adj) dear, reputable, ensue: (v) come, arise, happen, result, errand: (n) chore, mission, job, task, respected, honorable, noble, succeed, occur, transpire, turn out, assignment, embassy, duty, charge, honored, prestigious, important, befall, come after, stem. messenger, communication, work distinguished, August, respect. ANTONYMS: (v) forerun, preface, erratic: (adj) capricious, irregular, ANTONYM: (adj) disreputable antecede, dwindle, recede eccentric, freakish, broken, estimation: (n)


add me to your patient portal, just so I can check the results as soon as they come in?” My dad coughs and my mom presses her lips together, staring pointedly at the ceiling. Oh. Maybe I’ve crossed some sort of boundary I wasn’t aware of? They’re pretty decent with technology, given their age, but surely it wouldn’t hurt for me to get more involved. Especially now that I’m back. “We’ve been meaning to talk to you about this,” my dad says. “Your mom and I . . . well, we know we’re no spring chickens.” My mom gives her hair a toss. “Speak for yourself,” she says. “What we want to say is that we don’t need you to bend over backward to help us. We got by just fine the past couple months when you were out of town.” I swallow hard. I wasn’t prepared to hear that—that they hadn’t needed me. “I was worried, though.” “We know you worry because you care,” my dad says. “But it’s just too much. We know you asked Noemie to check in on us a few times, and at a certain point, it felt a little like having a babysitter.” I wince. That wasn’t what I’d wanted at all. “I’m so sorry. I guess I didn’t exactly know what to do.” “I know there will come a time when we want your help,” my dad says. “When we need it. It might be tomorrow, but it also might be years from now.” My mom pats my knee. “We’re just not quite ready to let you parent us yet.” As we finish breakfast, something hits me with a striking clarity. I wonder if I haven’t only been using ghostwriting as a crutch, like Finn said. How many jobs did I never apply for because they’d have meant leaving Seattle? How many opportunities did I miss out on because I was so intent on holding myself back? I’ve been so worried about people not needing me anymore that I tethered myself to them so tightly, I could hardly untie the knots. I thought this place and these people were my whole world, and while I don’t love them any less than I did before I took this assignment, the truth is that my world is larger than that. Again and again, I fell for new cities and new experiences—and most of all, the version of myself who could step outside her comfort zone. Because the Chandler from back in September wouldn’t be able to read a text from Wyatt, after weeks and weeks of silence, inviting me to a holiday party he’s throwing later this month, and simply type, Sorry, can’t make it! before deleting the entire thread. * * * I’m avoiding the book. It’s due in three days, and I’m avoiding it. I’ve finished watching The Nocturnals because that was easier than opening up the memoir, than confronting the end of this job and the start of something I haven’t put a name to yet. I even went to a reverse running class


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

slap the table. “Why do you always intentionally miss my point!” “The point is that this is going to end in disaster.” “I really don’t think so. This is purely sexual. It’s not like he and I are going to fall in love. I am a loud, romance-writing, adventure-seeking, opinionated woman. And he is a tall, sporty white man named Connor Prince III. I think we can all agree it’s just a matter of time before I do something too shocking, or he’ll do something to annoy and/or bore me.” My phone buzzes on the table between us. Connor’s face lights up the screen and Jess sees it before I can flip it over and pretend it’s my brother calling. “You even put his picture in his contact info?” Her disgust is totally feigned. Under that baggy sweatshirt and sensible shoes, Jess is a giant drama queen. She is living for this excitement. With a bright smile, I answer. “Hey, boss!” “Hey, you. You have a few minutes for a postmortem?” “That depends. Am I the dead body?” Across from me, Jess gives me a disapproving frown. I tap my forehead to remind her that face will give her wrinkles. I’m such a good friend and she never thanks me for these things. Connor’s laugh is a low vibrating tickle to my lady parts. “It’s just a saying, Fizzy.” I hit Mute and whisper to Jess: “His voice is so deep. Did I always know his voice was this deep?” Returning to the call, I say, “I know, I’m only joking. Yes, I am free to examine a proverbial dead body.” He laughs again. “Cool. You home? I can come to you.” “I can be home in ten.” With a quiet “Great,” he hangs up. And shit. If we eliminate the possibility that I am excited to see Connor, there is no remaining explanation for the way I bolt up to gather my things. Jess follows me to the door. “What are you doing?” “He’s meeting me at my house to do a debrief.” I tuck my phone into my purse. “Is that a good idea?” “Is it a good idea to discuss the work we are doing together?” I pretend to ponder it. “I think so.” “Discussing it at your house,” she says. I open the door, stepping into my shoes. “Guess we’ll find out.” When her frown intensifies, I add, “Fine. I promise we’ll stay out of the bedroom.” “As if you need a bedroom,” she says. I pause with my hand on the knob. “That is a great point. Okay, gotta go!” “Wrist diameter!” she calls to me as I jog down the stairs. “I don’t need to walk tomorrow!” “How’s the writing going, Felicity?” “This is research!” I call back. I can practically hear her aggrieved groan as she waves from the front door. twenty-seven FIZZY Connor beats me to my place and is waiting on the porch, one broad shoulder leaning against the column at the top of the steps. He’s changed from the nice dress pants


in my car. I pat at my hair, try to flatten it, but there’s no use. Giving up, I slip back to the waiting area. By the time the ponytail mechanic returns, I am weaker, sicker, colder. My throat feels like it’s closing, and my sinuses are throbbing. “Your window’s fixed,” he says, dropping my keys on the countertop. “Great.” As I walk toward him, the floor tilts under my feet. Luckily, I reach the counter before I stumble. “You okay?” But he doesn’t care about me. A woman collapsing in his lobby will be bad for business. “Yeah. Fine.” He punches the buttons on an outdated cash register and gives me my total. I reach into the pocket of my cardigan for my pay packet and withdraw the cash. I count it out with shaky hands. The man recounts it quickly, then scoops it into the till. I put the few remaining bills back in my pocket, thank him, and leave. My car is secure now. I can park anywhere and be safe. In this largely industrial area, I’ll be able to find a side street where I can rest, undisturbed. I should find some soup and then go to sleep. I have to work tomorrow. I can’t afford to miss a shift. Turning the key, I pull out of the parking lot but pause as I get to the street. I think about that hand punching through the window, clutching my wrist, stealing my purse. I look at the scratches on my arm, still puffy and red. And then I think about Hazel. I head toward the northbound interstate. 9 THEY SAY A RESTAURANT IS like a baby. It demands your constant attention, occupies your mind when you’re away from it, and even in the worst moments, when you want to cry with exhaustion and frustration, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. That’s how I felt about the Aviary. It was more than a business. It was my passion, my true love, my social life, my family. Old friendships faded away, suffering from neglect and scheduling difficulties. As the boss, I should have kept myself aloof, removed from the rest of my team but at the end of each night, we’d eat dinner, drink tequila, and play cards. Like a party. Like a family. Often, I wouldn’t get home until 3:00, even 4:00 a.m. Sometimes I wouldn’t go home alone. It wasn’t a healthy existence, but god… it was so much fun. These were the people I worried about when I vanished, when I locked the door and walked away. I put together food kits for the staff, divvying up the rice and flour and beans, the cheese and butter and chocolate. In the office, I left an expensive bottle of red for my manager. My sous chef received his favorite tequila. Each item was tagged with a note: With gratitude, Lee And then I vanished, before Damon could break my hand. The Aviary was my identity as much as my business. I was the restaurant, and it was


world.” “Are you?” His eyes slide to mine. “Must be nice.” He’s still half smiling, like this is making his Saturday night. “Well, you know, it’s hard work. Lots of cheese sharing. And I did just take her to watch 2001, which she loved.” “Oh my God!” The Most Beautiful Woman in the World is delighted. “We were in there, too.” “Stunning, right?” “A masterpiece. Despite Jack’s commentary on the predictability of the ‘evil space Siri’s’ arc.” He lifts one eyebrow. “I got bored.” “You always get bored at the movies.” She presses her shoulder against his. “I have to confiscate his phone and poke him awake.” “Because you always take me to see boring movies.” She pinches his arm through the coat. “If it were up to you, we’d only watch Jackass.” “It was once.” “Once too many.” He shrugs, unbothered. I cannot stop looking at the two of them framed by the snowflakes. The easy banter. Jack’s obvious affection. The woman’s fingers, still around his sleeve. Something slimy and cold presses behind my sternum. “So,” Cece butts in, “how do you guys know Elsie?” “I don’t, actually,” the woman says with a curious look at Jack. “How do you know Elsie, Jack?” His eyes are fixed on me again. “She dated my brother. Among . . . other things.” The atmosphere changes instantly. The air was already icy, dense with the promise of snowstorms, but the temperature drops colder as people parse the meaning of Jack’s words. First there’s Cece, who knows that I don’t date, not for real, and is putting together where she last heard the name Jack. She scowls and takes a protective step closer, ready to defend me against my most recent archenemy, kitten-hissing-at-a-bison style. And then there’s the woman. Her expression morphs, too, into something knowing and intrigued. “You’re Greg’s girlfriend. That Elsie.” She looks between me and Jack once, twice, and then holds her hand out to me. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m George.” My brain halts. “Well, Georgina. Sepulveda. But please, call me George.” Her smile is warm and welcoming, as though I’m a dear friend of Jack’s whom she’s been dying to meet. “Georgina Sepulveda,” I mouth, barely audible. The name unlocks a drawer in my brain, full of scientific papers, TED Talks, conference addresses. Georgina Sepulveda, young physics hotshot. I’m a fan of her work. She doesn’t look familiar—she is. “Yup, that’s me.” Her hand is still outstretched. I should take it. “I work with Jack.” “George,” Jack warns. “Okay, technically not yet. But I’ll start at MIT next year. What? Come on, Jack. I got the formal offer, sent back the signed contract this morning. I can tell people.” She gives me a conspiratorial look. My stomach churns. “You’re a librarian, right? I love libraries.” Next to me, Cece sucks in a breath. Meanwhile, I nod. It must be an automatic reaction, because all my neural cells are busy, sluggishly processing what I just heard. Georgina. George. MIT. Formal offer. No. No,


skipped. Subpoenas will be flouted. Spending reviews will be disregarded. And the situation could get much worse. What happens if the president decides not to answer legislative inquiries about a looming economic depression or a national security crisis? Can Congress function if it’s in the dark? Can it force an unwilling president to comply? What happens if an unstable president decides to ignore the law altogether? Political “instruction” will be used to keep GOP lawmakers under the president’s sway. Congress and the president have a relationship of “opposite and rival” political branches, in James Madison’s words. Every president tries to keep their party members in line in the legislature—to “instruct” them on how to vote and what policy positions to take. But during the Trump years, “instruction” looked more like “threatening.” “I don’t use the word ‘frightening’ very often, but it really did frighten me,” recalled Scott Rigell, a former Republican congressman from Virginia. Rigell said his House colleagues were consumed with Trumpism, whether they were true believers or just afraid to go against the movement. When he decided not to endorse the New York businessman’s candidacy in 2016, Rigell was ostracized. Republican Party officials in Virginia prepared to kick him out of the GOP, and House colleagues stopped associating with him. “I’ve never seen that cult worship in America,” he told me. Former Republican congressman Denver Riggleman had the same experience. As noted earlier, he was sidelined in the House GOP for taking a rare vote against the administration. “I remember someone came up to me and said, ‘You’ve pissed off the big man. You’ve really gotta back off,’ ” he recalled. “My reaction was, ‘Fuck off. I [used to] kill terrorists. Get out of my face.’ ” Although many Republicans in the House shared his views of the MAGA movement, they held their tongues. “Half of them agreed with me,” he said, “but there was no way they were going to go against the polls and fundraising.” The Next Trump won’t have to worry about internal dissenters. Moderate Republicans have been abandoning the party in droves since the MAGA wing took control. I remember when Paul Ryan was Speaker of the House, he spent hours every week trying to convince rational Republicans not to retire, bringing them into his office to persuade them to stay for “just one more term.” The blood loss was severe. Of the 293 Republicans who were serving in the Senate or House when Donald Trump was inaugurated, close to half were gone four years later. Some lost their races. But most of the turnover was from members of Congress who voluntarily retired, especially moderates fed up with the GOP’s direction. Data from FiveThirtyEight shows their replacements tended to be further to the right politically. Charlie Dent was one of them. The Pennsylvania representative had served a dozen years in Congress and was ranked by the National Journal as one of the chamber’s most moderate Republicans. By 2018, he didn’t see a role for centrist conservatives like him in Trump’s Washington. He quit the House in


you’d hate it. Yes, you. Not me. You. Because you’re a private person and I know you’ve walked red carpets a few times, but I don’t think you’re used to being ambushed in normal life like I am.” In front of us, the ocean appeared again, turquoise beneath a cornflower sky, and the beauty of the view was an unpleasant contrast to the disagreeable energy inside the car. At least sixty seconds had passed when, taking pains to keep my tone matter-of-fact rather than resentful, I said, “There’s nothing you promised me. I’m complicit in how undefined whatever we’re doing is. I admit that. And I believe you genuinely like me, or at least you genuinely like me enough to be your secret pandemic hookup. But I don’t think I have a low enough opinion of myself to be your secret pandemic hookup.” “Wow,” he said. “I don’t even know where to start. The fact that you could think any of that is so off base that it makes me wonder if we’ve been having completely different experiences the whole time you’ve been here. I thought we were having a great time.” “Secret pandemic hookups and having a great time aren’t mutually exclusive.” While looking straight ahead, he pulled the car over to a parking lane abutting a dusty upward slope dotted with sage scrub. He moved the gear shift into park before facing me, his expression bewildered and displeased. “Do you remember when I told you I was attracted to you from the moment you started talking at the pitch meeting in Nigel’s office?” “Yes.” “Part of the reason was that you seemed so confident, like one of the most confident women I’d ever met. One of the most confident people. You had very clear ideas for your sketches, and it was obvious that you knew you could will them into being. And you talked in this way where it seemed like you were planning to be polite and professional with me, but you assumed I wasn’t very bright, and you were prepared to overcome my lack of intelligence. I’ve worked with tons of creative people, tons of talented people, but there was something so refreshing about you, something so cool, where you just really knew who you were and how to get shit done. I had this overwhelming feeling of I want to know her. I want to be around her. Then in your office, you were incredibly kind and supportive. You’ve probably told me seven times, starting that night, what an asshole you are, but you almost never are. Or when you are, it seems like some kind of bluster. It doesn’t seem like who you really are.” I was fascinated, silenced, and unsure where this was going. On the other side of the windshield, a big white bird I couldn’t identify swooped down and then up again. Noah exhaled deeply. “You and I hung out in person that week at TNO and it was fun and great. Even after things went off the rails at the bar, I


him?” Gabriel said. He was buttering his bread, not looking up at her. He feels vulnerable with me too, Maud thought. “Worse than that,” she said. “I don’t care. It’s as if when I had Ella, I grew a new heart, which got bigger with Louise. But the heart that loved Peter shrank to a pit.” “I thought mine was a pit too,” Gabriel said. His eyes lifted from the bread plate and met hers squarely. “I think about you a lot,” he said. “I think about you too,” Maud said. The waiter set down their entrées, a welcome distraction from the heat consuming her face. Gabriel’s mountain of french fries rose above a massive island of steak, and she regretted her Niçoise salad. Her appetite had returned. Gabriel always made her feel better. Simply being with him made her feel better. He cut off a piece of steak and chewed it reflectively. “Ella doesn’t like me, does she? I can tell.” “I wouldn’t say that,” Maud said. “She’s not in a receptive phase.” She hesitated. “But maybe no more presents.” “She’s not into bubbles.” “It was such a nice thing to do,” she said. “But she needs space from everyone right now. Especially me. Try to relax. Let her come to you. Be yourself but keep your distance.” “Be myself? A single man who has no idea how to talk to children?” “You were a teenager once.” “I was cutting school and smoking weed at her age.” “Okay, don’t remember that.” She laughed. “I need to chill out too. Let’s do dinner together every few nights. Let things evolve naturally.” “Like they have with us,” Gabriel said. “Sort of. Yes.” “But you and I don’t play games,” he said, pointing his knife at her. “And here you’re telling me to play hard to get.” Maud stole a french fry from his plate. “As Ella is quick to point out,” she said, “parents are major hypocrites.” 5 With the laying of this last path, the garden was done. Maud dropped her shovel and walked backward to see. Since planting the final bed of lupine and roses, she and Chris had been emptying wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of gravel and raking it into a smooth, glistering maze that slipped past one bed to another: irises to coneflowers, primroses to violets. Sweet potato vines spilled from the cast-iron urns under a conflagration of begonias. With its swirls and splashes of color, the garden was more like a brilliant, bold archipelago than the carpet Downing had described. “What do you think?” she asked Chris. Side by side, they’d backtracked halfway to the mansion. “It’s the prettiest thing I ever seen.” He’d taken off his baseball cap, and his forehead sparkled with sweat. Both of them were drenched, the backs of their T-shirts sticking in the high heat. Bare-handed, not stopping for water, they’d shoveled gravel and raked without pause for the past three hours. “We did it,” Maud said. “Now we get to watch it grow.” “And water it and weed it.” “Yes, that too.” Gabriel


the Government, but no one ever believes me. From a young age we’re told office jobs are the goal. Then you sit at a desk hunched over 9–5, 5 days a week for most of your younger years until it’s too late to do anything else but get a “helpful” chair. LG: Why would the government want a nation suffering from back pain? CC: So we don’t take over. I call James that evening, but typically he doesn’t answer and instead calls back hours later. I have to turn the light on as he switches on the video camera. I can see he’s in his car. “Hey, Mads!” He’s got plaits in his hair now and they’re long enough to lie down instead of stick up. When he smiles, his gold tooth glints. Growing up, James and I were always told that we had great smiles—smiles that show perfect teeth and soften our faces. It’s one of the few things we both inherited from Dad. “Dad asleep?” James asks. “Yes, which is why I called,” I tell him. “I could use some help with that. My back hurts from lifting Dad from his seat and into bed. Can you do one of my nights each week maybe?” James scratches what I know to be a phantom itch on the back of his head. “Ah, I can’t really come all the way from Putney just to put Dad to bed, Mads,” he says. “And you know my work schedule is unreliable. It’s not fair to promise you a day and then not come because I gotta be somewhere else last minute.” James’s friend hit the rap-and-grime music scene hard and made it big (I’m talking MOBO and BRIT Awards), so he’s part of that team—chauffeur at times, social media manager, tour companion. Mum jokes he’s a glorified hype man, only there to boost an ego. I think he’s hoping to one day join the music scene himself. “Right.” “Anything else I can help with, though?” he asks. “The council tax bill has come in.” He sighs and scratches the beard growing on his neck. “Sorry, Mads. I’mma bit short on extra money, but remind me next month, yeah?” “Sure … but you’ve been saying that for a couple of months now.” “I know, I know,” he replies, looking away. “Things are just a little tight at the moment. You know I just got back from Japan.” Do you hear yourself? That’s what I want to ask, but instead I mouth: Must be nice. Then say, “Shouldn’t the flight have been paid for since it’s your job?” “Yeah, it was, but I spent too much. I wish I was good with money like you.” “I don’t really have much choice.” I keep my tone light, but I’m not happy. Not so much at the empty money promises, but because I’m reminded he can get away with it. If he says he has no money, short of stealing from his wallet, I have to accept that. He knows I’ll pay the council tax because I’m


the crater. Because the atmosphere was so thin and because there was no moon, nightfall was very rapid and it was by now very dark. Because of this, Arthur practically walked into the old man before he noticed him. ================================================================= Chapter 22 He was standing with his back to Arthur watching the very last glimmers of light sink into blackness behind the horizon. He was tallish, elderly and dressed in a single long grey robe. When he turned his face was thin and distinguished, careworn but not unkind, the sort of face you would happily bank with. But he didn't turn yet, not even to react to Arthur's yelp of surprise. Eventually the last rays of the sun had vanished completely, and he turned. His face was still illuminated from somewhere, and when Arthur looked for the source of the light he saw that a few yards away stood a small craft of some kind - a small hovercraft, Arthur guessed. It shed a dim pool of light around it. The man looked at Arthur, sadly it seemed. "You choose a cold night to visit our dead planet," he said. "Who ... who are you?" stammered Arthur. The man looked away. Again a kind of sadness seemed to cross his face. "My name is not important," he said. He seemed to have something on his mind. Conversation was clearly something he felt he didn't have to rush at. Arthur felt awkward. "I ... er ... you startled me ..." he said, lamely. The man looked round to him again and slightly raised his eyebrows. "Hmmmm?" he said. "I said you startled me." "Do not be alarmed, I will not harm you." Arthur frowned at him. "But you shot at us! There were missiles ..." he said. The man chuckled slightly. "An automatic system," he said and gave a small sigh. "Ancient computers ranged in the bowels of the planet tick away the dark millennia, and the ages hang heavy on their dusty data banks. I think they take the occasional pot shot to relieve the monotony." He looked gravely at Arthur and said, "I'm a great fan of science you know." "Oh ... er, really?" said Arthur, who was beginning to find the man's curious, kindly manner disconcerting. "Oh, yes," said the old man, and simply stopped talking again. "Ah," said Arthur, "er ..." He had an odd felling of being like a man in the act of adultery who is surprised when the woman's husband wanders into the room, changes his trousers, passes a few idle remarks about the weather and leaves again. "You seem ill at ease," said the old man with polite concern. "Er, no ... well, yes. Actually you see, we weren't really expecting to find anybody about in fact. I sort of gathered that you were all dead or something ..." "Dead?" said the old man. "Good gracious no, we have but slept." "Slept?" said Arthur incredulously. "Yes, through the economic recession you see," said the old man, apparently unconcerned about whether Arthur understood a word he


and backed water. The galley slowed. Another shout. The oars slid back inside the hull. As they thumped against the dock, Tyroshi seamen leapt down to tie up. Moreo came bustling up, all smiles. "King's Landing, my lady, as you did command, and never has a ship made a swifter or surer passage. Will you be needing assistance to carry your things to the castle?" "We shall not be going to the castle. Perhaps you can suggest an inn, someplace clean and comfortable and not too far from the river." The Tyroshi fingered his forked green beard. "Just so. I know of several establishments that might suit your needs. Yet first, if I may be so bold, there is the matter of the second half of the payment we agreed upon. And of course the extra silver you were so kind as to promise. Sixty stags, I believe it was." "For the oarmen," Catelyn reminded him. "Oh, of a certainty," said Moreo. "Though perhaps I should hold it for them until we return to Tyrosh. For the sake of their wives and children. If you give them the silver here, my lady, they will dice it away or spend it all for a night's pleasure." "There are worse things to spend money on," Ser Rodrik put in. "Winter is coming." "A man must make his own choices," Catelyn said. "They earned the silver. How they spend it is no concern of mine." "As you say, my lady," Moreo replied, bowing and smiling. Just to be sure, Catelyn paid the oarmen herself, a stag to each man, and a copper to the two men who carried their chests halfway up Visenya's hill to the inn that Moreo had suggested. It was a rambling old place on Eel Alley. The woman who owned it was a sour crone with a wandering eye who looked them over suspiciously and bit the coin that Catelyn offered her to make sure it was real. Her rooms were large and airy, though, and Moreo swore that her fish stew was the most savory in all the Seven Kingdoms. Best of all, she had no interest in their names. "I think it best if you stay away from the common room," Ser Rodrik said, after they had settled in. "Even in a place like this, one never knows who may be watching." He wore ringmail, dagger, and longsword under a dark cloak with a hood he could pull up over his head. "I will be back before nightfall, with Ser Aron," he promised. "Rest now, my lady." Catelyn was tired. The voyage had been long and fatiguing, and she was no longer as young as she had been. Her windows opened on the alley and rooftops, with a view of the Blackwater beyond. She watched Ser Rodrik set off, striding briskly through the busy streets until he was 152 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN lost in the crowds, then decided to take his advice. The bedding was stuffed with straw instead of feathers, but she had no trouble falling asleep. She


an old dog, he shakes himself to cast off the stupefaction that has overcome him. He raises his eyes from the money and regards his homeys. Gathered before him, they are familiar yet mysterious in some way he can’t explain. “Hakeem, Carlisle, go round the far end, block that big open door. You’re in position, signal with a flashlight. Jason, Kuba, and me—we come in from this end, clear the place. Nina shows with her trey eight, don’t take no shit. Try just to cap the bitch’s knees. Leave the face shot for me. I done earned it.” WHIRLED IN A VORTEX Michael is guided by the stylized compass glowing in the upper right-hand corner of his field of vision, in a manner similar to the way that battle data is projected onto the windshield of a fighter jet. He hurries through phalanxes of death-smitten trees that stand like faceless totems of some race long extinct. The ground is muddy here where grass has failed, sucking at his shoes as if the earth itself is sentient and malevolent and wishes to pull him deep underground and entomb him among the rotting roots that once conveyed sustenance to the countless limbs of the orchard. As he passes between two haggard trees and into yet another harvesting alley, he nearly collides with a fast-moving figure so poorly revealed in the rain-slashed gloom that it might be either a man or a woman, perhaps a boy, although too tall to be John or Nina. The individual startles, nearly falls on the slippery mat of dead grass, regains balance, and issues a name and query in a voice male and unfamiliar—“Orlando?” Whoever this might be, he’s no innocent happening through the apple grove on this night of all nights. He’s one of Aleem’s crew, an experienced murderer. Even as the stranger speaks, Michael reverses his grip on the AR-15 and closes the last step between them and chops the butt of the rifle at the other’s head. The contact is solid, and the man collapses. Michael drops to his knees on the stranger’s chest, hears a subtle crack and a plosive exhalation, but still the man has the power to buck and twist, to reach out with both hands, trying to find his attacker’s face. Turning his head to the side to protect his eyes, Michael holds the rifle by barrel and stock, employing it as a crushing tool, pressing down with all his weight and strength on the throat. He is gripped by an awful, primitive desperation that is born not from fear for his life but from an intrinsic regret that he has been reduced to this brutality, yet he does not relent, must not relent. None but a gargling sound escapes the stranger, and as his strength wanes, his hands flutter down onto the rifle and find Michael’s hands. He does not claw for relief, but presses Michael’s hands as if this encounter has resulted in an unanticipated bonding, his touch soft and supplicant, expressing a plea for mercy, though he himself has


“She’s behind the Sepulveda model. A brilliant particle physicist. And she was a Burke fellow years ago.” I look down at my knees. Then back up to Dr. L.’s deep scowl. “I’m sorry, Dr. Laurendeau. I know this is disappointing, but —” “I wonder if Smith-Turner influenced the search, after all.” My hand grips the armrest of the green chair. “He . . . I doubt it.” “We cannot put it past him, can we?” I clear my throat. “I’m convinced that he did not—” “Elise, you want Smith-Turner to get his comeuppance just as much as I do, don’t you?” My stomach sinks and I lower my eyes, mortified. Dr. L. spent the last six years counseling me, and here I am. A screwup. Cavorting with the asshole who nearly ruined his career. Not being the Elsie he wants. I need to go back to it. To Elise—hardworking, undeterred, laser focused. “This is a huge setback, but I’m . . . regrouping,” I say, trying to sound optimistic. “In terms of finding a job for next year, I—” “But you have a job. Several, in fact.” “Yes. Absolutely.” I take a deep breath. “But these adjunct gigs are time consuming and leave me little time for research. And I really want to finish developing my—” “There is always time for research. One must want to find it.” I close my eyes, because this one hurts like hell. The Elsie he wants almost slips away, but I hold strong. “You’re right.” “Could you not simply teach fewer classes?” I breathe slowly. In and out. “Financially, that’s not a possibility.” “I see. Well, sometimes money must take second place.” I grip the armrest, feeling a gust of frustration that he’d think me greedy for wanting to buy insulin and live in a place without mutant moths. It’s immediately swallowed by guilt. This is Dr. L. I wouldn’t even know the Nielsen-Ninomiya theorem if it weren’t for him. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to mention the idea that’s been swelling in my head since my morning at Jack’s. While there is no dimension in which me working for him would be feasible or appropriate, maybe there is some promise in what he said. “Someone recommended that I consider a postdoctoral fellowship or another research-only position.” Dr. L. looks at me, alarmed for a split second, and then sighs. “We have been over this, Elise.” “Right. But we talked about theorists. Maybe some experimentalists might be interested in—” “Unfortunately, no. I asked widely, and I am very sorry, but no suitable physicist was interested in hiring you as a researcher,” he says, and my stomach sinks even more. I lower my eyes to my jeans. God, I’m an idiot. A total fucking idiot. “Elise,” he continues, tone softer, “I know how you feel.” He circles his desk, coming to stand in front of me. “Remember when you started your doctorate? How helpless you felt? How I guided you through developing your algorithms, publishing your manuscripts, making a name for yourself within the physics


him. By then his stallion was back on its feet as well. Gregor Clegane killed the horse with a single blow of such ferocity that it half severed the animal's neck. Cheers turned to shrieks in a heartbeat. The stallion went to its knees, screaming as it died. By then 278 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN Gregor was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist. "Stop him!" Ned shouted, but his words were lost in the roar. Everyone else was yelling as well, and Sansa was crying. It all happened so fast. The Knight of Flowers was shouting for his own sword as Ser Gregor knocked his squire aside and made a grab for the reins of his horse. The mare scented blood and reared. Loras Tyrell kept his seat, but barely. Ser Gregor swung his sword, a savage twohanded blow that took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. The courser dashed away in panic as Ser Loras lay stunned in the dirt. But as Gregor lifted his sword for the killing blow, a rasping voice warned, "Leave him be, " and a steel-clad hand wrenched him away from the boy. The Mountain pivoted in wordless fury, swinging his longsword in a killing arc with all his massive strength behind it, but the Hound caught the blow and turned it, and for what seemed an eternity the two brothers stood hammering at each other as a dazed Loras Tyrell was helped to safety. Thrice Ned saw Ser Gregor aim savage blows at the hound's-head helmet, yet not once did Sandor send a cut at his brother's unprotected face. It was the king's voice that put an end to it . . . the king's voice and twenty swords. Jon Arryn had told them that a commander needs a good battlefield voice, and Robert had proved the truth of that on the Trident. He used that voice now. "STOP THIS MADNESS, " he boomed, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!" The Hound went to one knee. Ser Gregor's blow cut air, and at last he came to his senses. He dropped his sword and glared at Robert, surrounded by his Kingsguard and a dozen other knights and guardsmen. Wordlessly, he turned and strode off, shoving past Barristan Selmy. "Let him go," Robert said, and as quickly as that, it was over. "Is the Hound the champion now?" Sansa asked Ned. "No," he told her. "There will be one final joust, between the Hound and the Knight of Flowers." But Sansa had the right of it after all. A few moments later Ser Loras Tyrell walked back onto the field in a simple linen doublet and said to Sandor Clegane, "I owe you my life. The day is yours, ser." "I am no ser," the Hound replied, but he took the victory, and the champion's purse, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, the love of the commons. They cheered him as he left the lists to return to his pavilion.


Bentz had profited from and sensationalized the bizarre crimes. But there were others as well. She leaned back in her chair and perused the other books she’d written where the convicted murderer in the story was now out, a free man. The God Complex and Murder was the story of Hamilton Cooke, a brilliant surgeon with a genius IQ, who had been convicted of homicide in the brutal murder of his wife, but the evidence had been thin and circumstantial and with an appeal and new attorney, his conviction had been overturned. Dr. Cooke was working on getting his license to practice medicine reinstated. He was handsome, arrogant, and cold, and Kristi, to this day, believed he’d murdered his wife for a hefty life insurance payout. Over a million dollars. But he’d proclaimed his innocence, of course, and threatened to sue Rick Bentz and the New Orleans Police Department for false arrest, and Kristi Bentz for profiting from his tragedy and the “incredible miscarriage of justice!” Kristi didn’t buy it. Hamilton Cooke was shrewd and never let his public outrage die. When his story faded from the news, it was he who always pumped it up again, giving interviews on television or for the newspapers, keeping up several social media platforms, polishing his infamy into a burnished stardom of sorts. Her gaze moved to the next book about another local murderer, but before she could think about Mandel Jarvis, a pro football player who’d been charged and convicted of killing his model wife, her cell phone jangled and she saw Zera Stern, her agent’s name, flash onto the screen. Zera was young and ambitious and had only been with Kristi a short while. And she always talked a mile a minute. Before Kristi could even say hello, she heard, “Is it true? Is the Rosary Killer really alive? Oh, my God, Kristi, is that the person who attacked you? Who killed Jay?” Zera was incredulous. “I thought—I thought he was dead. Father John, I mean. Killed in the swamp or something. Wasn’t that right? Didn’t your father shoot him? Or alligators eat him or something?” “Yes, but—” “No ‘buts.’ Now we have a sequel. I mean, I hate to be that person, the agent that sees dollar signs in every tragedy, but this . . . Oh, my God, no one can tell this story like you. I know you must be feeling raw. Good Lord, you haven’t even recovered fully from the attack yourself, but a tragedy like this is a horrible, horrible turn of events. I know your life is turned inside out and I cannot imagine the grief you’re going through. Unthinkable. Just unthinkable. But, you do see my point, right? That you can make lemonade out of lemons, so to speak, spin this thing on its ear, and find a hint of a blessing in this terrible turn of events.” “Oh—I don’t know. And no one’s certain that whoever killed Jay is the Rosary Killer. It’s still all under investigation.” “But he’s back, right? There have been other


half forgetting her former insults, he tried to make himself agreeable, by the housekeeper's account. "Missis walked in," she said, "as chill as an icicle, and as high as a princess. I got up and offered her my seat in the armchair. No, she turned up her nose at my civility. Earnshaw rose too and bade her come to the settle, and sit close by the fire; he was sure she was starved. " 'I've been starved a month and more,' she an- swered, resting on the word as scornful as she could. "And she got a chair for herself, and placed it at a distance from both of us. Having sat till she was warm, she began to look round, and discovered a number of books in the dresser. She was instantly upon her feet again, stretching to reach them; but they were too high up. Her cousin, after watching her endeavours a while, at last summoned courage to help her. She held her frock, and he filled it with the first that came to hand. "That was a great advance for the lad. She didn't thank him, still he felt gratifled that she had accepted his assistance, and ventured to stand behind as she examined them, and even to stoop and point out what struck his fancy in certain old pictures which they con- tained. Nor was he daunted by the saucy style in which she jerked the page from his finger. He contented him- self with going a bit farther back, and looking at her instead of the book. She continued reading, or seek- ing for something to read. His attention became, by degrees, quite centreed in the study of her thick, silky curls. Her face he couldn't see, and she couldn't see him. And, perhaps not quite awake to what he did, but attracted like a child to a candle, at last he proceeded from staring to touching. He put out his hand and stroked one curl, as gently as if it were a bird. He might have stuck a knife into her neck, she started round in such a taking. " 'Get away this moment! How dare you touch me! Why are you stopping there?' she cried in a tone of dis- gust. 'I can't endure you! I'll go upstairs again if you come near me.' "Mr. Hareton recoiled, looking as foolish as he could do. He sat down in the settle very quiet, and she con- tinued turning over her volumes another half-hour. Finally Earnshaw crossed over and whispered to me,--- " 'Will you ask her to read to us, Zillah? I'm stalled of doing naught; and I do like---I could like to hear her. Dunnot say I wanted it, but ask of yourseln.' " 'Mr. Hareton wishes you would read to us, ma'am,' I said immediately. 'He'd take it very kind---he'd be much obliged.' "She frowned, and looking up, answered,--- " 'Mr. Hareton and the whole set of you will be good enough to understand that I reject any pretence at kindness you have the


explained to his companion, 'but it is probably the finest champagne in the world.' He grinned suddenly at the touch of pretension in his remark. 'You must forgive me,' he said. 'I take a ridiculous pleasure in what I eat and drink. It comes partly from being a bachelor, but mostly from a habit of taking a lot of trouble over details. It's very pernickety and old-maidish really, but then when I'm working I generally have to eat my meals alone and it makes them more interesting when one takes trouble.' Vesper smiled at him. 'I like it,' she said. 'I like doing everything fully, getting the most out of everything one does. I think that's the way to live. But it sounds rather schoolgirlish when one says it,' she added apologetically. The little carafe of vodka had arrived in its bowl of crushed ice and Bond filled their glasses. 'Well, I agree with you anyway,' he said, 'and now, here's luck for tonight, Vesper.' 'Yes,' said the girl quietly, as she held up her small glass and looked at him with a curious directness straight in the eyes. 'I hope all will go well tonight.' She seemed to Bond to give a quick involuntary shrug of the shoulders as she spoke, but then she leant impulsively towards him. 'I have some news for you from Mathis. He was longing to tell you himself. It's about the bomb. It's a fantastic story.' CHAPTER 9 - THE GAME IS BACCARAT Bond looked round, but there was no possibility of being overheard, and the caviar would be waiting for the hot toast from the kitchens. 'Tell me.' His eyes glittered with interest. 'They got the third Bulgar, on the road to Paris. He was in a Citron and he had picked up two English hikers as protective colouring. At the road-block his French was so bad that they asked for his papers and he brought out a gun and shot one of the motor-cycle patrol. But the other man got him, I don't know how, and managed to stop him committing suicide. Then they took him down to Rouen and extracted the story - in the usual French fashion, I suppose. 'Apparently they were part of a pool held in France for this sort of job - saboteurs, thugs, and so on - and Mathis's friends are already trying to round up the rest. They were to get two million francs for killing you and the agent who briefed them told them there was absolutely no chance of being caught if they followed his instructions exactly.' She took a sip of vodka. 'But this is the interesting part.' 'The agent gave them the two camera-cases you saw. He said the bright colours would make it easier for them. He told them that the blue case contained a very powerful smoke-bomb. The red case was the explosive. As one of them threw the red case, the other was to press a switch on the blue case and they would escape under cover of the smoke.


of the Plaza, nor of her and Ava’s apartment. She threw back her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. Time for some more sleuthing. Trolleys grunted past her as she took to the roofs, crossing the Silts at a swift pace. Every few minutes she double-checked the direction of Rosa’s thread in the Quilt. Her steps slowed when she neared the giant apartment complex where Rosa and her extended family rented flats. How many times had she walked this same path, to drop Rosa off after school, or pick her up for a night of dancing? She had met Rosa at school, a few blocks away. How exactly, neither of them remembered, though they often tried to coax it out of their brains. “First day, seated next to each other?” Io would guess. “Too corny.” Rosa would shake her head. “Jumping rope during recess?” “Too banal. What about the girls’ bathroom, hiding from the prefect?” “Bah. Too on the nose.” However it had happened, the point was that within a few weeks, they were two inseparable eight-year-old scoundrels devising insidious pranks on the teachers they didn’t like. Throughout the years, they shared everything: homework, clothes, fears, secrets, and dreams. They loved playing make-believe as the Order of the Furies, which later turned into a plan to work together as an undefeatable duo of detective and prosecutor that would bring criminal other-born to their knees. And on weekends, we’ll dance, Rosa would say. Io was there at Rosa’s mom’s funeral, three years ago now. Rosa was there during that horrible week two years ago that culminated in Thais leaving—more than there, Rosa was involved in a way that made Io skittish to think about. Then, about a year ago, at seventeen, they graduated. What used to be part-time jobs had to become full-time. Their paths began to diverge, but the girls refused to lose touch: they flirted with boys together, went out dancing together, tried to learn how to cook together. The last time they had seen each other was with Ava at the dancing club Cellar, to celebrate the job Rosa had just gotten writing for the women’s magazine Miss-Matched. But that must have been at least six months ago, maybe more? They had made plans a couple of times since then, but at the last moment, Io would just . . . succumb to the urge to cancel. And now Rosa was a leech, and Io was working for the mob queen of the Silts. So much for dreams of justice. Gods, it sounded like a cautionary tale. Her feet found their own way to the door of the apartment Rosa shared with her two cousins. The thread that bound them went straight through the door, where Io could see her friend moving through the small living room. Four other bundles of threads sat in various corners of the room. Her family? New friends? Io could turn back and forget their meeting on that scaffolding tonight ever happened. That was the safest way to ensure Bianca, and all that mess


reminded of places and people they loved, human pleasures. It took a vengeful and dedicated spirit to haunt someone, and neither of his parents had that kind of drive. And they would have wanted to be far from Golgarot. The dead feared demons because they promised pain when the pain should be over. They’d been very frightened of Darlington indeed. Alex drew her coat more tightly closed. “The old man is here.” “My grandfather?” “I can hear him. I can hear all of them now.” Darlington tried not to show his surprise, his curiosity, his envy. How could this scrap of a girl have so much power? How could she see into the hidden world that had evaded him for so long? And after a year in hell, why did he still give a damn? “They never shut up,” she added. She’s trusting me, he told himself. Alex was handing him knowledge that he knew, with complete certainty, Lethe didn’t have. Another offering. He found he was as greedy for her trust as her power. He pushed those thoughts away. “What is he saying?” Now Alex’s eyes shifted uneasily to the toes of her boots. “He says to be free. That you’ve given up enough blood to this place. It’s yours to take or leave. It always should have been.” Darlington snorted. “You’re lying. What did he really say?” Alex shrugged and met his eyes. “That Black Elm needs you more than ever, that this is your home by right of blood and treasure, and a lot of rambling about the Arlington legacy.” “That sounds much more like him.” He paused, studying her. “You know what happened here, don’t you? What I did? Why I survived the hellbeast?” Alex didn’t look away. “I know.” “I always wondered if I’d done the right thing.” “If it makes you feel any better, I’d smother him right now if I could.” Darlington was startled by his own abrupt laugh. Maybe Alex could have stopped him from being eaten that night in Rosenfeld Hall. Maybe she’d wanted his discovery of her crimes to die with him in that basement. He supposed she had betrayed him. But in the end it had taken this monstrous girl to drag him back from the underworld. There was nothing he could say that would shock her, and that was powerful comfort. “I’ll be back,” he said, in the hopes that his grandfather would understand what he was about to do. “Better to flee from death than feel its grip,” he quoted, letting the death words cast the old man out, a peace offering to Alex of his own. “Thanks,” she said. “I don’t know what to do about…” He couldn’t quite manage to say their bodies. He bobbed his chin toward the basement instead. “We have bigger problems,” Alex said, rising from the counter. “Come on, I called a car.” “Why don’t we take the Mercedes?” She winced. “Stern, what happened to my car?” “Long story.” She locked the kitchen door behind them, and they started down the gravel drive.


form of Elw. 58,103, 125, 288 Eluchl 'Heir of Elu (Thingol)', name of Dior, son of Beren and Lthien. See Dior. Elurd Elder son of Dior; perished in the attack on Doriath by the sons of Fanor. The name means the same as Eluchl. 290, 292 Elurn Younger son of Dior; perished with his brother Elurd. The name means 'Remembrance of Elu (Thingol)'. 290,292 Elvenhome See Eldamar. Elves See especially 37-9, 48-51, 53, 99, 121, 326-7; and see also Children of Ilvatar, Eldar; Dark Elves. Elves of the Light: see Calaquendi. Elw Surnamed Singollo 'Greymantle'; leader with his brother Olw of the hosts of the Teleri on the westward journey from Cuivinen, until he was lost in Nan Elmoth; afterwards Lord of the Sindar, ruling in Doriath with Melian; received the Silmaril from Beren; slain in Menegroth by the Dwarves. Called (Elu) Thingol in Sindarin. See Dark Elves, Thingol. 53-8, 60-1, 103, 289 Elwing Daughter of Dior, who escaping from Doriath with the Silmaril wedded Erendil at the Mouths of Sirion and went with him to Valinor; mother of Elrond and Elros. The name means 'Star-spray'; see Lanlhir Lamath. 122, 178, 291-3, 302, 304-10, 315 Emeldir Called the Man-hearted; wife of Barahir and mother of Beren; led the women and children of the House of Bor from Dorthonion after the Dagor Bragollach. (She was herself also a descendant of Bor the Old, and her father's name was Beren; this is not stated in the text.) 187, 194 Emyn Beraid The Tower Hills' in the west of Eriador; see Elostirion. 360-2 Enchanted Isles The islands set by the Valar in the Great Sea eastwards of Tol Eressa at the time of the Hiding of Valinor. 118, 306 Encircling Mountains See Echoriath. Encircling Sea See Ekkaia. Endor 'Middle Land', Middle-earth. 101 Engwar 'The Sickly', one of the Elvish names for Men, 119 El Called the Dark Elf; the great smith who dwelt in Nan Elmoth, and took Aredhel Turgon's sister to wife; friend of the Dwarves; maker of the sword Anglachel (Gurthang); father of Maeglin; put to death in Gondolin. 104,158-65, 247 Enw One of the mightiest of the Maiar; called the Herald of Manw; leader of the host of the Valar in the attack on Morgoth at the end of the First Age. 24, 309-14, 321, 353 Ephel Brandir 'The encircling fence of Brandir', dwellings of the Men of Brethil upon Amon Obel; also called the Ephel. 266, 270-2 Ephel Dath 'Fence of Shadow', the mountain-range between Gondor and Mordor; also called the Mountains of Shadow. 361-2, 368 Erchamion 'One-handed', the name of Beren after his escape from Angband. 222, 225, 242, 292 Erech A hill in the west of Gondor, where was the Stone of Isildur (see The Return of the King V 2). 361 Ered Engrin 'The Iron Mountains' in the far north. 128, 135-6, 139, 181, 193 Ered Gorgoroth 'The Mountains of Terror', northward of Nan Dungortheb; also called the Gorgoroth. 90, 109, 144, 157, 176, 198, 214, 246 Ered Lindon 'The Mountains of Linden', another name for Ered Luin,


Felt pretty clever and got a reputation for being good and tough. A double O number in our Service means you've had to kill a chap in cold blood in the course of some job. 'Now,' he looked up again at Mathis, 'that's all very fine. The hero kills two villains, but when the hero Le Chiffre starts to kill the villain Bond and the villain Bond knows he isn't a villain at all, you see the other side of the medal. The villains and heroes get all mixed up. 'Of course,' he added, as Mathis started to expostulate, 'patriotism comes along and makes it seem fairly all right, but this country-right-or-wrong business is getting a little out-of-date. Today we are fighting Communism. Okay. If I'd been alive fifty years ago, the brand of Conservatism we have today would have been damn near called Communism and we should have been told to go and fight that. History is moving pretty quickly these days and the heroes and villains keep on changing parts.' Mathis stared at him aghast. Then he tapped his head and put a calming hand on Bond's arm. 'You mean to say that this precious Le Chiffre who did his best to turn you into a eunuch doesn't qualify as a villain?' he asked. 'Anyone would think from the rot you talk that he had been battering your head instead of your . . .' He gestured down the bed. 'You wait till M tells you to get after another Le Chiffre. I bet you'll go after him all right. And what about SMERSH? I can tell you I don't like the idea of these chaps running around France killing anyone they feel has been a traitor to their precious political system. You're a bloody anarchist.' He threw his arms in the air and let them fall helplessly to his sides. Bond laughed. 'All right,' he said. 'Take our friend Le Chiffre. It's simple enough to say he was an evil man, at least it's simple enough for me because he did evil things to me. If he was here now, I wouldn't hesitate to kill him, but out of personal revenge and not, I'm afraid, for some high moral reason or for the sake of my country.' He looked up at Mathis to see how bored he was getting with these introspective refinements of what, to Mathis, was a simple question of duty. Mathis smiled back at him. 'Continue, my dear friend. It is interesting for me to see this new Bond. Englishmen are so odd. They are like a nest of Chinese boxes. It takes a very long time to get to the centre of them. When one gets there the result is unrewarding, but the process is instructive and entertaining. Continue. Develop your arguments. There may be something I can use to my own chief the next time I want to get out of an unpleasant job.' He grinned maliciously. Bond ignored him. 'Now in order to tell the difference between good and evil, we have manufactured


outside of the two jooks, everything on that job went on around those two. Sometimes Janie would think of the old days in the big white house and the store and laugh to herself. What if 158 Zora Neale Hurston Eatonville could see her now in her blue denim overalls and heavy shoes? The crowd of people around her and a dice game on her floor! She was sorry for her friends back there and scornful of the others. The men held big arguments here like they used to do on the store porch. Only here, she could lis- ten and laugh and even talk some herself if she wanted to. She got so she could tell big stories herself from listening to the rest. Because she loved to hear it, and the men loved to hear themselves, they would “woof” and “boogerboo” around the games to the limit. No matter how rough it was, people sel- dom got mad, because everything was done for a laugh. Everybody loved to hear Ed Dockery, Bootyny, and Sop-de- Bottom in a skin game. Ed Dockery was dealing one night and he looked over at Sop-de-Bottom’s card and he could tell Sop thought he was going to win. He hollered, “Ah’ll break up dat settin’ uh eggs.” Sop looked and said, “Root de peg.” Bootyny asked, “What are you goin’ tuh do? Do do!” Everybody was watching that next card fall. Ed got ready to turn. “Ah’m gointuh sweep out hell and burn up de broom.” He slammed down another dollar. “Don’t oversport yourself, Ed,” Bootyny challenged. “You gittin’ too yaller.” Ed caught hold of the cor- ner of the card. Sop dropped a dollar. “Ah’m gointuh shoot in de hearse, don’t keer how sad de funeral be.” Ed said, “You see how this man is teasin’ hell?” Tea Cake nudged Sop not to bet. “You gointuh git caught in uh bullet storm if you don’t watch out.” Sop said, “Aw ’tain’t nothin’ tuh dat bear but his curly hair. Ah can look through muddy water and see dry land.” Ed turned off the card and hollered, “Zachariah, Ah says come down out dat sycamore tree. You can’t do no business.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 159 Nobody fell on that card. Everybody was scared of the next one. Ed looked around and saw Gabe standing behind his chair and hollered, “Move, from over me, Gabe! You too black. You draw heat! Sop, you wanta pick up dat bet whilst you got uh chance?” “Naw, man, Ah wish Ah had uh thousand-leg tuh put on it.” “So yuh won’t lissen, huh? Dumb niggers and free schools. Ah’m gointuh take and teach yuh. Ah’ll main-line but Ah won’t side-track.” Ed flipped the next card and Sop fell and lost. Everybody hollered and laughed. Ed laughed and said, “Git off de muck! You ain’t nothin’. Dat’s all! Hot boilin’ water won’t help yuh none.” Ed kept on laughing because he had been so scared before. “Sop, Bootyny, all y’all dat lemme win yo’ money: Ah’m sending it