so that we can move them toward the next gruesome display. While they handle that, I find myself alone by the lake. I separate from the group early in the game so I can help with other special effects. I’m waiting for my cue, which, for tonight’s game, is the audio of a girl screaming at the top of her lungs played over the tiny speakers hidden in the trees near the guest cabins. When it sounds, my job is to dump a bucket of fake blood mixed with a few pieces of raw chicken onto the path so the guests come across it. As I wait in the shadow of a towering pine tree near Mirror Lake’s shore, there’s a splash in the water behind me. I turn to look, expecting to see one of the guests doing something they’re not supposed to be doing, but there’s no one. I take a step toward the lake. Just offshore, I spot something in the water. A shadowy human-size shape bobbing near the surface. Their head and shoulders move up and down, but I can’t see their face. “Hey!” I shout. “Get out of there! You can’t be in the water!” I edge my way along the shore. Who the hell is out there? Who’d want to be? “Hey!” I shout again. “Charity, go!” A voice sounds in my earpiece, and my heart jumps into my throat. I scramble back to the path and spill the bucket of blood and raw chicken across the dirt. In the dark, it looks like somebody has met a grisly end right there, and as I hide in the shrubbery, gasps and terrified whispers erupt from the guests as they come across it. As their voices fade, I turn back to the lake. It’s silent now, and I’m worried. I rush to the shore, as close to the last location of the person as I can get. I touch my earpiece. “Can I get a head count for the guests? Like, right now.” As I wait for a response, I peer into the dark water. I can still see . . . something. A dark shape just below the surface. I sprint to the lifeguard tower, which, again, is just for decoration but is accurate right down to the bright orange life preserver draped over the perch at the top. I scramble up the rickety structure and yank the ring down and tuck it under my arm. I jump down and rush back to the lake, tossing the ring in right where the person went under the water. “Charity.” Javier’s voice cuts through the static in my earpiece. “All the guests are accounted for. All four of them are here.” A wave of relief rushes over me, and I heave an exasperated sigh. I stare into the water. The dark shape is gone. The only movement is coming from the life preserver floating atop the water. CHAPTER 3 The trapdoor in the arts-and-crafts lodge is still sticking,” I say as I check my notes the following day


great time at The Sun, me and you and Harry and Neil.’ Lin shook her head sadly. ‘I know, but Debbie couldn’t come – she was too busy with the kids, she said, and Neil felt that she should have made time for my birthday lunch. It’s odd, not seeing much of her and the grandchildren… Debbie’s almost a stranger now.’ ‘That’s tough,’ Josie agreed, accepting the mug of coffee. ‘When did you last see her?’ ‘Almost a year ago. I offered to go to Peterborough last month, but she had something on. She sends the odd text, and when we do chat on the phone, it’s often cut short because she’s so busy.’ Lin shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ ‘She’s missing out,’ Josie observed, then she leaned across the table and patted Lin’s arm. ‘It’s such a shame.’ She sighed. ‘Now Harry’s gone, I often wonder if it would’ve been a comfort to have a son or daughter.’ ‘Comfort’s not guaranteed…’ Lin shook her head. ‘Debbie was my world when she was little, but I don’t think she has time for me now. If I… if I lost Neil, I don’t think I’d see much of her.’ ‘I’m sure she’s there for you. You’re a great mum. You did everything for Debbie,’ Josie conceded. Lin was surprised to feel tears stinging her eyes. She sniffed. ‘I’m sorry, Josie, I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself… It’s these tablets – they make me all weepy…’ Josie was up from her seat, wrapping her arms around her friend. ‘Lin – we’ve been best friends since we were kids. We share everything, the good and the bad.’ ‘That’s true. Since primary school…’ Lin took a deep breath, her eyes wet. ‘That seems so long ago.’ ‘It does. They were happy times, though.’ ‘We are still best friends – these are happy times too,’ Josie soothed. She sat down again and reached for the mug of coffee. ‘We have to make these days count. Right – so – when are we meeting Minnie for lunch?’ ‘Next Saturday at Odile’s.’ ‘I love our Silver Ladies’ lunches.’ ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ Lin cupped her hands around her mug. It eased the ache in her fingers. ‘You know, Josie, I get so tearful nowadays but I shouldn’t. I have Neil and we have the best life. He loves me… and I have you and Minnie…’ She picked up a knife and hacked two hunks of cake, easing them onto plates. ‘But I often worry about losing Neil. It scares me. I shouldn’t say it but now you’re all on your own, the thought’s always in my mind. I’ll be frank, I don’t know how you do it.’ Josie smiled. She knew there was no malice in Lin’s easy honesty; she recognised the concern shining in her friend’s eyes – there was nothing there but love. ‘It certainly is tough,’ Josie admitted. ‘But life goes on.’ She accepted a giant slice of cake. ‘I make the best of things. It’s what Harry would have wanted and it’s


shape. "Come along, Pearl," said she, drawing her away, "Come and look into this fair garden. It may be we shall see flowers there; more beautiful ones than we find in the woods." Thesaurus armourer: (n) maker, manufacturer, cuirass: (v) breastplate, fender, armor, plate. artificer. mask, thimble, shield, scutum, aegis; panoply: (n) stand of arms, show, associates: (n) staff, membership, (n) coat of mail, hauberk, body parade, clothing, fanfare; (v) protect, circle, entourage, intimates, people. armor. clothe, defend, guard. breastplate: (n) corselet, armour plate, flowers: (n) analecta, anthology. physiognomy: (n) face, kisser, phiz, armor plating, armor plate; (n, v) frontispiece: (n) front, heading, visage, mug, look, brow, contour, shield, bulletproof vest; (v) cuirass, frontage, facia, face, groundwork, aspect, physnomy , metoposcopy. mask, gauntlet, apron, armored vest. endpapers, pediment, proscenium. radiance: (n) gleam, glory, brilliance, burnished: (adj) polished, bright, gauntlets: (n) gauntlet, gantlet. luster, lustre, beam, brightness, shiny, lustrous, shimmering, sparkly, gorget: (n) armor plate, armour plate. effulgence, sparkle, light; (adj, n) glittery, shining; (adj, v) sunny; (v) greaves: (n) jambeau, giambeux, brilliancy. ANTONYMS: (n) meridian, orient. armour plate, armor plating, armor darkness, gloominess. Nathaniel Hawthorne 99 Pearl accordingly ran to the bow-window, at the further end of the hall, and looked along the vista of a garden walk, carpeted with closely-shaven grass, and bordered with some rude and immature attempt at shrubbery. But the proprietor appeared already to have relinquished as hopeless, the effort to perpetuate on this side of the Atlantic, in a hard soil, and amid the close struggle for subsistence, the native English taste for ornamental gardening. Cabbages grew in plain sight; and a pumpkin-vine, rooted at some distance, had run across the intervening space, and deposited one of its gigantic products directly beneath the hall window, as if to warn the Governor that this great lump of vegetable gold was as rich an ornament as New England earth would offer him. There were a few rose-bushes, however, and a number of apple-trees, probably the descendants of those planted by the Reverend Mr. Blackstone, the first settler of the peninsula; that half mythological personage who rides through our early annals, seated on the back of a bull.% Pearl, seeing the rose-bushes, began to cry for a red rose, and would not be pacified. "Hush, child--hush!" said her mother, earnestly. "Do not cry, dear little Pearl! I hear voices in the garden. The Governor is coming, and gentlemen along with him." In fact, adown the vista of the garden avenue, a number of persons were seen approaching towards the house. Pearl, in utter scorn of her mother's attempt to quiet her, gave an eldritch scream, and then became silent, not from any motion of obedience, but because the quick and mobile curiosity of her disposition was excited by the appearance of those new personages. Thesaurus annals: (n) history, record, account, mythological: (adj) mythologic, on, follow up, uphold, consolidate, records, register, story, roll, almanac, fabulous, legendary, fabled, fancied, commemorate, bear on. diary, legend, yearbook. imaginary, unreal, barely credible, relinquished: (adj) forsaken, deserted, bordered: (adj) fringed, edged, heroic, supernatural; (adj, v) mythic.


Kenny is very opinionated. He’s Black, wearing a fedora hat and a brightly patterned shirt. How he pulls them both off is a mystery that I highly suspect has something to do with his attention-drawing personality. “That doesn’t mean it was bad,” he says, “but people have shone this ridiculous light on it to blind others into thinking it’s groundbreaking stuff when really? It was just okay. There, I said it.” “You’re absolute garbage, Ken,” Emma says. “Something I have in common with that book.” We laugh and Jo throws crisps at him. “It wasn’t garbage,” he says. “I retract that declaration. Look, I enjoyed it, it was good, but I didn’t love it and I have difficulty believing those of a high literary standard did.” “But didn’t you love how it was written?” I ask, gesturing enthusiastically toward him. A pickle falls out of my burger in the process. “It was so different from all the other bestsellers we’ve been reading recently. It was beautiful and raw and written so…” Kenny smiles. “Sparsely.” “It’s called economical language.” “Aha! And who coined that phrase, dear Madeleine?” Kenny asks. “A group of actual readers or her publicity team who couldn’t think of another way to say: my writer lacks a little imagination.” Jo boos. “She detailed everything without saying much,” Olivia says. “That’s natural talent.” “Says who?” Kenny asks. “All I’m really asking is that we examine these ‘rules’ of good writing.” “The love story was beautiful,” Tinka says. “You have to admit that.” “Fair, that aspect I enjoyed,” Kenny says. “Wait, what?” Olivia says, roughly pushing brown ringlets from her face. She’s Emma’s cousin, but the two couldn’t be further apart. Emma is blond, has an angular face and wears a tight lavender dress and knee-high boots, whereas Olivia showed up with her hair in a topknot, overalls, muddy trainers, and not a scrap of makeup. “That’s what you enjoyed? That was my one problem with it! No teenager feels love that strongly, I’m sorry. All adults agree, teenagers are shit. We didn’t know who to vote for, let alone what real love is.” “Speak for yourself!” Emma says. “I knew to vote Conservative.” “You did what?” Emma holds her palm out to Tinka. “That’s a discussion for another day. Liv, you’re just bitter you’ve never felt it: a love so poignant and true and—” “Excessive?” Olivia offers. “Facetious? The author’s a sensationalist, no question.” “That’s why it’s so popular,” Sam says and I turn to him, having mistaken his silence for disinterest. “Because it described the love we all want but likely won’t have. Love that’s raw and wonderfully painful and all-consuming; intrinsically becoming a part of another person; the subtlety and quietness of their codependence. We won’t admit it, but maybe that’s what a lot of us want. Liv is right—the author plays into that, but it doesn’t diminish the writing. Love is so watered down now, tied to peer pressure and proximity and self-esteem, I think readers enjoyed having it concentrated. It’s a thrill imagining yourself with that capability,


and flames.

Well done, Dave said.

We swooped back to camp, critiqued the video.

Perfect kill.

We played some more PlayStation.

Turned in early.

olor

li CAN BE HARD TO BE precise with Hellfires. Apaches fly with such

tremendous speed that it’s hard to take steady aim. Hard for some

anyway. I developed pinpoint accuracy, as if I was throwing darts in a pub.

My targets were moving fast too. The speediest motorbike I shot was

going about 50 k.p.h. The driver, a Taliban commander who'd been calling

in fire all day on our forces, was hunched over the handlebars, looking back

as we gave chase. He was purposely speeding between villages, using

civilians for cover. Old people, children, they were mere props to him.

Our windows of opportunity were those one-minute spans when he was

between villages.

I remember Dave calling out: You’ve got two hundred meters till it’s a no-

go.

Meaning, two hundred meters until this Taliban commander was hiding

behind another child.

I heard Dave again: You’ve got trees coming on the left, wall on the right.

Roger.

229

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.me/Afghansalarlibrary

Dave moved us into the five o’clock position, dropped to six hundred

feet. Now—

I took the shot. The Hellfire smacked the motorbike, sent it flying into a

small thatch of trees. Dave flew us over the trees, and through plumes of

smoke we saw a ball of fire. And the bike. But no body.

I was ready to follow up with the 30-mm, strafe the area, but I couldn’t

see anything to strafe.

We circled and circled. I was getting nervous. Did he get away, mate?

There he is!

Fifty feet to the right of the motorbike: body on the ground.

Confirmed.


Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

a good mile and a half, by her counting, the path cobble-paved and smooth, lined with rosebushes—a stark contrast with the rubble-strewn walkways in Dellaire proper leading to the South Sanctuary, the one meant for commoners. On either side of the path, the Citadel’s massive green spaces rolled, manicured fields and pseudo-forests, rich land fenced in by the fortress of the Church’s walls. Something nudged her shoulder. Gabe. “Wake up, cousin.” “I’m awake, cousin.” But another yawn cramped her jaw as she said it. “Why in all myriad hells are First Day prayers right at the ass-crack of dawn? Surely Apollius can still hear them around noon.” Gabe inclined his head to the stained-glass window at the very front of the sanctuary. The Bleeding God’s Heart, set out in panels of red and gold and ocher. As the sun rose, its gleam traced up the window, slowly illuminating the glass until the whole thing blazed with color. “That’s why,” he answered. She couldn’t tell if he sounded reverent or resentful. Maybe a little of both. For sleeping against the doorframe all night, Gabriel seemed positively refreshed. Dressed in plainer clothes than he’d had for the masquerade—dark doublet, dark breeches, and a linen shirt beneath, this time with sensible sleeves—this was the handsomest he’d looked in their brief acquaintance. Lore, on the other hand, had carefully avoided the mirror this morning, even as she brushed out her hair. The bags under her eyes were probably deep enough to smuggle hemlock. The double doors at the back of the sanctuary remained open, emitting the last straggling courtiers. Alienor glided down the thick tapestry carpet running through the center aisle, the sun through the windows making her nearly white curls glow the same colors as the stained glass, a halo-like nimbus around her head. Her eyes were clear and her gait steady as she approached the altar at the front of the sanctuary, knelt, and kissed its polished wood. Lore and Gabe had done the same when they entered. Lore tried not to think about all the lips that had been on it before hers. When Alie straightened and went to find her seat, her eyes met Lore’s. She smiled, threw a tiny wave. Lore returned it with a genuine smile of her own. Gabriel didn’t look at Alie at all. An older man walked close behind Alienor, close enough that they had to be arriving together, though they looked nothing alike. His skin was milk-pale to her warm-copper, his hair wood-brown and pin-straight instead of white-blond and curling. His expression was dour, and the lines around his mouth said that rarely changed. The man’s gaze flickered to Lore, as if taking her measure. “Who’s that?” she murmured to Gabe out of the side of her mouth. “Severin Bellegarde.” Gabe didn’t have to move to answer the question; he’d been watching Alie already. “Alie’s father.” Lore arched a brow. Alie must take after her mother, then, in every way. She looked away from Bellegarde, made a show of studying the windows. Apollius, again, in various


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

and you are the first person now I ever told it to. I disremember if it was October or November. It was October because it was before I came up here to join the matriculation class. Stephen had turned his smiling eyes towards his friend's face, flattered by his confidence and won over to sympathy by the speaker's simple accent. --I was away all that day from my own place over in Buttevant. --I don't know if you know where that is--at a hurling match between the Croke's Own Boys and the Fearless Thurles and by God, Stevie, that was the hard fight. My first cousin, Fonsy Davin, was stripped to his buff that day minding cool for the Limericks but he was up with the forwards half the time and shouting like mad. I never will forget that day. One of the Crokes made a woeful wipe at him one time with his caman and I declare to God he was within an aim's ace of getting it at the side of his temple. Oh, honest to God, if the crook of it caught him that time he was done for. --I am glad he escaped, Stephen had said with a laugh, but surely that's not the strange thing that happened you? --Well, I suppose that doesn't interest you, but leastways there was such noise after the match that I missed the train home and I couldn't get any kind of a yoke to give me a lift for, as luck would have it, there was a mass meeting that same day over in Castletownroche and all the cars in the country were there. So there was nothing for it only to stay the night or to foot it out. Well, I started to walk and on I went and it was coming on night when I got into the Ballyhoura hills, that's better than ten miles from Kilmallock and there's a long lonely road after that. You wouldn't see the sign of a christian house along the road or hear a sound. It was pitch dark almost. Once or twice I stopped by the way under a bush to redden my pipe and only for the dew was thick I'd have stretched out there and slept. At last, after a bend of the road, I spied a little cottage with a light in the window. I went up and knocked at the door. A voice asked who was there and I answered I was over at the match in Buttevant and was walking back and that I'd be thankful for a glass of water. After a while a young woman opened the door and brought me out a big mug of milk. She was half undressed as if she was going to bed when I knocked and she had her hair hanging and I thought by her figure and by something in the look of her eyes that she must be carrying a child. She kept me in talk a long while at the door, and I thought it strange


a pathological inability to discuss death. When their uncle Arthur had a heart attack and drove his riding lawn mower through a greenhouse, she’d told Mark and Louise that she and their dad were going to Myrtle Beach for a vacation, then parked them with Aunt Honey. When Sue Estes’s older sister died of leukemia in fifth grade, Louise’s mom had told her she was too young to go to the funeral. Her friendship with Sue was never the same after that. Louise’s mom had claimed to be allergic to all pets, including goldfish, for their entire childhoods, and it wasn’t until Louise got out of grad school that her mom revealed she’d simply never wanted anything in the house that might die. “It would have upset you and your brother too much,” she’d explained. When Louise had Poppy, she vowed to be honest about death. She knew that stating the facts plainly would be the best way for Poppy to understand that death was part of life. She would answer all Poppy’s questions with absolute honesty, and if she didn’t know something they’d figure out the answer together. “I’m going to Charleston tomorrow,” Louise told Poppy that night, sitting on the story-time chair beside her bed, in the glow of the plastic goose lamp. “And I want you to understand why. Your grandmother and grandfather had a very bad accident.” Louise saw safety glass exploding, metal tearing and twisting. “And their bodies got hurt very badly. They got hurt so badly that they stopped working. And your grandmother and grandfather died.” Poppy shot up in bed, smashing into Louise like a cannonball, wrapping her arms around her ribs too tight, bursting into a long, keening wail. “No!” Poppy screamed. “No! No!” Louise tried to explain that it was okay, that she was sad, too, that they would be sad together and that being sad when someone died was normal, but every time she started to speak, Poppy wiped her face back and forth against Louise like she was trying to scrape it off, screaming, “No! No! No!” Finally, when she realized Poppy wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, Louise eased herself up onto the bed and held her daughter in her arms until Poppy cried herself to sleep. So much for explaining death the healthy way. — Louise held Poppy’s feverish, limp body for hours, wishing harder than she’d ever wished before that for just sixty seconds someone would hold her, but no one holds moms. She remembered her mom holding her in her lap while they sat in Dr. Rector’s waiting room, where it smelled like alcohol swabs and finger pricks, distracting Louise by telling her what all the other children were there for. “That little boy over there?” her mom had said, pointing to a six-year-old picking his nose. “He picked his nose so much that all he can smell now are his fingerprints. They’re getting him a nose transplant. And that one chewing his mother’s purse strap? They accidentally swapped his brain for a dog’s. That little girl?


was my doing! And my father's woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home all was the work of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones, but these are not your last tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and the sound of your lamentations shall again and again be heard! Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he who would spend each vital drop of blood for your sakes, who has no thought nor sense of joy except as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances, who would fill the air with blessings and spend his life in serving you--he bids you weep, to shed countless tears; happy beyond his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction pause before the peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments! Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair, I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts. Chapter 9 Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings have been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of inaction and certainty which follows and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine died, she rested, and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself) was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted for the moment when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow beings. Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures such as no language can describe. This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only consolation--deep, dark, deathlike solitude. My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and habits and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life to inspire me with fortitude and awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me. "Do you think, Victor," said he, "that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother"--tears came into his eyes as he spoke--"but is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting their


even make an outlaw of him. But then the fatal unreasoning knowledge came to him again. The breaking of the conch and the deaths of Piggy and Simon lay over the island like a vapor. These painted savages would go further and further. Then there was that indefinable connection between himself and Jack; who therefore would never let him alone; never. He paused, sun-flecked, holding up a bough, prepared to duck under it. A spasm of terror set him shaking and he cried aloud. "No. They're not as bad as that. It was an accident." He ducked under the bough, ran clumsily, then stopped and listened. He came to the smashed acres of fruit and ate greedily. He saw two littluns and, not having any idea of his own appearance, wondered why they screamed and ran. When he had eaten he went toward the beach. The sunlight was slanting now into the palms by the wrecked shelter. There was the platform and the pool. The best thing to do was to ignore this leaden feeling about the heart and rely on their common sense, their daylight sanity. Now that the tribe had eaten, the thing to do was to try again. And anyway, he couldn't stay here all night in an empty shelter by the deserted platform. His flesh crept and he shivered in the evening sun. No fire; no smoke; no rescue. He turned and limped away through the forest toward Jack's end of the island. The slanting sticks of sunlight were lost among the branches. At length he came to a clearing in the forest where rock prevented vegetation from growing. Now it was a pool of shadows and Ralph nearly flung himself behind a tree when he saw something standing in the center; but then he saw that the white face was bone and that the pig's skull grinned at him from the top of a stick. He walked slowly into the middle of the clearing and looked steadily at the skull that gleamed as white as ever the conch had done and seemed to jeer at him cynically. An inquisitive ant was busy in one of the eye sockets but otherwise the thing was lifeless. Or was it? Little prickles of sensation ran up and down his back. He stood, the skull about on a level with his face, and held up his hair with two hands. The teeth grinned, the empty sockets seemed to hold his gaze masterfully and without effort. What was it? The skull regarded Ralph like one who knows all the answers and won't tell. A sick fear and rage swept him. Fiercely he hit out at the filthy thing in front of him that bobbed like a toy and came back, still grinning into his face, so that he lashed and cried out in loathing. Then he was licking his bruised knuckles and looking at the bare stick, while the skull lay in two pieces, its grin now six feet across. He wrenched the quivering stick from the crack and held it as


not to look as nervous as she felt. It had become uncomfortably obvious that she was the only one here not wearing a sealed, helmeted combat suit. She knew for a fact not all of Lincoln’s environmental systems were up and running. Extremes in temperatures, lack of breathable atmosphere … So, what, I’ll be stuck sitting in this tin can? One of the twins was at her side, stealthy for such a big bubba of a man. With care, he draped a discolored and dangerously unsafe-looking environ-suit on her lap. Still holding the helmet, he said, “Know it doesn’t look like much, but it works. It’ll be way too big for you.” She nodded and found the man’s eyes there behind the curved diamond glass. “Sorry about your brother.” “Ham’s a survivor. He’ll beat whatever is ailing him.” Hock’s country twang only accentuated his vulnerability. She pursed her lips, then thumb-tapped her Jadoo ring. “I have a direct link into HealthBay … patient charts. So, anytime you want an update on Ham’s condition, just let me know.” Ham’s 3D image suddenly projected to life. His medical avatar slowly twirled over his bed. “What’s it say?” Hock asked, leaning in closer. Only now did she realize her mistake. It wasn’t difficult deciphering the quasi-medical jargon, which seemed to indicate Ham was in far worse shape than she had assumed. In fact, it seemed as if any kind of recovery was unlikely. “Um … well, they’re watching him, Hock. Doc Viv is personally caring for him.” She nodded, feigning optimism. “Looks to me like all his stats are stable.” Hock nodded, relief evident on his face. Sonya caught sight of Coogong standing several steps behind, his round, worm-like face, looking anything but encouraging. She offered the Thine scientist an almost imperceptible nod. Yeah, I know I screwed up … Twenty minutes later, setting down within Lincoln’s flight bay, Sonya, still feeling adequately chastised by the others, had gotten herself, with some difficulty, fitted out with the old baggy-assed environ-suit. To no one in particular, she said, “I feel like a clown in this thing. And I think someone might have hurled in this helmet.” Wanda said, “You know the expression beggars can’t be choosers?” Sonya said, “Copy that,” while trying not to breathe. The hatch clanged open. Max stepped down onto the ramp, then turned toward her. “On this ship … you’re never off on your own, kid. Not ever.” He looked to Wanda—she held up a hand, “Come on, I’m not her babysitter.” Sonya stormed past both of them, fast walking down the gangway. “I need to get onto the bridge and tap in.” She knew the basic layout of the ship, but soon realized even finding her way off the flight deck had her doubting herself. “This way,” Wanda said, striding past her, sounding superior. “When you don’t know what you’re doing, best to ask for help.” Sonya made a snotty face behind her marred and smudged helmet glass. “I should have a weapon. Why don’t I have a shredder … at


I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. -- That they might have met without ill consequence is, perhaps, probable; -- but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. -- Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me. -- It is done, however, and it was done for the best. -- On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them. -- With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me, I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates; and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his god-son, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge; -- most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities -- the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain -- to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and, if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became


long. I wasn’t sure if I could see Huff at camp, but, then again, I think Huff wanted to be anywhere Daphne was, plain and simple. “How do you feel about the wedding?” Mary Stuart asked. I shrugged. “I mean, good. I’m excited for them. I just can’t believe they’re doing it in December.” Mary Stuart held open the screen door for me and we walked to the next cabin. “That’s almost six whole months. You know I’ll get her all squared away between now and then.” “She’s just going to be so busy this summer with the move and getting Henry acclimated to all the changes.” “And she has us to help, just like we have her. Just like it has always been.” Daphne strode across the lawn toward us and called, “Have I told you lately that I love you? That you would do this for Aunt June is just the greatest.” The three of us stood together on this expansive, beautiful property overlooking the most exquisite stretch of river. Just like it has always been. My heart felt so full it could burst. “Do you think we’ll have daughters one day, that they can go to camp together just like we did?” Mary Stuart asked. I groaned. “It isn’t looking good for me. I think you two are going to be far ahead of me on the baby train, considering I’m not even dating anyone.” Mary Stuart squinted, shading her eyes from the sun, which was burning bright across the river. “Actually,” she said, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” My heart fluttered as I realized the man in the daysailer coming toward us was none other than the one who had saved me more than once, who had stolen my heart and never let it go. “He’s just here to wish June a good opening day. He doesn’t even know I’m here.” I sighed. “He made it pretty clear that I’d burned my bridges with him.” Daphne scrunched her nose. “Well, I’d better go down there. Want to come be the bigger person?” I rolled my eyes. “I hate being the bigger person. I don’t want to be the bigger person.” Mary Stuart looped her arm around mine. “I can stay up here with you and pretend we didn’t see him.” That would be easier, but even though it would hurt to see him, I knew it was the right thing to do. We walked down the dock, my heart thumping, and Mary Stuart squeezed me tighter. As Rich tied up the boat, he looked back and saw us. “Here comes trouble,” he called. I couldn’t help but laugh. We heard that a lot growing up. He casually walked up the dock to us and said, “Well, I just wanted to make sure June was okay and ready for opening day. But I see she has you three here, so I can answer that question for myself. No one’s better at camp than you.” Daphne pointed at us. “My two best trusty sidekicks and I have Aunt


No, they never came up. Is that important?” I honestly have no idea any more. “So Roddy Tebbit—” “He was explaining it all to me. Like, not history, just…life. I don’t fit in because I really am just a kid, and yet I’m also not. Right?” He looks at me like I have the faintest clue what to say to that. Shit. I grab a piece of scrap paper and write Athena’s number on it. “This is your—fuck it, I’m saying cousin—Athena. Dial the number and tell her I said you should.” He stares at me. “Athena Tonfamecasca is going to take my call.” “On that number, any time of the day or night. So make sure you call sometime around four in the afternoon, okay? Don’t write cheques too big for me to cash.” “What do I tell her?” “Anything you like. But she’ll tell you…how to get on. Okay? She knows the road. You don’t have to do everything the hard way.” I can see Athena throwing her hands in the air: for fuck’s sake, Cal, you ever take your own advice? Nope. Can’t say I do. But being with her, with what she is now, would mean toeing Stefan’s line, and that would destroy us both. She doesn’t agree, but she’s standing in the other world and it suits her. She doesn’t see what it would do to me. Or perhaps I’m wrong, and a fool. Richard looks at the paper and folds it carefully into his wallet. Then he squares his shoulders. “I don’t know what happened to Dr. Tebbit, Mr. Sounder, but if you’re wondering whether he was the good guy or the bad guy, I think he was the first.” “There’s no good guys and bad guys. Not really.” He looks back at me without blinking from somewhere endless I don’t want to go. “Yes, Mr. Sounder. There absolutely are.” * * * — “Are you quite finished?” Bill Styles says. “You like the Marx Brothers?” “Groucho and Harpo and the other one?” “There’s four of them.” “No, Cal, I don’t, because I’m neither ten thousand years old nor twenty-two.” “Who was Roddy Tebbit dealing with?” “What do you mean, dealing with?” “He was fully funded to work on lake slime, and not by you. Who?” “Jaybird Pharmaceuticals.” “I want an address and I want the contract.” Bill passes me a thin envelope. “That’s all you’ve got?” “It’s all I’m giving you. The university lawyers say you want more than that you can take it up with them officially.” “You tell them I was here to help?” “I did. Sian Colbert expressed doubt and apprehension, as indeed I am doing now. She says you’re to sling your hook.” “She’s a good lawyer.” “Get out, Cal. If you come around again, bring a warrant.” “That how it is?” “That’s how it is.” He holds the door for me, which is as close as a guy like that gets to throwing you out. * * * — I go back to the office and call Jaybird Pharmaceuticals, but


Mrs. Bone had spoken a little word in Cook’s ear—just as planned—and the kitchen had descended into chaos, as predicted. Cook was at the center of it all, wooden spoon aloft. “You heard ’em!” she said, pointing at Mr. Shepherd. Mr. Shepherd had paled, hands raised, trying to soothe the uproar. “Ladies,” he called, over their voices, “now is not the moment for dissension in our ranks.” Cook lifted the wooden spoon higher. “We can’t work safely in these circumstances, Mr. Shepherd. You’ve got to make a decision.” Mrs. Bone was watching all this with an eyebrow cocked. Easy, she thought. You wind ’em up, give a few sharp twists, and off they go... Cook saw her. “There she is. Ask her yourself, Mr. Shepherd!” The butler turned to Mrs. Bone, perspiring. “Well? What is this all about?” “Tell him!” said Cook, hot with indignation, jabbing the spoon. “Tell him what you told me.” Mrs. Bone wrung her hands, made a hangdog face. “It’s the princess’s policemen, Mr. Shepherd. They’ve been ogling us ladies, giving us marks out of ten!” She cast a sideways look at Cook. “It was filthy!” “You see, Mr. Shepherd,” said Cook, triumphant, eyes shining. “They even eyed up the old daily woman.” Mr. Shepherd goggled at them. “Oh, yes, Mr. Shepherd,” said Mrs. Bone, jutting out her hip. “And they touched me. Here. And here.” Mr. Shepherd averted his eyes. “Now, ladies...” Cook raised a finger. “It don’t matter what you do. You can call ’em bobbies, you can send ’em up to Buckingham Palace, you can put ’em in uniform, you can give ’em any airs and graces you like. It don’t make a difference, if they’re Irish.” “Cook...” “Irish, Mr. Shepherd! Known philanderers!” William moved in, right behind Mrs. Bone, smelling delicious. “What’s happening here, then?” he murmured. Mrs. Bone wound her fingers together. “I dursn’t say.” Cook pressed her hand to her heart, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And what, I’d like to know, are Their Majesties doing bringing philanderers into their house to guard their daughters? We might as well put them princesses up for sale to the highest bidder. They can call Maud Bawd.” “Cook, enough,” said Mr. Shepherd, agonized. “No Irish!” said Cook, and the spoon went back up in the air. “No Irish!” “Enough,” said Shepherd. His eye swept over the crowd, landed on William. “Show the princess’s men out to the mews house. Get them some refreshments, with my compliments.” “Compliments, Mr. Shepherd?” gasped Cook. “And tell them to stay out of the kitchen, and well out of the way of the ladies.” “Ooh, I think I’m getting a bruise on me hip, Cook,” said Mrs. Bone. “They pinched me that hard.” “Go!” roared Mr. Shepherd. Good. Mrs. Bone wanted a squadron of men near the back gate, ready to keep the road clear when required. Cook turned, irate. “But what about Mr. Doggett, Mr. Shepherd? He won’t want his mews house being overrun by—” Mr. Shepherd flapped her away. “Mr. Doggett is helping up here. William, you


Oliver. 'Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?' Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, then, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. 'My dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, 'this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of.' Oliver bowed again. 'Dear me!' said the undertaker's wife, 'he's very small.' 'Why, he IS rather small,' replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; 'he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry--he'll grow.' 'Ah! I dare say he will,' replied the lady pettishly, 'on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o' bones.' With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated 'kitchen'; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair. 'Here, Charlotte,' said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, 'give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em--are you, boy?' Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him. I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish. 'Well,' said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: 'have you done?' There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative. 'Then come with me,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; 'your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much matter whether you do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else. Come; don't keep me here all night!' Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress. CHAPTER V OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S BUSINESS Oliver, being left to


right?” She laughs softly. “I just . . . I was in a pretty bad place when I met him. He did so much—still does, always taking care of me, and I . . . I want to take care of him for once, you know? Make him feel like I’ve got him.” I nod and then stare down at my empty palms. When I really let go, I imagine that you let me take care of you, too. “Have you and Jack been together for a while?” Olive asks, and I look up at her. I can tell that the Elsie she wants would say yes. That she loves Jack very much and likes the thought of someone who’ll take care of him. But. Honesty. For a second, I picture myself blurting out the entire story: how I fakedated Greg, then met Jack, then met Jonathan. But I doubt Olive is familiar with the concept of fake dating, so I sanitize my version. “This is the first time, actually.” It feels weird to say the opposite of what someone wants. And it feels downright horrible when Olive’s response is a disappointed “Oh.” I swallow. “I’m sorry—” “No, no.” She smiles, reassuring. “I’m sorry about earlier. Asking if you’re getting married.” I shake my head. “We’re just . . . getting to know each other.” “That’s great. It’s nice to hear that he’s over his I Don’t Date, Let Me Set Boundaries and Make It Clear That This Is Just About Sex phase.” Her impression of Jack sounds more like Vin Diesel, but it has me thinking: I have no idea what Jack wants from me. Olive is the second person to mention how important boundaries are to him. He hasn’t set any, but he also said that he was attracted to me, and . . . If what Jack wanted from me was sex . . . what then? Honestly, no clue. I don’t have much experience. Not because I ever bought into the idea that sex is something precious, but because it felt like a means to an end, a way to ensure that the person I was with was pleased with me. Sex never happened because of any attraction I experienced, but that’s okay: maybe I never craved it, but I also never minded it. Because it wasn’t for me. With Jack, though . . . something’s different. Perhaps because he sees more of me than anyone ever has. I find myself thinking about last Sunday by the car, over and over. Tethered on the edge of a kiss that might not come, tense, heated, spellbound. There might be something here. Or it might be nothing. What’s certain is that I’m more curious than ever. If something were to happen, it would be for me. “Did you guys meet at work?” Olive asks. “Kind of. I’m a physicist, too. Though I’m an adjunct.” “Ouch.” I laugh. “Yeah.” “You like teaching?” “Nope. Lots of high-def pictures of butt rashes that are too deadly for people to come to class. Sifting


most important of all the Symbio-Poths, bar none.” She just shook her head. Looked at me like I was beyond stupid. “At this moment, Adams is swarming with dozens of Liquilid nanite-infused beetles. We need Reggie to come to the rescue. And if you haven’t taken note of Hardy’s current predicament, I suggest you do so now.” I watched as she tapped at her tablet, brows knit as she searched for the right feed. Suddenly, her eyes widened, and she gasped. “Oh no, Hardy …” Looking back up at me, she looked to be considering what was being asked of her, more precisely, asked of Reggie. “This isn’t really in Reggie’s job description, you know …” “Oh, but being stabbed by broadswords or chased by crazed cavemen is?” Akari spat back. “We’re wasting time here, kid. Get that fucking Symbio dinosaur onto a GravLift and do it now! Don’t make me come up there and—” “Fine! I’ll get Reggie into a lift, but it’s not my fault if his fat ass won’t fit!” Akari cut the feed with a huff. Sonya’s sour face disappeared from view. Akari looked back at me. “You can’t negotiate with teenagers, girls especially; they’ll walk all over you.” “Noted.” As Grimes continued to man the helm controls, I put my attention back on Hardy. I said, “Help is on the way, buddy.” I leaned in. The ChronoBot now had three beetles affixed to various parts of his metal frame. I said, “Since you’re, um … indisposed, can you give us an update on that Liquilid comms signal?” Hardy’s face display turned just enough that I could see an old atomic bomb explosion and the resulting mushroom cloud playing on a constant loop. “Signal’s stronger, a little; think we’re still on the right trajectory.” “Frigates are upon us, Cap!” Akari exclaimed. Chapter 52 Lost Tombstone Star System Genoma, Stratham Hold Captain Gail Pristy Resnick bolted through the ringularity into the dark cavernous tunnel, leaving Pristy several yards behind. What is your problem? Pristy’s irritation with Resnick was reaching critical mass, a live grenade pin pulled, ready to detonate. The general had been secretive and moody, taking haughtiness to a whole new level. She quickened her pace, struggling to catch up to him. Normally it would have felt good to be back at home base—on Lost Tombstone—but all she felt was acrimony. “Can you please explain why we left Portent? Seems to me this is a critical moment within the whole space-time continuum thing you keep going on and on about.” Pristy spoke with a breathy tone, jogging and talking. She stopped a couple feet behind Resnick, standing her ground and yelling, “Hey, I’m talking to you!” Resnick halted in his tracks. His body stiffened. The general executed a definitive about-face. If looks could kill, she’d be six feet under. “My hearing, like my eyesight, is perfect.” Pristy took in his rigid standing position. Her breathing under control now, she spoke in a calm voice, “Just please explain to me, General, the plan, the steps we’re taking … and


see here. We are just normal inspectors doing inspections. I have determined you have passed your inspection. Keep up the good work. Congratulations. I will request you receive a commendation for your services. Thank you. Thank you.” She began to pull Rambo away, much to his annoyance. Bernard’s head spun to face the Coachman, who chuckled weakly. “Yes, I know. He’s … a special case. My apologies, Bernard. It won’t happen again.” “I should kill you where you stand,” Bernard said. “Viva la succión!” Rambo cried. “I’ll handle it,” the Coachman said. He whirled on Vic and Hap, eyes narrowed. “Sir, if you could possibly consider controlling your assistant during inspections, it would be greatly appreciated. And since you are inspectors, consider inspecting.” Vic startled. “Yes, of course. Inspecting. That’s what we’re here for.” He glanced around awkwardly. Hap pointed at a large stack of crates. “Those l-look like they were sstacked how they’re supposed to b-be.” Vic nodded, head snapping up and down. “Exactly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen crates stacked so well.” He turned toward the line of beeping working machines, panic clawing at his chest. “You all did a good job. I don’t see any issues. Continue doing … whatever it is you’re doing.” The machines stopped beeping before turning back in line and beginning to move slowly once again. Vic breathed a sigh of relief as Nurse Ratched pulled Rambo to them. Hap crouched down and glared at him. “Uh-oh,” Rambo said. “I know that face. Nothing good ever comes when Hap makes that face. Which, to be fair, he makes that face a lot, but still.” “Keep. Your m-mouth. Shut.” Rambo tipped Hap a salute with his pincers. “Will do. Question. I don’t have a mouth, so what does that—ooh, that face is even worse. I’ll just stop talking now.” Hap picked Rambo up as he stood, staring defiantly at Bernard. “No favor is worth this,” Bernard mumbled. They continued on toward the back of the warehouse, Rambo muttering that he’d never been to a family reunion before, and how it’d been ruined even before it began. “This all looks fine,” Vic said loudly, trying to drown out Rambo. “The most efficiently run warehouse I’ve ever seen. Nurse Ratched, please make a note of it.” “Of course, Victor,” Nurse Ratched said. “I absolutely adore when you tell me what to do.” This was negated when a picture of a hand making a rude gesture flashed on her screen for a moment. “And can I say, your helmet looks especially dapper today. It suits you. I hope you never take it off.” “Ha, ha,” the Coachman said. Vic thought if he was capable of sweating, it’d be pouring down his face. “This is all going so well! Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine.” Bernard led them away from the line of worker machines toward a back corner of the warehouse. There, in the dusty corners, sat a row of empty crates, their lids open, their screens dark. Up close, they were smaller than Vic had expected. “Here,”


Cook and the kitchen girl as they served Forester and Rebecca but didn’t linger in this room either. It seemed this was to be a rather quick tour. Simon was grateful for that part. This conversation wasn’t exactly one that would make him feel any better about the situation, and the sooner he could get it over with, the better. “What would you like to know?” They took the stairs up to the first floor, which contained more rooms Simon thought Lucy would enjoy, like the library and like the sitting room that looked out over the grounds. “When you were a boy, what was your dream?” That question stopped Simon in his tracks. “What?” Smiling a little as she glanced back at him, she continued into the library, forcing Simon to follow if he wanted clarification. “You know. Did you hope to be wealthy or own an entire county’s worth of land?” “You think my dream would be something so monetary?” The thought rankled. She still smiled, though, as she ran her fingers along the spines of books on one of the shelves. This library was not as impressive as the one at the Park, but Simon had to admit William had collected more books than he would have expected. Or perhaps they had simply been here from when their great-uncle had been owner of Penworth. “I do not think so poorly of you,” Lucy assured him. “I was merely offering up examples.” That didn’t mean the question was an easy one to answer, though Simon did his best. “I always wanted to be a baron.” She raised an eyebrow. “Truly. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted nothing more than to fill my father’s shoes in his role as Lord Calloway.” “But not when it comes to his businesses.” If this was how he made amends for suspecting her, Simon would endure it, even if he would rather have been talking about anything else. Lucy had already learned more about Simon’s reluctance with Father’s businesses than he would have liked, and he was hardly in a state to defend himself now. “I have always wanted to make my father proud,” he said, even if that didn’t necessarily answer her question. She was intelligent enough to recognize he was deflecting, and that made her grin. It was a far better sight than her nervous frown, so he couldn’t begrudge the reason for it too much. “Have you ever stopped to think you have already made him proud?” she asked. “You have a flourishing estate with happy tenants, which is not something every gentleman can claim. Your mother and sister have good lives, and Olivia will never wonder whether you will sell her off to the highest bidder. You clearly want her happiness more than anything.” When had she gotten closer? No, that was him. Simon had been so desperate to listen to what she had to say that he didn’t even realize he’d moved farther into the room until he was right in front of her, close enough that


might not absolutely lose what had once been so admirable a breed of fowls. The distinguishing mark of the hens was a crest of lamentably scanty growth, in these latter days, but so oddly and wickedly analogous to Hepzibah's turban, that Phoebe--to the poignant distress of her conscience, but inevitably --was led to fancy a general resemblance betwixt these forlorn bipeds and her respectable relative. The girl ran into the house to get some crumbs of bread, cold potatoes, and other such scraps as were suitable to the accommodating appetite of fowls. Returning, she gave a peculiar call, which they seemed to recognize. The chicken crept through the pales of the coop and ran, with some show of liveliness, to her feet; while Chanticleer and the ladies of his household regarded her with queer, sidelong glances, and then croaked one to another, as if communicating their sage opinions of her character. So wise, as well as antique, was their aspect, as to give color to the idea, not merely that they were the descendants of a time-honored race, but that they had existed, in their individual capacity, ever since the House of the Seven Gables was founded, and were somehow mixed up with its destiny. They were a species of tutelary sprite, or Banshee; although winged and feathered differently from most other guardian angels. "Here, you odd little chicken!" said Phoebe; "here are some nice crumbs for you!" The chicken, hereupon, though almost as venerable in appearance as its, mother--possessing, indeed, the whole antiquity of its progenitors in miniature,--mustered vivacity enough to flutter upward and alight on Phoebe's shoulder. "That little fowl pays you a high compliment!" said a voice behind Phoebe. Turning quickly, she was surprised at sight of a young man, who had found access into the garden by a door opening out of another gable than that whence she had emerged. He held a hoe in his hand, and, while Phoebe was gone in quest of the crumbs, had begun to busy himself with drawing up fresh earth about the roots of the tomatoes. "The chicken really treats you like an old acquaintance," continued he in a quiet way, while a smile made his face pleasanter than Phoebe at first fancied it. "Those venerable personages in the coop, too, seem very affably disposed. You are lucky to be in their good graces so soon! They have known me much longer, but never honor me with any familiarity, though hardly a day passes without my bringing them food. Miss Hepzibah, I suppose, will interweave the fact with her other traditions, and set it down that the fowls know you to be a Pyncheon!" "The secret is," said Phoebe, smiling, "that I have learned how to talk with hens and chickens." "Ah, but these hens," answered the young man,--"these hens of aristocratic lineage would scorn to understand the vulgar language of a barn-yard fowl. I prefer to think--and so would Miss Hepzibah --that they recognize the family tone. For you are a Pyncheon?" "My name is Phoebe Pyncheon," said the girl,


stop being queer," he said, "if I go every day to the garden. There is Magic in there--good Magic, you know, Mary. I am sure there is." "So am I," said Mary. "Even if it isn't real Magic," Colin said, "we can pretend it is. Something is there--something!" "It's Magic," said Mary, "but not black. It's as white as snow." They always called it Magic and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed--the wonderful months--the radiant months--the amazing ones. Oh! the things which happened in that garden! If you have never had a garden you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. At first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. Then the green things began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. In its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. Ben Weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on. Iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas. "She was main fond o' them--she was," Ben Weatherstaff said. "She liked them things as was allus pointin' up to th' blue sky, she used to tell. Not as she was one o' them as looked down on th' earth--not her. She just loved it but she said as th' blue sky allus looked so joyful." The seeds Dickon and Mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them. Satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there. And the roses--the roses! Rising out of the grass, tangled round the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades --they came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair fresh leaves, and buds--and buds--tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air. Colin saw it all, watching each change as it took place. Every morning he was brought out and every hour of each day when it didn't rain he spent in the garden. Even gray days pleased him. He would lie on the grass "watching things growing," he said. If you watched long enough, he declared, you could see


It brings me something akin to joy to see you stare at the floor and give him flimsy excuses.” “You’re supposed to be on my side.” “I know,” she said. “I am a traitor. I feel terrible about it. I cannot wait.” She stopped. Her screen flashed a question mark. “Do you hear that?” He glanced back at her. “Hear what?” “I do not know. It sounds complex. It is coming from the ground house. I need to diagnose it.” She rode by him, flattening the grass on the forest floor, leaves crunching. He watched as she disappeared through the doorway. He followed, cocking his head. He strained to hear what she had. At first, there was nothing. And then— His eyes widened. “No way.” He jogged toward the ground house. Electric lights burned inside, reflecting off glass jars filled with unused parts and unplanted seeds. The floor creaked under Vic’s weight with every step he took. He wound his way through the shelves and piles of books and electronics. A washing machine, though it was broken beyond repair. What his father called an icebox, though it never made any ice. Dad never liked to throw anything away, saying there was a use for everything even if it wasn’t readily apparent. Vic was the same way, which is why it frustrated him that his father didn’t like when they went hunting in the Scrap Yards. The ground house was filled with objects his father had salvaged, even if he hadn’t been back in quite a while. How was it any different when Vic did the same? But he ignored it, all of it, because of the sounds that rolled over him, warm and sweet. Music. It was music. But it wasn’t like the music boxes against the far walls. Those were monophonic, and though enchanting, they did not compare. A voice unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, soft, sweet. Higherpitched, and it took Vic a moment to realize why. A woman. Above the gentle plink of piano keys, a woman sang about the doggoned moon above, making her need someone to love. Entranced, he followed the voice. Vic found Giovanni Lawson sitting in an old recliner, Rambo in his lap. His eyes were closed as he petted the vacuum. Rambo grumbled happily, sensors flashing slowly. Nurse Ratched sat next to them. On her screen, a line bounced in a circadian rhythm, keeping time with the beat from the song. On top of the wooden work bench a record player lay open, a record spinning and skipping, the voice slightly warbled but still clear. “It works,” Vic whispered in awe. “You fixed it.” Dad didn’t open his eyes. He hummed under his breath before saying, “I did. This is Beryl Davis singing. Such a lovely voice, don’t you think?” Vic approached the work bench. He could hear the sound of a record turning against the needle. He bent over, examining the machine. It looked as it always had. He couldn’t see anything new. He itched to take it apart to see how its


room, the parlor, while commoners gather across the hall in the kitchen. (Many English pubs today still have a refined saloon bar and a plainer public bar.) At the Rainbow, the gentlemen drink hard liquor--"spirits"--while poor men drink cheap beer. The people of Raveloe seem to like this stratification. It is fluid, though. Tonight, for example, the richest gentry are away at the Osgoods' party. Therefore, the lower upperclass men who weren't invited have moved over to the lowerclass bar, where they can be the big shots. Does this seem confusing to you? If so, just think of how a stranger would react to the different cliques and social categories in your school. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 6 Eliot backtracks to recount the evening's conversation at the Rainbow. This re-establishes your sense of the Raveloe community, which contrasts against Silas' isolated existence. NOTE: DUTCH REALISM If you could paint Eliot's description of the men at the pub, it would probably look like a seventeenth-century Dutch painting by Jan Vermeer or Frans Hals. Eliot admired this school of art, called "genre" painting, which featured tavern or kitchen scenes in realistic detail. You can see here figures side-lit by the fire, and pipe-smoke hanging in the air. Facial expressions are drawn dramatically. Social distinctions are clear in details of drink and clothing. There isn't anything important these men have to say--they talk for the sake of fellowship. Mr. Snell, the landlord, like a master of ceremonies, begins the conversation by speaking to his cousin the butcher. As you read this scene, be aware of how slow it is, full of long pauses, repetitions, and rambling arguments. Today, people talk quickly, getting right to the point, and jump from topic to topic. But in an old society like Raveloe's, people took all night to speak their minds. The butcher and the farrier (blacksmith) get into an argument over the breed of a slaughtered cow. The farrier likes arguing for the sake of it, but he can't get the easygoing butcher to fight. Mr. Snell ends this pig-headed quarrel and shifts the topic to the Lammeter family, who owned the cow. He calls on the parish-clerk Mr. Macey, who sparks another quarrel with his new deputy Mr. Tookey. In this ongoing dispute, not only do Macey and Tookey know exactly what they're arguing about, others such as the wheelwright Ben Winthrop butt in, too. The whole community cares about how Tookey does his job. They also care about music and the ritual of the church service. Originally, George Eliot wanted to write Silas Marner in verse. (You can be glad she didn't--her poetry was usually stilted and boring.) She changed to prose because she felt the story would need humor. This chapter demonstrates the kind of humor she meant--based on funny personalities rather than wisecracks. Part of you may be laughing at these yokels, like the pompous farrier with his thick-headed arguments. But another part of you may laugh with them--at the interplay of characters, the teasing banter, and the droll understatements, like Mr. Macey's comment


someone who didn’t know math. His bristly mustache hung down to his chin, and it must’ve been a recent drawing because he wore the ankle boot on one foot. A bunch of bears dressed like gangsters posed in the background and Louise figured the artist meant them to be the Chicago Bears. “Wrong bears,” she said to herself. Her mom’s caricature sported a crazed grin, and on her right hand, of course, she wore Pupkin with his matching smile. Louise wondered if he should have gone to the crematorium with her mom, but the thought of forcing her dad to share an urn with Pupkin’s ashes for eternity made her breath feel tight in her chest. Pupkin was hopefully in the back of a garbage truck by now on his way to the dump. She felt a pang of guilt about what she’d done, then smothered it. She never wanted to see his creepy grinning face again. Behind her mom and Pupkin, the caricaturist had drawn every single one of her mom’s puppets. Forty years of puppetry filled the frame: Monty the Dog from A Stray in the Manger, Danny the Imagination Dragon, Cosmic Starshine, Meow Meow and Rogers, the Inside-Out Man, Judge Goodsense, Flossy Bossypants, Mr. Don’t, Pizzaface, Sister Whimsical, Deuteronomy the Donkey . . . “Louise,” a man said behind her. She turned to face the only other person who looked like he wasn’t about to lead a chorus of “Puff the Magic Dragon.” He wore a white cassock and had a red heatstroke face, and he squinted at her through tiny glasses. He thrust out his hand. “Reverend Mike. This is certainly a change from our usual congregation.” He smiled at the mayhem. “Thank you for having us,” Louise said, scanning the crowd. “I’m sorry about the craziness, but my mom . . .” “Wonderful craziness,” Reverend Mike said, clutching her hand in his sweaty paw. “Just like your mother. It’s what she would have wanted.” Then Louise saw Mark stride up the aisle wearing seersucker shorts, a seersucker jacket, and a red tie. To Louise’s horror, he also wore sandals. “The man of the hour!” Reverend Mike said, and scuttled off to greet Mark. Everyone seemed to know him. Louise saw Judi, string-puller in chief of the FCP, give him a hug. Puppet people shook Mark’s hand and showed him their spinning bow ties, and he shook their puppets’ hands, accepted their furry hugs, laughed loudly at their jokes. Louise felt like a guest at an event starring Mark Joyner. It was the same way her mom always made her feel when she came to Louise’s school. “May we all be seated?” Reverend Mike’s amplified voice said over the mic, his face barely clearing the pulpit. Louise drifted over to the drab family pew as everyone found their seats and Reverend Mike beamed at the assembly. “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands,” he said. “Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with singing.” Right on cue, a puppet barbershop quartet sang “This


disposition was gay and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all excellence and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her. "When my dearest aunt died every one was too much occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved for her. "One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgement from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor girl! She wept when she quitted our house; she was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this las winter. Justine has just returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mein and her expression continually remind me of my dear aunt. "I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little WIVES, but Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age. "Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than


after school so I could slowly pay my parents the money I’d gotten from Last Chance. I found a McMansion I liked, red brick with a slate roof and a two-car garage, and took a picture of it from the street. This became Ingrid’s family’s house, and I uploaded the photo to Tumblr with the caption home sweet friggin’ home. Ingrid’s dad, Eric, was a doctor and her mom, Stephanie, was a business consultant. In 2000, when Ingrid was ten, they’d moved from their starter home in a less rich neighborhood to this one, where there was a homeowner’s association and acre-large lawns. Ingrid had spent her childhood attending painting classes and piano lessons. She’d learned to play “Moonlight Sonata” at age eleven and was composing her own music by age thirteen. I texted Orson the photo of the McMansion. these assholes I wrote. these assholes sir, colonel, sir. No response. I waited for an hour, then two hours, three, four. I concluded that he’d either died or grown sick of me. I biked to the library and checked out Mrs. Dalloway and Sula in hopes that this would somehow summon him back. I stayed up all night speed-reading both. Mrs. Dalloway was dense in ways Sula wasn’t, but he’d been right: each book was the contents of a mind poured out onto the page. Characters wanting things and getting things and losing things. In my teenage narcissism I imagined myself one of these characters, suffering for Orson, pleading for him, praying for him. Days of silence. I called and listened to his phone ring. I tried not to call too many times in a single day. My sleep grew fitful. I squinted at my phone at the dinner table. I could feel my dad watching me. “Is it time to get your prescription updated?” he asked. “I see the way you’re holding your phone.” Orson had disappeared off the face of the earth and my dad had the nerve to ask about my eyesight. “No,” I snapped. “I can see just fine.” He raised his hands as though I’d just threatened him with something sharp. “Listen, I’m on your side. I just want you to be in good shape for college.” “Yeah,” I said. “I want to go into massive debt so I can compete with people who had private SAT tutors and drive massive SUVs for an upper-middle-class job I don’t want and won’t get anyway.” My dad snatched my phone from my hands. My mom walked into the room carrying the bucket of fried chicken she’d picked up from the neighborhood KFC. “What did I miss?” she asked. “Ezra doesn’t want to go to college,” my dad said. I’d been staring at my phone for so long that everything farther than four feet away from me was smudged, but I could make out the rigid line of my dad’s mouth. “You don’t want to go to college?” my mom asked. “We don’t have money for it,” I said. “That wasn’t your argument.” My dad’s features came slowly into focus:


went dark. The bindings felt familiar; the rasp of rope on her skin was like an echo. For a moment she smelled stone and burning skin. For a moment she was sure there was nothing but tunnels and pale torchlight beyond the veil of her eyelids, an obsidian tomb and hazel eyes that matched her own. So when Lore opened her eyes and saw a cell, it was almost a relief. Someone had stuffed a gag in her mouth—it tasted sour, like it’d been used to clean up spilled wine. One rope bound her ankles to the legs of the chair where she sat, another bound her wrists together behind her back, and yet another connected the two. Whoever had tied her up had left enough slack that she wasn’t painfully contorted, but there was no chance in any of the myriad hells that she could get out of the chair unassisted. And all of it—the chair, the bindings, the stone walls—all of it felt like death. Lore gasped against her gag, pulling the fabric farther back in her throat, making her choke as she pressed her eyes closed. Usually, she could deal with her awareness of Mortem in dead matter. She had to; there was no escaping it. But something had changed when she raised Horse, and now it pressed in on her from all sides, heavy and thick, bearing down with a suffocating weight. Worse than the rock and rope, things that had never lived, were the things that did. The minuscule threads of grass pushing against the cracks in the floor, the people close enough for her senses to pick them up, her own body—alive, for now, but she could feel each individual cell as it collapsed, an eternity in microcosm— Had this happened after Cedric? If it had, she didn’t remember it. It seemed like getting older had made the raising easier and the side effects worse. Swallowing hard, Lore opened her eyes again, making herself actually look at her surroundings. Not a cell, technically. Just a bare stone room, with the chair she was bound to and a wooden table as the only furniture. On the wall hung a tapestry, its vibrancy made garish for being the only spot of color. The tapestry depicted a man with gleaming brown hair and milk-pale skin, blood-smeared hands outstretched, blood seeping from a gaping wound in His chest and dripping into the mass of darkness below Him. In the background was something that looked like a fountain, edged in gold, and above the man’s head, a message was picked out in silver-gilt thread. Apollius, may we hold fast Your Citadel, protecting the world from Death and living in purity until Your return, when the world shall rise in the Light of a New Age. The nebulous form below Apollius’s feet appeared to be a shadow at first glance. But if you looked closely, you could almost pick out the shape of a woman, see where the weaver had used threads of varying darkness to suggest a moon-crowned head, feminine curves.


bunged." He flipped the page. "Up on that side of the face Sheriff please repeat what you said it was her right eye I said-" "Thank you, Bert," said Atticus. "You heard it again, Mr. Ewell. Do you have anything to add to it? Do you agree with the sheriff?" "I holds with Tate. Her eye was blacked and she was mighty beat up." The little man seemed to have forgotten his previous humiliation from the bench. It was becoming evident that he thought Atticus an easy match. He seemed to grow ruddy again; his chest swelled, and once more he was a red little rooster. I thought he'd burst his shirt at Atticus's next question: "Mr. Ewell, can you read and write?" Mr. Gilmer interrupted. "Objection," he said. "Can't see what witness's literacy has to do with the case, irrelevant'n'immaterial." Judge Taylor was about to speak but Atticus said, "Judge, if you'll allow the question plus another one you'll soon see." "All right, let's see," said Judge Taylor, "but make sure we see, Atticus. Overruled." Mr. Gilmer seemed as curious as the rest of us as to what bearing the state of Mr. Ewell's education had on the case. "I'll repeat the question," said Atticus. "Can you read and write?" "I most positively can." "Will you write your name and show us?" "I most positively will. How do you think I sign my relief checks?" Mr. Ewell was endearing himself to his fellow citizens. The whispers and chuckles below us probably had to do with what a card he was. I was becoming nervous. Atticus seemed to know what he was doing- but it seemed to me that he'd gone frog-sticking without a light. Never, never, never, on cross-examination ask a witness a question you don't already know the answer to, was a tenet I absorbed with my baby-food. Do it, and you'll often get an answer you don't want, an answer that might wreck your case. Atticus was reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. He drew out an envelope, then reached into his vest pocket and unclipped his fountain pen. He moved leisurely, and had turned so that he was in full view of the jury. He unscrewed the fountain-pen cap and placed it gently on his table. He shook the pen a little, then handed it with the envelope to the witness. "Would you write your name for us?" he asked. "Clearly now, so the jury can see you do it." Mr. Ewell wrote on the back of the envelope and looked up complacently to see Judge Taylor staring at him as if he were some fragrant gardenia in full bloom on the witness stand, to see Mr. Gilmer half-sitting, half-standing at his table. The jury was watching him, one man was leaning forward with his hands over the railing. "What's so interestin'?" he asked. "You're left-handed, Mr. Ewell," said Judge Taylor. Mr. Ewell turned angrily to the judge and said he didn't see what his being left-handed had to do with it, that he was a


round yellow bars peeling back her skin with each soak. She did not allow her children to wash their own clothes because of how harsh the soda soaps were. Her hands, she often said, were ruined already. Ẹniọlá and Bùsọ́lá should keep theirs as long as they could. “I’ll tell my wife to give you a spray before you leave,” Honourable said. “Some anti-perspirant. I sweat a lot too, so I understand what’s going on with you.” Ẹniọlá looked up. Honourable seemed sincere. He was not mocking him. Honourable leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to one side. “Stand up, let me see you.” Ẹniọlá stood, pressing his bare feet firmly into the plush rug because he worried that he might sway on his feet. He felt his throat dry up as the older man’s gaze swept over his body. Honourable’s face was expressionless, as though he were looking not at a human being but an unpainted concrete wall. “How old are you?” Honourable asked. “Sixteen sir.” “You’re eighteen, do you understand?” Honourable said. “Yes sir.” Ẹniọlá nodded. Maybe Honourable would ask him to register to vote in the next year’s election. He had to be eighteen to get a voter’s card. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done.” “Sir?” “Out with it. At eighteen, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Stabbed someone? Now, don’t lie. Your friends must have told you that is the number one rule here, all liars end up in the fire, they told you that, right?” Ẹniọlá nodded. They had told him no such thing, but he did not want to get them in trouble. He cleared his throat. “Last month, I stole a phone from a woman who was sitting in front of me in church.” “Hmmm, were there people beside you?” “Yes sir.” “How come they didn’t see you take the phone?” “Everyone was praying sir, so their eyes were closed.” “I see. Where was this phone?” “The phone?” “When you took it, where was it? Was it in her bag?” “No sir. She put it beside her on the bench, I just had to reach forward a little.” “So she was careless.” Honourable stood up, lifted the folds of his agbádá and settled the dark blue fabric on his shoulders. “You see, if she really valued that phone, it would have been in her bag. She would have protected it. What is that thing they say? A goat can only eat what is left uncared for, àbí? You took your chance, I like that. One must take everything life has offered up. Gobble up every chance and opportunity. And so, what happened after you took this phone? Tell me.” Honourable’s voice was warm now, his face creased into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “I switched off the phone and left the church immediately. I knew she would try to call it once she noticed it was missing, so I didn’t want it to ring before I got back home.” “And she might have noticed as


be patient. And I will work with you to teach you some coping skills in the meantime.” I let out a long breath. “Can I still go home tomorrow?” “Of course,” Dr. Estrera said. “Your site is healing beautifully. There’s no reason for you to remain here.” My dad had been worryingly silent. I took a minute to note the unexpected high I’d been getting from being an accidental brain surgery poster child—a sudden minor celebrity in his world. But then, when he shook Dr. Estrera’s hand and left the room without a word to me, that high dropped to the ground. Looked like it was time to be a disappointment again. Oh well. * * * THE MOMENT OF truth came later, after most of the doctors, including my dad, had left. Dr. Nicole stayed to run me through some face recognition tests. Before we got started, I needed to pee. Which meant going to the bathroom. Which, of course, had a mirror above the sink. I avoided looking as I walked in, but as I headed out, I paused. What would happen if I looked into that mirror? What would I see? Don’t look, I told myself. I didn’t want to know, but I also couldn’t stand not knowing … and so I wound up standing with my eyes averted, caught between curiosity and dread, for so long Dr. Nicole finally asked if I was all right. The knock startled me, and then I coasted off that energy and glanced up into the mirror to check my reflection … And what I saw made me gasp. My face, my very own face, the one I’d had and known and lived with all my life … it was nothing but puzzle pieces, too. * * * WHEN I OPENED the bathroom door, moving in slo-mo with the shock, I kept my eyes pointed toward the floor, which felt like the safest place. I got as far as the threshold before slowing to a stop. “Sadie?” Dr. Nicole asked. “I can’t see my own face,” I said then, a little breathless. “I just checked in the mirror, and it’s not there. I’m faceless.” But Dr. Nicole wasn’t giving in to my drama. “You’re not faceless,” she said, steering me gently by the shoulders back to bed, “you just have edema.” I wanted to be practical about it. Matter-of-fact. I wanted to fully understand that this was just a little brain glitch. But there was nothing matter-of-fact about it. I walked away from that mirror feeling … lonely. No matter how alone you ever are in life, you always have yourself, right? You always have that goofy, imperfect face that forgets to take off its mascara before bed and wakes up with raccoon eyes. That one crooked lower tooth that the orthodontist never could manhandle into place. Those ears that stick out a little too far. Those lines on either side of your smile that always look like parentheses. That slight dimple at your chin that’s just like your mom’s. Of course those


lowered, so that it may not get up into their heads." "Noble men and noble women, ambassadors and centurions, ladies and tradeswomen, and babies who have never seen a cow." "Well, yes; perhaps; particularly centurions." "Who don't know anything of us, and where it comes from; or think how we two drove miles across the moor tonight in the rain that it might reach 'em in time?" "We did not drive entirely on account of these precious Londoners; we drove a little on our own--on account of that anxious matter which you will, I am sure, set at rest, dear Tess. Now, permit me to put it in this way. You belong to me already, you know; your heart, I mean. Does it not?" "You know as well as I. O yes--yes!" "Then, if your heart does, why not your hand?" "My only reason was on account of you--on account of a question. I have something to tell you----" "But suppose it to be entirely for my happiness, and my worldly convenience also?" "O yes; if it is for your happiness and worldly convenience. But my life before I came here--I want----" "Well, it is for my convenience as well as my happiness. If I have a very large farm, either English or colonial, you will be invaluable as a wife to me; better than a woman out of the largest mansion in the country. So please--please, dear Tessy, disabuse your mind of the feeling that you will stand in my way." "But my history. I want you to know it--you must let me tell you--you will not like me so well!" "Tell it if you wish to, dearest. This precious history then. Yes, I was born at so and so, Anno Domini----" "I was born at Marlott," she said, catching at his words as a help, lightly as they were spoken. "And I grew up there. And I was in the Sixth Standard when I left school, and they said I had great aptness, and should make a good teacher, so it was settled that I should be one. But there was trouble in my family; father was not very industrious, and he drank a little." "Yes, yes. Poor child! Nothing new." He pressed her more closely to his side. "And then--there is something very unusual about it--about me. I--I was----" Tess's breath quickened. "Yes, dearest. Never mind." "I--I--am not a Durbeyfield, but a d'Urberville--a descendant of the same family as those that owned the old house we passed. And--we are all gone to nothing!" "A d'Urberville!--Indeed! And is that all the trouble, dear Tess?" "Yes," she answered faintly. "Well--why should I love you less after knowing this?" "I was told by the dairyman that you hated old families." He laughed. "Well, it is true, in one sense. I do hate the aristocratic principle of blood before everything, and do think that as reasoners the only pedigrees we ought to respect are those spiritual ones of the wise and virtuous, without regard to corporal paternity. But I am extremely interested in


flexed in and out of fists, an unreadable look in his one visible eye. “So how do you want to do this?” She’d hoped he would have an idea, but that must’ve been a bridge too far. Lore swallowed, bending her hands back and forth in preparation for pins and needles. “I guess the same way I fixed the corpse in the vaults,” she said finally. “Just try to… reverse it.” He nodded, one hard jerk of his chin. “I’ll help.” It didn’t sound like an offer of assistance, though. It sounded more like an order. Like he didn’t trust her to do it on her own. And even though Lore didn’t really trust herself, either, it still felt like salt in a cut. Bastian noticed the tension hovering between them, so thick it was nearly visible, and herded Val and Mari back toward the office, still talking. Val looked irritated, Mari bemused. Still, both of them seemed to sense that this was something done better without an audience, and let Bastian lead them away. Good. She didn’t want them to watch this. Banishing thoughts of her childhood and her surrogate mothers, Lore turned to Milo and his terrified stone eyes. “All right,” she murmured. “Here we go.” Tentatively, she stretched out her hands. She felt the air displace next to her as Gabe did the same. A breath into two sets of lungs, taken and held, dropping them into the space where Mortem and Spiritum became tangible. Lore’s senses flooded with death immediately. This wasn’t like with Horse, a natural expansion of Mortem as the body died, a widening corona of darkness. The entropy surrounding Milo was thick as tar, a conundrum of nothingness made nearly solid by its sheer mass. The contradiction of it made Lore’s mind slippery. She gritted her teeth. This wasn’t about thinking—the two times she’d done this, it’d been on pure instinct. It was about feeling. Her eyes stayed open, her vision graying out into the black-and-white that showed life and death in stark contrasts. The man before her was all in black, a nimbus of blazing dark outlining his form. Dark threads spun from her fingers, thin filaments like spiderwebs, connecting her to the Mortem she’d channeled into his body, the shell of it she’d spun. But at his center was colorless light, a kernel of life untouched. He could be saved. To turn living matter to stone, she’d knit death into the cells, like a cocoon around a butterfly. Lore could sense the places where that death waited now, delicately entwined with life, separated by the thinnest membrane. Two sides of one coin, unable to exist without the other. Strengthening one strengthened them both. She thought of the Law of Opposites. “Can you see where the Mortem starts?” She looked at Gabe. His one eye was opaque, his veins tarry, his extremities necrotic. The skin of his lips had shrunk, revealing more of his teeth, making it look like he snarled. Monstrous, just like her. “I can,” he said, quiet and matter-of-fact. “Let’s unravel


. XVIII. What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?" Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room. She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her head high, like a pretty woman challenging a roomful of rivals. "We were saying, my dear, that here was something beautiful to surprise you with," Mrs. Manson rejoined, rising to her feet and pointing archly to the flowers. Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the bouquet. Her colour did not change, but a sort of white radiance of anger ran over her like summer lightning. "Ah," she exclaimed, in a shrill voice that the young man had never heard, "who is ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet? Why a bouquet? And why tonight of all nights? I am not going to a ball; I am not a girl engaged to be married. But some people are always ridiculous." She turned back to the door, opened it, and called out: "Nastasia!" The ubiquitous handmaiden promptly appeared, and Archer heard Madame Olenska say, in an Italian that she seemed to pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: "Here--throw this into the dustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: "But no--it's not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill--they may give her pleasure . . . The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don't say they come from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon. "But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?" She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in


The little character fell to the ground with a bloody smack, his eyes turning to X’s. “Womp womp,” Nurse Ratched said as the screen darkened. “That is exactly what happened. Please do not hold your applause. I need validation.” “You fell?” Dad asked, eyes narrowing. Vic went back to the soldering. “Only a little bit.” An odd note filled his father’s voice. “Did you get hurt? Cuts, scrapes? Did you bleed?” “Why?” Vic asked. “You need more?” The heart—while a marvel of engineering unlike anything else that had been created—sometimes needed more than metal or wiring to function: a drop of blood, pressed against the white strip above the gears. It did not happen often—at most, once a year, but Nurse Ratched never failed to remind them that according to lore, a creature known as a vampire subsisted on the same thing. The last time had been four months before, when Dad had started acting more robotic, more like a machine. Dad said, “Victor.” “Not even nicked,” Vic assured him. Dad nodded, obviously relieved. “Good. And the Old Ones?” Vic shrugged. “You know how it is. They forget I even exist as soon as I leave the Scrap Yards. Out of sight, out of mind.” Dad sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t go there. I told you—” “Should have thought of that before you built this place so close to one. That’s on you. Not me.” “Cheeky git,” Dad said. “Anything worth finding?” “Multi-layer PCB. Looks mostly intact too.” Dad whistled lowly. “That’s rare.” He grimaced again as the wire fused back with the solenoid. Vic was careful with the closeness to the heart. It was a fragile thing. He made sure the wire had cooled enough so it wouldn’t burn the wood before setting it back gently where it belonged. “See?” Vic said. “Nothing to it. You should have let me take care of that a long time ago.” “Noted,” Dad said. He tapped against his breastbone once more, and the hatch slid closed. The seams filled. Vic rose to his feet as Dad dropped his shirt back down. “I need you to be careful, though. You can’t take chances that put you in danger.” Vic sighed as he went back to the work bench. Beryl Davis was singing in a crackly voice about what a fool she used to be. “I can take care of myself.” It was a conversation they’d had time and time again. He doubted it would be the last. He held onto the soldering iron, waiting for it to cool. “You can,” Dad agreed quietly. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not breakable. If the Old Ones got ahold of you—” “They won’t. I’m quicker than they are. Smarter too. They’re machines.” “As am I.” Vic winced. He hadn’t meant it like that. He sometimes spoke without thinking things through, though he was trying to get better at it. “You know what I mean. They’re not—they have their programming. They’re guided by it, and can’t leave the Scrap Yards.” “They’re still dangerous, Victor. And the sooner you realize