black SUVs. I could hear NuLifers running after us, screaming our names, pleading with the stoic agents. Emily’s voice rose loud and desperate above everyone else’s. “Oh my god!” she wailed. “Please! Don’t take them away!” As I was being pressed into one of the SUVs, I heard Orson call to me: “Just hang on, Ez! We’ll be fine!” And then an agent slammed the door behind me. “You scumbags stick together, huh?” the agent said to me as he started the ignition. “You’ve got your own little kiddie circle jerk going on.” I said nothing. I tried to bring my feet into focus but I couldn’t. “You’re all so young,” another agent said from the passenger seat. I hadn’t been aware he’d gotten in the car. “Your whole lives ahead of you. Won’t have much life ahead of you after you get out of prison, though.” “Fucking cult leader scumbags,” the first agent said. I felt sick. I closed my eyes and leaned forward so my head was almost between my knees. They’d cuffed me in front, so I dug the heels of my palms into my eyes. There, I thought. That’s dark enough. EPILOGUE THE MOST INCREDIBLE PART OF the FBI having flipped Brianna was what a good actor she’d been. Too shaken by the coup to continue devoting herself to the criminal operation that was NuLife, she’d agreed to wear a wire during every conversation she had with Orson and me. She’d even brought an agent into my apartment when I’d been blind, guessing correctly that my perceptual powers would be compromised by my misery. He’d been standing in the doorway as I confessed everything, filming me. The prosecution played the footage during the trial, and I listened to myself absolving myself of my sins. After that, they’d waited to take us all down at once: the wedding was the perfect occasion for a sting. The jury deliberated for five hours before convicting us. Orson and I each got twenty years, Elaine fifteen—her husband divorced her and moved across the country with the children. Everyone else took plea bargains for narcing on us as much as possible. The judge was very deliberate about placing Orson and me in different facilities. Orson went somewhere downstate, somewhere big, and I went upstate. I told the other inmates that I’d accidentally shot a clerk while trying to rob a 7-Eleven, and this was a boring-enough crime that there was never a price on my head. I took a lot of beatings, though. And it took me a few years before I was able to master the dynamics of prison sex: the omnipresent threat of rape, the beatings-off in the shower, the occasional intrigue and romance. I did my best to dodge threats and cycled through boyfriends, the relationships ending either when they got transferred or tired of me. I did an excellent job of hiding my blindness from everyone, so much that people not only thought I had 20/20 vision with my glasses but that I had superb night vision. I had


That dinner with Doria was wonderful, but I look back on it now as the

end of the beginning. The next day, the pap photos appeared, and there

was a new flood of stories, a new surge along the many channels of social

media. Racism, misogyny, criminal stupidity—it all increased.

Not knowing where else to turn, I phoned Pa.

Don t read it, darling boy.

328

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

It’s not that simple, I said angrily. I might lose this woman. She might

either decide I’m not worth the bother, or the press might so poison the

public that some idiot might do something bad, harm her in some way.

It was already happening in slow motion. Death threats. Her workplace

on lockdown because someone, reacting to what they’d read, had made a

credible threat. She’s isolated, I said, and afraid, she hasn’t raised the

blinds in her house for months—and you’ re telling me not to read it?

He said I was overreacting. This is sadly just the way it is.

I appealed to his self-interest. Doing nothing was a terrible look for the

monarchy. People out there have strong feelings about what’s happening

to her, Pa. They take it personally, you need to understand that.

He was unmoved.

25.

TT HE ADDRESS WAS HALF an hour from Nott Cott. Just a quick drive across

the Thames, past the park...but it felt like one of my polar journeys.

Heart pounding, I took a deep breath, knocked at the door.

The woman opened it, welcomed me. She led me down a short corridor

to her office.

First door on the left.

Small room. Windows with venetian blinds. Right on the busy street.

You could hear cars, shoes clicking on the pavement. People talking,

laughing.

She was fifteen years older than me, but youthful. She reminded me of

Tiggy. It was shocking, really. Such a similar vibe.

<span


the past, engaging with trolls only emboldens them. I’m sorry this is happening to June, but we do believe the best thing to do is to keep quiet. “These are wild accusations to make without solid proof,” tweets an internet personality who is largely famous for having reasonable and nuanced takes on unreasonable situations. “These are people’s livelihoods at stake. I’m troubled by how eager this community is to delight in the suffering of others. We all need to do better.” A pop-culture blogger with conservative leanings and seventy thousand followers launches a hate campaign against Adele Sparks-Sato. ASS IS A CRAZY PERSON WITH A VENDETTA AGAINST MORE SUCCESSFUL WRITERS, he rants. NEWS FLASH: JEALOUSY LOOKS UGLY ON YOU, ADELE. (This is entertaining to witness, but to be clear, I do not condone such actions. I guess it’s nice to have someone speak in your defense, but in a perfect world, they wouldn’t be frequent commentators on Fox News.) Eden’s Angels, bless them, are firmly on my side. From Jen: So normally I don’t agree with fascists but he’s right about ASS lmao. Marnie: Well you don’t need to be a fascist to know that! Jen: You alright, though? Hanging in there? Marnie: This is horrendous. I am so, so sorry you’re going through this. Let me know if there’s anything we can do. You are so brave. Jen: It’s tall poppy syndrome. They hate seeing young women succeed. That’s all this is. I get shit like this all the time from male CEOS. They can’t STAND us. Marnie: They’re dogpiling on you for clout and attention and they know it. It’s not about you, it’s about them. Jen: Don’t wrestle with pigs, and all that!! Block it out, Junie. Ignore the haters. RISE ABOVE!! IF ONLY I COULD. I CANNOT UNGLUE MYSELF FROM MY DEVICES. WHENEVER I close my eyes, I still see that azure-blue screen. I still imagine the likes racking up on yet another takedown thread about me. I do try a digital purge. Everyone keeps urging that I do this, as if pretending Twitter doesn’t exist will solve all my problems. Trolls feed on your attention! Jen keeps reminding me. What’s on the internet can’t hurt you if you don’t look at it. But it doesn’t feel like a cleanse; it feels like sticking my head in the sand while everything is falling down around me. I can’t ignore the damage. I have to track the exact trajectory of the hurricane, because knowing the precise moment it’ll hit and where will make things hurt less. At least, my brain is convinced this is so. I try taking a walk, to lose myself in details like birdsong and splattered sunlight and the wet patches left by the rain on the cement, but the world outside feels so insubstantial, irrelevant, like a video game environment that’s still buffering. Sometimes I do manage to forget it all for a moment, but then my focus slips and I think back to my phone lying on my bed, buzzing with more and more


been transported thither, where the two hens had forthwith begun an indefatigable process of egg-laying, with an evident design, as a matter of duty and conscience, to continue their illustrious breed under better auspices than for a century past. On the day set for their departure, the principal personages of our story, including good Uncle Venner, were assembled in the parlor. "The country-house is certainly a very fine one, so far as the plan goes," observed Holgrave, as the party were discussing their future arrangements. "But I wonder that the late Judge--being so opulent, and with a reasonable prospect of transmitting his wealth to descendants of his own--should not have felt the propriety of embodying so excellent a piece of domestic architecture in stone, rather than in wood. Then, every generation of the family might have altered the interior, to suit its own taste and convenience; while the exterior, through the lapse of years, might have been adding venerableness to its original beauty, and thus giving that impression of permanence which I consider essential to the happiness of any one moment." "Why," cried Phoebe, gazing into the artist's face with infinite amazement, "how wonderfully your ideas are changed! A house of stone, indeed! It is but two or three weeks ago that you seemed to wish people to live in something as fragile and temporary as a bird's-nest!" "Ah, Phoebe, I told you how it would be!" said the artist, with a half-melancholy laugh."You find me a conservative already! Little did I think ever to become one. It is especially unpardonable in this dwelling of so much hereditary misfortune, and under the eye of yonder portrait of a model conservative, who, in that very character, rendered himself so long the evil destiny of his race." "That picture!" said Clifford, seeming to shrink from its stern glance. "Whenever I look at it, there is an old dreamy recollection haunting me, but keeping just beyond the grasp of my mind. Wealth, it seems to say! --boundless wealth!--unimaginable wealth! I could fancy that, when I was a child, or a youth, that portrait had spoken, and told me a rich secret, or had held forth its hand, with the written record of hidden opulence. But those old matters are so dim with me, nowadays! What could this dream have been?" "Perhaps I can recall it," answered Holgrave. "See! There are a hundred chances to one that no person, unacquainted with the secret, would ever touch this spring." "A secret spring!" cried Clifford. "Ah, I remember Now! I did discover it, one summer afternoon, when I was idling and dreaming about the house, long, long ago. But the mystery escapes me." The artist put his finger on the contrivance to which he had referred. In former days, the effect would probably have been to cause the picture to start forward. But, in so long a period of concealment, the machinery had been eaten through with rust; so that at Holgrave's pressure, the portrait, frame and all, tumbled suddenly from its position, and lay face downward on


reason. The defendant who sent his brother to jail for his own actions. Carter is—was—a sociopath. A monster. A master manipulator. Jesse never existed. Hazel didn’t know him any better than I did. With a trembling hand, I click on the second audio file. It is just as heartless, just as gruesome. I keep listening as a sharp pain stabs my temple, the circuitry of my brain overloading with the cold-blooded violence I am exposed to. Why did Carter record this? It incriminates him. But not only him, and I realize this was insurance. Because Carter’s voice is not the only one captured here. Now I know that I am in greater danger than I ever realized. Even with Carter gone, I am not safe. Because the other voice is that of a murderer too. And if that person finds out I have heard these recordings, I will be killed. Removing the earbuds, I try to steady my breathing, to calm my fluttering heart. But my body feels beyond my control: nerves tingling, pulse racing, limbs paralyzed by the shock of what I have just witnessed. Everything I thought I knew is wrong. Everyone I know has lied to me. And I have brushed up against pure evil. But if I leave now—right now—I can save myself. There is no time for strategy or analysis. Forcing myself to move, I drop the thumb drive into my bag; then I return the earbuds and hurry out of the café. In my car, I lock all the doors and pull onto the street, my tires chirping on the pavement. My eyes dart to the rearview mirror, afraid that I am being followed, terrified that someone will realize what I have just heard. The thumb drive in my bag feels like a bomb, a beacon, a grenade. I must get rid of it, fast, get it out of my possession. But what I do with it will affect so many people, change their lives forever. And it will change mine. Because there is one thing I have gained clarity on. There is no one I can trust. PART FOUR HAZEL 47 WHEN I WALKED INTO THE house that day and saw my husband seated at his desk, my first feeling was relief. I had successfully thwarted Jesse’s plan to kill Benjamin. My lover had arrived at the back door, found it locked, and turned away. If he had forced his way inside, the fact that I hadn’t planted Lee’s knife was the final clue. Our plan could not go ahead. Jesse had left. Benjamin was alive. And I had protected Lee. But when my husband swivels in his chair and his eyes meet mine, I see it: barely contained rage. Hatred. Disgust. “Hello, Missy.” His tone is oily. “Where have you been?” I swallow the fear coating my mouth. “At the gym. Where else?” His face is implacable. “What are you wearing?” Lee’s clothes are shabby, ill-fitting. My husband knows I would never go out like this. “Vintage,” I say, giving him a weak smile.


going to do this, I need to make sure we both know what to expect. And that means establishing all of this up front. “The book has to come first, of course. And I’m sure we’ll be done before then, but when the trip is over, we are, too. We go our separate ways and never tell anyone.” I swirl my fork through the extra peanut sauce. “Protection is nonnegotiable. And consent, obviously.” “No arguments from me there.” “If one of us ever wants to call the whole thing off, for any reason, they can,” I continue. “And it’s not going to happen every night. In fact, it’s probably better if it doesn’t, since the book needs to be our top priority. If one of us doesn’t want to, that’s it—they don’t have to defend it or make excuses.” “Frankly, I’m not sure I could, uh, perform every single night,” he says. “So that’s a relief.” Then he adds: “We should be able to feel like we can say something. If one of us is ever uncomfortable.” “A safe word?” I ask, and he nods. Glances down at his plate. “How about ‘tempeh’?” I crack a smile. “Sure. Tempeh it is. And we should sleep in our own rooms. Just to keep it from becoming . . . complicated.” I’m not sure it’s the right word until it leaves my mouth. If I really am a Relationship Girl, having sex and waking up with someone I’m not in a relationship with is probably the kind of thing that would confuse my heart, make me get overly attached. So I’ll simply prevent that from happening. Finn looks pensive, as though he hadn’t considered this. “Okay,” he says. “Makes sense.” I stare down at my hands, picking at my nail polish, the burnt orange hanging on by a few stubborn flecks. It’s just casual sex. People do this all time. I’ve done this, with this exact person. “One more thing,” I say. “I sort of made an outline? For the lessons? On the plane?” “While I was watching Ted Lasso?” I press my lips together, nodding. “I know we said it would just be ‘a few pointers,’ but I thought it might make things easier, and we’re doing the same for the memoir, so . . .” He grins at this. “That’s kind of amazing. I’m both impressed and intrigued.” I swipe around on my phone before passing it to him. “It’s a work in progress. We can adjust it based on whatever you want to work on or whatever we feel like needs more attention.” It all makes perfect logical sense—at least, I think so. We’ll start with kissing, then gradually add various forms of foreplay, with roman numeral sections devoted specifically to topics like oral sex and dirty talk. A sexual lesson plan. “This is . . .” Finn starts, staring down at it. The panic sets in. I went overboard, classic Chandler Cohen overthinking. “. . . extremely thorough,” he finishes. “Wow. I’m kind of touched?” Slow exhale. In part, this


great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value." "Yes," said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, "he seems to have a great deal of good-will towards you." "Me!" she replied with a smile of astonishment, "are you imagining me to be Mr. Elton's object?" "Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now." "Mr. Elton in love with me!--What an idea!" "I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do." "I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I are very good friends, and nothing more;" and she walked on, amusing herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in want of counsel. He said no more. Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world in a very short time. Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his discontent. "A man," said he, "must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It


he was not used to writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote: April 4th, 1984. He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two. For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (7 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word DOUBLETHINK. For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless. For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin. Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops: April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after


nothing. And he’d throw my mother out of her nursing home and onto the street.” Empathy flits across her features, but her voice remains professional. “We’re going to need to see this contract. Where is it?” “It will be in his safe,” I say. When I’d grabbed the money for Lee, my gloved hands shaking with nerves, I’d noted the stack of documents, but I’d been too afraid to sift through them. Too worried that Benjamin or Nate would catch me in the act. I’d quickly grabbed the money buried under the pile of papers and shut the door. “It’s in his study.” “Do you have the combination?” “No,” I lie, thinking about that slip of paper hidden behind the picture frame. I can’t admit that I know about it. Or that I know what’s inside. “I was never allowed access.” She nods, writes something down, though I am being recorded. “You said that Benjamin punished you. Physically?” “Sometimes.” “I’m sure this is difficult, but can you tell me how?” “He would whip me with a cat-o’-nine-tails. And I had to spend hours alone in a basement room.” My throat feels thick. “But the emotional abuse was worse.” “What did that look like?” “He insulted me. He made me feel stupid and worthless.” A tear slips from my eye. “He didn’t let me see my own mother.” “And yet, you stayed with him?” I bristle. This detective has drifted into interrogation mode. “Why do abused women stay?” I retort. “Fear. Shame. Lack of options… All of the above.” She realizes her mistake, opens her mouth to correct it, but I cut her off. “You don’t understand the kind of power Benjamin has over me. I don’t have my own money or bank accounts. I’m not allowed to choose my own friends. Or order my own meals in restaurants.” A shudder rips through my chest. “He controlled my body. He made me get breast implants.” “I’m sorry, Hazel.” French’s voice is conciliatory. “That’s awful.” “My mother is a hostage.” I’m crying now, fat tears falling onto the table. “If I don’t do what he wants, she’s as good as dead.” French reaches behind her for a box of tissues. She waits as I dry my tears, blow my nose. And then she continues. “Did your husband have other lovers?” “I don’t know.” And it is true. “He worked a lot. And he traveled. It’s possible.” “And you?” she prods. “Did you find comfort in anyone else?” Her expression is soft, nonjudgmental. But I won’t fall for it. “No.” My face is hot and I hope she thinks it’s outrage. “I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without his permission. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have had an affair.” “You must have left the house on occasion?” Does she know something? Is she trying to catch me out? “I was allowed to go to the grocery store,” I say, my voice steady. “Sometimes for lunch with friends of Benjamin’s choosing.” “Can you tell me the names of those friends?” “Sure.” I recite their


Dexter said. It was hard to tell whether he actually believed what he was saying. “Anything to rejuvenate the brand in Urmau,” Brianna said, finally getting it. She stuffed a too-big forkful of salad in her mouth. Genial Sr. took a sip of his soup and Manuel followed suit. Genial watched them nervously, scratching his cheek with his empty hand. “Delicious,” Genial Sr. pronounced, smiling at his son. “You have a better chef than I do.” “Only the finest,” Genial said, and looked at me as though I were the chef myself. “It’s right, Ezra?” “Only the finest,” I echoed. The conversation stalled as we ate and were poured more wine. I entertained the thought that this dinner would last forever, that I would grow old and die at Genial’s giant dining room table. And then Genial Sr. began coughing. “Comrade,” Manuel said, shaking him. “Comrade, what is it?” Genial Sr. made a squawking noise and flapped his hands as though he were trying to take flight. “He is choking!” Manuel looked up with panic in his face. “There is something in the soup!” Dexter stood up, announcing that he knew the Heimlich maneuver. Genial motioned for him to sit down. Manuel looked from Genial to Genial Sr., eyes widening. I gripped the edge of the table. “You fucking worm,” Manuel hissed, and reached into his jacket, but then something pierced him between the eyes and his body went slack. My ears rang: I couldn’t remember having heard anything, but I must have, because it felt like fluid was dripping from my ear canals. Genial was standing next to me, shaking, holding a gun that seemed too large for him. The top of his head was in a blind spot so I had no idea what his expression was. The staff were screaming, or at least looked like they were screaming. Dexter was screaming, too. Brianna had a look of horror on her face. Genial Sr. was trembling, gasping, the veins in his massive neck bulging. I heard something that sounded like “Go!” and Genial was pushing me in the direction of the Daroqol, who must have filed out of the wine cellar at the sound of the gunshot, and I either mouthed or screamed “Come on!” to Brianna and Dexter, whose traumatized faces were angled toward mine. Genial said something that was too muffled by my tinnitus to understand, but he was smiling perversely, like he’d just won a colossal game of king of the hill. We were out the door and he was behind us, still saying muffled things, the Daroqol brandishing their AK-47s, and because I couldn’t hear and could barely see I had no idea the UNA were upon us until they were, shooting at those of the Daroqol who weren’t flanking us. I climbed into the Jeep, Brianna after me, Dexter after her, his sneakers nearly falling off in his haste, and we watched as the Daroqol and UNA fell to the ground behind us. Genial was still grinning, clearly proud of himself, still talking as he


angles. Hands for touching, prodding, peeling back layers. Fingers that carried disease under the nails. She didn’t touch the book. Someone would bring it down later. Pile it with the others, by her door. “Thank you,” she said—because it seemed like a kindness, because it didn’t cause anyone any harm. “I wrote a letter,” he said, hoarse. “If you want to know the truth.” She felt her body grow very still. “What?” “It’s in the house,” he said. “The letter.” Later she tried to recall the moment, to pinpoint what she had felt. Surprise? Curiosity? It was a wriggle in her gut, certainly, but it was more like—unease. He was being economical with words, and so was she. It took care, and skill, and precision, not to say too much. And looking at him lying there, flat against the pillows, she felt something cold entering her heart. He’s on the edge, she realized. He’s dealing with the final things. “What letter?” she asked, at length. His eyes flickered at that. He still had it: the taste for a game, the nose for a tease. “Find it,” he said, “and you’ll know, won’t you?” She yearned to move toward him, and she wanted to creep away, all at the same time. As if blood spoke to blood, repelling and seeking in equal measure. “Are you comfortable?” she said, at last. She asked because she was curious. She wondered what it felt like to be there, right on the brink. Because surely this was the end? Surely they were very near it now? You only had to measure the shrinking line of his neck, see the way the weight had fallen away from his cheeks. His movements were growing slower and slower, the degradation unstoppable. He let out a shallow breath. His eyes moved toward the blur of the medicine cabinet, the bowls, the pillboxes. “I’m bored,” he whispered. She loathed him in that moment, but she wanted to laugh, too. I would be bored, she thought. Oh, I would be so bored by it, dying. Straightening, she said, “Tell me about this letter.” “It’s about your poor mother,” he replied, barely a whisper. Mrs. King felt her body turn quite still. It was extraordinary, wasn’t it, how easily people could shock you? Even if she counted up all the years she’d been here, all the hours and minutes and seconds—and she could count them, she felt sometimes that she simply held them all in her mind, like little slots marked up with luggage labels—then she still couldn’t think of a time he’d mentioned Mother. In his house, in his world, this world that she had entered, Mother didn’t exist. Lockwood had impressed as much upon her, the first day she arrived. She felt a frisson pass through her skin. “What on earth do you mean?” she said, voice low. There was something building in her chest, something dangerously akin to fear. Because she knew how games worked. There had to be a delicious little bit of irony, a slice of pain. Someone had


the Dalai Lama. Carol and some of her friends were well-connected with the Lama’s media team, and they’d done something called “strategic outreach,” which resulted in the Lama flying to Oswego with four placid, bald monks and meeting the genius behind NuLife. Orson had been in the midst of a self-described “creative hibernation,” during which he limited his contact with the outside world—including Emily, it seemed—and brooded over the Farm and the future and NuLife in a room in his Enner house. We were texting very little then, which was painful: I couldn’t bear to send messages knowing he wouldn’t respond, but I couldn’t bear to not send messages at all, so I sent little his and heys and emoji hearts every few days, letting him leave me on read, which was almost as good as hearing back from him. When he took a brief break from his hibernation to meet the Dalai Lama, he was swarmed by the hungry NuLifers who’d been waiting for his return. I didn’t want to be among them—I didn’t need to swarm—but I did want to see him, even if it had to be from a distance. I flew up to the Farm unaccompanied and took a seat in the auditorium that Orson had ordered built for cold-winter gatherings, watching as he and the Dalai Lama sat together onstage, Chuck Enner between them. “Your Holiness,” Chuck Enner said, his wet-looking tangle of hair obscuring his gaze in the Dalai Lama’s direction. “We are honored to be in your presence today.” The Dalai Lama laughed impishly and said, “Maybe it is me who is honored!” They spoke for two hours, Orson about his vision of “world transcendental peace,” which would be achieved through the popularization of Synthesis, and the Dalai Lama about how he admired Orson’s commitment to bringing Buddhism-like principles to the West. Orson and the Dalai Lama held hands and looked into each other’s eyes like lovers and Chuck Enner said something about how this meeting would usher in a “new generation of NuLife” and the children in the audience would “talk about this with their families for decades to come.” There were several standing ovations and some mischievous grins from the Dalai Lama and prayer-bows from Orson, but what was most remarkable was the fact that the whole thing was happening at all. That some beautiful kid who’d hotwired a car in 2007 was being kissed on the forehead by the living Buddha ten years later. It was exactly the sort of thing I’d always wanted for him. Genial called me two days after the Dalai Lama left the Farm, while I was lying on a bed in an Enner house mere yards from Orson but unable to talk to him because of his continued hibernation, my glasses on the bedside table next to me, the room so dark and its objects so borderless that I was almost completely blind. I could answer my phone without seeing it, which I did as soon as it rang, not expecting to hear Genial’s voice. “Ah, Ezra!”


Mercy said. But she didn’t meet her gaze. Mercy had wanted adventure, a chance to see beyond the ordinary world. And Alex had turned her into a killer. “I thought it would be different,” Mercy said, and Alex could see she was fighting tears. “I’m sorry.” “Are you?” “No,” Alex admitted. She had needed a way out and she’d taken it. “But I’m grateful.” “Thanks,” Mercy said as she passed through the gate. “For what?” “For not lying to me.” Mercy had a conscience. She believed in a just God. She wouldn’t be able to walk away from death without it leaving a stain on her heart. But that hadn’t stopped Alex from using her. It never did. And now Michelle Alameddine was dead. Alex felt Darlington’s hand on her shoulder. “Put your head between your knees. Try to breathe.” Alex pressed her palms against her eyes. “I brought him here.” “Reiter was here already,” Darlington said. “Michelle was his familiar.” “What?” Dawes exclaimed. Alex stared up at him. “What are you talking about?” “I think he recruited her while she was an undergraduate. I put it together when I was reading her Lethe Days Diary. There were probably others before her.” “She knew where the Gauntlet was?” Dawes asked. “I don’t know,” Darlington said. “I don’t know what he shared with her. Reiter knew about the societies. He’d stolen the life of a Bonesman. He knew about Lethe. But he couldn’t enter warded spaces, so he had to find someone to keep an eye on the Gauntlet.” Alex thought of Michelle sitting in the parlor, always on her phone, keeping removed from their research but never stepping away completely. She remembered Michelle’s shock when Alex had told her they’d found the Gauntlet, her insistence that Alex shouldn’t use it. Had she been warning Alex or speaking for Reiter? Michelle, who had lied about why she was on campus, who had followed Alex and Mercy to class. Michelle with the jaunty scarf at her throat, the turtleneck sweater. Had he been feeding on her? “She wouldn’t do that,” Dawes said. “She wouldn’t work for a demon.” But she might. For the right price. Michelle had been to the other side when she’d tried to take her own life. She’d told Alex clearly enough: I am never going back. Alex understood that kind of vow. “He promised her immortality.” “That doesn’t make any sense!” Dawes was almost shouting now, tears on her cheeks. “He’s a demon. He would have to eat her soul. He—” “Pammie,” Darlington said gently, “she wanted to believe she could live forever, and that’s what he told her. Sometimes the story is what matters.” “We aren’t putting her in the basement,” Alex said as she pushed to her feet. “Or in the ground.” She wasn’t going to bury Michelle Alameddine the way that Reiter buried his other victims. The way he would have buried Alex if she hadn’t run far and fast enough that terrible night. Alex forced herself to walk back to the trunk, to look at that


father has changed,’ she said to them. ‘His need for power has grown in this chaos. This fire will have convinced him that Clan Kuposa must seize its chance to rule, while the gods are at their weakest. I can imagine him performing a noble sacrifice of the Noziken.’ ‘Epabo,’ Dumai said, ‘thank you, for everything. I will lead the gods to avert his folly.’ She marched from the tent, into the freezing night, to collect what she would need. ‘Dumai.’ Unora caught up to her, Nikeya just behind. ‘You mustn’t go. It could be a trap, a way of drawing you into the open—’ ‘I can’t leave Suzu at his mercy,’ Dumai said firmly. ‘Furtia and I will get her away.’ ‘Taugran is much stronger than Furtia,’ Nikeya protested. ‘You know this, Dumai.’ ‘Not for long. I feel the coming of the star.’ It was true. Her awareness of it was taut and strong, a string pulled along the neck of a lute, tuned to something that moved closer by the hour. ‘Nikeya,’ Unora said quietly, touching her shoulder, ‘will you leave us a moment, and watch over Epabo?’ ‘Of course.’ Nikeya dealt Dumai a concerned look and went back to the tent. Unora took Dumai by the cheek. ‘Do not go to Muysima.’ ‘I have to—’ ‘I wished, Dumai. When I was twenty.’ Her voice strained. ‘I asked a wish of Pajati the White.’ Dumai stared at her. ‘I wished for a way to reach the court, so I could save my father. Sipwo dreamed of me that night.’ Unora spoke in little more than a whisper. ‘Pajati is an elder dragon – born of the stars themselves, not the sea. His light was still within me when you were conceived.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘He told me it would last one turn of the sun.’ She pressed one hand to her stomach, low down. ‘I think it woke the old gifts of your line, in the waters of my womb.’ ‘You could have been executed. It was forbidden.’ ‘A blade would have been kinder than a death by thirst, or a wasting sickness. I had nothing left to lose, but now I do.’ Unora kept hold of her face. ‘Muysima is where my father perished. A curse lies on that island. Please, my kite – stay here, where it’s safe.’ Unora was no longer the hardened woman who had survived a hostile mountain. One mention of that island, and she was the dying girl from a dust province, alone in the world. Dumai drew up her sleeve. ‘You must stay here. The people in this camp need a leader they trust.’ She reached for the fraying strand at her wrist and worked it off. ‘Kanifa gave this to me, from our rope, before I left for court. Hold it for me, like the end of a line. Take it and know I am your kite.’ Unora clasped the strand between their hands. ‘I can never regret that wish,’ she finally said. ‘If I had not gone to the great


sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the nethermost hell. I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed on fire,and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips. The Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had spoken were coming. With a last look around and at the box which contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count's room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened. With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door. There must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of the locked doors. Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to run down again towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance, but at the moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from the lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it was hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was closing round me more closely. As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes, with their freight of earth. There was a sound of hammering. It is the box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again along the hall, with with many other idle feet coming behind them. The door is shut, the chains rattle. There is a grinding of the key in the lock. I can hear the key withdrawn, then another door opens and shuts. I hear the creaking of lock and bolt. Hark! In the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the distance. I am alone in the castle with those horrible women. Faugh! Mina is a woman, and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit! I shall not remain alone with them. I shall try to scale the castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place. And then away for home! Away to the quickest and nearest train! Away from the cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still


But the first Mrs. Laval isn’t relevant.” But she is. I know it. Peter knows it. “Try not to worry,” my lawyer says gently. “You’re safe. Benjamin can’t hurt you anymore.” As soon as I hang up the phone, I let out a guttural scream. Rage and frustration burn my throat, my face, my belly. My husband is a Machiavellian mastermind, and Karolina’s family was no match for him. The police are no match for him. Snatching up the books and magazines artfully arranged on the coffee table, I hurl them about the room. There is a heavy designer bowl on a side table, and I raise it above my head, smash it on the floor. The tempered glass shatters, remnants skittering across the hardwood. Our black and white wedding photo, in its pride of place, hits the far wall. The glass breaks with a satisfying crack. Surrounded by the mess, I stop, suddenly sheepish. The cameras… Who is watching me now? Where does the footage go? I must look wild, feral, unhinged. Or perhaps I seem like a spoiled princess having a tantrum. Neither is a good image for me. I get the broom and sweep up shards. Tidy the magazines. I am picking up the wedding photo when my phone rings again. It’s the Arbutus Care Home. I am breathless as I answer it. “Is this Hazel Laval?” “It is.” “This is Greta Williams.” Her tone is somber. “From your mother’s care facility.” My heart twists with panic. “Is my mom okay?” “I’m so sorry to tell you this…” Her words are tremulous. “Your mother has gone missing.” “Missing? What do you mean missing?” The tiny woman inhales. “It seems she wandered away from the facility.” “How could that happen?” I cry. “The place is supposed to be secure!” “We’re flummoxed,” Greta says, and I hear the tears in her voice. “We take great pains to ensure our patients are safe and protected. I… I honestly don’t know how she could have disappeared.” But I do. Benjamin is behind this. His people have taken my mother. To hurt me. Or to warn me. But surely he wouldn’t harm her. He is shallow, cruel, a heartless narcissist, but only a true psychopath would injure an innocent old lady. Greta continues. “We have a nurse and two security personnel combing the area. The police have been called. We’ll be speaking with them soon.” “I’m coming down there.” The uptight cop outside will have to make an exception for a missing mother. “There’s no need,” Greta says, and I can tell she’s nervous, afraid I will be angry and combative. That I will kick up a fuss at them for losing my mom. But I can’t blame Greta or the staff of the Arbutus Care Home. Because my husband is behind this. “Sometimes dementia patients will return to their old homes,” Greta says. “Can you give us her last address? Or a place she lived when she was particularly happy?” “Sure.” I rattle off the address of our cramped apartment from memory. Was


minutes after he’d enjoyed a luxurious twenty-minute walk through the nearby forest preserve. We took him to a puppy-training class at PetSmart, where a young, half-asleep stoner kid taught us how to teach him his name and to come to us from the other side of a training pen in exchange for a delicious Rachael Ray treat, which we could conveniently locate in aisle seven for purchase. Unfortunately we got kicked out of class before we could make much progress because Abe could hear other dogs as they calmly shopped alongside their owners and devolved to the point where he stood there yapping at the ceiling, hoping all the dogs he couldn’t see over the side of the barrier would quake at his high-pitched shrieking. The first daycare I called had a waitlist several months long, and the second one didn’t even answer the phone, which is a business model I honestly respect. The third one said they’d be happy to have him, on a trial basis, which they could revoke at any time. The morning of his first day I woke up filled with dread, worried that this creature whom I was responsible for and was also a reflection of me was going to show his fool ass and humiliate me in front of a bunch of strangers who would be right to judge me. I loaded him into the car and drove to daycare, scolding him the entire way: “Don’t bark too much. Don’t play too rough. Don’t eat anyone else’s lunch. Don’t pee where you’re not supposed to. Don’t talk back. Don’t bite anyone. Don’t get up during naptime.” This is exactly like parenting a child, right? Threatening a small creature with limited cognition into doing what you want, ostensibly for their own good? I deposited him into the arms of a very nice and unsuspecting stranger, and then I peeled out of the parking lot before she could change her mind. Of course, I treated myself to a $6 coffee for being such a good mom. I turned my ringer all the way up and waited all morning for a call telling me to come get my bad-ass son, but none came, so I relaxed a little and put my phone on vibrate and kept an eye on it throughout the afternoon. They never called. Somehow, we’d made it through an entire day of school without my having to deliver the apology I’d rehearsed in the drive-thru while waiting for my oat milk latte. I was proud of that little rascal! I waited in line at school pickup with the other moms, who chatted about, I don’t know, the best brand of harness, excited to hear about Abe’s first day of kindergarten. His little classmates paraded past me, beautiful, well-trained springer spaniels and golden retrievers with luscious blond coats. They sat patiently waiting to be leashed and led to gleaming Volvos and Mercedes-Benzes into which they jumped without struggle or complaint. One graceful papillon even leapt into the crate in the trunk of his dad’s car! I shook


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

round bodies and slender necks, large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil bottles--putting them in rows on the chiffonier, on the mantel, on the table under the window, round the floor, on the book-shelf-- everywhere. The chemist's shop in Bramblehurst could not boast half so many. Quite a sight it was. Crate after crate yielded bottles, until all six were empty and the table high with straw; the only things that came out of these crates besides the bottles were a number of test-tubes and a carefully packed balance. And directly the crates were unpacked, the stranger went to the window and set to work, not troubling in the least about the litter of straw, the fire which had gone out, the box of books outside, nor for the trunks and other luggage that had gone upstairs. When Mrs. Hall took his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in his work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into test-tubes, that he did not hear her until she had swept away the bulk of the straw and put the tray on the table, with some little emphasis perhaps, seeing the state that the floor was in. Then he half turned his head and immediately turned it away again. But she saw he had removed his glasses; they were beside him on the table, and it seemed to her that his eye sockets were extraordinarily hollow. He put on his spectacles again, and then turned and faced her. She was about to complain of the straw on the floor when he anticipated her. "I wish you wouldn't come in without knocking," he said in the tone of abnormal exasperation that seemed so characteristic of him. "I knocked, but seemingly--" "Perhaps you did. But in my investigations--my really very urgent and necessary investigations--the slightest disturbance, the jar of a door--I must ask you--" "Certainly, sir. You can turn the lock if you're like that, you know--any time." "A very good idea," said the stranger. "This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark--" "Don't. If the straw makes trouble put it down in the bill." And he mumbled at her--words suspiciously like curses. He was so odd, standing there, so aggressive and explosive, bottle in one hand and test-tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall was quite alarmed. But she was a resolute woman. "In which case, I should like to know, sir, what you consider--" "A shilling. Put down a shilling. Surely a shilling's enough?" "So be it," said Mrs. Hall, taking up the tablecloth and beginning to spread it over the table. "If you're satisfied, of course--" He turned and sat down, with his coat-collar towards her. All the afternoon he worked with the door locked and, as Mrs. Hall testifies, for the most part in silence. But once there was a concussion and a sound of bottles ringing together as though the table had been


awkward game the front-desk person is gonna make me play while trying to soak in [Denver/Portland/Boston] from the back seat of a speeding car. Arrive at hotel, try not to sound like an asshole while explaining that I’m “On book tour, you know? So my publisher booked the room? You should have a credit card on file from them? I know you need a card to hold for incidentals, but mine will literally catch fire if you insert it into your machine right now? Hold on, let me find the emergency number they put on my itinerary….” Lie down in dark, temperature-controlled hotel room and burn with shame. Put on least-dirty dirty outfit for event, have a lovely time at event, get back to hotel room, and try to do some intestinal math to determine whether I should attempt to eat a real meal that may or may not give me in-air diarrhea the next day depending on whether God has chosen to smite me. Lather, rinse, repeat for two months! Even if I could shit on a schedule this would be tough, and even though I tried to time my BMs so that I could enjoy them alone in the sanctity of my private bathroom at the Omaha Marriott, it rarely worked according to plan, which meant that I had to get good at going in bookstores, restaurants, coffee shops, supermarkets, and train stations, often without the luxury of time to wait for whoever else was in there to get over their shyness and get out so I could go in peace. But I can’t be fucking around missing a plane somebody with a corporate card paid for because I didn’t want strangers to hear me poop, so here is a surefire trick from me, an expert, on how to take a big steaming public shit: put on headphones and play your music loud enough to drown out both your rectal noise and that intermittent throat clearing from the woman a few stalls down who is doing, what, her taxes? Why has she been in here so long?! You can’t conjure a single-stall bathroom in the middle of the Detroit Metro Airport, but you can build your own isolation chamber in the middle of a sea of stalls by putting your little earbuds in, blasting your favorite Girl Talk or Anita Baker track at a skull-shattering volume, then letting your butt do its thing where everyone else but you can hear it. I don’t know why it works, but it does. One of my coworkers, who unfortunately has colitis, does not use the air freshener at all when doing her business. In order to not single her out (she is not the only culprit), I would like to put up a polite sign in the restroom to ask that people use the spray when necessary. What kind of wording would you recommend for this task? I can’t really find any suggestions for this type of situation. Damn, the lady with colitis can’t get a fucking break??? Instead of sniffing farts, maybe


was not an accident. The Washing Away of Wrongs After the heavenly flowers disease disappears completely from the Garden of Fragrant Delights, the last survivors return to their families or, in the case of concubines and servants, to their masters, and I’m free to go back to my rooms. I’m determined to visit Meiling, since the suspicions that arose from Miss Chen’s utterance directly concern my friend and the herbs that were meant for me, but I need to get settled with my family before I do anything else. I also have much that I’m eager to discuss with my husband, but my first night home he doesn’t come to my bedchamber. A disappointment. I fall asleep feeling exhausted and dispirited. The next morning, when Poppy pours my tea, she brings the gossip that Master Yang is going to remove Miss Chen and her sole surviving child, Fifth Daughter, from the Garden of Fragrant Delights. I dress and then rush to find my husband. He’s in his library. “Is it true your father is casting off his concubine and her daughter?” I ask. Perhaps this is not the correct approach as Maoren and I have not been alone together since I left for Beijing seven months ago. So much has happened, including the birth of our son, but I haven’t given my husband a chance to express his joy or thank me for doing what I could during the smallpox outbreak. “Since when have the hens begun to crow?” he asks, squinting his disapproval. I take a breath and remind myself that I’m a wife before anything else. “I’m sorry,” I say, bowing my head. “I spoke sharply.” Maoren stands up and walks toward me. He reaches out and brushes a loose strand of hair from my cheek. “You look tired.” “I’m tired to my marrow.” I raise my eyes to meet his. “Maoren, why is your father expelling Miss Chen?” “She is no longer a beauty,” he states. It’s true, but I can’t let this go. “Don’t let your father turn her out. She helped me during the sickness. She was courageous when—” “The concubine has already been dismissed,” he says, swiveling away from me. “She will take her daughter with her—” “Her only surviving child,” I emphasize. “And Fifth Daughter is your half sister.” I can see him tasting this idea on his tongue and finding it bitter. “Without a son and without her beauty, Miss Chen has no value to my father.” “Fifth Daughter is only ten years old,” I press. “There is nothing I can do. It is my father’s decision.” I nod and leave Maoren to his books. I realize there’s little time. I go straight to the front gate, where I find Miss Chen and her daughter. “I don’t know what’s to become of us,” the concubine whispers. I have no words to reassure her. Few options exist for a woman like her. Watching her leave with only the clothes on her back, the scars on her face, and her child is sad beyond measure. A


old lady was steadily recovering, and she had always openly declared that she preferred Archer to any of her other grandsons-in- law. May gave the message with evident pleasure: she was proud of old Catherine's appreciation of her husband. There was a moment's pause, and then Archer felt it incumbent on him to say: "All right. Shall we go together this afternoon?" His wife's face brightened, but she instantly answered: "Oh, you'd much better go alone. It bores Granny to see the same people too often." Archer's heart was beating violently when he rang old Mrs. Mingott's bell. He had wanted above all things to go alone, for he felt sure the visit would give him the chance of saying a word in private to the Countess Olenska. He had determined to wait till the chance presented itself naturally; and here it was, and here he was on the doorstep. Behind the door, behind the curtains of the yellow damask room next to the hall, she was surely awaiting him; in another moment he should see her, and be able to speak to her before she led him to the sick-room. He wanted only to put one question: after that his course would be clear. What he wished to ask was simply the date of her return to Washington; and that question she could hardly refuse to answer. But in the yellow sitting-room it was the mulatto maid who waited. Her white teeth shining like a keyboard, she pushed back the sliding doors and ushered him into old Catherine's presence. The old woman sat in a vast throne-like arm-chair near her bed. Beside her was a mahogany stand bearing a cast bronze lamp with an engraved globe, over which a green paper shade had been balanced. There was not a book or a newspaper in reach, nor any evidence of feminine employment: conversation had always been Mrs. Mingott's sole pursuit, and she would have scorned to feign an interest in fancywork. Archer saw no trace of the slight distortion left by her stroke. She merely looked paler, with darker shadows in the folds and recesses of her obesity; and, in the fluted mob-cap tied by a starched bow between her first two chins, and the muslin kerchief crossed over her billowing purple dressing-gown, she seemed like some shrewd and kindly ancestress of her own who might have yielded too freely to the pleasures of the table. She held out one of the little hands that nestled in a hollow of her huge lap like pet animals, and called to the maid: "Don't let in any one else. If my daughters call, say I'm asleep." The maid disappeared, and the old lady turned to her grandson. "My dear, am I perfectly hideous?" she asked gaily, launching out one hand in search of the folds of muslin on her inaccessible bosom. "My daughters tell me it doesn't matter at my age--as if hideousness didn't matter all the more the harder it gets to conceal!" "My dear, you're handsomer than ever!" Archer rejoined in the


and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should come and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing fondness did I feel for them! How did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction of the daemon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my soul. What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees or cut in stone that guided me and instigated my fury. "My reign is not yet over"--these words were legible in one of these inscriptions-- "you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives, but many hard and miserable hours must you endure until that period shall arrive." Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give up my search until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage! As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened and the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance. The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One inscription that he left was in these words: "Prepare! Your toils only begin; wrap yourself in furs and provide food, for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred." My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I resolved not to fail in my purpose, and calling on heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a distance and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh! How unlike it was to the blue seasons of the south! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness.


who can talk to her about what she really cares for." His wise May--how he had loved her for that letter! But he had not meant to act on it; he was too busy, to begin with, and he did not care, as an engaged man, to play too conspicuously the part of Madame Olenska's champion. He had an idea that she knew how to take care of herself a good deal better than the ingenuous May imagined. She had Beaufort at her feet, Mr. van der Luyden hovering above her like a protecting deity, and any number of candidates (Lawrence Lefferts among them) waiting their opportunity in the middle distance. Yet he never saw her, or exchanged a word with her, without feeling that, after all, May's ingenuousness almost amounted to a gift of divination. Ellen Olenska was lonely and she was unhappy. XIV. As he came out into the lobby Archer ran across his friend Ned Winsett, the only one among what Janey called his "clever people" with whom he cared to probe into things a little deeper than the average level of club and chop-house banter. He had caught sight, across the house, of Winsett's shabby round-shouldered back, and had once noticed his eyes turned toward the Beaufort box. The two men shook hands, and Winsett proposed a bock at a little German restaurant around the corner. Archer, who was not in the mood for the kind of talk they were likely to get there, declined on the plea that he had work to do at home; and Winsett said: "Oh, well so have I for that matter, and I'll be the Industrious Apprentice too." They strolled along together, and presently Winsett said: "Look here, what I'm really after is the name of the dark lady in that swell box of yours--with the Beauforts, wasn't she? The one your friend Lefferts seems so smitten by." Archer, he could not have said why, was slightly annoyed. What the devil did Ned Winsett want with Ellen Olenska's name? And above all, why did he couple it with Lefferts's? It was unlike Winsett to manifest such curiosity; but after all, Archer remembered, he was a journalist. "It's not for an interview, I hope?" he laughed. "Well--not for the press; just for myself," Winsett rejoined. "The fact is she's a neighbour of mine--queer quarter for such a beauty to settle in--and she's been awfully kind to my little boy, who fell down her area chasing his kitten, and gave himself a nasty cut. She rushed in bareheaded, carrying him in her arms, with his knee all beautifully bandaged, and was so sympathetic and beautiful that my wife was too dazzled to ask her name." A pleasant glow dilated Archer's heart. There was nothing extraordinary in the tale: any woman would have done as much for a neighbour's child. But it was just like Ellen, he felt, to have rushed in bareheaded, carrying the boy in her arms, and to have dazzled poor Mrs. Winsett into forgetting to ask who she was. "That is


nose of her gun. “Oh, God,” she whispered as the door opened and light spilled into the dark interior. On the floor beneath the shelves of neatly stacked boxes of cereal, rice, oatmeal, and cans of tomato paste and diet cola, were two bodies. Lying almost entwined, blood thick and smeared on the floor and some of the cabinets. Kristi’s stomach clenched as she recognized Reggie Cooke, lying in a thick, red pool of blood. She was staring fixedly, but a gurgling sound passed through her bloody lips and her left hand twitched. Still alive! But not for long. Kristi saw the color fading from Reggie’s face, a curse Kristi had lived with. She could see the life bleed out of a person as they lay dying. “No,” she said. “Hang in there!” But already she was looking at the second body. This time she did wretch, felt bile burn up her throat. She swallowed against the sour taste and stared at Hamilton Cooke, who lay near his wife. He was already dead, his white polo shirt soaked and stained, his tan slacks dark with the blood that had drained from the gaping wounds to his torso and crotch. His eyes were open, his mouth rounded, his face set in an expression of shock. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” Kristi said. Kristi yanked her phone from her pocket and, still holding the gun with one hand, started to plug in 9-1-1 as she knelt beside Reggie. “I’ll get help,” she whispered, knowing in her heart of hearts it was too late for the lawyer. “Stay with me. You just stay with me.” At that moment the door to the pantry swung wide. The operator answered. “9-1-1. What is your emergency?” A shadow stretched suddenly across the interior of the pantry, blocking the light from the kitchen. “Too late!” a deep voice said. Before Kristi could raise her weapon, Aldo Lucerno kicked it hard. Crack! Pain scorched through Kristi’s hand. The gun went flying. It clattered against the glass bins of flour and sugar and fell to the floor. “I wondered if you’d show up here,” Aldo said, and she noticed the knife in his hand. A short-bladed weapon used for shucking oysters. Sharp. Deadly. Smeared in blood. “Good. Saves me the trouble of hunting you down!” She was crouching, ready to spring. Her eyes on the knife, her hand throbbing. “Nine-one-one,” the voice squawked from her phone, and quick as a cat striking, he swiped the phone from her and smashed it on the floor. “Now that I have your full attention,” he said. “We need to get help,” she argued. “Too late.” “But—” She wanted to tell him that Reggie was still alive, that there was a slim chance that she could be saved, but she knew it would fall on deaf ears. In fact, he might finish the job. Instead he was focused on her. “You sent me the notes,” she charged, stunned, not realizing the depths of his depravity, his humiliation. “And the snake.” “Gifts.” “Not gifts. Warnings.


the looking-glass, and otherwise damaged. The sound of our pens going, refreshed us exceedingly, insomuch that I sometimes found it difficult to distinguish between this edifying business proceeding and actually paying the money. In point of meritorious character, the two things seemed about equal. When we had written a little while, I would ask Herbert how he got on? Herbert probably would have been scratching his head in a most rueful manner at the sight of his accumulating figures. "They are mounting up, Handel," Herbert would say; "upon my life, they are mounting up." "Be firm, Herbert," I would retort, plying my own pen with great assiduity. "Look the thing in the face. Look into your affairs. Stare them out of countenance." "So I would, Handel, only they are staring me out of countenance." However, my determined manner would have its effect, and Herbert would fall to work again. After a time he would give up once more, on the plea that he had not got Cobbs's bill, or Lobbs's, or Nobbs's, as the case might be. "Then, Herbert, estimate; estimate it in round numbers, and put it down." "What a fellow of resource you are!" my friend would reply, with admiration. "Really your business powers are very remarkable." I thought so too. I established with myself on these occasions, the reputation of a first-rate man of business - prompt, decisive, energetic, clear, cool-headed. When I had got all my responsibilities down upon my list, I compared each with the bill, and ticked it off. My self-approval when I ticked an entry was quite a luxurious sensation. When I had no more ticks to make, I folded all my bills up uniformly, docketed each on the back, and tied the whole into a symmetrical bundle. Then I did the same for Herbert (who modestly said he had not my administrative genius), and felt that I had brought his affairs into a focus for him. My business habits had one other bright feature, which i called "leaving a Margin." For example; supposing Herbert's debts to be one hundred and sixty-four pounds four-and-twopence, I would say, "Leave a margin, and put them down at two hundred." Or, supposing my own to be four times as much, I would leave a margin, and put them down at seven hundred. I had the highest opinion of the wisdom of this same Margin, but I am bound to acknowledge that on looking back, I deem it to have been an expensive device. For, we always ran into new debt immediately, to the full extent of the margin, and sometimes, in the sense of freedom and solvency it imparted, got pretty far on into another margin. But there was a calm, a rest, a virtuous hush, consequent on these examinations of our affairs that gave me, for the time, an admirable opinion of myself. Soothed by my exertions, my method, and Herbert's compliments, I would sit with his symmetrical bundle and my own on the table before me among the stationary, and feel like a Bank of some


Heathcliff, look- ing hard at me. "And grief and disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you won't let her go, you can walk over yourself. But I shall not return till this time next week; and I think your master himself would scarcely object to her visiting her cousin." "Come in," said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her to re-enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features of the speaker, too stern to express his inward deceit. He pushed his horse close, and bending down, ob- served,--- "Miss Catherine, I'll own to you that I have little pa- tience with Linton; and Hareton and Joseph have less. I'll own that he's with a harsh set. He pines for kind- ness as well as love, and a kind word from you would be his best medicine. Don't mind Mrs. Dean's cruel cautions, but be generous, and contrive to see him. He dreams of you day and night, and cannot be persuaded that you don't hate him, since you neither write nor call." I closed the door and rolled a stone to assist the loos- ened lock in holding it, and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath, for the rain began to drive through the moaning branches of the trees, and warned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented any comment on the encounter with Heathcliff as we stretched towards home, but I divined instinctively that Catherine's heart was clouded now in double darkness. Her features were so sad they did not seem hers. She evidently regarded what she had heard as every syllable true. The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to his room to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, and asked me to sit with her in the library. We took our tea together, and after- wards she lay down on the rug, and told me not to talk, for she was weary. I got a book, and pretended to read. As soon as she supposed me absorbed in my occupation she recommenced her silent weeping; it appeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to en- joy it a while, then I expostulated, deriding and ridicul- ing all Mr. Heathcliff's assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would coincide. Alas! I hadn't skill to counteract the effect his account had produced; it was just what he intended. "You may be right, Ellen," she answered, "but I shall never feel at ease till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I don't write, and convince him that I shall not change." What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We parted that night hostile, but next day beheld me on the road to Wuthering Heights by the side of my wilful young mistress's pony. I couldn't bear to witness her sorrow, to see her pale dejected counte- nance and heavy eyes; and I yielded, in the faint hope that Linton himself


fall into any cleverly disguised quicksand pits. (You might think quicksand would be unlikely in an East Midlands forest, but it seemed unlikely on Dora the Explorer too.) “Is anyone especially good at reading maps?” Allen asks, the command in his tone bringing me back down to earth. I’m pretty sure he just interrupted Celine’s shaggy-haired little roommate, but I wasn’t paying attention, so maybe I’m wrong. Raj and a girl whose name I don’t know both raise their hands. Then Raj grins. “Look at us, putting our hands up like we’re at school.” Allen does not laugh. In fact, he must think we are at school and he is the teacher. “I’m rather good at orienteering,” he says firmly, “so I’m thinking I’ll hold the map and you guys can consult. Maybe someone else can be the compass person and the rest can be sent ahead to scout, keep an eye on terrain, that sort of thing?” We all shrug at each other. Allen nods firmly—he has a very strong jaw and hair like thick wheat—and takes the map and the compass from our supervisor Holly like he is King Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. I check Celine’s expression, and it doesn’t disappoint; she’s watching Allen like he’s the single most boring amoeba she’s ever laid eyes on. I wish I was as easily disdainful, but I think Allen’s kind of hot. (I have long come to terms with the fact that I have horrible taste.) While our experts huddle around the (thankfully, laminated) map, I sidle over to Celine and obey our mums’ wishes. “Let’s stick together, okay?” She looks up at me like I’m on drugs. “Why?” “Because we’re cousins,” I reply, purely to get on her nerves. “Please stop saying that,” she murmurs politely, “before I vomit all over these lovely plants.” I’ve developed a little problem since school started: every week, I sit next to Celine in Philosophy, and we insult each other like always, but lately I find myself wanting to laugh. Really badly. But I won’t, because Celine talks to me like I’m a deeply suspicious stranger and if I make one wrong move, she will knee me in the balls for her own safety. It’s annoying but what did I expect? Funny or not, she’s still a judgmental know-it-all hypocrite. Unfortunately, she’s also still wearing that cast hidden under the sleeve of her coat. And if she trips over a stray twig and I don’t catch her, my guilt will go from monumental to colossal and my spine might crack under the strain. So, “Whether you like it or not,” I say under my breath, “I’m stuck to you like glue.” She scowls and asks again, “Why?” “Why not?” “Because I am committed to protecting my peace and you are so far from my inner circle you’re basically a hexagon. Get thee behind me.” For God’s sake. “What do you think I’m going to do, push you into a ditch?” “I don’t know what you’re going to do, Bradley.” She sends a


No. No! Kristi’s head whipped around as she clambered to her feet. Cruz Montoya stood in the doorway, a gun in his hand, still pointed at Aldo, who was lying unmoving. There was blood, so much blood. And bodies. Oh, God! Everywhere Kristi, shaking, felt the urge to heave. “Are you all right?” Cruz asked, lowering his weapon and helping her into the kitchen. “No,” she admitted, and managed not to throw up. “No.” “It’ll be okay.” “It’ll never be okay!” she said, in a voice she didn’t recognize. “Kristi,” he whispered, and she thought he might fold her into his arms. “Freeze!” another sharp, male voice commanded. “Drop your weapon and put your hands over your head.” Cruz didn’t hesitate. His gun fell to the floor, landing with a sharp thud. Hands raised, he turned, and Kristi looked past him to find Reuben Montoya, both hands on the gun he had aimed at his brother, standing in the kitchen. Backlit by the light over the range, he was in silhouette. “Are you all right?” he demanded, his gaze still centered on his brother, though he was speaking to her. “No—yes. I don’t know.” Cruz said, “We need an ambulance!” “More than one from the looks of it.” Montoya’s face a mask of determination and regret, his eyes dark and somber. Still he kept the muzzle of his gun trained on his brother’s heart, and said clearly, “Cruz Montoya. You’re under arrest.” CHAPTER 40 “I want you to look at this footage one more time,” Bentz said to Bobby-Dean and Clive as they clustered around his Jeep at the end of the gravel road where he’d parked. Ty Wheeler had reluctantly and angrily been forced to leave with a deputy. Bentz was in the swamp with the two fishermen, his iPad balanced on the hood of his SUV. He hit play on his iPad and the drone footage began to play, footage he’d thankfully downloaded hours before so he didn’t need to depend on Wi-Fi for it to be viewed. So now, here in the damned bayou, mosquitoes swarming, he waited, hoping beyond hope that one of the two fishermen would locate something out of the ordinary, something he’d missed. In time. The minutes stretched out. Bentz drummed his fingers on the hood. Finally he asked, “You see anything?” The images had been taken in daylight, the drone riding high over the swamp to video the thick vegetation and dark water. A few cabins dotted the meandering shoreline and pelicans skimmed the water looking for fish that rose occasionally. Alligators and egrets, a deer leaping through the shadows appeared as the drone flew. Piers jutted into the water, a scattering of boats, but mainly reeds and brush, exposed roots, alligator nests, and duckweed between the tall, ghostly cypress. Clive complained, “We’ve been over this. Like, what? Five times.” “Take another look,” Bentz encouraged, his frustration mounting. “You know where we are, right, where we’re parked?” “Sure.” Bobby-Dean was nodding, adjusting his cap. He pointed one finger at the screen. “That’s Old Man


walked in. She pulled Orson into a hug, then me. “So wonderful to see you both! And to see you doing such big things.” Orson dipped into a half bow. “None of this would be possible without you, Carol.” “Really, Carol,” I added. “Oh, you both flatter me. You’re the scientists behind this whole operation.” She looked at me smilingly. “You’ve really come out of your shell, Ezra. You absolutely radiate confidence.” Now it was my turn to half bow. “By the grace of God,” I said. Slowly, the venture capitalists filed in. There were six besides Steven and Loren, all white, all male, all dressed in suits and wingtips. They shook hands with Carol and then with us and wandered to the opposite end of the room, where the help had arranged flutes of champagne on an end table. They helped themselves and surveyed the penthouse. They clearly liked what they saw. “Gentlemen,” Orson said, clasping his hands together. “Welcome, welcome, welcome.” Everyone was immediately at attention. “We’d love for you to take a seat,” I said. “If you don’t mind.” They milled to their seats, champagne in hand. Orson and I remained at the front of the room by the screen, Orson holding the Bliss-Mini. “Gentlemen,” he said. “How many of you want to be happy?” Laughter, a few raised hands. “Be honest.” A sea of raised hands. “Good. I do, too. And so does my partner, Ezra Green. But the human brain isn’t wired for happiness. It’s wired to detect threats to our well-being and respond accordingly. As a result, we are fearful, angry, jealous creatures.” Carol was standing at the back. She was too far away for me to see the expression on her face. I squinted and then remembered that I shouldn’t squint and so crossed my arms over my chest in a false demonstration of machismo. “Enter the Bliss-Mini.” Orson gestured to the complex-looking apparatus behind us. “With the advanced technology of transcranial magnetic stimulation, we have created a device that will allow the wearer to effectively ‘reset’ their brain. Using voice-pattern recognition, the device can detect the wearer’s speech and respond with therapy tailored specifically to them.” A young-looking venture capitalist with a slight walleye raised his hand. “What’s the therapy?” “Patterns of stimulation,” Orson said, not missing a beat. “Based on the cadence of the wearer’s voice and skin temperature, the Bliss-Mini stimulates the brain in ways that are beneficial to them and them alone.” The room was silent. I couldn’t tell if this silence was good or bad. Undeterred, Orson motioned for me to sit in the seat in front of the readout screen, where he attached the Bliss-Mini to my head and adhered a few meaningless wires to the skin below my ears, to the base of my neck, and to the top of my forehead. Then he switched on the screen behind me, which began to display an x-axis stretched and compressed into a series of jagged peaks and valleys. “This is Ezra’s brain activity without the help of the Bliss-Mini,”


years. All those Janes. She suddenly addressed Mrs. King. “No one ever came for you, did they?” Winnie straightened, her eyes fierce. “Never. I shared a room with her the whole time. I wouldn’t have let them. I looked after you.” There was something heated, something desperate, in the way she said it. Mrs. King said, voice grave. “And you, Winnie? You were all right?” Winnie’s eyes flickered back and forth. “Yes,” she said, quickly. “Yes, I was fine.” “What about our fine lady duchess?” said Mrs. Bone, quietly. “Hephzibah?” said Mrs. King. Her eyes widened at that, shocked. It was rare to ever see that look upon her face. Winnie opened her mouth, shut it again. Shook her head. Mrs. Bone crossed her arms. “That’s clear enough to me.” Mrs. King said soberly, “And me.” They looked at one another. “Something needs to be done about this,” said Mrs. Bone. “Something needs to be done?” Winnie’s voice went up a notch. “You think I haven’t tried? I went to Shepherd. I went to the master.” “What happened?” “I said I’d discovered something perfectly dreadful.” “What did he say?” Mrs. Bone asked, fearing the answer. Winnie laughed, a bitter sound. “He told me not to be so disagreeable. The next day, I was given my papers. I was out of Park Lane barely an hour after that. No character, no wages.” It wasn’t easy to read Mrs. King’s expression through the gloom. But Mrs. Bone had heard enough. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “Well?” she said. “I want answers. I want solutions to this.” “We have our solution,” said Mrs. King. She averted her gaze from Winnie, reached out and tugged an ivy leaf from the wall. Ripped it up, piece by piece. “We get to work.” * * * Later, when the women had gone, Mrs. King examined her own feelings. Her heartbeat had accelerated. She studied it, measuring time. Until now, her plan had felt kaleidoscopic, shiny but fractured, made of a million tiny pieces. But now it had stilled, had become a frozen, glittering thing. It had precise dimensions, like a diamond. It had its own force, a pull. The sensation made her feel weightless, without bonds or limits. Her mouth tasted like metal. Her blood was shouting orders at her, Fix it, fix it, put it right. 22 The day of the ball The twenty-sixth of June. Dawn came, hot and heady. Park Lane dragged itself awake, forming its usual cluttered assemblage of curves and chimneys and striped awnings, and began to shimmer in the heat. Dust was already rising in billowing clouds as carts and motor vans stopped with deliveries. The de Vries house had become a hive of activity. One of the under-footmen wedged open the tradesmen’s door, ticking visitors off a list, a long line of men carrying goods. Crates of wine, huge vases of lilies, hosepipes, boxes of linen. A newspaperman watched from the pavement and scribbled notes. Mrs. Bone elbowed past him. “Bugger off,” she muttered. She shrank behind an urn


decision tore at her heart. A knock on the doorframe pulled her out of her thoughts. Nathaniel stood there holding a glass of wine. “I thought you might need a drink.” She accepted it and he sat on the bed beside her, rubbing his hands along his thighs. “Marion, I know you’ve been through hell and back, and I want you to know that I’m here for you. We’ve had our ups and downs lately, and I’m fine to give you all the space you need. When you’re ready, I’m ready. Even if it’s in six months or a year from now. I won’t desert you in your time of trouble, and if there’s anything I can do to help in the meantime, just let me know.” He took a deep breath when he’d finished, looking over at her like a student who’d just finished a big test. He must’ve practiced it in the mirror several times. Dear Nathaniel. She’d been dodging him for the past month and felt ashamed of her behavior. “I appreciate it, Nathaniel, I really do.” He’d sensed exactly what she needed right then, which was less pressure, more support. “I’m sorry I’ve been standoffish. It’s so overwhelming.” She began to cry, and he put his arm around her. She nestled into his shoulder, like she used to when life seemed so simple and their future clear. After a moment, she glanced up at him. “So much has changed since you came home from Europe, I feel like I’m a completely different person.” He kissed the top of her head. “There’s no need to discuss it now, not at your sister’s funeral. I love you, I’m here for you.” From the stairs, Mrs. Hornsby called out for Marion, and the moment was broken. In any event, Nathaniel was right: she shouldn’t make any major life decisions right now. * * * Two days later, she was eating breakfast when Simon came barreling downstairs in a suit and tie, briefcase in hand. “I’m off, have a good day,” he said. “To where?” “Work, of course.” Marion stared at him, confused. “Don’t you want to take some time off? I’m sure they’d understand.” “They need me, and it will keep me occupied. I’ll be back by six.” He paused, taking in the expression on her face. “What?” “I figured you’d at least wait until next week.” “I’m busy, there’s a lot to be done. And it’ll take my mind off what happened.” What happened. After Simon’s tearful breakdown in the car on the way to the funeral, now he couldn’t even say Judy’s name. Then again, he’d gone right back to work after Lucille died, so why should Judy’s death be any different? Marion knew it was a coping mechanism, but it seemed unfair. “So you get to go out and live your life, but you want me to put everything on hold?” The words came out harsher than she expected. “Not this again. You can talk to Nathaniel, get started on the wedding plans.” “We spoke after the funeral.


quite without realising it, I began to feel at home in Paris. I had become a part of Sylvia’s little patchwork family and my position at Shakespeare and Company became permanent, or at least I hadn’t been told otherwise. I rented a demi-pension, a room with half board that was close to the shop. On the weekends, having eventually permitted myself to succumb to his charms, I met Armand. He took me to the hidden corners of the city, like the flea markets in Saint-Ouen where rag and bone men who scoured through the garbage of Paris at night sold their wares. He called them les pêcheurs de lune, moon fishermen, which made me smile because I knew that I was caught in Armand’s net and the more I fought it, the tighter his hold on my heart became. Jane, in her letters to me, had encouraged the romance: ‘What was the point in flitting off to France if not to take a lover!’ One bright morning at the end of the summer, when the city was quieter as the locals retreated to the countryside, I was working diligently in the shop, shelving the latest books to arrive. Sylvia was in the back having tea with an American writer, Ernest Hemingway, discussing a literary evening they were planning. He was unbelievably handsome and everyone was enthralled by his intense magnetism, but there was something malevolent about him. He adored Sylvia, of course, whose respect was worth more than that of any critic. Still, I couldn’t explain it, but I didn’t like being in a room alone with him. Once, when I was on the ladder putting books on to a high shelf, I found him staring at me. ‘Yes?’ I asked, giving him a direct look that I hoped would shame him into looking elsewhere. It did not work. ‘You ought to be careful, Missy.’ Missy. Honestly. ‘And why is that?’ ‘All writers are cannibalistic by nature.’ I wasn’t sure what he was driving at, but it didn’t sound very appetising to my ears. ‘Meaning?’ ‘Keep waving that ass around here, you might find yourself a character in one of my books,’ he grinned, openly enjoying my vexation. Honestly, writers could be such egoists! As I slowly lowered myself down the ladder, Sylvia and another man, a reporter, entered the shop and as quick as lightning, he took a camera out of its case and almost blinded the three of us with the flash. ‘There we are, I will have it in our next edition,’ he said, and the two men left, discussing Hemingway’s bruised fingers, which he said he’d got defending Joyce in a drunken brawl. ‘What was that for?’ I asked, wary of the idea of my photograph appearing in print. ‘Cosmopolitan magazine, they’re printing one of Ernest’s stories.’ I was halfway up the ladder, I thought to myself. I probably wasn’t even in shot. Besides, Lyndon was hardly a reader of Cosmopolitan. Nothing to worry about, I assured myself, and almost believed it too. I decided to surprise Armand


come.” Another whimper. Mine. “I was never his.” “I didn’t know it. For months, I didn’t know.” I want to ask him what he thought of. When it started. I just say, “I was sure you hated me.” He laughs, a little wistful, and leans in for a kiss against my temple. “I did sometimes. For making me hate my brother, just because he was the one who got to eat you out.” His hand twists, and something in his grip changes: more points of contact, Jack parting my folds, the heel of his hand pressing against my clit. It’s even better. So much better. “Should I put a finger inside you?” A flush spreads up from my chest. My entire body is burning, a blend of embarrassment, heat, pleasure. “I don’t . . . I usually . . .” I feel him nod against my cheek. “No, then.” “But . . .” Historically, penetrative sex has done very little for me. But then so has kissing or touching, and as I sit here, trembling from Jack’s hand between my legs, I cannot help thinking that maybe there could be more to that. “Trial and error,” I say, which makes him laugh, a deep rumble in his chest. “You sure?” I nod. And then his middle finger nudges at my opening, tapping gently while his thumb strokes my clit, and I think it’s going to be a process, I think my body is going to have to work for it, but I’m wrong. He sinks inside me like a stone in water, gentle but not tentative, and it’s tight, but the friction is good. He pulls back to hold my eyes, and we stay like that, both vaguely surprised, both not quite daring to breathe. Until he kisses my mouth and hooks his finger inside me. I arch and contract around him. We both jolt. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “Here, huh?” He does it again, hitting a spot that’s somehow indecently, massively perfect. My entire body blooms with heat, thrums from the intensity of it. “Oh my God, Jack, you—” He does it some more, and I lose any ability to speak. His kisses deepen, become more aggressive, but I am too lost in the pleasure shooting up to my brain, too uncoordinated to return them in any meaningful way. He realizes it, I think, because he groans in the back of his throat, and his other hand moves between my shoulder blades and he pulls me into his chest, a soft creature he scooped up from the floor, squirming under him, melting between his fingers, utterly defenseless. “I imagined being with you like this a lot. But, Elsie, this is unreal. You are unreal.” His lips trail across my cheek. “When I get inside you, I’m going to lose my fucking mind,” he pants against the shell of my ear, like it’s too dirty to say out loud, even alone in a dark room. “You are inside me—” “You know what I mean.” He bites my lobe. His hand caresses up


administration. Attendees consoled Conway and Sanders, chiding the comedian for being too crass. The critiques were thick with irony, given who the women worked for. Something else made guests feel uncomfortable, though no one admitted it during the after party. The lewd jokes didn’t make us squirm. It was the truthful ones, like the bit at the end. People in the room who despised the president nevertheless relied on him. One of them was Rod Rosenstein, the deputy attorney general. I briefly got sandwiched into a conversation with him after the speeches ended. He was the highest-ranking official overseeing the Russia investigation, and Trump regularly lambasted him in public and private. Yet I listened with surprise as Rosenstein assured dinner guests that any suggestion of turmoil between the White House and the Justice Department was completely overblown. I knew he felt differently. The deputy attorney general saw Trump as a danger and perhaps already a criminal. Rosenstein had discussed the idea of wearing a wire in the Oval Office, as well as the possibility of invoking “the Twenty-Fifth.” Codified in 1967, the Twenty-Fifth Amendment to the Constitution outlines a process for the vice president and the heads of the fifteen executive departments to declare the president—by simple majority vote—unfit for office and to strip the president of his or her powers. As recently as a week before the Correspondents’ Dinner, Kirstjen and I had met and talked about the “forbidden” provision. John Kelly had done an informal whip count. A number of cabinet members were prepared to take the vote in an extreme scenario, but no one thought it was a viable option at the moment. Trump would call it a coup. His supporters would violently take to the streets, and Congress would probably overturn the determination anyway. Rosenstein had canvassed administration colleagues about the possibility, too. That’s why I was perplexed to hear him at the dinner, casually downplaying concerns about the president. The Adults who despised Trump still seemed to be choked by his vise-like grip. In fact, a year later, Rosenstein would write the president a flattering departure letter—thanking Trump for the honor of a lifetime, praising the administration’s policies, and glowingly recalling the president’s “courtesy and humor.” The woman I was searching for in the crowd popped into the conversation from behind me. “Hello, friends.” Kirstjen greeted us wearing an ocean-blue dress. “How about that speech? Whew.” She let out a hearty laugh, breaking the tension. “Good to see you, Madam Secretary,” I said. “Come with me to get a drink?” She agreed. As Kirstjen and I wound our way through the crowd to get cocktails, I made an observation. An undertone of edginess had permeated the room at the beginning of the night. Insular camps avoided one another. Yet eventually, with more libations, the camps had blended and conversations swelled into a back-slapping cacophony across the ballroom. All of these people were the same. The sparkle of the dinner guests masked the craven artificiality that had brought them together—a desire to be something they were not. These


king myself, but I no longer know who is afflicted, and who not. I have sat here in the canyon for a week, to warn those who would come too close. I can’t go back. I would sooner starve than—’ He made the sign of the sword, his hand trembling. ‘No soul should enter Halgalant that way.’ ‘These people look to you for guidance, Saintsman,’ Regny sneered. ‘And you cower down here?’ ‘I am a sanctarian, not a warrior or a physician.’ Wulf drew up beside Regny. ‘Sanctarian,’ he said, ‘where is the former snowseer, the Issýn?’ ‘Locked into her home. So is anyone with sense.’ Regny tacked her gaze to the path. ‘We must see the village for ourselves,’ she said, ‘so I may describe this sickness to King Bardholt.’ ‘If you insist, then I beg you, touch no one. It starts with a redness in the fingers.’ Sauma narrowed her eyes. ‘And how does it end?’ The sanctarian shook his head and collapsed on to a rock, clutching his face. Regny rode past him without a backward glance. ‘I don’t like this,’ Sauma said, catching up to her. ‘We should turn back.’ ‘And what shall we tell the king?’ Regny said flatly. ‘That we came here to understand the sickness and still have no sense of what it is? How will this help him, Sauma?’ Wulf knew the sharpness in her voice. She was nervous. ‘Regny,’ he broke in, ‘you are the Chieftain of Askrdal. Let us go.’ Regny stopped her horse. ‘When I rule Askrdal, do you suppose I will send others into danger in my stead?’ ‘Well,’ Thrit said mildly, ‘that is the way of this ranked world of ours. The common people sow, the high folk reap. You could question the sense of it, and the morality, but—’ ‘I am no craven, Thrit of Isborg.’ She dealt them each a withering look. ‘Stay if you choose.’ She spurred her silver horse up the path. ‘She’ll seriously injure anyone who stays behind. Hot coal, tender places,’ Thrit stated. ‘Yes?’ Wulf gave a weary nod and rode after their leader. The village at the end of the world was a sixfold ring of small rubblework shelters, huddled around a sanctuary that had received all the care the rest had been denied. Places like these were grim and hardy. On the black plains and the eversnow, it was difficult for seed to thrive, forcing those who lived here to rely on milk, butter and meat. That made it all the stranger that no livestock could be found. As Wulf dismounted, he caught a distinct scent of rot. All seemed forsaken. Their horses were skittish, huffing and snorting. Regny led them towards the stacked roofs of the sanctuary. She was too well-trained to show disquiet, but Wulf saw it in the set of her shoulders, the tightness of her back. Every window had been shuttered. No woodsmoke rose through the roof openings. The sanctuary doors had been chained together. Thrit unsheathed a blade and used the hilt to knock. ‘Anyone in