and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up, and I'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest now." Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast. "Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in chorus. "Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?" They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, "I'm so glad you came before we began!" "May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?" asked Beth eagerly. "I shall take the cream and the muffings," added Amy, heroically giving up the article she most liked. Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate. "I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime." They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party. A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm. How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in. "Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman, crying for joy. "Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them to laughing. In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English. "Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as they ate and warmed their purple hands at


the rage that existed deep in her gut. It was far too easy to get lost in it. She forced her mind to come back to the room. Miss de Vries was gathering her skirts, her costume shimmering darkly. She sent her voice down the hall so that all the servants would hear her. “Don’t ever touch my things,” she said. * * * Hephzibah didn’t enjoy parties. Never had. They gave her the willies. But she knew she’d never be at a ball like this again. She held on to her wig with one hand. Her skirts ballooned around her, taking up space, sweeping the floor. People stared. “I know,” she said, raising her glass. “I look marvelous.” Naturally she had business to take care of. Once the ball was underway, she’d begun surreptitiously gathering her actresses, sending them circling around the ballroom, knocking over drinks, upsetting supper plates, causing confusion. “Movement,” Winnie had said when they were going over the program for the evening. “We must have constant and immediate movement. We need people away from the windows, eyes on the entertainment. We’ve got ropes going up the eastern side of the house. We can’t have anyone spotting that.” “I’ve got it,” Hephzibah had said. Winnie had made her apologies half a dozen times, but Hephzibah still wouldn’t meet her eye. “Don’t fuss.” There was no delay to the dancing, no wallflowers spoiling the mood: Hephzibah’s actresses saw to that. I might join in, Hephzibah thought, a splendid fog descending over her vision. She saw her men leading women to the ballroom floor, music swelling. They looked like sea anemones, billowing into each other’s arms, pulsing. It was a waltz, a fast one. It made the blood start pumping in the veins. I need more champagne, she decided. And more jelly. She spied a boy gawking at her from the corner of the room. A lamp-trimmer, she assumed, or an urchin kept for running errands. He had a pointed, weaselly face, and he was keeping himself carefully out of view from the other servants. In the normal course of events, Hephzibah might have flicked him half a crown for trying his luck upstairs. But this wasn’t the time for unkempt boys to be scuttling around the house. They’d made no allowances in the plan for that. And she didn’t like the way he was staring at her. One of Hephzibah’s actresses came whirling past, a profusion of taffeta and silks. “Goodness gracious!” she cried, throwing her champagne glass to the floor, where it shattered in all directions. “Enough chaos for you, dear?” she muttered to Hephzibah as the waiters hurried to clean it up, the dancers surging around them. The boy’s eyes narrowed. Have I been rumbled? Hephzibah wondered, with a prickling of alarm. “Boy!” she exclaimed, sidestepping the actress. “Fetch me a drink!” Perhaps her voice came out a little louder than she’d intended. An under-footman or a waiter glided up, tray in hand. “Madam,” he said, blocking her path. She dodged. “That little boy can fetch it for


was entirely satisfactory: either the climate wasn't quite right in the later part of the afternoon, or the day was half an hour too long, or the sea was exactly the wrong shade of pink. And thus were created the conditions for a staggering new form of specialist industry: custom-made luxury planet building. The home of this industry was the planet Magrathea, where hyperspatial engineers sucked matter through white holes in space to form it into dream planets - gold planets, platinum planets, soft rubber planets with lots of earthquakes - all lovingly made to meet the exacting standards that the Galaxy's richest men naturally came to expect. But so successful was this venture that Magrathea itself soon became the richest planet of all time and the rest of the Galaxy was reduced to abject poverty. And so the system broke down, the Empire collapsed, and a long sullen silence settled over a billion worlds, disturbed only by the pen scratchings of scholars as they laboured into the night over smug little treaties on the value of a planned political economy. Magrathea itself disappeared and its memory soon passed into the obscurity of legend. In these enlightened days of course, no one believes a word of it. ================================================================= Chapter 16 Arthur awoke to the sound of argument and went to the bridge. Ford was waving his arms about. "You're crazy, Zaphod," he was saying, "Magrathea is a myth, a fairy story, it's what parents tell their kids about at night if they want them to grow up to become economists, it's ..." "And that's what we are currently in orbit around," insisted Zaphod. "Look, I can't help what you may personally be in orbit around," said Ford, "but this ship ..." "Computer!" shouted Zaphod. "Oh no ..." "Hi there! This is Eddie your shipboard computer, and I'm feeling just great guys, and I know I'm just going to get a bundle of kicks out of any programme you care to run through me." Arthur looked inquiringly at Trillian. She motioned him to come on in but keep quiet. "Computer," said Zaphod, "tell us again what our present trajectory is." "A real pleasure feller," it burbled, "we are currently in orbit at an altitude of three hundred miles around the legendary planet of Magrathea." "Proving nothing," said Ford. "I wouldn't trust that computer to speak my weight." "I can do that for you, sure," enthused the computer, punching out more tickertape. "I can even work out you personality problems to ten decimal places if it will help." Trillian interrupted. "Zaphod," she said, "any minute now we will be swinging round to the daylight side of this planet," adding, "whatever it turns out to be." "Hey, what do you mean by that? The planet's where I predicted it would be isn't it?" "Yes, I know there's a planet there. I'm not arguing with anyone, it's just that I wouldn't know Magrathea from any other lump of cold rock. Dawn's coming up if you want it." "OK, OK," muttered Zaphod, "let's at least give our


is so small that it will not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son, Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes-- a grievous disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People tell me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear wife died I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to see the smile fade even for a moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us had I been sterner, but I meant it for the best. "It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward, and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of large sums of money. When he was young he became a member of an aristocratic club, and there, having charming manners, he was soon the intimate of a number of men with long purses and expensive habits. He learned to play heavily at cards and to squander money on the turf, until he had again and again to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his allowance, that he might settle his debts of honor. He tried more than once to break away from the dangerous company which he was keeping, but each time the influence of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back again. "And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his presence, I am convinced from his cynical speech and the look which I have caught in his eyes that he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think, and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman's quick insight into character. "And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She is a sunbeam in my house--sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do without her. In only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes. Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly, but


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

but our editing team—myself included—has done a good job of creatively tempering Tex’s and Arjun’s enthusiasm so no one feels too bad for them when they are likely voted off over the next twenty-four hours. And then my confessional with Fizzy begins. I’d neglected to mention this part to any of my family, and as my face appears on-screen, the room explodes with their noisy surprise. Nat is fucking delighted, Stevie is dancing on the couch and shouting that that’s her dad, and Ash lets everyone know that he’s just been issued a free pass to give me shit for the foreseeable future. Next to me, Fizzy is as smug as I’ve ever seen her. “Do you see that charisma?” she calls to the room, glass held in front of her. “Hollywood, please hire me as your casting director.” When it quiets again during another commercial, she taps me and motions to the TV. “Is now when you tell me I was right?” “Let’s manage expectations.” Most of the room has emptied out during the break, everyone waiting for the loo or off to the kitchen to refill their drinks. “We’ll get numbers tomorrow. Your phone must be blowing up with messages. What’s everyone saying?” Fizzy drains her glass and leans back against the couch. “Not ready for that level of reality yet. Let me stay in this soft-launch enthusiasm bubble until at least nine tomorrow morning. Then I’ll tiptoe into opinions. But for now”—she motions to the TV—“I was right about you. Say it.” “You are occasionally clever.” “Always.” “An average amount.” “Tell me I’m the best.” I smile. “You, Fizzy, are the best.” “Thank you, wow, I never expected such a compliment, but it means so much.” She hands me her empty glass. “Now please, more wine.” twenty-nine FIZZY I get into my car, turn it on, and then sit idling at the curb, staring out at the dark street. This feeling I have right now—the jittery, hyper-adrenaline, restless feeling—most people would have this reaction to seeing themselves on a dating show, to witnessing how the masterful editing made the entire episode sing, and then, at the end of the night, getting the call that the show is on track to being the biggest reality show debut in a decade. But I know myself and know that the reason I get these kinds of heart flutters is the same reason I became an author in the first place: I love romance. I love the swooping in my chest when I read a good kiss, the choking of my lungs when I get to the angst, the shaken-carbonated blast of joy reading the happily ever after. I just watched eight perfect men vying for my heart, and they’re not even why I have the flutters. I have them because I got to see my new favorite person tonight. Stretching, I find my reflection in the rearview mirror and glare at that harlot. “Listen up,” I tell her forcefully. “It’s a relief that things didn’t go very, very wrong because you had


me know yours, and I will tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?" Hallward shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation." "No, Basil, you must tell me," murmured Dorian Gray. "I think I have a right to know." His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward's mystery. "Let us sit down, Dorian," said Hallward, looking pale and pained. "Let us sit down. I will sit in the shadow, and you shall sit in the sunlight. Our lives are like that. Just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picture something that you did not like?-- something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?" "Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands, and gazing at him with wild, startled eyes. "I see you did. Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as [57] Harry says, a really 'grande passion' is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When I was away from you, you were still present in my art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it myself. One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It was to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece. But, as I worked at it, every flake and film of color seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to


the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard swear he'd spile her looks just as I told you and your two -- " "What! The deaf and dumb man said all that!" Huck had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to keep the old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard might be, and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of all he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of his scrape, but the old man's eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder. Presently the Welshman said: "My boy, don't be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head for all the world. No -- I'd protect you -- I'd protect you. This Spaniard is not deaf and dumb; you've let that slip without intending it; you can't cover that up now. You know something about that Spaniard that you want to keep dark. Now trust me -- tell me what it is, and trust me -- I won't betray you." Huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment, then bent over and whispered in his ear: --------------------------------------------------------- -275- "'Tain't a Spaniard -- it's Injun Joe!" The Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said: "It's all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching ears and slitting noses I judged that that was your own embellishment, because white men don't take that sort of revenge. But an Injun! That's a different matter altogether." During breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going to bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of -- "Of WHAT?" If the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more stunning suddenness from Huck's blanched lips. His eyes were staring wide, now, and his breath suspended -- waiting for the answer. The Welshman started -- stared in return -- three seconds -- five seconds -- ten -- then replied: "Of burglar's tools. Why, what's the matter with you?" Huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. The Welshman eyed him gravely, curiously -- and presently said: "Yes, burglar's tools. That appears to relieve you a good deal. But what did give you that turn? What were you expecting we'd found?" --------------------------------------------------------- -276- Huck was in a close place -- the inquiring eye was upon him -- he would have given anything for material for a plausible answer -- nothing suggested itself -- the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper -- a senseless reply offered -- there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered it -- feebly: "Sunday-school books, maybe." Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and joyously, shook up the details of


cup of coffee. My mother adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich brown cup of something I’ve never seen. “They call it hot chocolate,” says Peeta. “It’s good.” I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I ignore it until I’ve drained my cup. Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being care- ful to not overdo it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother 55 told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I said, “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up. When my stomach feels like it’s about to split open, I lean back and take in my breakfast companions. Peeta is still eat- ing, breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate. Haymitch hasn’t paid much attention to his platter, but he’s knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with a clear liquid from a bottle. Judging by the fumes, it’s some kind of spirit. I don’t know Haymitch, but I’ve seen him often enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter of the woman who sells white liquor. He’ll be incoherent by the time we reach the Capitol. I realize I detest Haymitch. No wonder the District 12 tri- butes never stand a chance. It isn’t just that we’ve been un- derfed and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it. But we rarely get sponsors and he’s a big part of the reason why. The rich people who back tributes — either because they’re betting on them or simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner — expect someone classier than Haymitch to deal with. “So, you’re supposed to give us advice,” I say to Haymitch. “Here’s some advice. Stay alive,” says Haymitch, and then bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Peeta before I re- member I’m having nothing more to do with him. I’m sur- prised to see the hardness in his eyes. He generally seems so mild. “That’s very funny,” says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes out at the glass in Haymitch’s hand. It shatters on the floor, sending 56 the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train. “On- ly not to us.” Haymitch considers this a moment, then punches Peeta in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he turns back to reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers. I brace my- self to deflect his hit, but it doesn’t come. Instead he sits back and squints at us. “Well, what’s this?” says Haymitch. “Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?” Peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice from under the fruit tureen.


two philosophers gaped at him. "Bloody hell," said Majikthise, "now that is what I call thinking. Here Vroomfondel, why do we never think of things like that?" "Dunno," said Vroomfondel in an awed whisper, "think our brains must be too highly trained Majikthise." So saying, they turned on their heels and walked out of the door and into a lifestyle beyond their wildest dreams. ================================================================= Chapter 26 "Yes, very salutary," said Arthur, after Slartibartfast had related the salient points of the story to him, "but I don't understand what all this has got to do with the Earth and mice and things." "That is but the first half of the story Earthman," said the old man. "If you would care to discover what happened seven and a half millions later, on the great day of the Answer, allow me to invite you to my study where you can experience the events yourself on our Sens-O-Tape records. That is unless you would care to take a quick stroll on the surface of New Earth. It's only half completed I'm afraid - we haven't even finished burying the artificial dinosaur skeletons in the crust yet, then we have the Tertiary and Quarternary Periods of the Cenozoic Era to lay down, and ..." "No thank you," said Arthur, "it wouldn't be quite the same." "No," said Slartibartfast, "it won't be," and he turned the aircar round and headed back towards the mind-numbing wall. ================================================================= Chapter 27 Slartibartfast's study was a total mess, like the results of an explosion in a public library. The old man frowned as they stepped in. "Terribly unfortunate," he said, "a diode blew in one of the life-support computers. When we tried to revive our cleaning staff we discovered they'd been dead for nearly thirty thousand years. Who's going to clear away the bodies, that's what I want to know. Look why don't you sit yourself down over there and let me plug you in?" He gestured Arthur towards a chair which looked as if it had been made out of the rib cage of a stegosaurus. "It was made out of the rib cage of a stegosaurus," explained the old man as he pottered about fishing bits of wire out from under tottering piles of paper and drawing instruments. "Here," he said, "hold these," and passed a couple of stripped wire end to Arthur. The instant he took hold of them a bird flew straight through him. He was suspended in mid-air and totally invisible to himself. Beneath him was a pretty treelined city square, and all around it as far as the eye could see were white concrete buildings of airy spacious design but somewhat the worse for wear - many were cracked and stained with rain. Today however the sun was shining, a fresh breeze danced lightly through the trees, and the odd sensation that all the buildings were quietly humming was probably caused by the fact that the square and all the streets around it were thronged with cheerful excited people. Somewhere a band was playing, brightly


his profile picture this morning. Exactly as advertised. His brown hair is swept back and he has on Converse, jeans, and a plain white tee. “Hello, Maddie. Glad you could make it,” he says—deep and friendly with the slightest American lilt. We sit and on his table is a pot of tea, two cups, a Danish pastry for him and a brownie for me. I point to the brownie. “How did you know I wouldn’t stand you up?” “I only hoped you wouldn’t and told myself that if you did, I would eat your brownie as consolation.” He smiles again. Or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling? “It’s nice to properly meet you. You’re very pretty.” “Oh, thank you.” I try not to look away. “You’re also very … the male version of pretty.” He laughs. “I think that’s handsome,” he says, “but I’ll take pretty. Can I get you a coffee or anything?” “I don’t mind some of your tea.” “This is green tea,” he says, pouring himself a cup. “Have you had it before?” “No, but happy to try it.” As he pours me a cup, I say, “You didn’t bring your dog?” “I should have, but I thought I’d save him in case I needed help securing a second date.” I smile at him and try green tea for the first time. It’s a little bitter but instantly warming. “So, how have you been?” he asks. My face falls and I brace myself before remembering that Alex doesn’t actually know how I should be feeling. “Pretty good,” I answer. I tell him about Love Stories and make up a spontaneous evening bike ride for last night. He asks what I’ve got planned for the rest of my weekend. I offer him half my brownie while I think of something interesting to say. I come up short so end up sharing a lie. “Tomorrow my friend Em and I are going for brunch in Highbury,” I tell him, “but today I’m just going to pop home to say hi to the parents, then my friend’s having a barbecue at her place. Which reminds me, I don’t want to turn up empty-handed, so I should remember to go to the shops and pick up a few bits. What about you?” “Well, it’s my sister’s baby shower tomorrow, but tonight I might foist myself on my flatmates—they’re going to catch a movie.” If I’d been honest about not doing much, would he have asked to extend this date? “I haven’t been to the cinema since…” Ben. “In a long time,” I finish. “Is this your first time online dating?” Alex asks. “Ouch. Is it that obvious?” “I promise it’s not. I’ve just heard the cinema tends to be a good online-to-real-world date option.” “It is my first time,” I admit. “I’ve always been hesitant, but one night I decided to just go for it. You?” “I’m a couple of weeks old now.” “Any success stories?” “Besides you?” I roll my eyes. “Smooth.” I drink my tea to hide the smile. “Let me think…,”


kind of slow-drop shaft. Lu-puk slithered to an angled orange shaft and let it slow-slide him downward until he reached a junction. With practiced skill, he twisted and slow dropped toward the asteroid’s center. The fall was long, which gave Lu-puk time to think. He was the ranking officer in this sector. He’d been told numerous times … he had but one job: hold the advancement of alien interlopers from moving further into Liquilid territories. But allowing new, highly advanced alien technologies to slip through his claws, well, that would be his undoing. It had been the acquiring of alien tech that had propelled their once-primitive race to their current superior status. No, he would be punished if he and his crew could not decipher Portent’s auxiliary means of propulsion. Sure as shit fell downhill, he was not going to let this issue be his downfall. Coming to the next shaft, he rolled, and rolled again, ending within standard gravity. He took a moment to ensure he looked presentable, then casually slithered forward as if he had all the time in the world and nothing he was about to see would be all that impressive to him. Which wasn’t true, because the quantum flux generator impressed everyone. He slid into the massive chamber and stopped, inner eyelids sliding over his pupils. The quantum fluctuations did strange things to the light spectrum. Red light became green became yellow, all in the space of a heartbeat. The flux generator was a complex and massive device that employed advanced principles of physics to create a powerful field capable of disrupting the spacetime fabric in its vicinity. It was a technology pilfered from a now long-destroyed neighboring alien society. Lu-puk was certain the tech was beyond the current level of human understanding. From a visual standpoint, the flux generator was an imposing sight, held within a massive subterranean compartment. Entering the space he was instantly assaulted by fluctuating waves of heat. Rising five stories overhead, the glowing superstructure, even after seeing it many times, took Lu-puk’s breath away. It consisted of a central core surrounded by a series of concentric rings. The rings were made up of a complex array of materials that allowed the generator to harness and manipulate energy from the surrounding environment. The central core housed a series of advanced control systems that regulated the flow of energy and maintained the stability of the generator. The principle behind the generator was the concept of flux, which is the flow of energy or matter through a surface. In this case, the generator created a flux field that altered the local spacetime curvature. This allowed the generator to manipulate the properties of the space around it, including gravity and electromagnetism. Powerful electromagnetic fields surrounded the central core, and one should be wary of getting too close. By altering the intensity and direction of the flux fields, the generator could control the properties of surrounding space and matter—namely, in this case, interloper warships. He stared at the massive, slowly rotating and pulsing device. It was this


hated them so and was so terrified by them that suddenly they began to make her angry and she felt as if she should like to fly into a tantrum herself and frighten him as he was frightening her. She was not used to any one's tempers but her own. She took her hands from her ears and sprang up and stamped her foot. "He ought to be stopped! Somebody ought to make him stop! Somebody ought to beat him!" she cried out. Just then she heard feet almost running down the corridor and her door opened and the nurse came in. She was not laughing now by any means. She even looked rather pale. "He's worked himself into hysterics," she said in a great hurry. "He'll do himself harm. No one can do anything with him. You come and try, like a good child. He likes you." "He turned me out of the room this morning," said Mary, stamping her foot with excitement. The stamp rather pleased the nurse. The truth was that she had been afraid she might find Mary crying and hiding her head under the bed-clothes. "That's right," she said. "You're in the right humor. You go and scold him. Give him something new to think of. Do go, child, as quick as ever you can." It was not until afterward that Mary realized that the thing had been funny as well as dreadful--that it was funny that all the grown-up people were so frightened that they came to a little girl just because they guessed she was almost as bad as Colin himself. She flew along the corridor and the nearer she got to the screams the higher her temper mounted. She felt quite wicked by the time she reached the door. She slapped it open with her hand and ran across the room to the four-posted bed. "You stop!" she almost shouted. "You stop! I hate you! Everybody hates you! I wish everybody would run out of the house and let you scream yourself to death! You will scream yourself to death in a minute, and I wish you would!" A nice sympathetic child could neither have thought nor said such things, but it just happened that the shock of hearing them was the best possible thing for this hysterical boy whom no one had ever dared to restrain or contradict. He had been lying on his face beating his pillow with his hands and he actually almost jumped around, he turned so quickly at the sound of the furious little voice. His face looked dreadful, white and red and swollen, and he was gasping and choking; but savage little Mary did not care an atom. "If you scream another scream," she said, "I'll scream too --and I can scream louder than you can and I'll frighten you, I'll frighten you!" He actually had stopped screaming because she had startled him so. The scream which had been coming almost choked him. The tears were streaming down his face and he shook all over. "I can't stop!"


Clayton came to his feet with a start. His blood ran cold. Never in all his life had so fearful a sound smote upon his ears. He was no coward; but if ever man felt the icy fingers of fear upon his heart, William Cecil Clayton, eldest son of Lord Greystoke of England, did that day in the fastness of the African jungle. The noise of some great body crashing through the underbrush so close beside him, and the sound of that bloodcurdling shriek from above, tested Clayton's courage to the limit; but he could not know that it was to that very voice he owed his life, nor that the creature who hurled it forth was his own cousin--the real Lord Greystoke. The afternoon was drawing to a close, and Clayton, disheartened and discouraged, was in a terrible quandary as to the proper course to pursue; whether to keep on in search of Professor Porter, at the almost certain risk of his own death in the jungle by night, or to return to the cabin where he might at least serve to protect Jane from the perils which confronted her on all sides. He did not wish to return to camp without her father; still more, he shrank from the thought of leaving her alone and unprotected in the hands of the mutineers of the Arrow, or to the hundred unknown dangers of the jungle. Possibly, too, he thought, the professor and Philander might have returned to camp. Yes, that was more than likely. At least he would return and see, before he continued what seemed to be a most fruitless quest. And so he started, stumbling back through the thick and matted underbrush in the direction that he thought the cabin lay. To Tarzan's surprise the young man was heading further into the jungle in the general direction of Mbonga's village, and the shrewd young ape-man was convinced that he was lost. To Tarzan this was scarcely incomprehensible; his judgment told him that no man would venture toward the village of the cruel blacks armed only with a spear which, from the awkward way in which he carried it, was evidently an unaccustomed weapon to this white man. Nor was he following the trail of the old men. That, they had crossed and left long since, though it had been fresh and plain before Tarzan's eyes. Tarzan was perplexed. The fierce jungle would make easy prey of this unprotected stranger in a very short time if he were not guided quickly to the beach. Yes, there was Numa, the lion, even now, stalking the white man a dozen paces to the right. Chapter 14 Clayton heard the great body paralleling his course, and now there rose upon the evening air the beast's thunderous roar. The man stopped with upraised spear and faced the brush from which issued the awful sound. The shadows were deepening, darkness was settling in. God! To die here alone, beneath the fangs of wild beasts; to be torn and rended; to feel the hot breath of


year-that she had been offered a position in the grade school of her own home district and meant to accept. The Queen's class listened in breathless suspense for her answer. "Yes, I think I will," said Miss Stacy. "I thought of taking another school, but I have decided to come back to Avonlea. To tell the truth, I've grown so interested in my pupils here that I found I couldn't leave them. So I'll stay and see you through." "Hurrah!" said Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon had never been so carried away by his feelings before, and he blushed uncomfortably every time he thought about it for a week. "Oh, I'm so glad," said Anne, with shining eyes. "Dear Stacy, it would be perfectly dreadful if you didn't come I don't believe I could have the heart to go on with my studies at all if another teacher came here." When Anne got home that night she stacked all her textbooks away in an old trunk in the attic, locked it, and threw the key into the blanket box. "I'm not even going to look at a schoolbook in vacation," she told Marilla. "I've studied as hard all the term as I possibly could and I've pored over that geometry until I know every proposition in the first book off by heart, even when the letters ARE changed. I just feel tired of everything sensible and I'm going to let my imagination run riot for the summer. Oh, you needn't be alarmed, Marilla. I'll only let it run riot within reasonable limits. But I want to have a real good jolly time this summer, for maybe it's the last summer I'll be a little girl. Mrs. Lynde says that if I keep stretching out next year as I've done this I'll have to put on longer skirts. She says I'm all running to legs and eyes. And when I put on longer skirts I shall feel that I have to live up to them and be very dignified. It won't even do to believe in fairies then, I'm afraid; so I'm going to believe in them with all my whole heart this summer. I think we're going to have a very gay vacation. Ruby Gillis is going to have a birthday party soon and there's the Sunday school picnic. and the missionary concert next month. And Mrs. Barry says that some evening he'll take Diana and me over to the White Sands Hotel and have dinner there. They have dinner there in the evening, you know. Jane Andrews was over once last summer and she says it was a dazzling sight to see the electric lights and the flowers and all the lady guests in such beautiful dresses. Jane says it was her first glimpse into high life and she'll never forget it to her dying day." Mrs. Lynde came up the next afternoon to find out why Marilla had not been at the Aid meeting on Thursday. When Marilla was not at Aid meeting people knew there was something wrong at Green


of it. All of this went through my head in the time it took Lola to find a photo of Mike on their laptop—his official shot from the UConn website—and show the class. Britt was bouncing in her corner seat. “Can I interview him? Lola, can I interview him?” Lola shrugged. I said, “He knew Thalia pretty well. He’d know Omar, too. He was an athlete.” Mike would have more to say than I had: Another ski star, he was one of Robbie Serenho’s best friends. He’d been both in the show and at the mattresses. He’d likely spoken to the police at much greater length than me. Plus, if he talked to Britt he’d see how obsessed she was, and, if news of the podcast got out to my classmates, he could maybe vouch for the fact that I hadn’t put her up to this. Lola said to Britt, “I mean, I can give you his email.” We caught up on everyone’s projects and talked editing, since the first of their first episodes would be due the next morning. Alder had a convoluted idea about convincing listeners his podcast consisted of rediscovered tapes from 1938, tricking them the way War of the Worlds had tricked people. Alyssa, the one covering Arsareth Gage Granby, kept falling asleep. I couldn’t blame her: She sat in front of the radiator, framed by a window that bathed her in morning sun. I was jealous. Britt had tried reaching out to Omar himself, through his lawyer, but hadn’t heard back. She’d decided to structure the podcast around unanswered questions. How exactly did that emergency pool exit work, in 1995, and who else might have had access to the building? What influence did the school have over the State Police? What were the circumstances of Omar’s confession? Was Thalia sleeping with her music teacher? Okay, no, not that last one. Not yet. 25 That afternoon, I had the film kids think about flashback. I showed them, to start, the wavy-screen memory intros from the Wayne’s World sketches of my own adolescence. Then I showed cheesy jump cuts from Lost. Also before their time, as ancient to them as the clips of Rashomon I showed next. We talked about the difference between a character remembering, and the camera as impartial eye on the actual past. Jimmy Stewart was dreaming, falling, his head floating in fields of vertiginous color. Fellini’s traffic jam gave way to flight. Their assignment that night was to watch Memento, to come in with notes and thoughts. “You’re going to watch it on your phones, aren’t you,” I said as they stood to leave. They shrugged. My bright-bulb kid said, “When you hold it close to your face, it’s as good as a theater.” 26 I was scared to check my phone, didn’t want more bad news about Jerome coming through the screen. But I looked, and it was worth it: Yahav wrote that he could come up Saturday—the day after tomorrow. I’d been thinking I wouldn’t see him, steeling myself with a lifetime’s accrual


life, having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him; the springs of existence suddenly gave way; he was unable to rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms. What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth, but I awoke and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation and was then released from my prison. For they had called me mad, and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation. Liberty, however, had been a useless gift to me, had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause--the monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head. Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town and told him that I had an accusation to make, that I knew the destroyer of my family, and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness. "Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the villain." "I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I should fear you would not credit it were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood." My manner as I thus addressed him was impressive but calm; I had formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose quieted my agony and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related my history briefly but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy and never deviating into invective or exclamation. The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with horror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief,


him are so confoundedly hot-headed and exclamatory that I can- sup.” not get a word in. What I want to know is this: Supposing “As you will, Livesey,” said the squire; “Hawkins has earned that I have here in my pocket some clue to where Flint bur- better than cold pie.” ied his treasure, will that treasure amount to much?” So a big pigeon pie was brought in and put on a sidetable, “Amount, sir!” cried the squire. “It will amount to this: If Contents and I made a hearty supper, for I was as hungry as a hawk, we have the clue you talk about, I fit out a ship in Bristol while Mr. Dance was further complimented and at last dis- dock, and take you and Hawkins here along, and I’ll have that Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 50 51 treasure if I search a year.” instance, a sum of seventy pounds had plainly become due to “Very well,” said the doctor. “Now, then, if Jim is agree- someone, and there was nothing but six crosses to explain the able, we’ll open the packet”; and he laid it before him on the cause. In a few cases, to be sure, the name of a place would be table. added, as “Offe Caraccas,” or a mere entry of latitude and The bundle was sewn together, and the doctor had to get longitude, as “62o 17' 20”, 19o 2' 40".” out his instrument case and cut the stitches with his medical The record lasted over nearly twenty years, the amount of scissors. It contained two things—a book and a sealed paper. the separate entries growing larger as time went on, and at the “First of all we’ll try the book,” observed the doctor. end a grand total had been made out after five or six wrong The squire and I were both peering over his shoulder as additions, and these words appended, “Bones, his pile.” he opened it, for Dr. Livesey had kindly motioned me to come “I can’t make head or tail of this,” said Dr. Livesey. round from the side-table, where I had been eating, to enjoy “The thing is as clear as noonday,” cried the squire. “This the sport of the search. On the first page there were only is the black-hearted hound’s account-book. These crosses stand some scraps of writing, such as a man with a pen in his hand for the names of ships or towns that they sank or plundered. might make for idleness or practice. One was the same as the The sums are the scoundrel’s share, and where he feared an tattoo mark, “Billy Bones his fancy”; then there was “Mr. W. ambiguity, you see he added something clearer. ‘Offe Caraccas,’ Bones, mate,” “No more rum,” “Off Palm Key he got itt,” and now; you see, here was some unhappy vessel boarded off that some other snatches, mostly single words and unintelligible. I coast. God help the poor souls that manned her—coral long could not help wondering who it was that had “got itt,”


burrito with hot sauce. “A nomad who studies settlements.” “Yes, yes,” Gabriel said. “That’s been pointed out before.” His longest romantic relationship had lasted a year. The night before, when Maud asked, he’d run through one girlfriend after another: a photojournalist in Cairo, a fellow archaeologist in Peru, a college girlfriend who reemerged at the end of his thirties for a passionate fling in Paris before she went back to her wife. “Why didn’t you end up with any of them?” Maud asked. Gabriel laughed. “No one’s ever asked me that so directly.” “Sorry,” Maud said. “It seems like an obvious question.” “Intimacy issues, according to a therapist I saw in Ithaca after my last breakup. We never quite got to the bottom of it before I had to leave again for Jordan.” “Well, if you bothered to go to therapy, there’s hope,” Maud said. She had seen a psychologist herself in London for a few years after Ella was born, but Peter had never been to a therapist. He didn’t believe in therapy or in marriage counseling. Maud was starting to think that she might have to convince him that Ella could use a session with someone. Earlier, on the phone, she’d been upset about her friends again. “Being single didn’t seem like a problem in my thirties,” Gabriel said. “But now I can see fifty around the corner. And having my parents die in the same year … We weren’t close, but, you know.” He balled up his burrito wrapper and tossed it into the take-out bag. “The way I’m going, I’ll end up getting old in a tent with only my artifacts to keep me warm at night.” “You have plenty of time,” Maud said. “You could have a kid at seventy if you wanted to. Although it might kill you.” “First I have to stop falling for women like me. When both people in a relationship won’t jump, you end up standing on the edge of a building for a long time.” “Whereas I dove right off the building at twenty-four,” Maud said. During graduate school at the University of London, she used to watch out the window as her neighbor, a tall man with slightly hunched shoulders, folded the right leg of his pants and rode off with a satchel slung over his shoulder. One morning, purposefully, she came down the stairs with a bag of garbage as he was getting on his bike and asked him if the building recycled. “You must be the American,” he said. He invited her to dinner a few days later, and a year after that, they were engaged. In Maud’s Irish-American family—four grandparents who had fled poverty and persecution in Ireland; great-uncles who were soldiers of the Irish Republican Brotherhood; the 1916 Easter Proclamation hanging in the bathroom—moving to England had been bad enough. Marrying an Englishman had been an official declaration of rebellion. “It must be nice, though,” Gabriel said now, “only knowing the one relationship. Nothing to compare it to. You date a lot, you get confused.” “Confusion’s


shook her leg out, barely limping, though agony shone in the rictus of her mouth as she ran forward. “Yes, I suppose I will,” Lore sighed. “Break it up!” The shouts came from the streets back toward the city, accompanied by the sounds of boots on cobblestones. The cheers of the crowd turned to shouts of surprise. “Bloodcoats! Clear out!” The hay ring was abandoned; spectators and waiting fighters alike turned tail and hauled ass, disappearing into alleyways as a group of bloodcoats surged into the street, bayonets catching the orange glow of the streetlights. It made them look like spears of flame. The girl Lore had been fighting cursed, turning to run on her sore leg. She didn’t give Lore a second glance. Revenge came long down the list of priorities when escaping the Burnt Isles was number one. A hand on her arm, steering her forward. Gabe. “Let’s go. This was a dead end.” They ran with the crowd up the streets, the sounds of capture and occasional gunfire spurring them on from behind, until Bastian darted out of an alley’s narrow mouth. “Over here!” Gabe didn’t break his stride as he turned, steering them both into the relative safety of the dark. Lore leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her stomach. It still hurt from getting punched, and the impromptu run hadn’t helped. “We need to go back to the Citadel before this gets out of hand.” Bastian stood right inside the lip of the alley, shadow cutting across his face as he peered out into the street. A group of bloodcoats ran by, and he pressed against the wall, disappearing into dark. “We’ll come back tomorrow—” “Absolutely not.” Gabriel loomed in the center of the dank alleyway, voice stony, expression stonier. “This was a stupid plan from the start.” Bastian looked back over his shoulder, the streetlights catching the gleam of his teeth. Lore recalled the last time she was in an alley with the Sun Prince, how he’d changed so quickly from layabout royal to something sharpedged and angry. “Do you have a better plan?” he asked, his voice a match for Gabriel’s blade-tones. “There has to be one,” Gabe replied. “We can talk to—” “That’s not going to work,” Lore said softly. “You know it’s not, Gabe. The only way we can find out who’s doing the hiring is to find them ourselves.” She gestured to the mouth of the alley. “A raid happening tonight is a sign. We’re on the right track, and someone knew we were coming.” Gabe turned on her, one blue eye blazing through his domino mask. “You don’t know how dangerous it is to keep doing this. To keep coming here—” “I’m from here.” She managed to straighten, despite the pain in her middle, and glare up at him. “Has it occurred to you that you might be taking your role as protector a bit too far?” She hadn’t planned to say it, didn’t know what shape her anger and fear and irritation would take until the words were forged


in this respect, then," He finished his speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. I quite understood. My only doubt was as to whether any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me. Later.--I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed, I imagine that my rest is thus freer from dreams, and there it shall remain. When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out towards the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible though it was to me,as compared with the narrow darkness of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as day. In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me. There was peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I leaned from the window my eye was caught by something moving a storey below me, and somewhat to my left, where I imagined, from the order of the rooms, that the windows of the Count's own room would look out. The window at which I stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still complete. But it was evidently many a day since the case had been there. I drew back behind the stonework, and looked carefully out. What I saw was the Count's head coming out from the window. I did not see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had some many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over the dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought


let him know it. She saw through his well-practiced charm and knew the twinkle in his eye wasn’t because he was clever, but because he thought he was pulling a fast one on her. In one interview at the prison before his release, she’d listened raptly and allowed a small smile to play on her lips, gazed into his eyes as if he were a god, and he’d not been able to help himself, thinking he was so damned smart and charismatic. Because he’d assumed that he’d captivated her into believing his bullshit, he’d even allowed her to tape the entire conversation despite his attorney’s vociferous objections. Cooke was just that self-involved. She searched through her computer files, found the interview in which Cooke had agreed to speak to her during the time he was appealing his original conviction. Kristi hit play and there he was, Dr. Hamilton Cooke, dressed in a prison uniform, his demeanor comfortable and even relaxed in a plastic chair, cinder block walls as a backdrop as he spoke into the camera she’d been allowed to set up. She’d sat on one side of a small table, he on the other, her voice and all other sound picked up by the microphone, only the doctor visible. Cooke’s features were even, his nose pointed, nearly aristocratic, his black hair having silvered, his smile pinned on to a clean-shaven face with a strong jaw. Tiny crow’s-feet fanned from blue eyes that had kept Kristi in sharp, almost inquisitive focus. He’d never faltered during the interview, his story unchanging. Cooke had sworn that his wife, Beth, had slipped and fallen in the shower, hit her head on the tile surround, and died before help could arrive. His daughter had been the person who found her. Hamilton, who had been outside in the back, by the pool house, had come running upon hearing his daughter’s screams. He claimed he had tended to Beth, trying his best to save her as the frantic daughter dialed 9-1-1. It was all for naught. She watched the recording for what had to be the twentieth time as he explained. “Sadly,” he said, his lips pulling into the slightest of frowns, “she was already gone when the EMTs arrived.” He stared straight into the camera. “A freak accident. That’s all.” He shrugged. “The police made more of it than there was.” The police being Kristi’s father. The trouble with Hamilton Cooke’s story was that the medical examiner had begged to differ about the extent of Beth Cooke’s injuries, that they were inconsistent with a fall and more likely the result of blunt force trauma from a weapon that was never located—a hammer of some kind. And Cooke had been convicted. Largely because he’d insisted on testifying and thinking he could convince the jury that he was innocent. They, too, had disagreed, and when Kristi had interviewed him he was in the process of appealing his conviction. He’d seemed to think that her book would help and he kept referring to his story. “So glad we could do


up, we’d send them both to Granby and they could be Homecoming dates. I would never in a million years send my kids to Granby. Among other things, while fourteen had seemed a reasonable age for me to leave home, it seemed unfathomably young for Leo, who was only three years from fourteen and still slept with his bed full of LEGOs. She started saying something about Ava’s dance teacher, and then she was waving over my shoulder and the film skipped and Mike Stiles loomed above us, grinning down. He’d apparently been here and gone outside and come back. This was his half-drunk beer in front of me. I was too shocked to be self-conscious. We hugged like old friends, because we were. You don’t have to have been friends with someone to be old friends with them later. “He’s not even testifying!” Sakina announced, which I already knew. Mike didn’t remember seeing Thalia drink backstage. If we were lucky enough to get a retrial, he’d be a great witness, though. He had come around fully, and publicly, to the idea of Omar’s investigation and original trial being botched; he’d written about the case on his academic blog. Mike sat on the other side of me. I pulled my stool back from the bar, putting us into a triangle. He had the wild eyebrows of an aging man, long gray strands emerging from the dark ones in a way that oddly suited him. His brow ridge, the one Fran used to call Neanderthal, was now marked by a deep skin crease. But he looked somehow cheesy overall, too handsome to take seriously. At some point in my twenties, I’d outgrown my attraction to symmetry. I decided that Mike was more attractive for being older, but less attractive for being, still, someone out of a tooth-whitening ad. He said, “My nephew’s a freshman now. Lola’s little brother. So I’m partly up visiting him, but also Serenho’s getting in tomorrow, and he’ll need distracting.” Sakina said, “He’s testifying? For the defense?” I wanted to shush her. I glanced back toward the dining room. “I guess he’s on the list.” Mike looked somber, as if he were speaking at his friend’s funeral. “They’re gonna get him up there and make him look like a suspect. What it is, he did that interview where he said Thalia wasn’t on drugs, and they mostly want him to repeat that, because the drug thing was part of the state’s whole theory. But you know what’ll happen once he’s on the stand.” The interview hadn’t happened on Britt and Alder’s podcast but an episode of a much sleeker, more long-standing one, one that was able to pay him substantially for his appearance. He talked for only five minutes, and mostly said bland, predictable things, but he stated emphatically that Thalia had never done drugs, not even pot. “I don’t know where that idea came from,” he said, and my stomach went on a short roller-coaster ride. If he’d paid attention to our podcast, he’d have heard me blaming


little cove not far off where they could bathe and paddle to their hearts' content. They had a wonderful day, but secretly Julian, Dick and Anne wished they could have visited George's island. They would rather have done that than anything! George didn't want to go for the picnic, not because she disliked picnics, but because she couldn't take her dog. Her mother went with the children, and George had to pass a whole day without her beloved Timothy. "Bad luck!" said Julian, who guessed what she was brooding about. "I can't think why you don't tell your mother about old Tim. I'm sure she wouldn't mind you letting someone else keep him for you. I know my mother wouldn't mind." "I'm not going to tell anybody but you," said George. "I get into awful trouble at home always. I dare say it's my fault, but I get a bit tired of it. You see, Daddy doesn't make much money with the learned books he writes, and he's always wanting to give mother and me things he can't afford. So that makes him bad-tempered. He wants to send me away to a good school but he hasn't got the money. I'm glad. I don't want to go away to school. I like being here. I couldn't bear to part with Timothy." "You'd like boarding school," said Anne. "We all go. It's fun." "No, it isn't," said George obstinately. "It must be awful to be one of a crowd, and to have other girls all laughing and yelling round you. I should hate it." "No, you wouldn't," said Anne. "All that is great fun. It would be good for you, George, I should think." "If you start telling me what is good for me, I shall hate you," said George, suddenly looking very fierce. "Mother and father are always saying that things are good for me- and they are always the things I don't like." "All right, all right," said Julian, beginning to laugh. "My goodness, how you do go up in smoke! Honestly, I believe anyone could light a cigarette from the sparks that fly from your eyes!" That made George laugh, though she didn't want to. It was really impossible to sulk with good-tempered Julian. They went off to bathe in the sea for the fifth time that day. Soon they were all splashing about happily, and George found time to help Anne to swim. The little girl hadn't got the right stroke, and George felt really proud when she had taught her. "Oh, thanks," said Anne, struggling along. "I'll never be as good as you- but I'd like to be as good as the boys." As they were going home, George spoke to Julian. "Could you say that you want to go and buy a stamp or something?" she said. "Then I could go with you, and just have a peep at old Tim. He'll be wondering why I haven't taken him out today." "Right!" said Julian. "I don't want stamps, but I could do with an ice. Dick and


was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct. "When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother and all those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and explain afterwards. I hadn't been at the table ten minutes before I saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something or other about Lord St. Simon to me--seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little secret of his own before marriage also--but I managed to get away from her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to 'Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead and had gone to England, followed me there, and had come upon me at last on the very morning of my second wedding." "I saw it in a paper," explained the American. "It gave the name and the church but not where the lady lived." "Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should like to vanish away and never see any of them again--just sending a line to pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced, and dropped them away somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely that we should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how he found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and that we should be putting ourselves


Mother, she had been nervous about meeting anyone beyond the family until William was awake and they could officially announce their impending marriage. While the sentiment was logical, it didn’t sit easy in Simon’s stomach. Surely she didn’t need her betrothed at her side to meet a few neighbors. Still, he envied her. She had a legitimate reason to avoid the evening with the Thatchers, but Simon was trapped. Even if he came up with some way to make his excuses and take a tray in his room, his mother kept sending him piercing looks that told him under no circumstances was he allowed to leave her alone with this dreadful couple. For a woman who was always so sweet-tempered, she truly had a talent for instilling fear in her children. Simon remained rooted to the spot, trapped by his mother’s silent command. “Calloway, m’boy.” Thatcher waved his arm in Simon’s direction, as if making sure he was paying attention. “I hear you lost your sugar farm.” Where the devil had he heard that? He’d only just decided to sell. “A pity, considering mine has at least doubled its capital since I acquired it.” Simon forced a smile. “How fortunate for you.” He made a mental note to check with North and ensure his man of business hadn’t been spreading information around. Simon needed to remain in high standing among the other Lords of Parliament if he wanted to have any hope of being a valued voice, and he didn’t need anyone knowing about his failing business. As Mr. Thatcher launched into what was likely to be an exhausting recounting of all his thriving enterprises, Simon readied himself for an excruciating evening. He couldn’t imagine anything that could make tonight better, and he prayed the butler, Porter, announced dinner sooner rather than later. For now, he would simply have to try to distract himself and hope Thatcher didn’t try to pull him into conversation again, though that would also leave his mother to endure the man alone, which was not a better alternative. Simon wasn’t certain he had the stamina to assist his mother this time, so distraction would have to be his course of action. And what better way to distract himself than thinking about Lucy? He wasn’t sure why he’d shown her his pond, but he was immensely glad he had. Not only had she appreciated it and seemed to lose some of the invisible weight on her shoulders—weight from what, he hardly knew—but he had gotten the chance to learn a little more about his future sister-in-law. She had acted somewhat strangely on their walk back to the house though. Simon couldn’t make sense of it. He had replayed the conversation many times without any insight as to what had upset her. She truly was a mystery—one he was itching to solve. Porter appeared at the doorway to the sitting room, and Simon perked up. Finally time for dinner and a respite—however brief—from Thatcher’s endless yammering. But he was to be momentarily disappointed in his excitement because Porter merely


to think him a spy. Men in powerful positions were unsettled by popular heirs waiting to take their places. In that regard, the Court of the Citadel wasn’t that much different from a poison runner crew. She’d seen more than one upstart assassinated by their own captain. A yawn stretched her mouth so wide Lore’s jaw popped. She’d barely taken in the walk from the back entrance of the Citadel to the North Sanctuary, too tired to pay much attention. It was a good mile and a half, by her counting, the path cobble-paved and smooth, lined with rosebushes—a stark contrast with the rubble-strewn walkways in Dellaire proper leading to the South Sanctuary, the one meant for commoners. On either side of the path, the Citadel’s massive green spaces rolled, manicured fields and pseudoforests, rich land fenced in by the fortress of the Church’s walls. Something nudged her shoulder. Gabe. “Wake up, cousin.” “I’m awake, cousin.” But another yawn cramped her jaw as she said it. “Why in all myriad hells are First Day prayers right at the ass-crack of dawn? Surely Apollius can still hear them around noon.” Gabe inclined his head to the stained-glass window at the very front of the sanctuary. The Bleeding God’s Heart, set out in panels of red and gold and ocher. As the sun rose, its gleam traced up the window, slowly illuminating the glass until the whole thing blazed with color. “That’s why,” he answered. She couldn’t tell if he sounded reverent or resentful. Maybe a little of both. For sleeping against the doorframe all night, Gabriel seemed positively refreshed. Dressed in plainer clothes than he’d had for the masquerade—dark doublet, dark breeches, and a linen shirt beneath, this time with sensible sleeves—this was the handsomest he’d looked in their brief acquaintance. Lore, on the other hand, had carefully avoided the mirror this morning, even as she brushed out her hair. The bags under her eyes were probably deep enough to smuggle hemlock. The double doors at the back of the sanctuary remained open, emitting the last straggling courtiers. Alienor glided down the thick tapestry carpet running through the center aisle, the sun through the windows making her nearly white curls glow the same colors as the stained glass, a halo-like nimbus around her head. Her eyes were clear and her gait steady as she approached the altar at the front of the sanctuary, knelt, and kissed its polished wood. Lore and Gabe had done the same when they entered. Lore tried not to think about all the lips that had been on it before hers. When Alie straightened and went to find her seat, her eyes met Lore’s. She smiled, threw a tiny wave. Lore returned it with a genuine smile of her own. Gabriel didn’t look at Alie at all. An older man walked close behind Alienor, close enough that they had to be arriving together, though they looked nothing alike. His skin was milkpale to her warm-copper, his hair wood-brown and pin-straight instead of white-blond and curling. His expression was dour,


“Cipher of Fire” chapter and looked for the section on defensive magic. There were two pages on warding charms, which included the advice to “burn candles” to dispel noxious spirits—she supposed Abel had gotten the idea for the white candles from there—and a small spell that necessitated the pricking of a finger. You’d then smear the blood on a white handkerchief and draw a rune, tying it in three knots, and top it all off by burning a stick of incense in front of this bundle. Montserrat’s sister liked burning incense and had left a package of sticks at her apartment. She didn’t have a proper incense burner, so she simply dangled the stick atop a cup. As for the handkerchief, Montserrat pricked her finger but did not draw Ewers’s rune, instead tracing the word “shield” on a cloth napkin. She did this because she didn’t fancy Ewers’s complicated runes, but also because magic, from what Ewers seemed to be saying, was an exercise in belief and the self. She didn’t think it mattered as much whether you drew a rune or a word. It was the process of concentrating on the ritual that might yield results. Runes were important, personal, to Ewers. They meant nothing to her, and so she went with a word that did have the significance she sought. Now, whether this would work was another question. And it could be that Tristán and she were simply going crazy in unison, but in the event that there were indeed murderous sorcerers lurking around the city, Montserrat decided to be prepared. Her meeting with Alma had, despite her indifferent façade in front of Tristán, jolted her a little. After she was done knotting the handkerchief, she pushed her chair back and contemplated the corkboard that was now pinned with photos of Ewers along with notes and drawings. Her office was becoming a laboratory for understanding The House of Infinite Wisdom. She zeroed in on one photo of Ewers surrounded by pale socialites and grinning men in their fine suits, all of them with wineglasses in hand. Where would she and Tristán have fit in with a crowd like that? Nowhere. In the late 1930s, in Chihuahua, where Tristán’s father had lived before moving to Tamaulipas, merchants accused Middle Easterners of carrying diseases, of unfair business practices. They called them Turks, no matter where they came from, they said aboneros should be expelled from the country, like the Chinese had been kicked out. By the late 1950s, when Ewers presided over his crowd of admirers, Mexico City was warming up to certain Lebanese businesspeople who wielded their wealth as an entry card into society, but it didn’t mean a poor boy like Tristán would have been welcomed with open arms. It also meant Montserrat, with her swarthy complexion and large nose, would not have made a good impression on those snobs. Nevertheless, Ewers struck her as an opportunistic, slippery creature. A man who would not see a problem in draining as much money or knowledge from those he considered unsuitable companions


and disappeared. "Now, Mr. Pip," said Mr. Jaggers, "attend, if you please. You have been drawing pretty freely here; your name occurs pretty often in Wemmick's cash-book; but you are in debt, of course?" "I am afraid I must say yes, sir." "You know you must say yes; don't you?" said Mr. Jaggers. "Yes, sir." "I don't ask you what you owe, because you don't know; and if you did know, you wouldn't tell me; you would say less. Yes, yes, my friend," cried Mr. Jaggers, waving his forefinger to stop me, as I made a show of protesting: "it's likely enough that you think you wouldn't, but you would. You'll excuse me, but I know better than you. Now, take this piece of paper in your hand. You have got it? Very good. Now, unfold it and tell me what it is." "This is a bank-note," said I, "for five hundred pounds." "That is a bank-note," repeated Mr. Jaggers, "for five hundred pounds. And a very handsome sum of money too, I think. You consider it so?" "How could I do otherwise!" "Ah! But answer the question," said Mr. Jaggers. "Undoubtedly." "You consider it, undoubtedly, a handsome sum of money. Now, that handsome sum of money, Pip, is your own. It is a present to you on this day, in earnest of your expectations. And at the rate of that handsome sum of money per annum, and at no higher rate, you are to live until the donor of the whole appears. That is to say, you will now take your money affairs entirely into your own hands, and you will draw from Wemmick one hundred and twenty-five pounds per quarter, until you are in communication with the fountain-head, and no longer with the mere agent. As I have told you before, I am the mere agent. I execute my instructions, and I am paid for doing so. I think them injudicious, but I am not paid for giving any opinion on their merits." I was beginning to express my gratitude to my benefactor for the great liberality with which I was treated, when Mr. Jaggers stopped me. "I am not paid, Pip," said he, coolly, "to carry your words to any one;" and then gathered up his coat-tails, as he had gathered up the subject, and stood frowning at his boots as if he suspected them of designs against him. After a pause, I hinted: "There was a question just now, Mr. Jaggers, which you desired me to waive for a moment. I hope I am doing nothing wrong in asking it again?" "What is it?" said he. I might have known that he would never help me out; but it took me aback to have to shape the question afresh, as if it were quite new. "Is it likely," I said, after hesitating, "that my patron, the fountain-head you have spoken of, Mr. Jaggers, will soon--" there I delicately stopped. "Will soon what?" asked Mr. Jaggers. "That's no question as it stands, you know." "Will soon come to London,"


on Park Lane was swarming with detectives, men in trench coats with any number of questions, examining the locks and windows, trying to fathom the biggest burglary they’d ever seen in their lives. One or two were there on more sensitive business. Looking for the kitchen maids, to ask the most delicate questions. But most of the servants had scattered, giving up any hope of getting their wages. “You were right,” William said. “About getting out.” Mrs. King tilted her hat. “Now you tell me.” He sighed. “I’ve been pigheaded.” She remembered the moment he’d offered her that ring. Cut grass, the park, the stink of the house lingering on them as she told him: “No.” It should have happened at night. By the river, in their secret corners of the city. “So have I,” she said. A crowd of gentlemen came hurtling past, papers under their arms. Mrs. King lowered the brim of her hat. He put his hand out to her. She stood there, and looked at him, and then she took it. She squeezed his fingers. Not an answer, but something. “When?” he said. He meant, When will we see each other again? There was an enormous motor car behind her, a Daimler. Vast and rumbling gently. She longed to keep hold of his hand, not let go. But she repressed this. Too soon. Not safe. Nothing was settled. “I’m taking myself out of circulation for a while,” she said stolidly. She withdrew her hand from his, denying herself the comfort of it. “But I’ll let you know.” * * * Outside the post office, Alice saw the newspapers tied up with string, stacked on the pavement. They were all carrying the same story, the one that grew wilder by the day: the greatest robbery of the age, the biggest search in history... She glanced over her shoulder. She half expected to glimpse a man waiting for her at the end of the lane. Her nostrils were flared and ready, searching for an unsettling hint of gardenias. No one there. She entered the post office. It cost a lot of money to send a postcard to Florence. It cost even more to wire a large sum to a foreign bank. She chose the one opposite the Grand Hotel. “No message,” she said. “No need.” She felt lighter once it was done. She felt free. Alice met her sister the next morning, at dawn, five minutes from the Mile End Road. The light was creeping up, birds sounding their chorus. The cemetery smelled fresh, clean, not grim at all. Mrs. King came in a white dress, not black or navy. She looked strangely loose, untethered, hair swept over her shoulders. There was a fierce color in her cheeks. Alice wondered if she’d been out all night, just walking. “Where is it?” Mrs. King said. Alice took her to the grave. She adjusted her crucifix. “It’s very peaceful, isn’t it?” “Don’t be morbid, Alice.” Alice put her hands in her pockets. “Want a moment by yourself?” “Yes.” Mrs. King stood there


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

is art? What is the beauty it expresses? --That was the first definition I gave you, you sleepy-headed wretch, said Stephen, when I began to try to think out the matter for myself. Do you remember the night? Cranly lost his temper and began to talk about Wicklow bacon. --I remember, said Lynch. He told us about them flaming fat devils of pigs. --Art, said Stephen, is the human disposition of sensible or intelligible matter for an esthetic end. You remember the pigs and forget that. You are a distressing pair, you and Cranly. Lynch made a grimace at the raw grey sky and said: --If I am to listen to your esthetic philosophy give me at least another cigarette. I don't care about it. I don't even care about women. Damn you and damn everything. I want a job of five hundred a year. You can't get me one. Stephen handed him the packet of cigarettes. Lynch took the last one that remained, saying simply: --Proceed! --Aquinas, said Stephen, says that is beautiful the apprehension of which pleases. Lynch nodded. --I remember that, he said, PULCRA SUNT QUAE VISA PLACENT. --He uses the word VISA, said Stephen, to cover esthetic apprehensions of all kinds, whether through sight or hearing or through any other avenue of apprehension. This word, though it is vague, is clear enough to keep away good and evil which excite desire and loathing. It means certainly a stasis and not a kinesis. How about the true? It produces also a stasis of the mind. You would not write your name in pencil across the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle. --No, said Lynch, give me the hypotenuse of the Venus of Praxiteles. --Static therefore, said Stephen. Plato, I believe, said that beauty is the splendour of truth. I don't think that it has a meaning, but the true and the beautiful are akin. Truth is beheld by the intellect which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the intelligible; beauty is beheld by the imagination which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the sensible. The first step in the direction of truth is to understand the frame and scope of the intellect itself, to comprehend the act itself of intellection. Aristotle's entire system of philosophy rests upon his book of psychology and that, I think, rests on his statement that the same attribute cannot at the same time and in the same connexion belong to and not belong to the same subject. The first step in the direction of beauty is to understand the frame and scope of the imagination, to comprehend the act itself of esthetic apprehension. Is that clear? --But what is beauty? asked Lynch impatiently. Out with another definition. Something we see and like! Is that the best you and Aquinas can do? --Let us take woman, said Stephen. --Let us take her! said Lynch fervently. --The Greek, the Turk, the Chinese, the Copt, the Hottentot, said Stephen, all admire a different type of female beauty. That seems to be a maze out


the rest of my life looking backward, reliving the endless days and nights when my mother was dying and I couldn’t be with her. 22 The Priority Mail boxes begin arriving in June. Packed and shipped by my aunts, each box is stuffed with photos, documents, correspondence, religious items, knickknacks, jewelry. Sometimes I let them sit for days before I feel able to sift through the contents. Sometimes I tear them open at once, hoping to find items to show my family. One holds my mother’s jewelry boxes, her high school diploma, her senior photo, and the stub of a ticket to a Simon & Garfunkel concert she’d once told me about, her eyes shining: It was the best live concert I’ve ever seen. In another, amid old family photographs I have never seen before, I find Mom’s wallet and driver’s license, a bill from the attorney who’d represented my parents in my adoption, and a copy of the will she had written only months before. There’s a wooden box full of bead necklaces: black and white, turquoise, yellow, royal blue, celadon green. Did she wear all of these? I wonder. Any of them? The only necklace I can recall seeing around her neck, at least in recent years, is her sterling-silver Orthodox cross with the dark blue inlay. My older daughter picks out a necklace of aubergine beads and gives it to her little sister. Rummaging through another box, I don’t see what happens or how the string snaps; I only hear a sudden shower of beads hitting the floor. The girls pick them up together, sneaking slightly worried looks at me, but I’m not upset. There must be a dozen strings of beads in the box; one won’t be missed. Though I know we’ll never wear them, I can’t bring myself to get rid of them, or anything else that belonged to her or my dad. The boxes, once opened, pile up in my office. I find notes I wrote to my mom when I was five, large print crammed into hand-drawn hearts: Dear Mom, Well, how are you? How was work? Fine I hope! Sarra and me had a good time. Well, bye, love you. I find cards made for her decades later, by my own kids: Dear Grandma, Thank you for the gifts and treats! We miss you. We hope we can visit you soon. I find old report cards, paintings, postcards we sent to her, a heart-shaped cardboard picture frame I decorated in either second or fourth grade by gluing hundreds of painted pasta shells into place, just so. I find my father’s Cleveland Browns shot glass, which I recall him using as a toothpick holder. I find a letter from my mother to my father, trying to mend a rift after a fight, and it feels like something I should never have seen. Toward the bottom of one box, I find Mom’s brand-new passport, the one she had renewed for her planned trip to Greece. She was going to go with her friends the year Dad


would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore, believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return with impatience.' The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights, St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain below; tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggested that he should return no more; and though he checked this wandering thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of distance blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to Drag at each remove a lengthening chain. He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightful impressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by stupendous walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringed their summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses, in which the wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the way led to the lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all its magnificence. Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine forests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with woods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and olives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in distance into one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with heaven. Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic Garonne wandered; descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay. The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply repaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, the travellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulge the sublime reflections, which soften, while they elevate, the heart, and fill it with the certainty of a present God! Still the enjoyment of St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, which gives to every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over all around. They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a want of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage, so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the open air, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet with a comfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italian poets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to preserve some of those combinations of forms, which charmed her at every step. The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks, heightened the


to prove that any fraud is taking place?” “We have concrete evidence,” Karl insisted. “We’ve spoken to scientists, data specialists. We’ve planted informants on the Farm, people who are telling us that this stuff really, really does not work.” “Isn’t that entrapment?” “Couldn’t you argue,” Karl said, “that what Mr. Ortman is doing to these so-called NuLifers could also be defined as entrapment?” “I just don’t see how any of these people are trapped. People have choices. This is a free market. You can vote with your dollar for whatever type of business you want to. It doesn’t seem right to police people’s freedom.” “I’m not trying to police anything,” Karl said. “But it sounds like you are.” A fourth voice: “It sounds like you’re trying to pick apart a successful business model and a frankly quite inspiring public figure for your own benefit.” “Well, if you find him inspiring, I can’t exactly help that—” Karl began. “By your terms, it sounds like any legitimate business could be described as a pyramid scheme.” And before Karl could answer: “Where’s the CFO in all of this?” “Ezra Green is, in my opinion, a pawn of Orson Ortman,” Karl said, and the PowerPoint skipped ahead several slides to a graphic of the company masthead arrayed like a crime family: Orson at the top, followed by me and Elaine, then Delpy and Renhauser, all the way down to faceless gray boxes labeled “Farm residents.” “I don’t really think Ezra Green is engineering anything,” Karl said. “He’s passive. Everyone’s just doing their job except for Mr. Ortman, who invents his own rules. At best, they’re completely clueless like Mr. Green. At worst, they’re fleecing people while hiding behind corporate bureaucracy. A bunch of Eichmanns with stock options.” I snorted and poured myself another shot, nearly missing the glass. “Don’t you think that’s kind of a harsh comparison, Mr. Rothenberg?” “Any other questions?” Karl asked, his voice shaking. I told Brianna I’d seen enough and she switched off the TV. I felt bad for Karl. I felt bad for myself. There were thousands of places I would rather have been than sitting in my office with Brianna, blinking through my tunnel vision as distant purrs of thunder accompanied the occasional flash of lightning outside. “It feels like everything’s falling apart,” Brianna said. “Nothing’s falling apart. You’d be the first to know if everything was falling apart.” “I think I’d be the last to know.” I fixed her in my gaze. It was a little frightening to be almost drunk on top of being almost blind. “Do you want three hundred million dollars?” “What?” “As a bonus.” “Ez, what are you talking about? Where would that money come from?” I shrugged and poured another shot. “You’ve been loyal,” I said. “You’ve kept all my secrets.” “I have no idea where the money would come from, though.” “Does it matter? It’d come from somewhere.” She screwed up her face. It seemed like she really wanted to know where the money would come from. “It’d come from a shell Elaine


had to say it,” I said. “Ez, please—I need you to give me the tabs back.” I obediently fished the gold case from my pocket and put it in her hand. “We have to do damage control,” she said. Behind me: a voice, elegant, reverse aged: “Ezra.” We both turned. Susan Lehigh emerged from the banquet room door into the lobby, her heels clicking, her smile inquisitive. “Very impressive,” she said. “And sweet of you to dedicate that to me.” She was fuzzing in and out, her image overtaken by something like the static on an old television screen. “We’re just on our way home,” Brianna said, her voice thick with fake apology. “Yes, go get some rest,” she said. “Good night, Ezra.” “Good night,” I said. “I’m not afraid of you.” And then Brianna dragged me out the door. * * * I got a text from Orson: come to the Farm. I took a company helicopter, Elaine picking at her cuticles across from me, flicking the dry and twisted ribbons of skin onto the floor between us. “Your lifestyle has to be aspirational,” she said. “There’s nothing about my lifestyle that’s aspirational,” I said. “I mean there is, there’s an essential part that is: you’re very rich. People want to know how they can get very rich like you.” Her gaze wandered out the window, where there were unremarkable clouds suspended in an unremarkable sky. “So give them something weird, something more marketable than losing your mind at a banquet. Maybe you should get your dogteeth removed and replaced with silver ones or eat only shellfish or do a triathlon.” “Can you see me doing a triathlon?” She looked at me lazily and then looked back down at her cuticles. I checked the share price on my phone. It was down 5 percent since the dinner. “This isn’t anything you can’t recover from,” she said, reading my mind. The thrill of being in the same place as Orson, of knowing I was about to see him, was tempered by the fact that I knew I’d done something wrong, and both at once made it difficult to know exactly how I was feeling as Elaine and I made our way through the throng of Wholeness attendees sprawled across the property. They picked at the grass or offered us flowers or sang a song I deduced was about the “divine love” between Orson and Emily. Many of them were unbathed, and the stench was invasive: I imagined it clinging to my suit, melting the moisturizer from my skin. Elaine went so far as to hold her nose. “Doing that makes you look like you hate them,” I said. “I don’t care,” she said. “They smell disgusting.” The farmhouse was crowded, too, but with cleaner devotees. Chuck and Priscilla Enner were hosting some kind of meditation session in the living room, and when they saw me, they waved, Priscilla instructing her students to “take a solo plunge into the abyss” for five minutes. “Ez, it’s been too long since we’ve seen you up


started off-balance, Finn has been all in on this relationship for longer than I have. He’s never wavered. And sure, he’s probably more famous than I’ll ever be, even if he’s not a household name—but he’s never made me feel like my career, as nebulous as it is, doesn’t matter. “It was never just professional for me,” I continue, “not even at the beginning. Maybe that means I should have been fired. Maybe I shouldn’t have ever taken the job, but that would have meant that we’d never have gotten as close as we did. And—and I never would have fallen for you.” I take a step closer. “We never would have pushed each other and realized that while we can do great things on our own . . . I think we can also be pretty great together.” The look on his face could rip me apart and put me back together. I force myself not to glance away, to meet that gaze with my own vulnerability. “I’m so deeply in love with you, and whatever my life looks like after this book—I want you in it.” Before I can take another breath, his arms are around me, heat and comfort and relief. “I love you so much, sweetheart,” he says into my hair, his hand cradling the back of my neck. Thumb skimming up my ear. “I adore you. The amount of makeup they had to apply to hide my dark circles—I was so miserable after you left. I get why you had to do it, but all I’ve been able to think about is whether you’d come back.” I bring a fingertip to the space beneath his eyes, brushing along his skin. “You look pretty great to me.” When we kiss, it feels like the first deep breath I’ve taken all week. Over and over, I tell him I love him, because suddenly I can’t stop saying it. “So . . . long distance?” he asks. “Because I think we’d be really fantastic at sexting.” I can’t help laughing at that—he’s probably right. “We’ll figure it out,” I tell him, because the uncertainty doesn’t scare me anymore. “But I’m not ready to live together just yet.” “Okay, but I will be over frequently. In your bed. And maybe in the kitchen shirtless making pancakes and veggie bacon on weekends.” “I am not opposed to any of that.” He holds me tighter, letting me burrow into his chest. “I’m so glad you took the risk,” he whispers into my ear. “That’s the thing,” I say to his heartbeat. Soft and steady and true. “With you, it doesn’t feel like one. It just feels like home.” FROM THE SCREEN TO THE PAGE, FINN WALSH HAS RANGE Vulture Finn Walsh has a lot to smile about these days. The former Nocturnals star’s memoir debuted at number four on the New York Times bestseller list last month, with proceeds going to his new nonprofit Healthy Minds, which is designed to make therapy accessible to creatives with financial barriers. He’s also been spotted across