Iphigenia was never jealous or unkind. She was unlike anyone else in this world. Electra stares at her as if trying to pierce her skull, listen to the thoughts inside. Then she speaks the words that Clytemnestra has hoped she’d never hear: “Sometimes I think you wish I had died and Iphigenia had lived.” * * * She stumbles out of the megaron and into the courtyard. The guards move aside to let her pass, and when she looks at their faces, they are ugly, disfigured. She moves past them, past the griffins that seem to be bleeding. Everything is breaking down around her, losing shape. The columns become blades, the servants wild animals. The jars and baskets they are holding are like corpses. Sometimes I think you wish I had died and Iphigenia had lived. She finds her way to Chrysothemis’s room. The light is bright in this part of the palace, and contours fall back into place. She clutches her chest, feeling her heart beat wildly. Chrysothemis is still in bed, sleeping with her hair spread around her. Aileen is sitting by the window, polishing some jewels. She stands when she sees her. “You are feeling unwell,” she says. Clytemnestra gestures her to sit and takes the place beside her. She catches her breath as Aileen cleans the gems, giving her space. Holding each to the light to make sure it is shining, she rubs it gently with a cloth whenever she finds an opaque spot. Chrysothemis’s rhythmic breathing behind them is as soothing as a cradle song. Sometimes I think you wish I had died and Iphigenia had lived. “My daughter despises me,” Clytemnestra says. Aileen puts the tiara and cloth down, looking at her with her gentle eyes. “Surely she didn’t use those words.” “She said worse.” “You know how Electra is,” Aileen says, taking her hand. “She harbors sadness in her heart and makes it come out as hatred. But she loves you.” “I don’t think she does.” “Electra has grown up in the shadows. Iphigenia was older, better than her at everything, and Orestes was a boy. They had all the attention. It has been difficult for her.” Clytemnestra draws away her hand. “You know what is difficult? Losing a child. I gave my life to these children. I made them strong, fought so that they could learn how to rule.” And I expect their loyalty in return. “Electra lost a sister.” Aileen sets down the tiara and picks up a pair of earrings. “When you came back from Aulis, she would spend every night outside your room, listening to you as you cried. When she couldn’t bear the sound and wanted to hurt herself, Leon would find her and stay with her until dawn.” She gives her a small, sad smile. “He might not have been her father, but she loved him.” Clytemnestra feels a rot inside her body. “He left, and I did nothing to stop him.” “You had no choice. If you had stopped him, he would have stayed here and hated you.


and it always looks pretty on a summer morning -- so I was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if I only had a bite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me I'll give them a show. I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see what luck I could have, and I warn't disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and I most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further. Of course I was where the current set in the closest to the shore -- I knowed enough for that. But by and by along comes another one, and this time I won. I took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quick- silver, and set my teeth in. It was "baker's bread" -- what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone. I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry- boat, and very well satisfied. And then something struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has gone and done it. So there ain't no doubt but there is something in that thing -- that is, there's something in it when a body like the widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and I reckon it don't work for only just the right kind. I lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching. The ferryboat was floating with the current, and I allowed I'd have a chance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she would come in close, where the bread did. When she'd got pretty well along down towards me, I put out my pipe and went to where I fished out the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open place. Where the log forked I could peep through. By and by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they could a run out a plank and walked ashore. Most everybody was on the boat. Pap, and Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Jo Harper, and Tom Sawyer, and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and Mary, and plenty more. Everybody was talking about the murder, but the captain broke in and says: "Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe he's washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water's edge. I hope so, anyway." "I didn't hope so. They all crowded up and leaned over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watch- ing with all their


weapon from Tarzan's grasp. Kerchak aimed a terrific blow at the ape-man's head with the flat of his hand, a blow which, had it landed, might easily have crushed in the side of Tarzan's skull. The man was too quick, and, ducking beneath it, himself delivered a mighty one, with clenched fist, in the pit of Kerchak's stomach. The ape was staggered, and what with the mortal wound in his side had almost collapsed, when, with one mighty effort he rallied for an instant--just long enough to enable him to wrest his arm free from Tarzan's grasp and close in a terrific clinch with his wiry opponent. Straining the ape-man close to him, his great jaws sought Tarzan's throat, but the young lord's sinewy fingers were at Kerchak's own before the cruel fangs could close on the sleek brown skin. Thus they struggled, the one to crush out his opponent's life with those awful teeth, the other to close forever the windpipe beneath his strong grasp while he held the snarling mouth from him. The greater strength of the ape was slowly prevailing, and the teeth of the straining beast were scarce an inch from Tarzan's throat when, with a shuddering tremor, the great body stiffened for an instant and then sank limply to the ground. Kerchak was dead. Withdrawing the knife that had so often rendered him master of far mightier muscles than his own, Tarzan of the Apes placed his foot upon the neck of his vanquished enemy, and once again, loud through the forest rang the fierce, wild cry of the conqueror. And thus came the young Lord Greystoke into the kingship of the Apes. Chapter 12 Man's Reason There was one of the tribe of Tarzan who questioned his authority, and that was Terkoz, the son of Tublat, but he so feared the keen knife and the deadly arrows of his new lord that he confined the manifestation of his Chapter 12 objections to petty disobediences and irritating mannerisms; Tarzan knew, however, that he but waited his opportunity to wrest the kingship from him by some sudden stroke of treachery, and so he was ever on his guard against surprise. For months the life of the little band went on much as it had before, except that Tarzan's greater intelligence and his ability as a hunter were the means of providing for them more bountifully than ever before. Most of them, therefore, were more than content with the change in rulers. Tarzan led them by night to the fields of the black men, and there, warned by their chief's superior wisdom, they ate only what they required, nor ever did they destroy what they could not eat, as is the way of Manu, the monkey, and of most apes. So, while the blacks were wroth at the continued pilfering of their fields, they were not discouraged in their efforts to cultivate the land, as would have been the case had Tarzan permitted his people to lay waste the plantation wantonly. During this period Tarzan paid many nocturnal visits


of wine? A small half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could disagree with you." Emma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last! CHAPTER IV Harriet Smith's intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased, so did their satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her. In that respect Mrs. Weston's loss had been important. Her father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston's marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable addition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs. Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected. Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith's being exactly the young friend she wanted--exactly the something which her home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could never be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing. Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy what she liked--but she could never believe that in the same situation she should not have discovered the truth. Harriet had no penetration.


can see by his expression that he’s been talking to Haymitch. That he knows how dreadful I am. “I’m awful. Haymitch called me a dead slug. No matter what we tried, I couldn’t do it. I just can’t be one of those people he wants me to be,” I say. Cinna thinks about this a moment. “Why don’t you just be yourself?” “Myself? That’s no good, either. Haymitch says I’m sullen and hostile,” I say. “Well, you are . . . around Haymitch,” says Cinna with a grin. “I don’t find you so. The prep team adores you. You even won 121 over the Gamemakers. And as for the citizens of the Capitol, well, they can’t stop talking about you. No one can help but admire your spirit.” My spirit. This is a new thought. I’m not sure exactly what it means, but it suggests I’m a fighter. In a sort of brave way. It’s not as if I’m never friendly. Okay, maybe I don’t go around lov- ing everybody I meet, maybe my smiles are hard to come by, but I do care for some people. Cinna takes my icy hands in his warm ones. “Suppose, when you answer the questions, you think you’re addressing a friend back home. Who would your best friend be?” asks Cin- na. “Gale,” I say instantly. “Only it doesn’t make sense, Cinna. I would never be telling Gale those things about me. He already knows them.” “What about me? Could you think of me as a friend?” asks Cinna. Of all the people I’ve met since I left home, Cinna is by far my favorite. I liked him right off and he hasn’t disappointed me yet. “I think so, but —” “I’ll be sitting on the main platform with the other stylists. You’ll be able to look right at me. When you’re asked a ques- tion, find me, and answer it as honestly as possible,” says Cin- na. “Even if what I think is horrible?” I ask. Because it might be, really. “Especially if what you think is horrible,” says Cinna. “You’ll try it?” 122 I nod. It’s a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at. Too soon it’s time to go. The interviews take place on a stage constructed in front of the Training Center. Once I leave my room, it will be only minutes until I’m in front of the crowd, the cameras, all of Panem. As Cinna turns the doorknob, I stop his hand. “Cinna . . .” I’m completely overcome with stage fright. “Remember, they already love you,” he says gently. “Just be yourself.” We meet up with the rest of the District 12 crowd at the elevator. Portia and her gang have been hard at work. Peeta looks striking in a black suit with flame accents. While we look well together, it’s a relief not to be dressed identically. Hay- mitch and Effie are all fancied up for the occasion. I avoid Haymitch, but accept Effie’s compliments. Effie can be tire- some and clueless, but she’s not destructive


shone with an icy blue radiance . . . Ghost leapt. Man and wolf went down together with neither scream nor snarl, rolling, smashing into a chair, knocking over a table laden with papers. Mormont's raven was flapping overhead, screaming, 498 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN "Corn, corn, corn, corn. " Jon felt as blind as Maester Aemon. Keeping the wall to his back, he slid toward the window and ripped down the curtain. Moonlight flooded the solar. He glimpsed black hands buried in white fur, swollen dark fingers tightening around his direwolf's throat. Ghost was twisting and snapping, legs flailing in the air, but he could not break free. Jon had no time to be afraid. He threw himself forward, shouting, bringing down the longsword with all his weight behind it. Steel sheared through sleeve and skin and bone, yet the sound was wrong somehow. The smell that engulfed him was so queer and cold he almost gagged. He saw arm and hand on the floor, black fingers wriggling in a pool of moonlight. Ghost wrenched free of the other hand and crept away, red tongue lolling from his mouth. The hooded man lifted his pale moon face, and Jon slashed at it without hesitation. The sword laid the intruder open to the bone, taking off half his nose and opening a gash cheek to cheek under those eyes, eyes, eyes like blue stars burning. Jon knew that face. Othor, he thought, reeling back. Gods, he's dead, he's dead, I saw him dead. He felt something scrabble at his ankle. Black fingers clawed at his calf. The arm was crawling up his leg, ripping at wool and flesh. Shouting with revulsion, Jon pried the fingers off his leg with the point of his sword and flipped the thing away. It lay writhing, fingers opening and closing. The corpse lurched forward. There was no blood. One-armed, face cut near in half, it seemed to feel nothing. Jon held the longsword before him. "Stay away!" he commanded, his voice gone shrill. "Corn, " screamed the raven, "corn, corn. " The severed arm was wriggling out of its torn sleeve, a pale snake with a black five-fingered head. Ghost pounced and got it between his teeth. Finger bones crunched. Jon hacked at the corpse's neck, felt the steel bite deep and hard. Dead Othor slammed into him, knocking him off his feet. Jon's breath went out of him as the fallen table caught him between his shoulder blades. The sword, where was the sword? He'd lost the damned sword! When he opened his mouth to scream, the wight jammed its black corpse fingers into Jon's mouth. Gagging, he tried to shove it off, but the dead man was too heavy. Its hand forced itself farther down his throat, icy cold, choking him. Its face was against his own, filling the world. Frost covered its eyes, sparkling blue. Jon raked cold flesh with his nails and kicked at the thing's legs. He tried to bite, tried to punch, tried to breathe . . . And suddenly the


he said, still looking down at his bandages, 'when one's young, it seems very easy to distinguish between right and wrong, but as one gets older it becomes more difficult. At school it's easy to pick out one's own villains and heroes and one grows up wanting to be a hero and kill the villains.' He looked obstinately at Mathis. 'Well, in the last few years I've killed two villains. The first was in New York - a Japanese cipher expert cracking our codes on the thirty-sixth floor of the RCA building in the Rockefeller centre, where the Japs had their consulate. I took a room on the fortieth floor of the next-door skyscraper and I could look across the street into his room and see him working. Then I got a colleague from our organization in New York and a couple of Remington thirty-thirty's with telescopic sights and silencers. We smuggled them up to my room and sat for days waiting for our chance. He shot at the man a second before me. His job was only to blast a hole through the windows so that I could shoot the Jap through it. They have tough windows at the Rockefeller centre to keep the noise out. It worked very well. As I expected, his bullet got deflected by the glass and went God knows where. But I shot immediately after him, through the hole he had made. I got the Jap in the mouth as he turned to gape at the broken window.' Bond smoked for a minute. 'It was a pretty sound job. Nice and clean too. Three hundred yards away. No personal contact. The next time in Stockholm wasn't so pretty. I had to kill a Norwegian who was doubling against us for the Germans. He'd managed to get two of our men captured - probably bumped off for all I know. For various reasons it had to be an absolutely silent job. I chose the bedroom of his flat and a knife. And, well, he just didn't die very quickly. 'For those two jobs I was awarded a Double O number in the Service. Felt pretty clever and got a reputation for being good and tough. A double O number in our Service means you've had to kill a chap in cold blood in the course of some job. 'Now,' he looked up again at Mathis, 'that's all very fine. The hero kills two villains, but when the hero Le Chiffre starts to kill the villain Bond and the villain Bond knows he isn't a villain at all, you see the other side of the medal. The villains and heroes get all mixed up. 'Of course,' he added, as Mathis started to expostulate, 'patriotism comes along and makes it seem fairly all right, but this country-right-or-wrong business is getting a little out-of-date. Today we are fighting Communism. Okay. If I'd been alive fifty years ago, the brand of Conservatism we have today would have been damn near called Communism and we should have been told to go and


were flying swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills. The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart's-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the gray boul- ders. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an excla- mation of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking count- less questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation -- sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles. "Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?" A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along which we travelled. "What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer. Our driver half turned in his seat. "There's a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He's been out three days now, and the warders watch every road and every station, but they've had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don't like it, sir, and that's a fact." "Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give information." "Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn't like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing." "Who is he, then?" "It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer." I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin. The commutation of his death sentence had been due to some doubts as to his complete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy caims and tors. A cold wind swept


to move the official location fifty yards. “What I’m saying,” he says, and he should wipe the sweat off his forehead, “is the pockets are deep, and the conspiracies run deeper.” #6: ARI HUTSON We all know there’s a man who lurks at the edge of the campus, who lives in a lacrosse goal in the woods. Everyone knows someone who’s seen him, and we’ve assigned him various names—Lurch, the Hermit. Fran and I joke he’s the one adding notes to the Kurt shrine. According to one story, he’s a Granby student who left school one credit shy of graduation. Geoff Richler says, “He’s out there trapping raccoons. Them’s good eats.” The story that sticks: He’s Barbara Crocker’s convicted boyfriend, out of prison, returning to the scene of the crime. He has an apartment in Kern but camps out at Granby in warmer months. Ari Hutson was released in 1989; it isn’t impossible. I’ve found photos of him online, featuring a mop of friendly hair and a scraggly beard. In one, he wears a striped turtleneck and laughs with someone at a party. To be honest, I can see the appeal. In a 1975 way. On March 3, he’s in the dark by the gym when Thalia appears. She’s there to wait for you. She took off fast after curtain call, but you have things to oversee, percussion to lock up, stage managers to talk to. By the time you get to the meeting point, Thalia’s not there. You try the front gym door and it’s open, which it shouldn’t be. You look around inside, not wanting to call her name, but everything in the building is dark. You go home to your wife and your kids. The next morning you look for Thalia at brunch, but it’s the weekend and kids sleep in, so you’re not worried, only irritated, and you wish you could call her. You think of ringing the Singer-Baird pay phone, asking for her in a disguised voice. Maybe you even do it, but the girl who answers just tells you Thalia isn’t in her room. You’ll see her at dinner, and if not, certainly you’ll see her that night for Camelot. Of course you don’t tell the police she was there to meet you. You don’t tell them where she might have been standing when someone came across her. You don’t tell them that you know she wasn’t sleeping with Omar. You know the older guy her friends heard about was you. You don’t tell the police anything at all, except to give your own alibi and tell them what a lovely girl she was, what a promising student. A great kid, a great kid, a great kid. You’ve had to live with yourself for a quarter century. 50 I must have slept a few minutes at least, because I woke having dreamed about Yahav. I felt like I could turn and he’d be there—hadn’t he just been spooning me?—but no, that pillow was cold, with none of the dark, soft hairs I’d always find after he’d


and contemplate, a trick that she and Gabriel had discussed over dinner the previous night. She leaned her forehead against the windowpane, scrutinizing the view. Honey-colored light filled the conservatory and bounced off the grass. The beds were right there; they had to be. She could see them, swimming their way past the black locust trees that sentried the lawn, blooming and tufting, whooping with color. Women in silk dresses shaped like calla lilies and mustached men in top hats strolling the paths, sipping sherry from crystal glasses. In the conservatory, a harpist playing under the dripping eaves of banana fronds. And once the guests had gone, the garden still, the chirping of robins replaced by the hooting of owls, Alexander Gilson, the estate’s head gardener, would sit alone on the steps to watch night fall. He was the person Maud most wished she could talk to. He would know everything she needed to know. He could point out each bed and tell her its secrets. As the sun dissolved and the moon appeared, she’d walk behind him in the gloaming, taking notes, asking questions, and writing down plant names. And with that thought, an idea flashed. A trick used somewhere—where had that been? The Lost Gardens of Heligan, where she’d worked one summer during graduate school in England: a two-hundred-acre estate much like this one, left to bramble and ivy when the laborers sailed for the French front in 1914 and didn’t return. The depressions of garden beds, invisible in daylight, could be seen in shadow at night. The archaeology team used spotlights at Heligan, but here she could try the headlight beams of her rental car. It might not work. But it might. To know, she’d need the grass cut shorter so she could make out the topography of the ground. She rushed down the stairs, past Harriet, who was in the kitchen squeezing lemons into a plastic pitcher on a table covered with cheese knives, grape scissors, treacle spoons, and porcelain pie birds. Hurrying out the back doors of the mansion, she whipped off a text to Gabriel (Idea! Will tell you at dinner), then followed the high-pitched whine of a weedwacker that would lead her to the groundskeeper. She rounded a pond fringed by pussy willows and passed through a gateway of rhododendrons that opened into a cave of ferny shade. She only realized as the brick under her feet became gravel that she was still wearing the velvet slippers. Frazer was exactly where she thought he’d be, trimming an enormous boxwood hedge—a scraggly anachronism, added in the twentieth century, which separated the estate’s formal grounds from the forest. An atoll of gray hair ringed his otherwise bald head and his unruly eyebrows peaked like meringues. His son, Chris, a squat, thirtyish man with a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, was plowing the ivy that throttled a hydrangea. “I have an idea about how to find the missing beds,” Maud said breathlessly. “Could the two of you mow the grass from the conservatory to the mansion


his head. ‘Do you know she came down to the barge to talk with my da, to tell him I needed to go to school? She had a proper ding-dong with him. Da said all I needed was to learn to shoot a gun and kill a rabbit. She told him I’d need to add up any money I earned and to spell the word rabbit. He listened to her, my da did, and after that he sent me to school. Well, I think it was probably Ma who told him straight that I had to go. I took Miss Hamilton a pheasant by way of a thank you.’ ‘I remember it well,’ Josie said with a smile. Lin’s shrieks had filled the classroom before she burst into tears. Lin had always been sentimental and kind-hearted. Her relationship with Neil had probably started then with the packet of Love Hearts, the sweet that proclaimed: Be Mine. They walked along the riverside for an hour or two, Fergal telling stories of Ros, their courtship, and the larks they’d had with their boys when they were younger. Josie smiled fondly at the memories. They made their way to the village green where the activities were just beginning. A huge crowd of people were watching the Morris dancers who were dressed in bright yellows, greens and reds, clacking sticks and skipping around each other. Josie recognised a few of the dancers. Jack Lovejoy and Bobby Ledbury were among them, twirling and leaping energetically. Fergal pointed to Devlin and Finn, who were helping Dickie at the drinks stall, wearing floral hats. He pressed her arm. ‘Can I get you something to wet your whistle? There’s fruit punch.’ ‘That would be lovely,’ Josie answered. Fergal shuffled towards the stall while Josie gazed around. The Morris dancers were jigging to the accordion, pipe and tabor. Gerald Harris was standing, hands in his pockets, face glum, watching. Penny Ledbury was selling jams and chutneys; there were craft stalls and face painting. A hog was roasting on a spit; there was a cake stall, pies. Josie felt a gentle pressure on her arm and found Lin next to her with Neil. ‘It’s a nice day for it, Josie,’ Lin said cheerily. ‘The whole village has turned out. Oh, hi…’ She waved to Florence, who had arrived with Dangerous Dave. ‘I think Cecily’s coming too.’ Neil grinned. ‘Lin told me about the Shakespeare and the picnic. You must have had a great time.’ Josie nodded. ‘It’s a shame Minnie couldn’t have stayed on. She was May Queen once…’ ‘We all were,’ Lin recalled. ‘I was Miss Middleton Ferris 1964.’ ‘I remember.’ Neil pecked her cheek. ‘You’re still as lovely.’ Lin flushed with pleasure. Fergal arrived with two glasses of fruit punch for Lin and Josie. ‘Here you are, ladies.’ He turned to Neil. ‘I’m getting myself a cider – do you want one, Neil?’ ‘Oh, I’m not staying.’ Josie frowned. ‘Not staying to watch the fun?’ ‘Neil’s doing a lot of walking at the moment – his cholesterol is a bit


of there and back into his house, where it was safe. And he didn’t need to wait long to reassure himself she was all right, because Natalie was running toward him in her nightshirt. It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life—and easily the most terrifying. They were still in a volatile situation with the rain continuing to come down at an alarming rate. If the road behind him could be flooded in seconds, the one they were standing on could, too. Don’t get him started on landslides and falling trees and power lines coming down. “Get back in the truck,” he called, his voice hoarse from shouting. Of course she kept coming. Didn’t slow down at all. The nightshirt clung to her, black hair stuck in damp curlicues to her neck and cheeks. No shoes. Was she hoping to round off this fine fucking morning with a tetanus shot? Or was she more of a hypothermia girl? If only she wasn’t the most beautiful sight he’d ever beheld in his life, maybe he could hold on to his anger. But he was aching everywhere, all over his body, for her touch, because he’d had the same recurring thought during the rescue. What if the last time I saw her, I was shouting at her? What if that’s how she remembers me? After all, there was always risk involved with every mission, no matter how big or small. Around ten yards away from August, she stubbed her toe on the road and the dinner they’d eventually gotten around to eating around midnight nearly came back up. “Natalie,” he growled, ready to admonish her for leaving the safety of the truck when he was damn well on his way to be with her, anyway. But the lecture died in his throat when she leapt into his arms with a sob, her body shaking like a washing machine during the spin cycle. “Hey.” He kept his voice as soft as possible, but it was thicker than pancake batter. “Everyone is okay, princess. Everything is fine.” “What the hell,” she strangle-whispered into his neck. “Like, what the hell?” August carried her over to the open passenger-side door of the truck, but he walked slowly, because there was nothing in the goddamn universe better than holding this woman, except for maybe holding her in a safe, dry location. “What’s the matter? You’ve never seen a flash flood before?” She clung harder. “No!” “Civilians.” He sighed, tickling her ribs a little. “Stay off this road during storms. The elevation puts it lower than the creek bed.” She said nothing, so he poked her. “Promise me, Natalie.” “Okay. I promise.” She leaned back a little and her puffy eyes and red-tipped nose nearly made him stumble. “Of course, if I ever got stuck out there, you’d just strap on a harness and come rescue me. Totally calm and casual, as if you’re heating up a microwave dinner.” He took stock of his body, cataloging the chaotic buzz at the base of his throat, the


he had lived many years in England. Philip had heard him speak, and, though his English was fluent and natural, it had not quite the intonation of the native. Philip knew that he was flirting with Mildred, and he was horribly jealous of him; but he took comfort in the coldness of her temperament, which otherwise distressed him; and, thinking her incapable of passion, he looked upon his rival as no better off than himself. But his heart sank now, for his first thought was that Miller's sudden appearance might interfere with the jaunt which he had so looked forward to. He entered, sick with apprehension. The waitress came up to him, took his order for tea, and presently brought it. "I'm awfully, sorry" she said, with an expression on her face of real distress. "I shan't be able to come tonight after all." "Why?" said Philip. "Don't look so stern about it," she laughed. "It's not my fault. My aunt was taken ill last night, and it's the girl's night out so I must go and sit with her. She can't be left alone, can she?" "It doesn't matter. I'll see you home instead." "But you've got the tickets. It would be a pity to waste them." He took them out of his pocket and deliberately tore them up. "What are you doing that for?" "You don't suppose I want to go and see a rotten musical comedy by myself, do you? I only took seats there for your sake." "You can't see me home if that's what you mean?" "You've made other arrangements." "I don't know what you mean by that. You're just as selfish as all the rest of them. You only think of yourself. It's not my fault if my aunt's queer." She quickly wrote out his bill and left him. Philip knew very little about women, or he would have been aware that one should accept their most transparent lies. He made up his mind that he would watch the shop and see for certain whether Mildred went out with the German. He had an unhappy passion for certainty. At seven he stationed himself on the opposite pavement. He looked about for Miller, but did not see him. In ten minutes she came out, she had on the cloak and shawl which she had worn when he took her to the Shaftesbury Theatre. It was obvious that she was not going home. She saw him before he had time to move away, started a little, and then came straight up to him. "What are you doing here?" she said. "Taking the air," he answered. "You're spying on me, you dirty little cad. I thought you was a gentleman." "Did you think a gentleman would be likely to take any interest in you?" he murmured. There was a devil within him which forced him to make matters worse. He wanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting him. "I suppose I can change my mind if I like. I'm not obliged to come out with you.


She’s even harsher at the sentence level. The rhythm’s off. That imagery doesn’t work. Seriously? Another em dash? I’ve tried to block her out and push through, to write in spite of and to spite her. But it’s in those moments that her laughing grows louder, her taunts meaner. My doubts only ever intensify. Who am I to imagine I can achieve anything without her? I’ve put on a stiff upper lip in public, but Geoff’s Twitter antics rattled me more than I let on. Athena Liu’s Ghost. A grotesque choice of name; surely chosen to surprise and provoke, but there’s more truth to it than even Geoff knew. Athena’s ghost has anchored itself to me; it hovers over my shoulder, whispering in my ear every waking moment of my day. It’s maddening. These days I’ve started dreading the thought of trying to write, because I can’t write without thinking of her. Then, of course, my thoughts inevitably spiral beyond the writing to the memories: the final night, the pancakes, the gurgling sounds she made as she thrashed against the floor. I thought I’d gotten over her death. I was doing so well mentally. I was in a good space. I was fine. Until she returned. But isn’t that what ghosts do? Howl, moan, make themselves into spectacles? That’s the whole point of a ghost, is it not? Anything to remind you that they’re still there. Anything to keep you from forgetting. I MUST CONFESS: I DOUBLE-DIPPED. That night in Athena’s apartment, I didn’t only take The Last Front. I also took a smattering of papers lying across her desk, some typewritten, some covered in Athena’s looping, nearly illegible scrawl, accompanied by abstract line doodles whose significance I still haven’t figured out. I swear it was only out of curiosity. Athena was always so cagey about her creative process. The way she described it, it was like the gods dropped award-winning stories into her mind fully formed. I just wanted to get a look inside her head, to see if her early-stage brainstorming was anything like mine. It turns out, we create in very similar ways. She starts with random words or phrases, some original, some clearly song lyrics or minor modifications of other, more famous lines of literature—Rook was already dead when I arrived; the boy from nowhere; it was a dark yet brilliant night; if I hit you, would it feel like a kiss? I place them out on my desk now, staring at them, hunting for a shred of inspiration. I can’t get Athena’s voice out of my head, but maybe I can work with it. Maybe I can force her ghost back into service and resurrect that same unholy chemistry that fueled The Last Front. There are only a few completed sentences and only one completed paragraph, written out by hand, which begins like this: In my nightmares she walks into a dark and never-ending hallway, and as many times as I call her name, she never turns around. Her dress leaves wet streaks on the carpet. Her


a first lieutenant. Our platoons sailed together, trying to outrun the Jhorr and capture the Lola—that’s what we called the iceberg. A hundred-megaton rank, it could irrigate the entire valley for years. I remember one night, just after we found out the Jhorr had taken the Lola, and that we would have to engage to take it from them, he kept the entire ship up with story upon story, joke upon joke.” The Iceberg Wars had begun when the world all but ran out of drinkable water. Each city-nation on this continent—Alante, Nanzy, Rossk, Jhorr—sent forces up north, hunting the loose icebergs around the pole. Especially icebergs of higher ranks, such as the hundred-megaton Lola, which could provide some much-needed unpolluted water to their residents for years. The wars had lasted on and off for three decades, and even now, four years after the last bout, sightings of the odd iceberg floating in the ocean would set off the violence again. “Did you take it?” Io asked. “The Lola?” A shadow played on Amos’s face. “We did. We had three keres-born sisters in our service, as did every platoon. After weeks on the Jhorr’s tail, we woke up to the sisters barking directions. Our captain sailed us straight to the slaughter: the Lola had capsized during the night, right into the Jhorr’s biggest ship. The gals said they could see the death from miles away.” Io fidgeted at the thought of the keres-born and their creepy powers but kept it to herself. Amos talked about them with reverence; she didn’t want to be rude, especially about the wars. “So you think he’s a good guy,” she asked, “Saint-Yves?” Amos lifted their shoulders. “He was a good lieutenant to his soldiers.” A good lieutenant was also a good killer, though. Io didn’t think he would hurt Thais—she was essential to his Initiative—but she was worried her sister might get caught in the crossfire of whatever Bianca Rossi was planning. I’ll take care of it, the mob queen had said; Io held no illusions that Bianca’s plans wouldn’t involve violence. She rubbed her temples, weighing her options. “Amos, do you have a Hill pass?” They gave her a much-deserved appraising look. The Hill was a walled community, separated from the rest of Alante by a tide trench and heavy security. Entrance was allowed only to residents and their staff, including freelancers who carried special Hill passes. “Yes,” Amos replied hesitantly. “I sometimes deliver up there.” Io looked at her friend with big puppy eyes. “Can I borrow it?” “Tell me what I’m getting into, first.” What, indeed? That was the million-note question. The gist of it was this: “Thais lives up there. I think she might be in danger.” CHAPTER XXIII CREPES IO GOT OFF at the Acropolis stop and stood ramrod straight as the guards checked Amos’s pass. The Hill sprouted before her like a lush oasis in the middle of the driest desert. Green coated every surface: trees lining the streets, flowers spilling from every windowsill, climbing vines hanging on to balconies


the result. “Are you a Rockette?” I ask. “Gosh, no.” She says it with a rush of air, as if I asked if she were the Queen of England. “I’m an assistant to the events coordinator, Ms. Burris. I was told that you were precious cargo and to make sure you made it to the theater in one piece.” “Precious cargo.” What a strange phrase. “I’m sorry to make you come all this way, but it’s not a good day. I’m moving, you see.” “Oh.” Her face is crestfallen. “Ms. Burris will be very upset. She’ll think I did or said something wrong.” She digs into her bag, hands shaking. “I brought the program for you, so you can see that it’s going to be terrific. Won’t you reconsider?” She looks like she might cry. I take it from her without looking at it. “I’m sure you’ll have a bevy of current and former dancers in attendance. Why do I have to go?” “It’s because of the book. I hope you won’t think me insensitive—I mean, I still can’t believe what you went through—but the book is the reason they want you there. Everyone is so eager to know more about what happened when you were a Rockette.” Right. A recent nonfiction account of the events of 1956, published a couple of months ago, has stirred up interest in a time I’d rather not dwell on. Since it came out, I’ve had all kinds of former friends and foes resurface, not to mention reporters who looked up my address and stopped by unannounced, hoping for an interview. It was a time when I was at my best as a dancer, yet the worst happened. I haven’t been in that theater, that beautiful, majestic space, since. “That was long ago. I don’t wish to talk about it. Or think about it.” “Oh.” Her eyes flit to the windowsill, where several family photos sit in silver frames. “Of course.” She pauses. “I just need to call and let Ms. Burris know. Do you mind if I use your phone?” I show her into the hallway, where it sits on a narrow table. As she murmurs into the phone, I go back into the living room, where the young mover has left another box on the coffee table, this one marked with my mother’s handwriting. Inside are her treasures, objects that she touched and worried over, pages she leafed through and scribbled on in pencil. I remember the time when, as far as I was concerned, the programs and diaries might as well have been dusted with cyanide. Piper comes back into the room, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear. Her chin trembles. “Ms. Burris is so disappointed. And I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I’ll excuse myself now and head back.” Just then, the young mover bounds down the stairs carrying a dress on a hanger across his arms as if it were a sleeping maiden. “Do you want to keep this, Ms. Brooks? Or donate?” He holds the hanger


so ill-timed and extravagant,--accompanied, too, with a look that showed more like joy than any other kind of excitement,--compelled Hepzibah to dread that her stern kinsman's ominous visit had driven her poor brother to absolute insanity. Nor could she otherwise account for the Judge's quiescent mood than by supposing him craftily on the watch, while Clifford developed these symptoms of a distracted mind. "Be quiet, Clifford!" whispered his sister, raising her hand to impress caution. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, be quiet!" "Let him be quiet! What can he do better?" answered Clifford, with a still wilder gesture, pointing into the room which he had just quitted. "As for us, Hepzibah, we can dance now!--we can sing, laugh, play, do what we will! The weight is gone, Hepzibah! It is gone off this weary old world, and we may be as light-hearted as little Phoebe herself." And, in accordance with his words, he began to laugh, still pointing his finger at the object, invisible to Hepzibah, within the parlor. She was seized with a sudden intuition of some horrible thing. She thrust herself past Clifford, and disappeared into the room; but almost immediately returned, with a cry choking in her throat. Gazing at her brother with an affrighted glance of inquiry, she beheld him all in a tremor and a quake, from head to foot, while, amid these commoted elements of passion or alarm, still flickered his gusty mirth. "My God! what is to become of us?" gasped Hepzibah. "Come!" said Clifford in a tone of brief decision, most unlike what was usual with him. "We stay here too long! Let us leave the old house to our cousin Jaffrey! He will take good care of it!" Hepzibah now noticed that Clifford had on a cloak,--a garment of long ago,--in which he had constantly muffled himself during these days of easterly storm. He beckoned with his hand, and intimated, so far as she could comprehend him, his purpose that they should go together from the house. There are chaotic, blind, or drunken moments, in the lives of persons who lack real force of character,--moments of test, in which courage would most assert itself,--but where these individuals, if left to themselves, stagger aimlessly along, or follow implicitly whatever guidance may befall them, even if it be a child's. No matter how preposterous or insane, a purpose is a Godsend to them. Hepzibah had reached this point. Unaccustomed to action or responsibility,--full of horror at what she had seen, and afraid to inquire, or almost to imagine, how it had come to pass,--affrighted at the fatality which seemed to pursue her brother,--stupefied by the dim, thick, stifling atmosphere of dread which filled the house as with a death-smell, and obliterated all definiteness of thought,--she yielded without a question, and on the instant, to the will which Clifford expressed. For herself, she was like a person in a dream, when the will always sleeps. Clifford, ordinarily so destitute of this faculty, had found it in the tension of the crisis. "Why do you delay so?" cried


Samech, Ayin, Pei, Tzadik, Kuf, Reish, Shin, and Tav." Teabing dramatically mopped his brow and plowed on. "In formal Hebrew spelling, the vowel sounds are not written. Therefore, when we write the word Baphomet using the Hebrew alphabet, it will lose its three vowels in translation, leaving us-" "Five letters," Sophie blurted. Teabing nodded and began writing again. "Okay, here is the proper spelling of Baphomet in Hebrew letters. I'll sketch in the missing vowels for clarity's sake. B a P V o M e Th "Remember, of course," he added, "that Hebrew is normally written in the opposite direction, but we can just as easily use Atbash this way. Next, all we have to do is create our substitution scheme by rewriting the entire alphabet in reverse order opposite the original alphabet." "There's an easier way," Sophie said, taking the pen from Teabing. "It works for all reflectional substitution ciphers, including the Atbash. A little trick I learned at the Royal Holloway." Sophie wrote the first half of the alphabet from left to right, and then, beneath it, wrote the second half, right to left. "Cryptanalysts call it the fold-over. Half as complicated. Twice as clean." A B G D H V Z Ch T Y K Th Sh R Q Tz P O S N M L Teabing eyed her handiwork and chuckled. "Right you are. Glad to see those boys at the Holloway are doing their job." Looking at Sophie's substitution matrix, Langdon felt a rising thrill that he imagined must have rivaled the thrill felt by early scholars when they first used the Atbash Cipher to decrypt the now famous Mystery of Sheshach. For years, religious scholars had been baffled by biblical references to a city called Sheshach. The city did not appear on any map nor in any other documents, and yet it was mentioned repeatedly in the Book of Jeremiah-the king of Sheshach, the city of Sheshach, the people of Sheshach. Finally, a scholar applied the Atbash Cipher to the word, and his results were mind-numbing. The cipher revealed that Sheshach was in fact a code word for another very well-known city. The decryption process was simple. Sheshach, in Hebrew, was spelled: Sh-Sh-K. Sh-Sh-K, when placed in the substitution matrix, became B-B-L. B-B-L, in Hebrew, spelled Babel. The mysterious city of Sheshach was revealed as the city of Babel, and a frenzy of biblical examination ensued. Within weeks, several more Atbash code words were uncovered in the Old Testament, unveiling myriad hidden meanings that scholars had no idea were there. "We're getting close," Langdon whispered, unable to control his excitement. "Inches, Robert," Teabing said. He glanced over at Sophie and smiled. "You ready?" 215 She nodded. "Okay, Baphomet in Hebrew without the vowels reads: B-P-V-M-Th. Now we simply apply your Atbash substitution matrix to translate the letters into our five-letter password." Langdon's heart pounded. B-P-V-M-Th. The sun was pouring through the windows now. He looked at Sophie's substitution matrix and slowly began to make the conversion. B is Sh... P is V... Teabing was grinning like


any of the crew, come up the companionway, and go along the deck forward and disappear. He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread. To allay it, I shall today search the entire ship carefully from stem to stern. Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate angry, said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men, said he would engage to keep them out of trouble with the handspike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began a thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns. We left no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but said nothing. 22 July.--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails, no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well. 24 July.--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost, disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear, sent a round robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do some violence. 28 July.--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of malestrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours sleep. Wind abating, seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is steadier. 29 July.--Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight, as crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause. 30 July.--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn out, slept soundly, awakened by mate telling me that both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left to work ship. 1 August.--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in the English Channel to be able to signal for


ordered at seven fifty, but Roddy Tebbit never took it inside. Receipt printout is eight fifteen. When you stand in the hallway and smell the cold food, you realise you’ve been breathing death in the apartment. It’s not a stink of blood or bowel, but any dying leaves a trace in the air. I feel it as a kind of thinness, like the flavour of a bone broth taken off the cooker before it’s time, or the empty pages of a new colouring book. Apartment 363 where Roddy Tebbit lived is the corner, with big picture windows. 362 is a mid-floor and 364 is pretty much the whole of the other side of the hall, although the building on that side is stepped like a pyramid, so in terms of your square meters it isn’t any bigger than the other two, but it probably has a hell of a terrace. I go along to 362. There’s a bucket outside. I knock. When no one answers, I ring the bell, and then knock again. Finally the door opens and a guy in a janitor coat looks out. He has greasy hair and muttonchop sideburns and no beard, and he wears a badge which says his name is Rufus. I say hi to Rufus. “Hi,” Rufus says. “You part of—” He waves at the cops. “External contractor.” Meaning I don’t care about whatever his hustle is. You got to know a guy like Rufus has a hustle. “These nice people?” Gesturing to the apartment behind him. He shrugs. “Moved out last week. Going to the west coast.” “I hear it’s cold as hell.” “Well, they sure didn’t leave anything behind.” He sighs. Figure some people leave stuff he can sell on. “You ever see the nerd next door?” “The doctor guy?” He raises his hand up way over his head. Not everyone that big is a Titan. In fact right around one in every one million people is naturally over seven feet tall, for a global total of maybe eight thousand; the number of Titans in the world is a quarter of that, even if a lot of them are here, in Chersenesos. But it’s not really about the numbers: Titans are red carpet, VIP lounge and champagne. They wear perfect clothes and shoes without orthotics. They’re hard money walking. So, sure, maybe Roddy Tebbit was not “that Titan guy” to Rufus. He was tall, and he was a doctor. “Yeah,” I say. Rufus shrugs. “Sure. You can’t miss him.” To be honest I have been wondering if anyone will. “He okay?” I ask. “Decent fella?” Rufus nods. “Sure. Just some guy. Shy maybe.” “He date?” Rufus shrugs. “There was a girl sometimes. A lady, I guess.” “He social with anyone?” “No.” His eyes flick across and down at the floor, but his body twitches a little towards 364. “I mean just neighbourly. Maybe chips and dips. He’s a quiet guy.” “Any visitors? Loud music? Like that?” Rufus laughs. “I think one time some of his students came round and they played him something


Style while burning to a crisp under the summer sun, walking and walking and walking around booths packed with tie-dye dresses and woven hemp bags I was never gonna buy, and the second we walked back to the building I had to pee. I had to piss so bad my vision got wavy. I could barely get my ass on his toilet seat before the floodgates opened, and it was one of those orgasmic pees, the rapturous kind where you’ve held so much for so long that you almost weep when it comes torrential downpouring out of you. Little did I know, that orgasm was reciprocal; I’d looked up to find dude jerking off into the sink as I reached for his one-ply toilet paper. From that day forward, he always just happened to have a six-pack around whenever I came over, and drunk jerking off to the sound of me pissing became a regular sexual event. If I were smarter, I would have known that eventually he was gonna ask me to urinate on him. That hadn’t even occurred to me? Because even though I’d had sex, I wasn’t exactly having, like, adventurous sex. The dog collar/doughnut thing was an anomaly, suggested by the same person who I thought had just watched too many dirty movies and had a vivid imagination. I didn’t know people outside of porn apartments in the San Fernando Valley were pissing on each other and doing other freaky stuff. When he finally made the casual suggestion—“What would you think about making me your toilet?” in the same exact tone he might’ve said, “What would you think about getting nachos and burritos?”—it took a minute for me to conceptualize how this might physically happen. It wasn’t even that I thought it was gross, I’ve just taken enough unnecessary pregnancy tests to know what messy business targeted urination is when you don’t have the luxury of a penis. I’ve pissed all over my hand and down the back of my pants and on the floor of every hospital bathroom I’ve ever fumbled that disposable sippy cup in. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how I was going to get urine anywhere near this dude. Well. Things sort of crystallized for me as I stood over his naked body stretched the length of his crumbling, lead-painted Rogers Park bathtub, Lamaze breathing while relaxing my pelvic floor in an attempt to produce a strong, steady flow instead of weak spluttering droplets. It’s kind of impossible to contort a human body without some sort of funnel attached to it into whatever position is optimal for spraying urine into a dude’s face within the confines of a coffin-sized apartment bathtub. I almost broke my fucking teeth on the edge of the sink falling out of the tub trying to make sure the piss ended up somewhere in the vicinity of where he wanted it rather than running down the insides of my legs before pooling along the sides of his torso. Over the course of many unsuccessful attempts, I mangled three shower


about attorney-client privilege. I know I could tell Rachelle Graham the truth: that I was having an affair. That my lover and I were planning to murder my husband. And she would be legally bound to keep my secrets. But when I begin to speak, more lies come out. “I have no idea. He must hate me.” “Why? Were you cheating on him?” “No!” The word flies from my lips so easily. “Then why would he hate you? What did you do?” “I… I’ve been more assertive lately,” I say, which is only true of the day he confronted me about Jesse. “I’ve been less obedient. Just… not doing as I’m told. Talking back. It infuriated him.” She exhales through her nose. “I’ll be a stronger advocate if I know the truth, Hazel. As your lawyer—” But I cut her off. “That is the truth.” My words sound firm, convincing in my own ears, but her brown eyes meet mine with suspicion. For a moment, I fear she’ll dismiss me, tell me she can’t work with a dishonest client, but eventually she breaks her gaze and changes course. “You have a right to know the case the prosecution is building,” she says, setting her laptop aside. “I’ll find out what evidence they have and who they’re calling as witnesses. You’ll likely have to testify.” My chest clutches at the thought of facing Benjamin in a courtroom. Of the questions his legal team will ask me and the lies I will be forced to tell. “I can’t.” “In Washington State, they can subpoena you. If you refuse, you could be charged with contempt.” And if I testify, I could be charged with perjury. “But I didn’t know Benjamin wanted me dead,” I try. “There’s no point! I have nothing to say!” “I might be able to arrange video testimony so you don’t have to see your husband,” she offers. “But I’m not going to lie to you. A trial will be ugly. Benjamin Laval is known to be a barracuda. His team will come at you. They’ll disparage your character, bring your credibility into question. And they will be vicious.” My heart palpitates as I imagine the assault. I am no match for David Vega and the other attorneys at my husband’s firm. They will interrogate me, badger me, and I will crumble. Fall apart. Incriminate myself. I will be caught out as a liar. A slut. And an attempted murderer myself. This whole situation feels like a runaway train, and every time I open my mouth, I stoke its engine. “There’s a chance this won’t even get to trial,” she says. “Your husband’s team will be working every legal angle to make this go away.” “Go away?” I struggle to take a breath. “If he gets out…” I trail off, press my fingers into my eye sockets, feel the dampness of the tears welling there. Rachelle’s voice is calm, soothing. “For now, he’s behind bars.” “But I could still be in danger. Who was he conspiring with? I need to know.” “I’ll


paper and handed it to Gettum. You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb. It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb. Gettum gave an inward smile. The Grail indeed, she thought, noting the references to the Rose and her seeded womb. "I can help you," she said, looking up from the slip of paper. "Might I ask where this verse came from? And why you are seeking an orb?" "You might ask," Langdon said, with a friendly smile, "but it's a long story and we have very little time." 255 "Sounds like a polite way of saying 'mind your own business.' "We would be forever in your debt, Pamela," Langdon said, "if you could find out who this knight is and where he is buried." "Very well," Gettum said, typing again. "I'll play along. If this is a Grail-related issue, we should cross-reference against Grail keywords. I'll add a proximity parameter and remove the title weighting. That will limit our hits only to those instances of textual keywords that occur near a Grail-related word." Search for: KNIGHT, LONDON, POPE, TOMB Within 100 word proximity of: GRAIL, ROSE, SANGREAL, CHALICE "How long will this take?" Sophie asked. "A few hundred terabytes with multiple cross-referencing fields?" Gettum's eyes glimmered as she clicked the SEARCH key. "A mere fifteen minutes." Langdon and Sophie said nothing, but Gettum sensed this sounded like an eternity to them. "Tea?" Gettum asked, standing and walking toward the pot she had made earlier. "Leigh always loves my tea." 256 CHAPTER 93 London's Opus Dei Centre is a modest brick building at 5 Orme Court, overlooking the North Walk at Kensington Gardens. Silas had never been here, but he felt a rising sense of refuge and asylum as he approached the building on foot. Despite the rain, Rmy had dropped him off a short distance away in order to keep the limousine off the main streets. Silas didn't mind the walk. The rain was cleansing. At Rmy's suggestion, Silas had wiped down his gun and disposed of it through a sewer grate. He was glad to get rid of it. He felt lighter. His legs still ached from being bound all that time, but Silas had endured far greater pain. He wondered, though, about Teabing, whom Rmy had left bound in the back of the limousine. The Briton certainly had to be feeling the pain by now. "What will you do with him?" Silas had asked Rmy as they drove over here. Rmy had shrugged. "That is a decision for the Teacher." There was an odd finality in his tone. Now, as Silas approached the Opus Dei building, the rain began to fall harder, soaking his heavy robe, stinging the wounds of the day before. He was ready to leave behind the sins of the last twenty-four hours and purge his soul. His work was done. Moving across a small courtyard to the front door, Silas was not surprised to find the door unlocked. He opened it and stepped into the minimalist foyer. A muted electronic chime sounded


but want and need and too much fondness to even think about. Nick rolls them so Andy is on top, then hooks a leg around Andy’s hip to keep him close. This makes Andy’s damp hair fall in his eyes, and into Nick’s eyes, too. He moves his hips so they rock together, and then after that there’s nothing but gasped names and soft words, the two of them sheltered together in a warm safe place. * * * Afterward, Nick lies boneless and warm, Andy half on top of him and apparently insensate. His face is smashed into the pillow beside Nick’s head, an arm and a leg flung heavily across Nick’s body. Nick reaches out and gropes around on his nightstand for a pack of cigarettes. Andy must hear the click of the lighter because he lifts his hand and makes a grabbing motion. Nick puts the cigarette into his hand and Andy shifts over, sitting up against the headboard. Nick cranes his neck to look. Andy is still flushed, pink and rosy from what they did together. His hair is rumpled and his jawline and neck are red from rubbing against Nick’s stubble. He looks gently debauched. “You’re staring,” Andy says. “Mm-hmm.” Andy rolls his eyes. “Want me to stop?” Nick asks. “Knock yourself out,” Andy says, making a sort of help yourself gesture. When they first met, Nick thought Andy was at best generically handsome, like models in the Sears catalog or ads for soap. He thought Andy’s looks were bland, forgettable, boring WASPy straight-nosed pale-skinned dullness. And then he started to notice the other things: the way Andy’s ears stick out a little, the way his smile tilts to the side, how his expression never stays the same for more than five seconds and instead acts like a television screen, displaying everything that passes through his head. None of that is in the least boring. Now when he looks at Andy, he doesn’t even see his component parts unless he makes himself pay attention. Instead it all coalesces into the shape of Nick’s favorite person. Even when he looks at the parts he doesn’t usually get to see—strong shoulders covered in the freckles of a dozen sunburns, the soft insides of his thighs, pink nipples and a dusting of dark blond chest hair—it’s all still Andy. “Jesus,” says Andy, looking away. Another part of him that Nick doesn’t usually get to see is taking renewed interest. “You’ve been looking at me for weeks,” Nick points out, stealing the cigarette from Andy’s hand. “You walk around half naked! It’s impossible not to look.” “Is that so?” Nick crawls over Andy’s lap and stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray. “You like what you saw?” “Fishing for compliments is beneath you,” Andy says, even as he smooths his hands down Nick’s shoulders. “I want to know what made you have your gay awakening.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I want to know what about me is so powerfully attractive that it contributed to your degeneracy.” Andy suddenly looks serious. “I


space ahead. The path leads us right into it. The blazing torch casts a hazy orange glow all around. I scan the area again, listening. There’s no one here, but somebody had to have been, and recently. The torch snaps and crackles as the fire consumes the end of it. “Charity,” Bezi says, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “We shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong.” I climb onto the crescent-shaped platform and walk from one side to the other. The trunk of the giant oak that stands directly behind it is carved—a pattern of overlapping triangular eaves. The torchlight illuminates only the very bottom part of the tree, so I switch on my flashlight and swing the light up where a pair of shining black eyes stares back at me. I stumble back and Bezi gasps. The tree trunk has been carved into the likeness of a giant owl. It looms over us. Set in its eye sockets are polished black stones, and the firelight reflected in them gives them a lifelike appearance. Part of me wonders if it’s alive, if this is the figure Ms. Keane spoke of. I picture it opening its pointed beak, grasping me in its taloned claws. A shudder runs through my body, and as I step back to take in the entirety of the massive carving, my foot nearly slips out from under me. I steady myself and point my flashlight at the wooden planks beneath my sneakers. “It’s wet,” I say. “This whole area right here.” I crouch down and touch the damp planks, a watery substance coating my fingers, and as I examine it in the light, I’m almost 100 percent sure it’s blood that somebody has tried to clean up by flooding the area with water. “Look,” Bezi says. She’s got her light pointed at another path that snakes off the opposite side of the outdoor amphitheater. I wipe my hands on my jeans and march toward the path with Bezi at my heel. This pathway is paved and much narrower than the others. The trees and shrubbery that run alongside it are neatly trimmed. Ahead, a large structure unfolds out of the darkness. Bezi and I find ourselves in the shadow of a massive lodge. Three stories high, it looks similar to the Western Lodge but is triple the size, and its entrance is flanked by two massive carved owls. The upper windows are dark and some are boarded up. A tangle of twisted thorny vines snakes its way up the facade of the building. The path leading to the front steps is smooth and even. Lying directly in the center of it is a shoe. I rush forward and snatch it up. It’s covered in mud and the laces are undone, but I recognize it as soon as I wipe it off with the hem of my shirt. It’s a red sneaker with a yellow swoosh on the side. “Porter.” I take a step toward the building, but Bezi grabs my arm and pulls me back. “We cannot


that he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield to drink; and, interpreting the look which Agnes had given me as she went out, had limited myself to one glass, and then proposed that we should follow her. I would have done so again today; but Uriah was too quick for me. 'We seldom see our present visitor, sir,' he said, addressing Mr. Wickfield, sitting, such a contrast to him, at the end of the table, 'and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass or two of wine, if you have no objections. Mr. Copperfield, your elth and appiness!' I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretched across to me; and then, with very different emotions, I took the hand of the broken gentleman, his partner. 'Come, fellow-partner,' said Uriah, 'if I may take the liberty, - now, suppose you give us something or another appropriate to Copperfield!' I pass over Mr. Wickfield's proposing my aunt, his proposing Mr. Dick, his proposing Doctors' Commons, his proposing Uriah, his drinking everything twice; his consciousness of his own weakness, the ineffectual effort that he made against it; the struggle between his shame in Uriah's deportment, and his desire to conciliate him; the manifest exultation with which Uriah twisted and turned, and held him up before me. It made me sick at heart to see, and my hand recoils from writing it. 'Come, fellow-partner!' said Uriah, at last, 'I'll give you another one, and I umbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend to make it the divinest of her sex.' Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set it down, look at the picture she was so like, put his hand to his forehead, and shrink back in his elbow-chair. 'I'm an umble individual to give you her elth,' proceeded Uriah, 'but I admire - adore her.' No physical pain that her father's grey head could have borne, I think, could have been more terrible to me, than the mental endurance I saw compressed now within both his hands. 'Agnes,' said Uriah, either not regarding him, or not knowing what the nature of his action was, 'Agnes Wickfield is, I am safe to say, the divinest of her sex. May I speak out, among friends? To be her father is a proud distinction, but to be her usband -' Spare me from ever again hearing such a cry, as that with which her father rose up from the table! 'What's the matter?' said Uriah, turning of a deadly colour. 'You are not gone mad, after all, Mr. Wickfield, I hope? If I say I've an ambition to make your Agnes my Agnes, I have as good a right to it as another man. I have a better right to it than any other man!' I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everything that I could think of, oftenest of all by his love for Agnes, to calm himself a little. He was mad for the moment; tearing out his hair, beating


older? Look, I’m sitting on the table. Let’s be friends. “Who would agree? Show of hands.” It takes a few seconds of exchanged Is this a trap? looks, but 80 percent of the hands are up in no time. That’s when I raise my own, too. They laugh. “Aren’t you a theorist, Dr. Hannaway?” someone asks. “Yes, but I get it. And please, call me Elsie.” I’m not like a regular theorist. I’m a cool theorist. Yikes. Erwin Schrödinger, avert your eyes. “It is unfair that most of the physicists who win Nobel Prizes or become household names are theorists. Newton. Einstein. Feynman. Kaku. Sheldon Cooper got the seven-season spin-off show, but Leonard? Nothing.” People chuckle— including Volkov. Jack’s slim smile doesn’t waver. “The advantage of theory is that we trade in ideas, and ideas are cheap and fast. Experimental physicists need expensive equipment to troubleshoot every step, but theorists can just sit there and write”—I add a calculated shrug—“science fan fiction.” It’s an actual insult I got when I went to a Harvard social as Cece’s plus-one. From a philosophy grad who, after three beers, decided to mansplain to the entire bar why my publications didn’t really count. The things I do for free food. “Theorists hide behind fancy math,” Cole says. Sweet summer STEMlord. I promise you’re not as edgy as you think. “What I don’t get is . . . what’s the point of building abstract theories that are not even bound by the laws of nature?” says the guy next to Cole. He’s wearing a long-sleeved tee that reads “Physics and Chill” in the Shrek font. I kinda love it. “Experiments are way more useful.” Another dude. In the first row. “You only care about what might be, but not what actually is.” Dude, of course. This time from the third row. “The possible applications are always an afterthought.” Many students nod. So do I, because I can read them like a large-print edition. I know the exact Elsie they want. Time to bring this home. “What you guys are saying is that theoretical physics doesn’t always end in a product. And to that, all I can say is . . . I agree. Physics is like sex: it may yield practical results, but often that’s not why we do it.” At least that’s what Feynman once said. He’s also on record as calling women worthless bitches, but we’ll let it slide since his quote made you laugh. “How many of you are experimentalists?” Almost all hands shoot up, and Cole’s the highest. I’m depressingly unsurprised. “The truth is, you guys are right. Theorists do focus on mathematical models and abstract concepts. But they do it hoping that experimentalists like you will come across our theories and decide to prove us right.” Ugh. I want a shower and a bar of industrial-strength soap. “And that’s why I want to talk with you guys about my theories on Wigner crystallization. So that I can hear your opinions and improve through your feedback. I don’t know when theorists and experimentalists


passionate, and her present letter, showing that her estimate of him had changed under his delay--too justly changed, he sadly owned,--made him ask himself if it would be wise to confront her unannounced in the presence of her parents. Supposing that her love had indeed turned to dislike during the last weeks of separation, a sudden meeting might lead to bitter words. Clare therefore thought it would be best to prepare Tess and her family by sending a line to Marlott announcing his return, and his hope that she was still living with them there, as he had arranged for her to do when he left England. He despatched the inquiry that very day, and before the week was out there came a short reply from Mrs Durbeyfield which did not remove his embarrassment, for it bore no address, though to his surprise it was not written from Marlott. SIR J write these few lines to say that my Daughter is away from me at present, and J am not sure when she will return, but J will let you know as Soon as she do. J do not feel at liberty to tell you Where she is temperly biding. J should say that me and my Family have left Marlott for some Time.---- Yours, J. DURBEYFIELD It was such a relief to Clare to learn that Tess was at least apparently well that her mother's stiff reticence as to her whereabouts did not long distress him. They were all angry with him, evidently. He would wait till Mrs Durbeyfield could inform him of Tess's return, which her letter implied to be soon. He deserved no more. His had been a love "which alters when it alteration finds". He had undergone some strange experiences in his absence; he had seen the virtual Faustina in the literal Cornelia, a spiritual Lucretia in a corporeal Phryne; he had thought of the woman taken and set in the midst as one deserving to be stoned, and of the wife of Uriah being made a queen; and he had asked himself why he had not judged Tess constructively rather than biographically, by the will rather than by the deed? A day or two passed while he waited at his father's house for the promised second note from Joan Durbeyfield, and indirectly to recover a little more strength. The strength showed signs of coming back, but there was no sign of Joan's letter. Then he hunted up the old letter sent on to him in Brazil, which Tess had written from Flintcomb-Ash, and re-read it. The sentences touched him now as much as when he had first perused them. I must cry to you in my trouble--I have no one else.... I think I must die if you do not come soon, or tell me to come to you.... Please, please, not to be just--only a little kind to me! ... If you would come, I could die in your arms! I would be well content to do that if so be you had forgiven me! ...


few weeks the villa would present a smiling front to the world. Then the winter rains would get to work, and the imprisoned flies, and quickly the villa would take on again its abandoned look. But, Bond reflected, it would admirably serve Le Chiffre's purpose this morning, if he was right in assuming what that was to be. They had passed no other house since his capture and from his reconnaissance of the day before he knew there was only an occasional farm for several miles to the south. As he was urged out of the car with a sharp crack in the ribs from the thin man's elbow, he knew that Le Chiffre could have them both to himself, undisturbed, for several hours. Again his skin crawled. Le Chiffre opened the door with a key and disappeared inside. Vesper, looking incredibly indecent in the early light of day, was pushed in after him with a torrent of lewd French from the man whom Bond knew to himself as 'the Corsican'. Bond followed without giving the thin man a chance to urge him. The key of the front door turned in the lock. Le Chiffre was standing in the doorway of a room on the right. He crooked a finger at Bond in a silent, spidery summons. Vesper was being led down a passage towards the back of the house. Bond suddenly decided. With a wild backward kick which connected with the thin man's shins and brought a whistle of pain from him he hurled himself down the passage after her. With only his feet as weapons, there was no plan in his mind except to do as much damage as possible to the two gunmen and be able to exchange a few hurried words with the girl. No other plan was possible. He just wanted to tell her not to give in. As the Corsican turned at the commotion Bond was on him and his right shoe was launched in a flying kick at the other man's groin. Like lightning the Corsican slammed himself back against the wall of the passage and, as Bond's foot whistled past his hip, he very quickly, but somehow delicately, shot out his left hand, caught Bond's shoe at the top of its arch and twisted it sharply. Completely off balance, Bond's other foot left the ground. In the air his whole body turned and with the momentum of his rush behind it crashed sideways and down on to the floor. For a moment he lay there, all the breath knocked out of him. Then the thin man came and hauled him up against the wall by his collar. He had a gun in his hand. He looked Bond inquisitively in the eyes. Then unhurriedly he bent down and swiped the barrel viciously across Bond's shins. Bond grunted and caved at the knees. 'If there is a next time, it will be across your teeth,' said the thin man in bad French. A door slammed. Vesper and the Corsican had disappeared. Bond turned his head to


boy took the tea tray and began backing out of the room. “I do,” Miss de Vries said. Her eyes were lizard like, unreadable. Then she added, with a tiny twist in her voice, “Was it considered—an impertinence?” “An impertinence?” “My invitation, my letter to the palace. Did it cause offence?” Something was moving in Miss de Vries’s eyes. Something uneasy. She was doubting herself. “Good heavens,” said Hephzibah. “All approaches to the palace must be considered an offence. To request the attention of Their Royal Highnesses is an impertinence by its very nature. It cannot be helped. Now, tell me, I hear this is a costumed ball, correct?” “Indeed.” “But that is too enchanting. As what shall you go? A Van Dyck? A masked temptress?” Miss de Vries’s smile grew colder. “I shall have to keep it a secret, Your Grace.” “But you must confide in me. I’m dying to know. Will you be a sorceress? A sea serpent? A succubus?” Miss de Vries stared at her. “Oh, don’t let me torture you. I’m being such a gorgon. But tell me you’ll make the papers. Did you go to the Devonshires’ ball?” “I did not.” “No? A pity. It’s helpful to measure the competition, I find. People bore so easily. Have you hired Whitman for the entertainments?” Mrs. King had told her exactly how to put the question. Gently, gently, almost like it was nothing at all... Miss de Vries frowned. “I’ve not heard of Whitman.” Whitman was one of Hephzibah’s greatest gifts to Mrs. King: a costumier and impresario who came from the Rookery in Spitalfields, and who kept a splendid side business in pickpocketing. Between Whitman, Hephzibah and the Janes, there wasn’t a music-hall troupe or traveling fair they couldn’t hire for this job. “Of course you haven’t. He doesn’t advertise.” Hephzibah fiddled in her reticule, drew out a card. “I doubt you’d get him now. Not worth asking. Perhaps next year.” She tossed the card on the table, then sipped her tea. “He does the most stupendous entertainments. And by the by, in case you’re wondering, I did mention your ball to the Princess Victoria.” “You did?” “But of course! She was dreadfully shocked.” Miss de Vries considered this. Said, slowly, “I do not think there is anything about it that should shock Her Royal Highness.” “Oh, but it’s such a deliciously loathsome thing to do! To hold a ball, when you’re in full mourning, not even half. We’re agog with it.” Miss de Vries’s face was immobile. “Have I said something amiss?” Hephzibah patted her on the hand. “Don’t fret. It’s a new century, dear. We’re all ripe for a shake-up. And you needn’t stand on ceremony about HRH. She’s slipping down the pecking order every year, poor thing. One day you’ll be able to drag her to any old bazaar or rose sale you like. I can’t see her making any great marriage, can you?” Hephzibah shifted in her seat. “But for now, of course, things are managed terribly, particularly in her household.” “Of course.” “It’s


needed a green card? Or the Smith money.” “She was a grad student. It’s a move I can respect.” “For sure.” His smile is fond. And has me asking, “Do you miss her?” A long pause. “I don’t think you can miss someone you’ve never met, but . . .” He organizes his thoughts. Orders his feelings. “It’s easy to look at how dysfunctional my family is and laugh it off now that I have my own life. But when I was in my teens, there were times when things got really bad at home. And I’d read her diaries and think that maybe if she’d been around, everything could have been . . .” His throat works. “But she wasn’t.” I’ve felt out of place my entire life, and nothing anyone ever said made me feel any less so. So I stay silent and just lean forward, hide my face in Jack’s throat, press a kiss to his Adam’s apple right as it moves. His hand comes up to cup my head, keep it there, and I feel him turn to the screen again. Bella’s pregnancy complications are getting alien-like, and he groans into my hair. “Elsie. I can’t watch this.” “But it’s the best part. The emotional roller coaster of her transformation. The inappropriate Jacob plotline. Her face when she drinks blood.” “No way.” “Fine. You may amuse yourself otherwise. But stay close, because you’re a space heater disguised as an organic life-form.” “Perfect.” He lifts me like I’m a pliant little thing, flips us around, braces himself over me. I can only watch him in confusion while he lowers himself down my body with a concentrated frown between his brows and then lifts my hoodie as though . . . Is he . . . He’s not . . . Is he actually? “What are you doing?” “You told me to amuse myself.” I sit up on my elbows. “I meant take another nap, or do today’s Wordle —” “Just watch your movie, Elsie.” “But—” He takes my hips within his hands and holds me like I’m a precious artifact, at once firm and gentle. His kisses between my legs are long, savoring, messy, slow licks that have me arching up against the couch and trembling into his mouth. There is something shameless about this—the way he enjoys it, the sounds he makes, the fact that he seems to go away at moments, like he does this for his pleasure more than for my own. “Oh,” I say, clawing my nails into his scalp. His arms wrap around my thighs, palms holding my knees open, and for a while I manage to swallow down the begging, moaning sounds in my throat. Then no more. “Oh. Oh, Jack” and I come once, then once again, then some more, and then his shirt is off and he’s above and inside me, patient thrusts as he kisses me endlessly and tells me how beautiful I am, how much he loves this. Breathless laughter against my gasps as he reminds me of when


again.’ Charlotte said. ‘And you’re right, Darryl doesn’t matter. Not now.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’m not thinking about him.’ ‘Nor am I.’ Florence said. ‘It’s Adam and Elsie and me and my dad… that’s my family.’ ‘I have my job and good friends…’ Charlotte was thoughtful. ‘I’m a more confident person without him. I’m happier.’ ‘I’m glad for you, I really am.’ Florence glanced at Elsie, who had started to open her mouth and turn her small head. ‘She’s getting hungry…’ ‘I won’t keep you.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘I’m pleased I’ve seen you, though – I’ll just pop in and say thanks to Cecily and Josie and Lin, then I’ll be off…’ She put out a finger and touched the baby’s cheek. ‘Good luck.’ ‘You too,’ Florence said, picking up the bag and moving upstairs, feeling suddenly light and happy. Inside the kitchen, Odile was handing everyone cake and rum punch. Josie moved to Lin and wrapped an arm around her. ‘The girl did good.’ ‘She did.’ Lin gazed around, taking in the food and her guests. ‘We did well, Josie.’ ‘We’re a team, we have been for so many years.’ Josie grinned. ‘The Silver Ladies,’ Lin suggested. ‘The whole village are Silver Ladies now.’ Josie hugged Lin closer. ‘One big family. “Friends show their love in times of trouble, so we share lunch as friends.” Remember?’ ‘We’ve come a long way since Miss Hamilton’s class.’ Lin smiled at the memory. ‘It seems a lifetime ago.’ ‘And yet it has passed in the blink of an eye…’ Josie replied. ‘Oh – I forgot…’ She leaned over to the chair where she’d left her bag. ‘The postman gave me a package earlier. I ought to open it.’ She pulled out the small brown paper parcel and Lin said, ‘It’s a book.’ ‘It must be,’ Josie agreed. It was the right size and shape. She unwrapped it with deft fingers and held out a paperback. The book had a bright cover, with turquoise sea and sky and a golden sun, and a dapper man in a smart suit with a red dicky bow standing on a beach holding a small gun. The title was in bold letters: The St Lucia Sleuth by David J. Ellis. Josie was delighted. ‘Oh, he’s done it – he’s written the whole book and had it published.’ ‘The man you met on the cruise last spring?’ Lin asked. ‘Yes, I’m so pleased for him.’ Josie opened the first page, touching the creamy white paper. Then she glanced at the dedication: For Alan, the man I love, and for Josie, who saved my life. Josie and Lin turned to each other. ‘That’s so nice,’ Lin whispered. ‘I’ll treasure this,’ Josie said, feeling suddenly emotional. ‘Like I’ll treasure the Silver Ladies’ lunches, and every precious moment we have together.’ Lin wrapped her friend in a hug and saw tears glisten in Josie’s eyes. She waited for her own to fill up, and was surprised when they didn’t. But Lin was calm now; she was in control. She turned to the guests


of the school of Haydon; but smoke, gas, and the London atmosphere had given them a richness which made them look like old masters. The dark panelling, the massive, tarnished gold of the cornice, the mahogany tables, gave the room an air of sumptuous comfort, and the leather-covered seats along the wall were soft and easy. There was a ram's head on a table opposite the door, and this contained the celebrated snuff. They ordered punch. They drank it. it was hot rum punch. The pen falters when it attempts to treat of the excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this narrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous terms, jewelled, exotic phrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the head; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to utter wit and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of its qualities was comparable to anything else: it had the warmth of a good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words. Charles Lamb, with his infinite tact, attempting to, might have drawn charming pictures of the life of his day; Lord Byron in a stanza of Don Juan, aiming at the impossible, might have achieved the sublime; Oscar Wilde, heaping jewels of ispahan upon brocades of Byzantium, might have created a troubling beauty. Considering it, the mind reeled under visions of the feasts of Elagabalus; and the subtle harmonies of Debussy mingled with the musty, fragrant romance of chests in which have been kept old clothes, ruffs, hose, doublets, of a forgotten generation, and the wan odour of lilies of the valley and the savour of Cheddar cheese. Hayward discovered the tavern at which this priceless beverage was to be obtained by meeting in the street a man called Macalister who had been at Cambridge with him. He was a stockbroker and a philosopher. He was accustomed to go to the tavern once a week; and soon Philip, Lawson, and Hayward got into the habit of meeting there every Tuesday evening: change of manners made it now little frequented, which was an advantage to persons who took pleasure in conversation. Macalister was a big-boned fellow, much too short for his width, with a large, fleshy face and a soft voice. He was a student of Kant and judged everything from the standpoint of pure reason. He was fond of expounding his doctrines. Philip listened with excited interest. He had long come to the conclusion that nothing amused him more than metaphysics, but he was not so sure of their efficacy in the affairs of life. The neat little system which he had formed as the result of his meditations at Blackstable had not been of conspicuous use during his infatuation for Mildred. He could not be positive that reason was much help in the conduct of life. It seemed to him that life lived itself. He remembered very vividly


with were no longer his schoolmates, and though he missed them, it did not matter. He was going to be like Collins soon. That would make up for everything; all he had to do was wait. And then, at the end of his first term in primary six, just a couple of weeks before Christmas, his father and over four thousand teachers in the state were sacked. At first, everything at home went on as usual. His father continued to leave the house at seven in the morning on weekdays, tie knotted, hair shining where globs of Morgan’s Pomade had not been combed in thoroughly, side parting still in place. Ẹniọlá went on believing he would still proceed to the Unity school in Ìkìrun as planned. After all, it was only a matter of time before the governor realised that he was destroying public schools and all the teachers would be reinstated with a personal apology from him. At the very least, some teachers had to be reinstated, and Ẹniọlá’s father, with his experience and qualifications, would definitely be one of those who would be called back because they were needed. It had to happen soon. How would the school run its syllabus without history? How? Night after night, Ẹniọlá fell asleep next to Bùsọ́lá on the sofa while their parents continued this conversation instead of saying the bedtime prayers. On the radio, one of the governor’s aides explained that most of the teachers who had been retrenched taught subjects—fine arts, Yorùbá, food and nutrition, Islamic and Christian religious studies—that would do nothing for the nation’s development. What will our children do with Yorùbá in this modern age? What? You see, what we need now is technology, science and technology. And how will watercolours be useful to them? Isn’t that what the fine arts teachers teach them about? Watercolour. The man on the radio laughed. Christmas had come and gone. It was the first day of the new year, and some of his parents’ friends, many of whom had also lost their jobs, had come over for dinner. As the man continued to laugh, Ẹniọlá found that although the bowl in front of him was filled with pepper soup, he could no longer feel the sting from the peppers or taste the meat. He felt as though he was drinking water with a spoon. When he returned to school after the holidays, he listed retrenchment and reinstatement among the new words he had learnt during the Christmas break. A few months later, his father’s blue Beetle sped past him as he returned home from school. It was being driven by a bald man he did not recognise. When he got home, his mother responded to his questions about the car by demanding that he finish his homework before asking foolish questions, sweep the kitchen floor before disturbing her peace, wash the front yard with a broom before frustrating her in this life. It took her a week to tell him that the car had been sold. By then his father had stopped


has issues, and I’ve learned from experience you do not want to put a problematic piece of real estate on the market. Not if you want to keep your reputation.” “What issues?” Louise asked, but she knew. “I told Louise to leave the art up,” Mark said. “Bare walls make rooms look smaller.” Mercy ticked off the points on her fingers. “The weird noises in the attic, whatever was in the bathroom vanity, you freaked out way too much over those dolls, and the place has some seriously weird vibes.” “I told you we meant to get more done before you got here,” Louise said. “I’ll come right out and say it,” Mercy told them. “Strange noises, bad vibes, your mom and dad recently passed— Your house is haunted and I’m not selling it until you deal with that.” “Holy shit,” Mark said. “That’s . . .” Louise tried to think of the right word. “That’s crazy.” And it did feel crazy. Really crazy. i’m not crazy “You’re upset,” Mercy said. “I get it. No one likes bad news. But my business is houses, and half of selling a house is psychological. Can’t you guys feel how off this place is?” “Yes,” Mark said. “No,” Louise said. “I’d be a fool to ignore my gut,” Mercy said. “It’s no big deal. I’ve handled two problematic properties before.” Louise felt like her cousin had betrayed her. Turned on her. Become the enemy. “This is in really bad taste,” she said. “Our parents just died.” “This can’t come as a total surprise. Your family’s always been weird.” “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Louise asked. “There’s clearly something here you need to deal with,” Mercy said. “But there are people who can help. You get a blessing, do a cleansing, they’re real discreet. They understand how publicity can affect the sale.” “Who does it?” Mark asked. “I used Mom,” Mercy said. Louise remembered that her aunt Gail had a guardian angel named Mebahiah who watched over her and helped her find good parking spaces. “Oh my God,” she said. “Exactly,” Mercy said. “She’s super churched up and, honestly, all she’ll ask y’all for is a donation because they’re building a new adult education center. What’s the downside, Louise? Let’s say you don’t believe it’s haunted, fine. You still get a nice feeling of closure. Both troubled properties I handled wound up getting five percent over asking after they got cleansed.” “Is it Mom and Dad?” Mark asked, his voice low. “Is that who’s in there?” Mercy turned into their cousin again, not a Realtor. “I wish I knew,” she said and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Mark.” “Do you think—” Mark started, and swallowed hard. “Do you think we can see them?” Louise knew she needed to head this off. It was dangerous to even think for a second that dead didn’t mean forever. just a chance to see them again, even for a second “I think we might consult another Realtor,” she said. “No offense.” “None taken,” Mercy said. “But