asked. “Any changes?” I shook my head. No change at all. “It may take some time,” she said. Then, “How are you coping?” “I don’t think I’m going to win any coping trophies anytime soon,” I said. I told her about feeling like I was on an alien planet. I told her about not feeling like myself. I told her about being so terrified of not recognizing people—and then running into Parker. I told her that I wanted to be the kind of person who could think of prosopagnosia as a superpower—but I just didn’t know how to get there. “Well,” she said, “getting there is the fun part.” From anyone else, that would’ve been insulting. I told her about trying to paint Sue’s portrait, and what a total disaster it had been, and how the thought that I’d worked so hard for so long only to finally get my big break and then totally blow it was keeping me up at night. “Why do you want to win the competition so badly?” Dr. Nicole asked. “Because it’s ten thousand dollars—and I’m broke.” She nodded, like, Fair enough. “Any other reasons?” “Because it could change my life,” I said. Dr. Nicole waited, like she knew there’d be more. “Because I could use some encouragement,” I said. “Because I’m ready to get something right. Because I’m just so tired of failing.” That felt like a pretty big confession, right there. But Dr. Nicole just waited, like there was more. “I guess I should mention,” I said then, “that my mother was also a portrait artist. And she also placed in this same competition thirteen years ago. But she, um…” I took a sip of tea. “She died suddenly the week before the show.” Dr. Nicole sat back in her chair. Now, at last, I’d said something real. “We should probably talk about that.” I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. Dr. Nicole gave a little have-it-your-way shrug. “What’s your dream?” she asked then. “What do you want from your career?” “My dream?” I asked. This felt like a trick question. “What does the life you want look like?” I shrugged. “I’d like to be successful.” It felt weird to say that out loud, in a way. Like I was being greedy. But what on earth had I been hustling for all these years if not to be successful? Did anyone ever try like hell for years to not be successful? “I’d like to make a living. A good living. Maybe some job stability. And to just wake up every day and paint. I don’t need to take over the world. I don’t need diamonds and yachts and furs. But I’d like to get my car back. Or—okay, maybe a better car. I don’t want to want too much. I think I could be satisfied with just, like, a functioning car and enough money to pay my bills.” Dr. Nicole waited, like I wasn’t trying hard enough. I went on. “But if you’re asking what I want? Deep down, what I long for?


incident at the first mere mention of the White Whale's name to another ship, Ahab for a moment paused; it almost seemed as though he would have lowered a boat to board the stranger, had not the threatening wind forbade. But taking advantage of his windward position, he again seized his trumpet, and knowing by her aspect that the stranger vessel was a Nantucketer and shortly bound home, he loudly hailed -- Ahoy there! This is the Pequod, bound round the world! Tell them to address all future letters to the Pacific ocean! and this time three years, if I am not at home, tell them to address them to----- At that moment the two wakes were fairly crossed, and instantly, then, in accordance with their singular ways, shoals of small harmless fish, that for some days before had been placidly swimming by our side, darted away with what seemed shuddering fins, and ranged themselves fore and aft with the stranger's flanks. Though in the course of his continual voyagings Ahab must often before have noticed a similar sight, yet, to any monomaniac man, the veriest trifles capriciously carry meanings. Swim away from me, do ye? murmured Ahab, gazing over into the water. There seemed but little in the words, but the tone conveyed more of deep helpless sadness than the insane old man had ever before evinced. But turning to the steersman, who thus far had been holding the ship in the wind to diminish .. <p 236 > her headway, he cried out in his old lion voice, -- Up helm! Keep her off round the world! Round the world! There is much in that sound to inspire proud feelings; but whereto does all that circumnavigation conduct? Only through numberless perils to the very point whence we started, where those that we left behind secure, were all the time before us. Were this world an endless plain, and by sailing eastward we could for ever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise in the voyage. But in pursuit of those far mysteries we dream of, or in tormented chase of that demon phantom that, some time or other, swims before all human hearts; while chasing such over this round globe, they either lead us on in barren mazes or midway leave us whelmed. .. <p 234n. > The cabin-compass is called the tell-tale, because without going to the compass at the helm, the Captain, while below, can inform himself of the course of the ship. .. <p 236 > .. < chapter liii 17 THE GAM > The ostensible reason why Ahab did not go on board of the whaler we had spoken was this: the wind and sea betokened storms. But even had this not been the case, he would not after all, perhaps, have boarded her --judging by his subsequent conduct on similar occasions --if so it had been that, by the process of hailing, he had obtained a negative answer to the


what you say. The three brothers Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don't you know, the fairytales. The third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best prize. Best of Best brothers. Good, better, best. The quaker librarian springhalted near. --I should like to know, he said, which brother you ... I understand you to suggest there was misconduct with one of the brothers ... But perhaps I am anticipating? He caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained. An attendant from the doorway called: --Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants ... --O, Father Dineen! Directly. Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly gone. John Eglinton touched the foil. --Come, he said. Let us hear what you have to say of Richard and Edmund. You kept them for the last, didn't you? --In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. Lapwing. Where is your brother? Apothecaries' hall. My whetstone. Him, then Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They mock to try you. Act. Be acted on. Lapwing. I am tired of my voice, the voice of Esau. My kingdom for a drink. On. --You will say those names were already in the chronicles from which he took the stuff of his plays. Why did he take them rather than others? Richard, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann (what's in a name?), woos and wins her, a whoreson merry widow. Richard the conqueror, third brother, came after William the conquered. The other four acts of that play hang limply from that first. Of all his kings Richard is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the angel of the world. Why is the underplot of KING LEAR in which Edmund figures lifted out of Sidney's ARCADIA and spatchcocked on to a Celtic legend older than history? --That was Will's way, John Eglinton defended. We should not now combine a Norse saga with an excerpt from a novel by George Meredith. QUE VOULEZ-VOUS? Moore would say. He puts Bohemia on the seacoast and makes Ulysses quote Aristotle. --Why? Stephen answered himself. Because the theme of the false or the usurping or the adulterous brother or all three in one is to Shakespeare, what the poor are not, always with him. The note of banishment, banishment from the heart, banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly from THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the earth and drowns his book. It doubles itself in the middle of his life, reflects itself in another, repeats itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe. It repeats itself again when he is near the grave, when his married daughter Susan, chip of the old block, is accused of adultery. But it was the original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will and left in him a strong inclination to evil. The words are those of my lords bishops


“That news to you?” “I always known,” Speedo says. “Just not how hard.” “You better know how hard.” “I got it now.” “He ain’t my son no more. It’s too late for him to be. She made him over into a trick poodle.” “It’s a tragedy,” Kuba says. Jason is concerned about the logistics. “So we pop a couple caps, then what we do with two stiffs?” “We get my Aviator runnin’,” says Hakeem, “we could tie ’em to the roof rack.” Carlisle disapproves of levity in this situation. “Whoever you tryin’ to be, Hakeem, you for sure ain’t no Kevin Hart or Dave Chappelle.” “Can’t leave two stone-dead here with our wheels,” Jason says. “We call Modeen and Lincoln to come get us,” Aleem says. “They bring plastic sheets and tape, wrap her and him, take ’em with us. We set our dead wheels on fire, say the Crips or MS-13 stole them. Why they drove here and burned them—who knows?” Speedo wants to prove he really gets—and approves of—how hard Aleem is. “Back home, call Hector Salazar, bring the meat to him.” Hector—of Salazar Marine Services—owns two substantial boats. He has a taste for taking risks of all kinds, a talent for evading authorities, and no moral compunctions whatsoever. “Hector he takes the bodies out to sea,” Speedo continues, “chops ’em into chum, feeds the sharks.” “Sounds like a plan,” Jason says. “Only thing,” Kuba says, “nobody’s gonna pop no caps, ’cause then we gotta throw away a gun has a bad history and maybe gotta wrap up loose brains and skull pieces. A knife don’t have no history like a gun. And done right, it’s neater.” “It ain’t just a plan,” Hakeem declares, “it’s an episode of The Sopranos.” “Three teams,” Aleem says, “two men to a building, till we searched ’em all. Remember the bitch has herself a piece, a trey eight, and she knows how to use it.” Jason and Speedo each has a flashlight, so Aleem takes one for him and Kuba. They move away from the trees, toward the buildings, one man short of being the Magnificent Seven, like in that old Western Aleem has watched several times. Even though they’re only six, they have an important advantage the seven didn’t possess, which is that they aren’t to any extent whatsoever restrained by a foolish sense of community values, by honor, by pity—or by anything, really. The chance of finding Nina and John in one of these buildings is low, and the likelihood that the plan Aleem cooked up to deal with the four SUVs will work is even lower. However, this world doesn’t reward second-guessers. You can change direction if a fork in the path appears and has promise, but you can’t back up and rethink, because in this business, to both your enemies and your homeys, that looks like retreat. Retreat is seen as weakness, and the weak die young, which they deserve to do. The only thing that Aleem despises is weakness. Once you commit to an operation, you have to drive


stomach dropped. We were setting a date. “He golfs on Fridays. He comes home at noon to change and get his clubs.” “Friday at noon. I’ll be waiting for him.” I nodded mutely. It didn’t feel real. “And Lee will be at the beach tomorrow,” he assured me. “Be ready.” “And Hazel will be at the beach tomorrow,” he assured me. “Be ready.” He went back inside, leaving me alone in the alley. * * * I baked scones that night—peach and brown butter—and I plotted, worried, wondered. If Lee showed up, it meant Jesse had power over her. That she was emotionally, if not physically, involved with him. He’d assured me that they weren’t intimate, but then how else had he cast such a spell on her? He and I rarely had sex anymore. There was no time. We were under so much stress. I told myself it was normal, but was it? Jesse was a passionate, sexual man. Was he having those needs met elsewhere? I shook off my petty jealousies. They would only get in the way. My focus had to be on Lee, on wheedling my way back into her good graces. No woman could resist a spa day—especially a woman in her situation. I’d pay for her to be primped and pampered. I’d ask my stylist, Karl, to cut her hair, make it look like mine. And then I’d suggest she enter my house and fool the cameras. Would she do that for me? It would be terrifying for her. Lee knew my husband was violent. But if I offered her money and new identification, she might just go through with it. Benjamin kept his golf clubs in the closet in his study. There were no cameras in that room. That’s where Jesse would do it. Lee wouldn’t even go in there. She’d be spared the blood and gore. She wouldn’t even know my husband was dead, stabbed with her own knife, until the police came to arrest her. The thought made me double over, and I worried I might be sick. But I pulled it together, righted myself, pushed the noxious guilt away. I directed my memory to Jesse’s assurances that Lee would be okay, even cared for, that she would get the help she needed. And I set my mind on that bubble of hope. Of anticipation. Finally, I would be free. To be with Jesse. The man I loved. 33 THE NEXT MORNING, SHE WAS there, as Jesse had promised she would be. My feet crunched on the loose rocks as I approached the car and tapped gently on the window. She opened her eyes, and they were cold when she recognized me. But she climbed out of the car, slowly, in pain, like she always was in the morning. I begged her for forgiveness, literally begged. As I served her fresh-baked scones and coffee, I told her how I’d panicked when I saw her on the street. “Vanessa and Laurie are shallow and judgmental,” I said. “If I’d introduced you as my friend,


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

which it still thought I was. Silly, really, to think of the enchantment as a person—but it felt like one. I placed my hand upon the stump and lifted the axe—oh, only to check that the blade hadn’t dulled, of course. Better lift it a little higher to catch the moonlight. I carried on this way until the last moment, at which point I threw my will against the enchantment with all my might. For the briefest of seconds, I was free. I thought the enchantment was surprised, but probably that was only my fancy. I knew I would not have more than that single second—certainly it would not allow me a second chance—and drove the axe towards my finger. I did it the way Lilja had taught me—fixing my eyes on the target, letting the weight of the axe do the work. My other fingers I folded against the side of the stump, to keep them out of the way. I was half convinced I would miss and drive the axe into my hand—it was not at all the same as aiming for a crack in a log, no matter what I tried to tell myself—but I heard Lilja’s voice in my head, her offhanded good cheer, as if there was nothing in the world more ordinary than what I was doing, and I didn’t hesitate. My aim was true, and suddenly I was gazing at my finger, and it was not at the end of my hand. It was the most curious sensation. At first, I was conscious only of the enchantment leaving me—it felt like falling, that dream sensation in which there is no ground to hit, only wakefulness. I awoke, and then immediately after that, the pain rolled over me in a red wave. I staggered about, fading in and out of consciousness. I threw up at one point, I think. But somehow, when I fully returned to my senses, I found that I had wrenched off my glove and pressed my scarf against the hollow where my third finger had been. I sobbed there in the snow for a moment or two, from relief as much as from the pain. When I’d got that out of my system, I returned to the cottage and bandaged my hand. Then I set off again for the white tree. 3rd December (?) I just read over that again. It sounds irrational, if not insane—but I assure you, my mind was quite clear. Of course I considered waking Wendell. But that would have given me away—the king in the tree would have known I wasn’t enchanted if I arrived with Wendell in tow. As a general rule, the Folk do not take kindly to mortals who find ways to break their enchantments—they see it as an affront to their craftsmanship—and so to travel there in an unenchanted state would have been a risky prospect indeed. I suppose most would ask why I wished to go to the king at all. I cannot answer that adequately, other than by posing more questions.


brow pinched. ‘My fingers.’ Dumai took off her mittens for her. When she saw, her chest tightened. ‘You have frostnip.’ She blew warmth on to her fingertips, which had turned pink and swelled a little. ‘You must keep your hands moving as we go on.’ ‘Will I lose the fingers?’ ‘Not if you keep them out of the cold.’ ‘What happened to yours?’ Dumai curled them in her gauntlet. Nikeya reached for the cord around her wrist, asking permission with her gaze. When Dumai nodded, she unwound it and eased the armoured glove off, so she could see the remnant fingers. ‘I was ten,’ Dumai said, letting her touch them. ‘The snowstorm came out of nowhere, while we had climbers on the peak. The sky had been clear all morning, but a mountain makes its own weather. ‘When they brought the first man down, one hand frozen solid, I ran out, certain I could find my mother. In my haste, I forgot my gloves.’ She almost shivered, remembering. ‘It was like . . . falling inside a pearl. In moments, I had lost my bearings in the snow. Mother found me just in time. I lived, but my fingertips died. She trimmed them with a blade.’ ‘That must have been terrifying, for a child. I never knew such hardship.’ ‘It taught me to keep my guard up, even when I think I know exactly what I’m doing. And to raise it higher when I have no idea.’ Dumai looked at her. ‘Did the River Lord tell you to seduce me?’ Nikeya kept hold of her hand. ‘Of course he did,’ she said, very softly. ‘But you’ve always known that.’ ‘How can I ever trust you, then?’ ‘You already do. You were not made for artifice and intrigue, Dumai. It’s what I’ve always liked about you. You trust people, because you want to see the good in them. Even me, in spite of yourself.’ Nikeya traced the line of her jaw. ‘I know I have tested your patience, but I needed to see who you were, to make sure Seiiki had a ruler who would protect its people. I think you could be that ruler – born to a mother from the dust provinces, raised on a mountain to cherish the gods.’ ‘My father loves the gods, too, and the people. It is yours who stops him knowing them.’ ‘Dumai.’ Nikeya cupped her cheek. ‘I know I am a Kuposa. I know you see me as his instrument, a bird who sings only his songs, but I told you. I am my own woman.’ Her voice caught. ‘I can’t deny that I am like him. But I am also like my mother, and she taught me to love the gods. So I will stand with you . . . and I would be your comfort. If you let me.’ When Dumai drew back to look at the Lady of Faces, she found her gaze as bright as tumbled stone, her lips a silent invitation. This was her true face, vulnerable in its nakedness.


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which was asleep. "His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff -- I mean, I got Scabbers instead." Ron's ears went pink. He seemed to think he'd said too much, because he went back to staring out of the window. Harry didn't think there was anything wrong with not being able to afford an owl. After all, he'd never had any money in his life until a month ago, and he told Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley's old clothes and never getting proper birthday presents. This seemed to cheer Ron up. "...and until Hagrid told me, I didn't know anything about being a wizard or about my parents or Voldemort." Ron gasped. "What?" said Harry. "You said You-Know-Who's name!" said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people -- " "I'm not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name," said Harry, "I just never knew you shouldn't. See what I mean? I've got loads to learn...I bet," he added, voicing for the first time something that had been worrying him a lot lately, "I bet I'm the worst in the class." "You won't be. There's loads of people who come from Muggle families and they learn quick enough." While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past. Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?" Harry, who hadn't had any breakfast, leapt to his feet, but Ron's ears went pink again and he muttered that he'd brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the corridor. He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with gold and silver he was ready to buy as many Mars Bars as he could carry -- but the woman didn't have Mars Bars. What she did have were Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss anything, he got some of everything and paid the woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts. Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat. "Hungry, are you?" "Starving," said Harry, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty. Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, "She always forgets I don't like corned beef." "Swap you for one of these," said Harry, holding up a pasty. "Go on -- "


and the river went down between its banks again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. We couldn't handle him, of course; he would a flung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. Jim said he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. It was as big a fish as was ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn't ever seen a bigger one. He would a been worth a good deal over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that by the pound in the market- house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as snow and makes a good fry. Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get a stirring up some way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the river and find out what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he said I must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he studied it over and said, couldn't I put on some of them old things and dress up like a girl? That was a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove- pipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practiced around all day to get the hang of the things, and by and by I could do pretty well in them, only Jim said I didn't walk like a girl; and he said I must quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket. I took notice, and done better. I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after dark. I started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and I wondered who had took up quarters there. I slipped up and peeped in at the window. There was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on


at the old man's bedside, but William never shows up. Silas falls asleep--or probably has a fit--and when he comes to, the deacon is dead. Silas innocently goes off to work as usual. But that night he is summoned to a mysterious church meeting (it's William Dane who comes to fetch him). There, Silas is shown his own pocket-knife, which was found in the dead deacon's dresser drawer--where a bag of church money should have been. Silas, knowing he's innocent, stays calm. But when the brethren search his house, William finds the money (he probably hid it there). While William is accusing him, Silas remembers with a sickening jolt that William had borrowed his knife the day before, but loyally he says nothing. The congregation tries the case by praying and drawing lots. NOTE: LOTS This, Eliot says, was typical practice for some sects. They bypassed the legal process, believing that only God should judge and punish offenders. In this ritual, everyone in the group drew a slip of paper. Whoever drew a particular marked slip was judged guilty. William Dane probably fixed it so Silas would draw the damning piece of paper. Silas feels sure he'll be cleared, although he's already disturbed by William's treachery. Then comes the shocking decision--the lots show that Silas is guilty. What could he have done to prove his innocence? What would you have done in his place? He is asked to leave the sect, to return the money, and to confess his guilt. He protests, explaining that William had the knife. But in the heat of emotion, he speaks against God, causing the brethren to side with William. Silas leaves with his faith in God as shattered as his faith in his fellow man. Silas' reaction is extreme, for his world has been turned upside down. He seems helpless and passive. He doesn't try to regain Sarah's confidence, he doesn't question the church's decision--he just buries himself in his familiar, repetitive work. As you might expect, Sarah soon marries William Dane. Silas leaves town so quietly that the brethren don't know about it until he's gone. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 2 Imagine setting foot on another planet, with a moonlit rocky landscape and a green sky. Imagine trying to talk to the natives--purple blobs of flesh that emit high-pitched whines. You might feel the way Silas Marner does when he arrives in Raveloe. Its landscape is unfamiliar--woods instead of rolling hills--and its people are slow-moving and prosperous, totally unlike the urban artisans he's lived among. Eliot stresses that this shock would have fallen especially hard on a simple mind like Silas'. His thoughts fly back longingly to Lantern-Yard, picturing the chapel and hearing the familiar service again. Though he has broken with its doctrines, he's still tied in his heart to the physical place, from years of association. This is natural, Eliot tells you--and she compares him to a child, responding instinctively to a parent's sheltering care. Already Eliot is foreshadowing the attachment to Eppie which will be his salvation. Eliot looks back in time,


or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. 'Nobody shall go near her,' said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. 'Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!' 'Nonsense, my good man,' said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. 'Nonsense!' 'I tell you,' said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor,--'I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her--not eat her--she is so worn away.' The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. 'Ah!' said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; 'kneel down, kneel down --kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark--in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They starved her!' He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips. The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker. 'She was my daughter,' said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. 'Lord, Lord! Well, it IS strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying ther: so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!--to think of it; it's as good as a play--as good as a play!' As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away. 'Stop, stop!' said the old woman in a loud whisper. 'Will she be buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night? I laid her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind; send some bread--only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some


had done placing the luggage, and heard him express his thanks for the ale her husband took out to him, and for the gratuity he received. Jonathan's footsteps then died from the door, and his cart creaked away. Angel slid forward the massive oak bar which secured the door, and coming in to where she sat over the hearth, pressed her cheeks between his hands from behind. He expected her to jump up gaily and unpack the toilet-gear that she had been so anxious about, but as she did not rise he sat down with her in the firelight, the candles on the supper-table being too thin and glimmering to interfere with its glow. "I am so sorry you should have heard this sad story about the girls," he said. "Still, don't let it depress you. Retty was naturally morbid, you know." "Without the least cause," said Tess. "While they who have cause to be, hide it, and pretend they are not." This incident had turned the scale for her. They were simple and innocent girls on whom the unhappiness of unrequited love had fallen; they had deserved better at the hands of Fate. She had deserved worse--yet she was the chosen one. It was wicked of her to take all without paying. She would pay to the uttermost farthing; she would tell, there and then. This final determination she came to when she looked into the fire, he holding her hand. A steady glare from the now flameless embers painted the sides and back of the fireplace with its colour, and the well-polished andirons, and the old brass tongs that would not meet. The underside of the mantel-shelf was flushed with the high-coloured light, and the legs of the table nearest the fire. Tess's face and neck reflected the same warmth, which each gem turned into an Aldebaran or a Sirius--a constellation of white, red, and green flashes, that interchanged their hues with her every pulsation. "Do you remember what we said to each other this morning about telling our faults?" he asked abruptly, finding that she still remained immovable. "We spoke lightly perhaps, and you may well have done so. But for me it was no light promise. I want to make a confession to you, Love." This, from him, so unexpectedly apposite, had the effect upon her of a Providential interposition. "You have to confess something?" she said quickly, and even with gladness and relief. "You did not expect it? Ah--you thought too highly of me. Now listen. Put your head there, because I want you to forgive me, and not to be indignant with me for not telling you before, as perhaps I ought to have done." How strange it was! He seemed to be her double. She did not speak, and Clare went on---- "I did not mention it because I was afraid of endangering my chance of you, darling, the great prize of my life--my Fellowship I call you. My brother's Fellowship was won at his college, mine at Talbothays Dairy. Well, I would not risk


of airy kisses from her fingertips past the cherry blossoms and then, with her chin in her hands, drifted luxuriously out on a sea of daydreams. 9. Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Properly Horrified Anne had been a fortnight at Green Gables before Mrs. Lynde arrived to inspect her. Mrs. Rachel, to do her justice, was not to blame for this. A severe and unseasonable attack of grippe had confined that good lady to her house ever since the occasion of her last visit to Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel was not often sick and had a welldefined contempt for people who were; but grippe, she asserted, was like no other illness on earth and could only be interpreted as one of the special visitations of Providence. As soon as her doctor allowed her to put her foot out-of-doors she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting with curiosity to see Matthew's and Marilla's orphan, concerning whom all sorts of stories and suppositions had gone abroad in Avonlea. Anne had made good use of every waking moment of that fortnight. Already she was acquainted with every tree and shrub about the place. She had discovered that a lane opened out below the apple orchard and ran up through a belt of woodland; and she had explored it to its furthest end in all its delicious vagaries of brook and bridge, fir coppice and wild cherry arch, corners thick with fern, and branching byways of maple and mountain ash. She had made friends with the spring down in the hollowthat wonderful deep, clear icy-cold spring; it was set about with smooth red sandstones and rimmed in by great palm-like clumps of water fern; and beyond it was a log bridge over the brook. That bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a wooded hill beyond, where perpetual twilight reigned under the straight, thick-growing firs and spruces; the only flowers there were myriads of delicate "June bells," those shyest and sweetest of woodland blood, and a few pale, aerial starflowers, like the spirits of last year's blossoms. Gossamers glimmered like threads of silver among the trees and the fir boughs and tassels seemed to utter friendly speech. All these raptured voyages of exploration were made in the odd half hours which she was allowed for play, and Anne talked Matthew and Marilla halfdeaf over her discoveries. Not that Matthew complained, to be sure; he listened to it all with a wordless smile of enjoyment on his face; Marilla permitted the "chatter" until she found herself becoming too interested in it, whereupon she always promptly quenched Anne by a curt command to hold her tongue. Anne was out in the orchard when Mrs. Rachel came, wandering at her own sweet will through the lush, tremulous grasses splashed with ruddy evening sunshine; so that good lady had an excellent chance to talk her illness fully over, describing every ache and pulse beat with such evident enjoyment that Marilla thought even grippe must bring its compensations. When details were exhausted Mrs. Rachel introduced the real reason of her call. "I've


only what Newland was entitled to; but young men are so foolish and incalculable--and some women so ensnaring and unscrupulous--that it was nothing short of a miracle to see one's only son safe past the Siren Isle and in the haven of a blameless domesticity. All this Mrs. Archer felt, and her son knew she felt; but he knew also that she had been perturbed by the premature announcement of his engagement, or rather by its cause; and it was for that reason--because on the whole he was a tender and indulgent master--that he had stayed at home that evening. "It's not that I don't approve of the Mingotts' esprit de corps; but why Newland's engagement should be mixed up with that Olenska woman's comings and goings I don't see," Mrs. Archer grumbled to Janey, the only witness of her slight lapses from perfect sweetness. She had behaved beautifully--and in beautiful behaviour she was unsurpassed--during the call on Mrs. Welland; but Newland knew (and his betrothed doubtless guessed) that all through the visit she and Janey were nervously on the watch for Madame Olenska's possible intrusion; and when they left the house together she had permitted herself to say to her son: "I'm thankful that Augusta Welland received us alone." These indications of inward disturbance moved Archer the more that he too felt that the Mingotts had gone a little too far. But, as it was against all the rules of their code that the mother and son should ever allude to what was uppermost in their thoughts, he simply replied: "Oh, well, there's always a phase of family parties to be gone through when one gets engaged, and the sooner it's over the better." At which his mother merely pursed her lips under the lace veil that hung down from her grey velvet bonnet trimmed with frosted grapes. Her revenge, he felt--her lawful revenge--would be to "draw" Mr. Jackson that evening on the Countess Olenska; and, having publicly done his duty as a future member of the Mingott clan, the young man had no objection to hearing the lady discussed in private--except that the subject was already beginning to bore him. Mr. Jackson had helped himself to a slice of the tepid filet which the mournful butler had handed him with a look as sceptical as his own, and had rejected the mushroom sauce after a scarcely perceptible sniff. He looked baffled and hungry, and Archer reflected that he would probably finish his meal on Ellen Olenska. Mr. Jackson leaned back in his chair, and glanced up at the candlelit Archers, Newlands and van der Luydens hanging in dark frames on the dark walls. "Ah, how your grandfather Archer loved a good dinner, my dear Newland!" he said, his eyes on the portrait of a plump full-chested young man in a stock and a blue coat, with a view of a white-columned country-house behind him. "Well--well--well . . . I wonder what he would have said to all these foreign marriages!" Mrs. Archer ignored the allusion to the ancestral cuisine and


not in the first few moments that I saw all these things, though I saw more of them in the first moments than might be supposed. But, I saw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been white long ago, and had lost its lustre, and was faded and yellow. I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose, had shrunk to skin and bone. Once, I had been taken to see some ghastly waxwork at the Fair, representing I know not what impossible personage lying in state. Once, I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches to see a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress, that had been dug out of a vault under the church pavement. Now, waxwork and skeleton seemed to have dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if I could. "Who is it?" said the lady at the table. "Pip, ma'am." "Pip?" "Mr. Pumblechook's boy, ma'am. Come - to play." "Come nearer; let me look at you. Come close." It was when I stood before her, avoiding her eyes, that I took note of the surrounding objects in detail, and saw that her watch had stopped at twenty minutes to nine, and that a clock in the room had stopped at twenty minutes to nine. "Look at me," said Miss Havisham. "You are not afraid of a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born?" I regret to state that I was not afraid of telling the enormous lie comprehended in the answer "No." "Do you know what I touch here?" she said, laying her hands, one upon the other, on her left side. "Yes, ma'am." (It made me think of the young man.) "What do I touch?" "Your heart." "Broken!" She uttered the word with an eager look, and with strong emphasis, and with a weird smile that had a kind of boast in it. Afterwards, she kept her hands there for a little while, and slowly took them away as if they were heavy. "I am tired," said Miss Havisham. "I want diversion, and I have done with men and women. Play." I think it will be conceded by my most disputatious reader, that she could hardly have directed an unfortunate boy to do anything in the wide world more difficult to be done under the circumstances. "I sometimes have sick fancies," she went on, "and I have a sick fancy that I want to see some play. There there!" with an impatient movement of the fingers of her right hand; "play, play, play!" For a moment, with the fear of my sister's working me before my eyes, I had a desperate idea of starting round the room in the


is not well that her very thoughts go into the hands of strangers." I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found the name and address of Mrs. Westenra's solicitor and had written to him. All the poor lady's papers were in order. Explicit directions regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room, saying, "Can I help you friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is to you." "Have you got what you looked for?" I asked. To which he replied, "I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I have, all that there was, only some letters and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the present say nothing of them. I shall see that poor lad tomorrow evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some." When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me, "And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you and I, and rest to recuperate. Tomorrow we shall have much to do, but for the tonight there is no need of us. Alas!" Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small chapelle ardente. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers, and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the winding sheet was laid over the face. When the Professor bent over and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us. The tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All Lucy's loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed, instead of leaving traces of `decay's effacing fingers', had but restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse. The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me, "Remain till I return," and left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its place, and we came away. I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the door, he entered, and at once began to speak. "Tomorrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem knives." "Must we make an autopsy?" I asked. "Yes and no. I want to operate, but not what you think. Let me


towards the end. “I don’t like the way you talk to me.” “How? I was just trying…What did I…? I’m too tired, Kúnlé. Can we discuss this later?” “You’re always too tired.” “As a matter of fact, yes, and you’re not helping. You are also stressing me out. Can we just drop this?” “You’ve not even acknowledged my apology.” “Saying ‘I’m sorry but—’ doesn’t count as an apology, not that it matters. I said let’s forget this. Can’t I just listen to music in peace?” “I just meant that people want something different in this country, okay? All those things you’re saying don’t win elections here, okay?” “Dear God. Okay, whatever.” “I feel you don’t even care enough to fight for us.” “Fight for what? Kúnlé, I like you a lot, you know that. Just. Please.” “You know I love you.” He placed a hand on her knee and squeezed. “Even though you’re so fucking stubborn.” Wúràọlá did not say anything. At some point after they started dating, he had convinced himself that she was obstinate, and when he brought it up, it could be in anger, as an insult, or because he was somehow turned on by the idea or saw her refusal to yield on a certain point as a challenge. He moved his hand up her thigh. Turned on, then. Always better than when he thought she was challenging him. They had turned into the street her parents had named after themselves because they were the first to move there. Her parents’ home was the second on the end, and only its roof was visible behind barbed-wire-topped walls. The gate was opened after Kúnlé honked twice, and Wúràọlá waved at the guard as they drove in. He responded with a mock salute. The house itself was set back from the gate, leaving room for a lawn wide enough to host novelty football matches and an artificial waterfall that was turned on only when her father had special guests. They drove up the gravelled driveway that led past the front door to a concrete-floored rectangle where cars were usually parked beside a cluster of masquerade trees. Kúnlé put an arm around her shoulder as they cut across the lawn to the house. Wúràọlá rang the bell twice, then reached into her bag for her keys. The door burst open before she could slip the key into the lock, and Mọ́tárá nearly walked into her as she stormed out of the house, wearing shorts and a tube top that their mother would never have allowed Wúràọlá to wear in the house when she was a teenager. “You, you’ve forgotten how to greet your elders?” Wúràọlá said. Mọ́tárá kept stomping her way towards the cluster of masquerade trees. “Sorry about that,” Wúràọlá said to Kúnlé. “That girl is something else when she’s in a mood.” Kúnlé shrugged. “She’s a brat.” It was something she had said many times to Kúnlé, her parents, Láyí and Mọ́tárá herself, but it irritated her to hear Kúnlé repeat it. She shook his arm off her shoulder


here. Fear raked its teeth across my tender throat and tore my breath away. I floundered, struggling upright. Someone was here. Someone was following me. It was dark and I was alone and no one knew I was here, and these woods had been promised my death and denied it. If I was going to die, the part of me that once yearned for magic insisted, it would be here. I bolted. I thought I was running for the road, but I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t see anything but the ground right in front of me, and the thunder of my heart and my footsteps drowned out any hope of listening for a pursuer. Idiot, idiot, idiot, I berated myself. Branches snagged at my arms. You’re going to die, you’re going to die. But there was the road, and my car, and the anemic glow of the streetlight. I wrenched open the door and shot inside, slamming it behind me. With the doors locked, I remembered to breathe. I bent over with my fists pressed against my stomach, forcing in one lungful after another. Had there even been someone else out there? I could have imagined it, couldn’t I, that shadow in the trees? My mind was wheeling with memories, with the memory of pain and fear. Who else would be out there in the middle of the night? Why the hell would they run? So I’d imagined it. I’d gotten drunk, fallen down in the forest, and mistaken a tree for an ax murderer. I didn’t really believe it. But I wanted to, and I tried to, and it was almost the same thing. A rap on the car window woke me with a jerk. Chief Bishop stood outside, scowling, a navy baseball cap protecting her hair from the steady drizzle. I’d fallen asleep crammed in the driver’s-side seat, a dignified line of drool running from the corner of my mouth to my chin. I scraped it off with my sleeve and rolled down the window, squinting in the early morning light. “Morning,” I croaked. “Looks like you made some less than optimal decisions last night,” Bishop said. “That’s an accurate assessment,” I acknowledged. My throat felt like sandpaper. She gave me a skeptical look. “Ms. Shaw, what are you doing out here?” “You know, it seemed therapeutic last night,” I said, not bothering to correct her. I’d always be Naomi Shaw here. “Can’t fucking remember why.” I rubbed sleep grime from my eyes and blinked a bit. “Are you going to cite me for something?” “Sheer stupidity?” she suggested. “What’s the fine on that, like fifty bucks?” I asked. “If I write the Miracle Girl of Chester a ticket, the city council will send me packing,” she informed me. “But you are parked practically in the middle of the street just past a blind curve, you stink of booze, and you look like you got in a fight with a tree and lost. I need to know that if I let you drive off, you’re not going to wrap


her in school.” Alice’s face barely moved as Maria described the vision for Tennessee Hollow. The adobe house would contain exhibits about the lives of Juana Briones and her sisters. Educational programs would run year-round, with summer camps for disadvantaged children. The re-created garden (“Maud will tell you more about that”) would be cultivated by students from a bilingual charter school and its produce sold at the Mission Dolores farmers market. Listening to Maria steadied Maud’s nerves until it was her turn to speak. But four sentences in, she was back in her plaid uniform in front of a classroom at Holy Conception, reciting a poem she couldn’t remember, every missed word a five-point deduction. At first she sped too quickly through her description of how she’d located the garden, then she slowed down painfully on its design. “Once we’ve finished the soil testing, I’ll know more and then I can decide what exactly to choose,” she said, trailing off. Alice’s eyelids lowered, as if Maud had bored her to oblivion. At least with the PowerPoint there would have been pictures. “Well,” Maria said, ending the fiasco, “that wraps things up here. The folks from development will arrive soon.” “Great,” Alice said dryly. The dog moved its head from its paws to her foot. “It was nice meeting you,” Maud said. “You have dirt on your shoes,” Alice said. Maud looked down. Her flats were crusted with mud on the toes, a rippling line of brown like a trim on the black leather. “Gardeners often do,” she said. “Good for them,” Alice said with an approving nod. On the way back home, Maria called. “Nice job,” she said. “I told you she’s a piece of work.” “I blathered. Does she ever smile?” “I don’t think so. She’s the spider. We’re the flies. I hate this part of the job. And her insistence on anonymity is annoying. She doesn’t seem to realize that people barely know who she is now. She was so hot in the nineties. I guess she thinks if word gets out that she’s giving away all this money, journalists will swarm her compound.” “Do you think she’ll fund it?” “No clue. We have another meeting next week. But I’m moving that one to the archaeology center. I don’t think the foundation office is helping our case. She ate the development people alive. Anyway, you’re on salary until the end of the month.” No, Maud thought. It can’t be over. “Can I go ahead with the pomegranate tree?” she asked. “The soil’s warm enough for planting now.” “Sure.” Maria sighed. “We can afford that, at least.” Ahead of the car, the Marin Headlands undulated at the foot of the bay, tawny and smooth as sleeping hounds. Maud had grown up less than an hour away, yet she had never walked those hills as a child, merely glimpsed them on excursions to the city. For months when Ella was in treatment, she had relearned this landscape and unlearned the history she’d been taught about it as a girl. She read everything


- any length of time? We are both so young, sir, -' 'You are right,' interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his head a great many times, and frowning very much, 'you are both very young. It's all nonsense. Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away those letters, and throw them in the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow's letters to throw in the fire; and although our future intercourse must, you are aware, be restricted to the Commons here, we will agree to make no further mention of the past. Come, Mr. Copperfield, you don't want sense; and this is the sensible course.' No. I couldn't think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry, but there was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all earthly considerations, and I loved Dora to idolatry, and Dora loved me. I didn't exactly say so; I softened it down as much as I could; but I implied it, and I was resolute upon it. I don't think I made myself very ridiculous, but I know I was resolute. 'Very well, Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'I must try my influence with my daughter.' Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long drawn respiration, which was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was like both, gave it as her opinion that he should have done this at first. 'I must try,' said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this support, 'my influence with my daughter. Do you decline to take those letters, Mr. Copperfield?' For I had laid them on the table. Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong, but I couldn't possibly take them from Miss Murdstone. 'Nor from me?' said Mr. Spenlow. No, I replied with the profoundest respect; nor from him. 'Very well!' said Mr. Spenlow. A silence succeeding, I was undecided whether to go or stay. At length I was moving quietly towards the door, with the intention of saying that perhaps I should consult his feelings best by withdrawing: when he said, with his hands in his coat pockets, into which it was as much as he could do to get them; and with what I should call, upon the whole, a decidedly pious air: 'You are probably aware, Mr. Copperfield, that I am not altogether destitute of worldly possessions, and that my daughter is my nearest and dearest relative?' I hurriedly made him a reply to the effect, that I hoped the error into which I had been betrayed by the desperate nature of my love, did not induce him to think me mercenary too? 'I don't allude to the matter in that light,' said Mr. Spenlow. 'It would be better for yourself, and all of us, if you WERE mercenary, Mr. Copperfield - I mean, if you were more discreet and less influenced by all this youthful nonsense. No. I merely say, with quite another view, you are probably aware I have some property to bequeath to my child?' I certainly supposed so. 'And you can hardly think,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'having


She let him in and braced herself, ready for an extended rant. Kúnlé said nothing before reversing in a swift motion that jolted her. “I thought we were taking your car.” She sat her chair up and fixed the seat belt. “Can we buy food? I’m hungry.” Kúnlé did not respond. “Can we stop at Captain Cook before going to your place? We could just get meat pie to start with? What do you think? Okay, play dumb. Just don’t ever talk to me like that again. I’m warning you now. Why were you shouting in front of everybody, because of what?” He slowed down as they approached the hospital gate. Somewhere between secondary school and university, whiny, sulky Kúnlé had become the sort of person who now wound down his window to greet the security guards, with such an abundance of Ẹ kú iṣẹ́, Major, and Well done, Officers, that he was passed through without being asked to open the boot for inspection. His manoeuvre collapsed the gap between aspirations and reality with two words, “Major,” “Officers.” The men and woman he had greeted had no title beyond security guard. They could not be further away from the military cadres that their beaming responses to Kúnlé’s flattery suggested they had once aspired to. Although they were employees of the hospital, there were rumours that their roles would soon be outsourced to private firms. She wasn’t sure if Kúnlé’s practice of endearing himself to strangers in this way was exploitative or benevolent. Perhaps as with many acts of generosity, it was both. Once they drove out of the hospital, she turned to stare at the stalls and houses that whizzed by until they all blurred into a dream. It was raining. She was in the middle of a highway, kneeling over a baby whose wails rose above the claps of thunder, listening for his heartbeat. Somewhere a grandfather clock was striking midnight. She could hear the roar of speeding trucks and tankers, the screech of tires on wet tarmac, the screams of a vulture that had perched on her left shoulder. She could not hear the baby’s heartbeat. Even when the highway emptied out and the rain stopped as the sun rose, she couldn’t hear the heartbeat. When the vulture’s cry merged with the baby’s into one relentless scream, Wúràọlá tried to drop him but found that her hands were glued to him. She awoke to the sound of pounding, and that noise was a respite. This time the dream had stopped before another vulture perched on her head. For weeks after he died under her watch, she’d dreamt about the baby almost daily, waking up to wonder if there was anything else she could have done for him. It was better now; these days she only dreamt of him during the snatches of sleep she caught while on call or just after. Pius: 2.2 kg, vaginal delivery at 29 weeks gestational age. Apgar scores 5 and 6 at 1 and 5 minutes. Wúràọlá tried to refocus her thoughts on his twin,


and Key. Punter is another word for a gambler.” Johnny and Punter’s friends built a Gauntlet. On hallowed ground. Dawes was clutching the towel with both hands now, as if it were a microphone she was about to sing into. “Would that I might make thee love books more than thy mother. That quote is above the entry, above the scribe. It’s written in hieroglyphs.” Stories were immutable. And what was a library but a house full of stories? “It’s Sterling,” Alex said. “The library is the portal to hell.” Erected in memory of JOHN WILLIAM STERLING BORN 12 MAY 1844 DIED 5 JULY 1918 B.A. 1864: M.A. 1874 LL.D. 1893: LAWYER LOYAL FRIEND TRUSTED ADVISER AGGRESSIVE LEADER DEVOTED ALUMNUS James Gamble Rogers Architect —Memorial inscription, entrance to Sterling Memorial Library If I must be a prisoner I would desire to have no other prison than that library. —James I, engraved above the entrance to the exhibition corridor of Sterling Memorial Library 11 Alex had every intention of helping Dawes research, but the next thing she knew she was waking up in the parlor at Il Bastone, morning light drifting through the windows. A copy of the 1931 Yale Gazette article detailing Sterling’s decoration rested open on her chest as though she’d tried to use the book to tuck herself in. She felt warm and easy, as if she’d imagined everything at Black Elm, and this morning could just be simple, an ordinary Sunday. She touched her hand to the floorboards and they seemed to hum. “Did you do that?” she asked Il Bastone, staring up at the coffered ceiling and the pendant lamp that hung high above her from a brass chain. The bulb flickered softly behind its frosted glass globe. The house had known she needed rest. It was looking out for her. At least, that was what it felt like and maybe what Alex needed to believe. Dawes had left a note on the coffee table: Going to Beinecke. Breakfast on the counter. Call me when you’re up. Bad news. When wasn’t it bad news? When was Dawes going to leave her a note that said, All good. Go work on that paper so you don’t fall further behind. Left you fresh scones and a couple of puppies? Alex needed to get home, but she was famished and it would be a shame to waste a breakfast, so she shuffled into the kitchen in Dawes’s giant Tevas. “Shit,” she said, when she saw the plates of pancakes, the vat of scrambled eggs strewn with chives, heaps of bacon, hollandaise warm in its flowered pitcher, and, yes, a pile of strawberry scones. There was enough food to feed an entire a cappella group if they would stop humming for a minute. Dawes cooked to soothe herself and that meant the news was very bad indeed. Alex piled her plate with two of everything and called Dawes, but she didn’t answer. You’re freaking me out, she texted. And everything is fucking delicious. When she was done, she filled a go-cup with


Annie’s prompts, as if anyone is still remotely interested in prehistoric Chinese writing systems or Islamic mysticism. Diana doesn’t speak for the rest of the hour, and neither do I. I sit as still as I can, cheeks flaming, chin wobbling, trying my hardest to keep from breaking into tears. I’m sure that people are already creating memes using photos of my stunned face as we speak. When we’re finally free, I gather my things and walk out as quickly as I can without breaking into a full sprint. Annie calls after me, perhaps trying to offer an apology, but I don’t stop until I’ve turned the corner. Right then, all I want is to disappear from sight. Marnie: WOW WHAT A BITCH Jen: Is she ill? Like, is she mentally ill? Marnie: I mean, it doesn’t matter what she thinks she knows. Confronting you like that in public is the Opposite of Classy. She clearly wasn’t looking for a resolution, she just wanted Attention. Jen: RIGHT. Exactly. This performative outrage is disgusting. It’s such a clear ploy for self-enrichment. She’s probably trying to hawk some art deals out of this. Marnie: If you can call that art . . . I chuckle. I’m curled up in bed, my covers pulled up to my chin. God bless the Eden’s Angels, I think. Elsewhere on the internet, Diana’s rant is circulating among gleeful mobs of Juniper Song haters, but for now, I’m happy to watch Jen and Marnie shit all over Diana’s portfolio. Marnie: Maybe I don’t get performance art Marnie: But in this video she’s just giving herself a haircut Marnie: It’s not even a good haircut Marnie: Also her nose ring is ugly Jen: Since when did we start calling psychotic breakdowns visual art lmao this girl needs help Marnie: Omg you can’t say that Marnie: Lmao I snort. I switch screens back to Diana Qiu’s website, where her latest exhibit, titled Mukbang, features her chewing hard-boiled eggs painted to look like Asian faces for thirteen minutes straight while staring into the camera wearing an unchanging, deadpan expression. The Eden’s Angels are right. As I take in Diana’s face—her flat, angry eyes; the bits of yolk dribbling from her thin-lipped mouth—I can’t believe I ever let this small, petty person with her cringey, try-hard art bring me down. She’s jealous. They’re all just jealous; that’s where this vitriol is coming from. And maybe I’ve taken some hits, but I will not let deranged, vicious internet celebrity wannabes like Diana destroy my career. Thirteen THAT WEEKEND, I TAKE THE SUBWAY OUT TO ALEXANDRIA FOR A backyard grill with my sister and her husband. Rory and I aren’t terribly close, but we have the easy intimacy of two sisters who can’t fathom what the other finds attractive about their lifestyle, and have long given up trying to convert them. Rory thinks I’m itinerant, badly prepared for the future, wasting an Ivy League degree, and getting a little too old to keep chasing the publishing pipe dream instead of a stable career with benefits


through Lucy’s. She offered a kind smile as the other woman—her mother, perhaps?—rushed off after Mr. Calloway. Everything about her was soft, from her chocolate-brown curls to her hazel eyes to her touch on Lucy’s arm, and Lucy liked her immediately. Perhaps she would not be too put out with Lucy once she explained everything. Just as she was about to offer up her explanation, however, Olivia spoke again. “You look absolutely exhausted.” She pulled Lucy closer. “We’re drawing up a bath for you, and your maid can—” “She’s not my—” “Tell me how to get downstairs,” Rebecca cut in, “and I’ll be right happy to help with the preparations.” Lucy stared at her. They were practically equals now that Lucy had taken to working as a governess, so why would Rebecca be so eager to serve her? “You don’t have to do that,” she whispered. Rebecca shook her head. “Yes, I do. It’s better for everyone.” She had whispered as quietly as Lucy had, glancing at Olivia with wary eyes. What on earth was she thinking? They were perfectly safe now. With a warm smile, Olivia nodded at Rebecca. “I think most things are ready, but you could assist upstairs. I’m sure your mistress would prefer a friendly face before we overwhelm her.” Lucy was already overwhelmed. She had no idea what was going on. “Do you mind if I call you by your Christian name?” Olivia asked as she led the two of them up the wide staircase. “It seems so silly to call you anything otherwise, all things considered.” As they reached the top of the staircase, they walked down a grand corridor full of more doors than Lucy could count, and her heart picked up its pace. This family was more than just a wealthy family, and the longer she was inside the house, the more trouble she realized she was in. As soon as someone figured out who she was, they would run her out of town with their influence alone. Whoever the Calloways were, they were not a family to be crossed. The girl’s question suddenly registered, and Lucy faltered in her step. “Er, I’m Lucy,” she whispered as a shiver ran through her. She shouldn’t have said that. This was absolutely not the place she should be right now, and she had no business sharing her name. Wherever this was, it was far from her actual destination, and she had no connection to this family. “I’m Olivia,” Olivia replied, as warm as ever. “Though, I’m sure you knew that already.” A nervousness beyond what Lucy was already feeling started to creep up into her stomach. The way she spoke, Olivia seemed to think Lucy should know all about the family. But why would she think that? Just who did she think Lucy was? As she led Lucy into an exquisitely elegant bedchamber with a blazing fire, Olivia answered that unspoken question for her. “You can’t imagine our surprise when we received that note from the innkeeper,” she said. “William was coming home—and with a wife,


com- 376 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN mand her to release the dwarf at once, and you will make your peace with Jaime." "Three of my men were butchered before my eyes, because Jaime Lannister wished to chasten me. Am I to forget that?" "My brother was not the cause of this quarrel," Cersei told the king. "Lord Stark was returning drunk from a brothel. His men attacked Jaime and his guards, even as his wife attacked Tyrion on the kingsroad." "You know me better than that, Robert," Ned said. "Ask Lord Baelish if you doubt me. He was there." "I've talked to Littlefinger," Robert said. "He claims he rode off to bring the gold cloaks before the fighting began, but he admits you were returning from some whorehouse." "Some whorehouse? Damn your eyes, Robert, I went there to have a look at your daughter! Her mother has named her Barra. She looks like that first girl you fathered, when we were boys together in the Vale." He watched the queen as he spoke; her face was a mask, still and pale, betraying nothing. Robert flushed. "Barra," he grumbled. "Is that supposed to please me? Damn the girl. I thought she had more sense." "She cannot be more than fifteen, and a whore, and you thought she had sense?" Ned said, incredulous. His leg was beginning to pain him sorely. It was hard to keep his temper. "The fool child is in love with you, Robert." The king glanced at Cersei. "This is no fit subject for the queen's ears." "Her Grace will have no liking for anything I have to say," Ned replied. "I am told the Kingslayer has fled the city. Give me leave to bring him back to justice." The king swirled the wine in his cup, brooding. He took a swallow. "No," he said. "I want no more of this. Jaime slew three of your men, and you five of his. Now it ends." "Is that your notion of justice?" Ned flared. "If so, I am pleased that I am no longer your Hand." The queen looked to her husband. "If any man had dared speak to a Targaryen as he has spoken to you-" "Do you take me for Aerys?" Robert interrupted. "I took you for a king. Jaime and Tyrion are your own brothers, by all the laws of marriage and the bonds we share. The Starks have driven off the one and seized the other. This man dishonors you with every breath he takes, and yet you stand there meekly, asking if his leg pains him and would he like some wine." A GAME OF THRONES 377 Robert's face was dark with anger. "How many times must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?" Cersei's face was a study in contempt. "What a jape the gods have made of us two," she said. "By all rights, you ought to be in skirts and me in mail." Purple with rage, the king lashed out, a vicious backhand blow to the side of the head. She stumbled against


sharks. The other was wild to the bone and had once been found hanging from the dining room chandelier at Corinne’s. One day in the not-too-distant future, these cousins were going to paint St. Helena red. For now, they had a dance recital crisis. “Do you think I should go talk to her?” August asked now as he smoothed Natalie’s hair. “Or am I going to make it worse?” “You only make everything better,” she said automatically. He dipped his head on a smile that was almost bashful. “You doing that thing where you rewind the past and get all sentimental on me?” She pressed her lips together tightly and nodded. “Maybe.” Slowly, his smile gave way to a serious expression. “If I had one wish, it would be to slow down my time with you, Natalie. A hundred years won’t be enough.” If they kept this up, she was either going to swoon or cry in front of their entire family. With a big inhale, she straightened the collar of his dress shirt. “Go talk to Samantha. She needs you.” He studied her face for a long moment, as if memorizing every feature, before striding away. Natalie didn’t know what made her follow. Maybe she wanted to provide parental backup if the waterworks started again. Or maybe she just wanted to witness a moment between August and their middle daughter. But for whatever reason, she crept in his wake toward the stage entrance and peeked in through the crack of the door. There was Samantha, the spitting image of Natalie at that age, sitting on August’s knee in her emerald green sequined dress and matching mini top hat. As Natalie had feared, her lower lip was trembling again. As strong as her impulse was to enter the room and comfort her baby, Natalie remained in place. August had this. “You know what?” Natalie’s husband gave an exaggerated look over both shoulders. “That kid always had snot in his nose, anyway.” Samantha giggle-sniffed. “They’ll say he has chicken pox, but we know the truth. He couldn’t keep up with you.” “No,” said their daughter, always logical. “He could. It’s prolly just chicken pox.” “If you say so,” August said skeptically. “Here’s what I know. I’m going to be sitting in the audience thinking about how brave you are. All of us will. You’re so brave, Samantha. Just like your mom. Remember that story I told you about her winning over that meanie in a suit in New York?” “Yeah.” “And the one about her marrying a big doofus so she could follow her dreams?” Samantha gasped. “You’re not a big doofus.” “I was. Still am sometimes. It’s a good thing you girls love me anyway. “Remember when we were cleaning out the wine cave and a bat flew out. I screamed, but your mom didn’t even flinch. You get your bravery from her.” Their daughter was quiet for a long moment, her tiny throat muscles starting to strain. “Dad?” “Yeah?” “Do I have to be brave alone?” “Hell no, you don’t,” said


more." They talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be fair and square for the others. Well, nobody could think of anything to do -- everybody was stumped, and set still. I was most ready to cry; but all at once I thought of a way, and so I offered them Miss Watson -- they could kill her. Everybody said: "Oh, she'll do. That's all right. Huck can come in." Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with, and I made my mark on the paper. "Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of busi- ness of this Gang?" "Nothing only robbery and murder," Tom said. "But who are we going to rob? -- houses, or cattle, or --" "Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't rob- bery; it's burglary," says Tom Sawyer. "We ain't burglars. That ain't no sort of style. We are high- waymen. We stop stages and carriages on the road, with masks on, and kill the people and take their watches and money." "Must we always kill the people?" "Oh, certainly. It's best. Some authorities think different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them -- except some that you bring to the cave here, and keep them till they're ransomed." "Ransomed? What's that?" "I don't know. But that's what they do. I've seen it in books; and so of course that's what we've got to do." "But how can we do it if we don't know what it is?" "Why, blame it all, we've GOT to do it. Don't I tell you it's in the books? Do you want to go to doing different from what's in the books, and get things all muddled up?" "Oh, that's all very fine to SAY, Tom Sawyer, but how in the nation are these fellows going to be ran- somed if we don't know how to do it to them? -- that's the thing I want to get at. Now, what do you reckon it is?" "Well, I don't know. But per'aps if we keep them till they're ransomed, it means that we keep them till they're dead. " "Now, that's something LIKE. That'll answer. Why couldn't you said that before? We'll keep them till they're ransomed to death; and a bothersome lot they'll be, too -- eating up everything, and always trying to get loose." "How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get loose when there's a guard over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?" "A guard! Well, that IS good. So somebody's got to set up all night and never get any sleep, just so as to watch them. I think that's foolishness. Why can't a body take a club and ransom them as soon as they get here?" "Because it ain't in the books so -- that's why. Now, Ben Rogers, do you want to do things regular, or don't you? -- that's


talked to it." "You talked to it?" exclaimed Ford. "What do you mean you talked to it?" "Simple. I got very bored and depressed, so I went and plugged myself in to its external computer feed. I talked to the computer at great length and explained my view of the Universe to it," said Marvin. "And what happened?" pressed Ford. "It committed suicide," said Marvin and stalked off back to the Heart of Gold. ================================================================= Chapter 35 That night, as the Heart of Gold was busy putting a few light years between itself and the Horsehead Nebula, Zaphod lounged under the small palm tree on the bridge trying to bang his brain into shape with massive Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters; Ford and Trillian sat in a corner discussing life and matters arising from it; and Arthur took to his bed to flip through Ford's copy of The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Since he was going to live in the place, he reasoned, he'd better start finding out something about it. He came across this entry. It said: 'The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why and Where phases. "For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question How can we eat? the second by the question Why do we eat? and the third by the question Where shall we have lunch?" He got no further before the ship's intercom buzzed into life. "Hey Earthman? You hungry kid?" said Zaphod's voice. "Er, well yes, a little peckish I suppose," said Arthur. "OK baby, hold tight," said Zaphod. "We'll take in a quick bite at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe." ================================================================= * President: full title President of the Imperial Galactic Government. The term Imperial is kept though it is now an anachronism. The hereditary Emperor is nearly dead and has been so for many centuries. In the last moments of his dying coma he was locked in a statis field which keeps him in a state of perpetual unchangingness. All his heirs are now long dead, and this means that without any drastic political upheaval, power has simply and effectively moved a rung or two down the ladder, and is now seen to be vested in a body which used to act simply as advisers to the Emperor - an elected Governmental assembly headed by a President elected by that assembly. In fact it vests in no such place. The President in particular is very much a figurehead - he wields no real power whatsoever. He is apparently chosen by the government, but the qualities he is required to display are not those of leadership but those of finely judged outrage. For this reason the President is always a controversial choice, always an infuriating but fascinating character. His job is not to wield power but to draw attention away from it. On those criteria Zaphod Beeblebrox is one of the most successful Presidents the Galaxy has ever had


your whole youth eating french fries and fucking up and crying, praying for stability and confidence, and then, as soon as you get close to something resembling self-sufficiency, your nerves get bad and you spend the better part of most days covered in at least a microscopic bit of your own waste. While you contemplate your mortality and endless human suffering, weighing it against [name me one good thing], I present to you an exhaustive list of things I’ve peed on over the past few years: Seat 3B on Delta flight 2734 to LAX I used to never have to pee on flights, due to a carefully calibrated combination of claustrophobic terror and forced dehydration, but now, every time an airplane touches down with me on it, a little pee squirts out to christen my arrival in a new location. The recumbent elliptical machine at the YMCA I had to buy special “moisture-wicking” compression leggings because it’s nearly impossible for me to engage my core (My WHAT?!) while also pushing pedals at a super-high resistance for forty-five minutes and trying to read the closed captioning on whatever episode of NCIS is playing on all the wall-mounted TVs and securing the contents of my bladder safely inside my body. Honestly, I would just quit going, but it helps my shitty knees, and you gotta see fourteen specialists to get so much as a Tylenol these days, and fuck that. So sometimes I leave the gym with a very “sweaty butt.” Anyway, it could be worse, I could be emptying my entire bladder onto a squeaky wood floor to a Pitbull song during Zumba Gold. Although I bet they’d probably relate. My pants as I approach literally any bathroom ever I understand the Pavlovian response to seeing an outline of a toilet on a little plastic sign, but even if I could shield my eyes from it, it’s like the minute my tiny brain hears “Bathroom…,” my sphincter muscles relax whatever grip they have on my urethra and it’s all downhill (downleg) from there. The gravel driveway outside the house we rented once in LA I briefly lived in this house at the very top of an inconvenient mountain in the Hollywood Hills, and one night I drove my rented Toyota Camry up the steep and winding too-narrow path with a bunch of kombucha and alkaline water pooling in my bladder (FUCKING LOS ANGELES), and by the time I finally reached the garage, I was just about to burst. I slammed my hand in the car door because a dog I couldn’t see in the dark barked at me, and my response to the screaming pain was to cry, from my pee hole. My office chair I share a big, airy space that gets tons of natural light and is very peaceful with two people who can absolutely hear every echoed noise coming from inside the adjacent bathroom, so sometimes I try to hold it until they have a phone call or go to lunch, and, listen, holding it is no longer a real


but there was no way of making certain. He was in a high-ceilinged windowless cell with walls of glittering white porcelain. Concealed lamps flooded it with cold light, and there was a low, steady humming sound which he supposed had something to do with the air supply. A bench, or shelf, just wide enough to sit on ran round the wall, broken only by the door and, at the end opposite the door, a lavatory pan with no wooden seat. There were four telescreens, one in each wall. There was a dull aching in his belly. It had been there ever since they had bundled him into the closed van and driven him away. But he was also hungry, with a gnawing, unwholesome kind of hunger. It might be twenty-four hours since he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did not know, file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (122 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt probably never would know, whether it had been morning or evening when they arrested him. Since he was arrested he had not been fed. He sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his hands crossed on his knee. He had already learned to sit still. If you made unexpected movements they yelled at you from the telescreen. But the craving for food was growing upon him. What he longed for above all was a piece of bread. He had an idea that there were a few breadcrumbs in the pocket of his overalls. It was even possible--he thought this because from time to time something seemed to tickle his leg--that there might be a sizeable bit of crust there. In the end the temptation to find out overcame his fear; he slipped a hand into his pocket. 'Smith!' yelled a voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W.! Hands out of pockets in the cells!' He sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Before being brought here he had been taken to another place which must have been an ordinary prison or a temporary lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know how long he had been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and no daylight it was hard to gauge the time. It was a noisy, evil-smelling place. They had put him into a cell similar to the one he was now in, but filthily dirty and at all times crowded by ten or fifteen people. The majority of them were common criminals, but there were a few political prisoners among them. He had sat silent against the wall, jostled by dirty bodies, too preoccupied by fear and the pain in his belly to take much interest in his surroundings, but still noticing the astonishing difference in demeanour between the Party prisoners and the others. The Party prisoners were always silent and terrified, but the ordinary criminals seemed to care nothing for anybody. They yelled insults at the guards, fought back fiercely when their belongings were impounded, wrote obscene words on the floor, ate smuggled food which they produced from


he said, fingers steepled over his desk. “Three days to write an essay, topic of your choosing. If it’s better than Kitt’s, I’ll publish it and seriously consider you for the column.” She could hardly believe him. An open assignment. He rarely gave those out. But then she remembered what he had said earlier, and she nearly spoke her mind. I plan to write about those weak-minded individuals. “Winnow?” Iris realized she was frowning; her jaw was clenched. “Yes, thank you, sir.” She forced a smile and returned to her desk. She couldn’t afford to lose this promotion. Which meant she couldn’t afford to upset Zeb with her essay. She needed to write something he would want to publish. This open assignment suddenly felt very narrow indeed. “There you are.” Roman’s voice caught her on the way out of the lobby, just as dusk fell. Iris startled when he seamlessly fell into stride beside her. “What do you want, Kitt?” she asked with a sigh. “Are you hurt?” “I’m sorry?” “You’ve been limping all day.” She resisted the urge to glance down at her feet, at her mother’s terrible pointed boots. “No, I’m fine. What do you want?” she repeated. “To talk with you about Autry. He’s giving you an open assignment, isn’t he?” Roman asked, forging a path for them on the crowded pavement. Iris thought it was only fair to let him know. “Yes. And it’s not due to special favors.” “Oh, isn’t it?” She halted, which inspired a flurry of curses as people had to walk around her and Roman. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” she asked in a sharp tone. “It means exactly as it sounds,” Roman said. The streetlamps were beginning to flicker to life, illuminating his face with amber light. She hated how handsome he was. She hated how her heart softened when he looked at her. “Autry is giving you a special favor so he can promote you instead of me.” And that softness fled, leaving behind a bruise. “What?” The word burst from her; it tasted like copper, and she realized the cut on her lip had reopened. “How dare you say that to me!” Roman was frowning now. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I was under the impression that this position would be fairly earned, and I don’t—” “What do you mean by this ‘favor’?” “He pities you!” Roman cried, exasperated. Iris froze. His words struck her, deeply. She felt the frost in her chest, spreading outward to her hands. She was trembling, and she hoped he didn’t notice. “Autry pities me,” she echoed. “Why? Because I’m a low-class girl who’s out of her depth working for the press?” “Winnow, I—” “In your opinion, I should be washing dishes in a restaurant kitchen, shouldn’t I? Or I should be cleaning houses, on my hands and knees, polishing floors for people like you to walk over.” His eyes flashed. “I never said you didn’t deserve to be at the Gazette. You’re a bloody good writer. But you dropped out of


While we stood in the hut, he stood before the fire looking thoughtfully at it, or putting up his feet by turns upon the hob, and looking thoughtfully at them as if he pitied them for their recent adventures. Suddenly, he turned to the sergeant, and remarked: "I wish to say something respecting this escape. It may prevent some persons laying under suspicion alonger me." "You can say what you like," returned the sergeant, standing coolly looking at him with his arms folded, "but you have no call to say it here. You'll have opportunity enough to say about it, and hear about it, before it's done with, you know." "I know, but this is another pint, a separate matter. A man can't starve; at least I can't. I took some wittles, up at the willage over yonder - where the church stands a'most out on the marshes." "You mean stole," said the sergeant. "And I'll tell you where from. From the blacksmith's." "Halloa!" said the sergeant, staring at Joe. "Halloa, Pip!" said Joe, staring at me. "It was some broken wittles - that's what it was - and a dram of liquor, and a pie." "Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith?" asked the sergeant, confidentially. "My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. Don't you know, Pip?" "So," said my convict, turning his eyes on Joe in a moody manner, and without the least glance at me; "so you're the blacksmith, are you? Than I'm sorry to say, I've eat your pie." "God knows you're welcome to it - so far as it was ever mine," returned Joe, with a saving remembrance of Mrs. Joe. "We don't know what you have done, but we wouldn't have you starved to death for it, poor miserable fellow-creatur. - Would us, Pip?" The something that I had noticed before, clicked in the man's throat again, and he turned his back. The boat had returned, and his guard were ready, so we followed him to the landing-place made of rough stakes and stones, and saw him put into the boat, which was rowed by a crew of convicts like himself. No one seemed surprised to see him, or interested in seeing him, or glad to see him, or sorry to see him, or spoke a word, except that somebody in the boat growled as if to dogs, "Give way, you!" which was the signal for the dip of the oars. By the light of the torches, we saw the black Hulk lying out a little way from the mud of the shore, like a wicked Noah's ark. Cribbed and barred and moored by massive rusty chains, the prison-ship seemed in my young eyes to be ironed like the prisoners. We saw the boat go alongside, and we saw him taken up the side and disappear. Then, the ends of the torches were flung hissing into the water, and went out, as if it were all over with him. Chapter 6 My state of mind regarding the


him. Hesitating only a moment, he lay his hand on HARP 217’s back, rubbing in slow circles. The machine flinched but didn’t try to stop him. “Did it work?” Rambo asked him as Nurse Ratched and Dad stood behind him. Vic hung his head. “Yes,” he said. “It worked.” HARP 217 did not remember. He did not remember Dad. Nurse Ratched. Rambo. He did not remember the Scrap Yards. Their former home high in the trees. The adventure into a mysterious world beyond the forest to save one of their own. He did not remember music or the magnificent house and its owner therein or riding in an elevator to meet the Enchanter of Dreams. He did not remember that he wasn’t unique, that there were more like him, and that his creator—his God—watched over him, all while slipping between lifetimes, Gio one moment, Dad the next. And it meant he did not remember Victor. That night, when sleep was elusive, Vic told his father, “I’ve never been more human.” “Why?” Dad asked. “Because I breathe, but I can’t catch my breath.” Nurse Ratched and Rambo and Dad were there, and they lifted Victor up when he was too tired to stand on his own, the HARP machine sometimes hostile, sometimes not speaking for days on end. Weeks passed, and Victor persisted, searching for that crackling spark of recognition, a sign, anything to show that all was not lost. And it was there, in the smallest of places. Nurse Ratched played him music, jazz, Miles Davis, and all kinds of blues. When he threatened her, he did not stutter. Rambo showed him Top Hat, telling him that Jerry and Dale would dance cheek to cheek. Two minutes in HARP 217 said, “When will they get to the disguise?” On a summer day, Dad led HARP 217 into the forest. They were gone from early morning until dusk. When they returned, Dad said, “Hello. My designation is—” He slapped his hand against his chest. Then, “Victor, I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine.” HARP 217 stepped forward stiffly, eyes only for Vic. “I…” He stopped, frowned, then tried again. “I d-do n-not want to b-be called HARP,” he said, voice oddly formal, as if he’d been practicing. “Gio told me I h-have a choice. That I c-could pick my own designation.” He scowled. “My own nname.” “That’s right,” Dad said. “You can. Why don’t you tell him what you’ve decided?” “H-hap,” he said, and Victor felt his heart stutter in his chest. “I a-am Hhap.” “Why?” Dad asked. “Why do you want to be Hap?” Hap said, “In my head. Words. Whispers.” “And what do they whisper?” “Victor,” Hap said. “Nurse Ratched. Rambo.” And: “Hysterically Angry Puppet.” Three words not uttered since they’d returned from the City of Electric Dreams. “Do you know me?” Vic asked. Hap said “no” and “yes” and “You are human, you have human blood and human thoughts” and “I dreamed. I dreamed you kissed me in a room of screens and butterfly wings. You’re


insulting a eunuch.” “Your caution is well taken,” Miss Zhao says. The next morning, we wake to the quiet of snowflakes falling from the sky. Poppy helps us bathe and dress in our finest, most elegant clothes. Then Miss Zhao and I drape ermine-lined cloaks over our gowns and leave the room. Considering how many women must serve the thousands of ladies in the Forbidden City, the halls in the Lodge of Ritual and Ceremony are surprisingly silent. I peer at Miss Zhao out of the corner of my eye. She looks unsettled, telling me this is not what she expected either. We step into the courtyard. I hate the cold, but I can appreciate the brutal purity of it. Snowflakes dance in the air, carried by the wind. Icicles hang like ivory chopsticks from the eaves. “It’s rare for snow to come so early here in the north,” Lin Ta says in greeting. Crystalline flakes catch on his eyelashes as he looks upward. Then he returns his gaze to me. “I’ve had coal-heated foot and hand warmers placed in the carriage to make your ride more comfortable.” I appreciate the gesture, but the warmers do little to keep us from shivering. The windows in the carriage are covered by curtains, so we see nothing. We stop a couple of times. “Women for the Great Within,” the driver says to those I presume to be guards. “Let us pass.” We arrive at our destination, and a eunuch opens the door to the carriage. We’re already inside the Forbidden City, surrounded by protective walls four stories high and painted the color of dried blood. Miss Zhao and I are escorted through gate after gate—each one guarded by a pair of elephants. Live elephants. We reach the Eastern Palace, where the women of the imperial household live. I see the usual marble terraces, except they are many times the size of those in the Garden of Fragrant Delights. Every beam and rafter is carved and painted. The courtyards don’t have the lushness with which I’m familiar. Instead, they’re paved and stretch wide and empty under clean white blankets of snow. Eunuchs are everywhere, many of them little boys. What surprises me most is that we see no women. Where are the ten thousand beauties we’ve heard rumored live here? “Wait,” the eunuch orders. He steps through a door. Miss Zhao and I seek each other’s eyes. I reach out and touch her sleeve, trying to send the message that I’m glad she’s with me. The door swings open, and the eunuch motions for us to enter. We glide into a grand hall that could look austere in the severity of its architecture but for the embroidered hangings on the walls and the colorful silk carpets that unfurl underfoot. Perhaps twenty women sit in repose. Each is beautifully dressed in a long, flowing gown, with her hair piled high on her head and decorated with many ornaments and pins. They sit like open petals around a woman who presses a compress to her eyes. She


watched him process the possibility, find it reasonable. “One hour,” he said. That was all I needed. I served him oatmeal and blueberries, as requested, and then I cleaned the kitchen after he left. Everything had to be normal. When the counters were wiped, the bowls in the dishwasher, I went into my bathroom and kneeled on the floor. Removing the top drawer, I found the manila envelope. With it pressed between my arm and body, I returned to the kitchen and slipped it into a kitchen drawer. Lee would collect it, believe it contained what we had discussed. She had no reason to doubt me. When I’d dressed in my spandex workout clothes, I donned a pair of designer sunglasses and drove to the gym. I dug my member card out of my shoulder bag and swiped myself in. One of the trainers waved a greeting and I waved back, but I moved swiftly to the changeroom. It was empty, thankfully, and I sat on the bench, waiting anxiously. The door opened and I nearly jumped up, but it was a middle-aged woman, muscular and sweaty. She went to her locker, stripped off her clothes, and headed to the shower. For only a split second did I consider that Lee wouldn’t come. That she would realize that she was being used, or that her mission was far too risky. But Jesse and I had played our roles too well. And I knew how much she cared for me. When the door swung open and she entered, wearing a ball cap and a tentative grin, my throat knotted. I stood, and without a word, began to disrobe. Lee’s jeans were soft and worn, and only a little bit loose. I put on her jacket and cap, as she struggled into my clingy tights. When she was dressed, I stared at her reflection. Lee looked a lot like me. She would fool Nate, who was not the sharpest knife in the drawer (pun intended). But would our resemblance be enough to fool the cameras? I turned to face her, saw the doubt and fear in her eyes, and I wished I could tell her everything. That Jesse and I had duped her, that we’d planned to send her into a trap. That he had used us both and that he didn’t deserve either one of us. When I’m gone, end it with him, I wanted to say. Promise me, Lee. But Jesse had brainwashed her into loving him. She’d go to him, tell him everything I said, and he’d talk his way out of it. I had seen how easily he could lie. And then he would come after me. I now knew that he was dangerous. Ruthless. So, I played my part. “Thank you,” I said, my voice wobbly. “I’ve never had a friend like you.” She thought I was sad to say goodbye to her and I was. But there was so much more behind my tremulous demeanor: guilt, shame, and fear. Real fear. Because after this, I will have no