sopping up the mess with a kitchen towel and tossing it into the laundry room basket. She carried a glass of water into the bathroom, where she showered and then, with a towel wrapped around her, swiped at the bathroom mirror where moisture had collected due to the fact that the fan wasn’t working, a project Jay had said he would take care of on an ever-growing list of household tasks that he’d never gotten around to. She cracked the window and immediately an alarm went off. And the dog started barking like crazy. “Right.” The new security system. “Crap.” She turned off the alarm, slammed the window down, and latched it, and as she did, she noticed movement in her peripheral vision, a shadow flitting against the fence. Every muscle in her body tensed. In a nanosecond the shadow was gone. What the devil? She dropped the towel. Grabbing her robe from a hook on the bathroom door, she threw it on and raced through her bedroom and down the short hall to the living area where Dave was going nuts at the slider. Jumping and barking, the hairs on his nape and back raised, his tail stiff. She looked outside but the yard appeared to be empty and the image—what was it? The billowing tail of a black coat? The hem of a trailing skirt? Or the flap of a poncho caught in the breeze? Oh. Jesus. She opened the door and Dave shot out, bounding down the single step, flying across the flagstones of the patio, rounding the corner to the side of the house where the gate stood open. He raced through hot on the trail of whoever had dared enter. She ran after, barefoot, holding her robe together with her hands. “Dave!” she shouted. “Dave! Come!” But he was halfway down the street. “Dave!” she screamed, still running after him as he reached the intersection. Her heart was beating in a wild tattoo as he barreled into traffic. No! No! No! In her mind’s eye, she saw him being hit. Maimed or killed. Brakes squealed. Horns honked. People shouted. A woman screamed from a bicycle and skidded, barely missing Dave as he flew across the lanes. “Oh, God!” Kristi increased her pace, didn’t care that the robe was flying open exposing her bare body, was only concerned for her dog. “Dave! Come!” she cried, frantic as she saw the dog reach the far side of the intersection. Ignoring the traffic signs, she held out her hands to stop traffic and dashed through the spaces between the vehicles. “Are you crazy?” she heard as she reached the park, gasping, her heart pounding, her mind screaming. Where the hell was he? “Dave!” she screamed. “Dave, come!” But he was gone. She asked a jogger and a mother pushing a double stroller with twins if they’d seen the dog, but both had shaken their heads and hurried by, the jogger moving swiftly, the mom on her phone and eyeing Kristi as if she had just escaped from a mental hospital.


could not respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexceptionable. The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough pleased with the first day's sketch to wish to go on. There was no want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of its being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined place with credit to them both--a standing memorial of the beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton's very promising attachment was likely to add. Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again. "By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the party." The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism. "Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she wanted,"--observed Mrs. Weston to him--not in the least suspecting that she was addressing a lover.--"The expression of the eye is most correct, but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face that she has them not." "Do you think so?" replied he. "I cannot agree with you. It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know." "You have made her too tall, Emma," said Mr. Knightley. Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly added, "Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider, she is sitting down--which naturally presents a different--which in short gives exactly the idea--and the proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions, fore-shortening.--Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of such a height as Miss Smith's. Exactly so indeed!" "It is very pretty," said Mr. Woodhouse. "So prettily done! Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so well as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders--and it makes one think she must catch cold." "But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer. Look at the tree." "But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear." "You, sir, may say any thing," cried Mr. Elton, "but I must confess that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing


invite a bunch of crying people over to eat potato salad in, and I remember nothing of that day. I’m sure I ate fried chicken, consoled people who hadn’t seen my mother in over a decade while letting them cry on my nice black dress, and gossiped about who was wearing what with my nieces, but I cannot recall who or when or if it was a spicy wing or a thigh. Except I remember one thing: as I walked past the kitchen on my way out of the bathroom, I had a small heart attack when I ran smack into my father, a man who had died four months earlier. I took a step back, mouth hanging open, then looked around to see if anyone else was seeing a ghost standing in the middle of the room holding a plate of catfish and greens and macaroni and cheese. No one seemed to notice the poltergeist other than me, and when he said, “Hey, baby, I’m so sorry about your mom,” it hit me: MY BROTHER. My jaw hit the floor. “Cedric?!” He nodded, and smiled, and I noticed that one of his front teeth turned just a little bit, just like our father’s. He also had his same exact hands, which are also my same exact hands. I hadn’t seen Cedric in years, since I’d slept in the passenger seat of our dad’s old Cadillac as he drove down to Memphis for a visit, and the only memories I’d retained from that trip was the McDonald’s riddled with bullet holes in the drive-thru glass—someone mad about a nonfunctioning ice cream machine, perhaps?—and the navy-and-yellow entertainment room in Elvis’s house with its wraparound couch and three built-in TVs, the height of luxury. I don’t remember what happened next, or who else was there, or how the evening ended. I can’t remember whether I talked to him again. I don’t think so. It was twenty-five years ago, which is insane to me, that my parents have been dead for twenty-five years! That’s a generation!! Generation orphan!!! I don’t feel old enough to have parents who’ve been gone for that long, which is hilarious, because somehow I do feel old enough to move into assisted living, which I would do immediately if I could. I can tell you what didn’t happen, though: no one thought to get Cedric’s address or contact information—was email invented in 1998?—so that was the end of that. The grief I live with feels like when you suddenly remember a famous person you like is dead. An episode of Sanford and Son comes on and you’re like, “Aw, Redd Foxx, I really loved him,” except it’s me hearing an old clip from The Tom Joyner Morning Show and thinking, “Aww, my mom, she loved that guy.” It’s been such a long time, and I knew my parents for so few years, and some of those years my brain was nothing more than a little clump of lukewarm oatmeal…is it bad that I don’t miss them? Am I still supposed to


godliness, rather than demonic suasion, some miscreants for a time raise mass movements in their defense. In those cases, Superhacker exposes them again—and as before—with their own voices and with video of them engaged in conspiracies to deceive. Of the naive who join those crusades, most fall away when they see they have been duped, and only the most self-blinded cling to their faith in their faithless manipulators. If, for a while, the social cohesion of the nation seemed sure to break from the strain of these changes, a new and better order asserted itself sooner than Superhacker hoped. Once depressed or cynical judges of an honest bent were heartened by the impeachment and conviction of their colleagues whom they knew to be corrupted by money or ideological passion. They found the courage to take over their state bar associations, state attorneys general offices, and even the justice department of the United States to strive for a fairer system swept clean of spoils and wild unreason. Institution after institution is evolving, not always with enthusiasm, because it has lost the power to define truth. The power of the state to rule by fear and moral exhortation based on lies is fading in a society where raw truth is available for everyone to see and where lies are quickly revealed by the liars’ own indiscretions and a narcissistic certainty of their cleverness. Superhacker is expanding operations to other nations, where changes have already been occurring in dreaded anticipation of his or her intention to broaden the mission. What will be will be, but what was before had become intolerable. There are those who say that the human heart is deceitful above all things (which is true) and that lying is essential to grease the often grinding wheels of human relationships (which might be true as concerns relatively harmless falsehoods like insincere compliments, even flattery). But when Superhacker began to press the case that truth and the derivative of truth called “common sense” were in such short supply as to threaten the world, civilization had been fast sliding toward an abyss from which there might have been no return, a future of lawlessness, ginned-up hatred, irrational ideologies, and war. Perhaps this experiment in veracity will ultimately fail, but all polls show that a large majority of the populace finds that life is better these days, and polls can’t be fudged in this new world. Winter has arrived in Idaho. Yesterday, the sky was clear, and birds glided across like figure skaters on wind-polished ice. This morning, the clouds are thick and gray and lowering with a warning that autumn will soon seem to have been a dream. The big thermometer fastened to the wall of the back porch indicates the temperature is thirty-eight degrees and falling. After a breakfast of bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, thick cuts of toasted and lavishly buttered raisin bread, washed down with orange juice or coffee, Peter and Susan and Edward mount their horses. They ride the meadows high and higher, their breath smoking from them in lesser plumes than


guess she was telling the truth after all.” “The camp existed, but it doesn’t say anything about campers being killed.” I set the papers down. “Why does Mr. Lamont have this stuff?” “When did he buy this place?” Bezi asks. “Maybe he just hasn’t gone through all this junk.” “Why would he tell me it’s expensive supplies and not to mess with it, then?” I ask. “He’s trying to hide what happened here? Why? It makes no sense.” I dig through more scraps and don’t find anything else about the camp, but I do find several articles about the purchase of the land itself under a nest of silverfish. I shake off the silvery bugs, some of which are still squirming, to find attached to the paper a photocopy of a deed. I gently smooth it out. Dead center is an approximation of Mirror Lake. South of the water is a highlighted area labeled proposed site of summer camp, but the lines and measurements indicating the perimeters of the camp extend far beyond the fenced area. “I wish Porter was here,” I say. “He could tell me what this all means. To me, it looks like at some point somebody bought up this site and all the land behind it. But this is from the sixties. Mr. Lamont isn’t that old, I don’t think.” “Weird,” Bezi says as she stares down at the deed. “Let’s take it back to the lodge and show Kyle and Javier, see what they think.” I gather up the clippings and the copy of the deed and stick them back in the tan envelope. Bezi and I are on our way out when something catches my attention on one of the monitors in the control center. I stop and lean closer to the screen. “What is it?” Bezi asks. “The camera that monitors the trapdoor under the boathouse is out,” I say as I stare at the blank screen. “Why?” Bezi asks. “Not sure,” I say. All the other monitors are on and showing their designated areas in black and white. “The cameras are pretty new, but I gotta check it before we shut everything down so Mr. Lamont knows to fix it before next season. If there even is a next season.” Bezi loops her arm under mine and pulls me toward the door. “It’ll be fine,” she says reassuringly. I lean against her shoulder, wanting so much to believe her when suddenly, for just a split second, the broken camera blinks on and I see a figure, cloaked in black, standing just under the hatch that leads up through the floor of the boathouse. CHAPTER 9 The camera blinks off again, and the screen goes dark. “Did you see that?” I ask. Bezi glances back at me. “What?” “I saw someone in the tunnel under the boathouse hatch.” “Who?” Bezi asks. “Kyle or Javier?” “I—I couldn’t tell.” The lighting down there is low on purpose. We don’t want the guests knowing we have access to trapdoors and secret tunnels. It adds to the illusion of


parts,” Geoff said. “You ever sat through one of these things? It’s ninety-nine percent tedium.” I said, “Okay. I’m taking one more bite of oatmeal. Just tell me if anything completely shocking came up. Like, anything you think I don’t already know.” “Doubtful. Oh, they were asking if she’d ever been in the equipment shed, if she knew other kids who’d been in there. Because you know the state, in their opening, they argued the location change didn’t matter since Omar would’ve had a key to the shed. Did that door even have a lock? She’s, uh—shit.” He looked down at his plate, suddenly interested in the syrup-soaked dregs. I glanced back in time to see Beth Docherty striding toward our table. She’d aged like someone who spent every vacation at a yoga retreat on an island. Her face was weathered, but rich weathered. No sag to it, just fine lines she could have Botoxed away but was confident enough not to. Her blond hair was short, tucked behind her ears, still beautifully highlighted. She barely paused beside our table, a kid in a John Hughes cafeteria. She said, “What a shocker to see you here.” I should have smiled and said it was lovely to see her, too, but before she could finish walking away I said, “I’m here as a witness. Just like you.” Beth wheeled around, sucked her tongue against her teeth, let out two small puffs of laughter. She said, “You didn’t witness jack shit, Bodie. This whole thing is the most pathetic attention grab. You have a book deal yet?” Geoff said, “No, but her album drops Tuesday.” Beth squinted at Geoff like she was trying to place him but didn’t care enough to think too hard about it. He said, “I’m pretty sure this is witness tampering.” Gratifyingly, Beth looked alarmed. She didn’t know if he was a lawyer or what. She wiped her hands on her sweater, as if that would get rid of us, and left without saying more. Lord knows why I felt the need to defend Beth Docherty in that moment—Beth, who saw me as no better than Dane Rubra—but I said, “I imagine she might still be close to the Keiths.” “She’s close to the pole up her ass, is what she’s close to. Listen, I can text from the courtroom if you want.” Geoff was ready to join the crowd in the gallery at ten a.m., a crowd that had been packed with journalists and onlookers in the first few days, but had thinned somewhat for the long haul. I invited Geoff to join me and Fran at the party on campus that night, and he grinned. “I’m forty-five years old, but the idea of freely drinking alcohol on the Granby campus thrills me.” “I think they let you do that at Alumni Weekend.” He said, “I’ll go back when they invite me as a paid speaker.” When I passed the lobby desk, the teenager who’d checked me in was arguing, loudly, with two young women holding video equipment. It


I snort. “So coy, Mr. Grey. Yes, I need to pee.” He laughs. “You expect me to leave?” I giggle. “You want to stay?” He cocks his head to one side, his expression amused. “You are one kinky son of a bitch. Out. I don’t want you to watch me pee. That’s a step too far.” I stand and wave him out of the bathroom. When I emerge from the bathroom, he’s changed into his pajama bottoms. Hmm . . . Christian in PJs. Mesmerized, I gaze at his abdomen, his muscles, his happy trail. It’s distracting. He strides over to me. “Enjoying the view?” he asks wryly. “Always.” “I think you’re slightly drunk, Mrs. Grey.” “I think, for once, I have to agree with you, Mr. Grey.” “Let me help you out of what little there is of this dress. It really should come with a health warning.” He turns me around and undoes the single button at the neck. “You were so mad,” I murmur. “Yes. I was.” “At me?” “No. Not at you.” He kisses my shoulder. “For once.” I smile. Not mad at me. This is progress. “Makes a nice change.” “Yes. It does.” He kisses my other shoulder then tugs my dress down over my backside and onto the floor. He removes my panties at the same time, leaving me naked. Reaching up, he takes my hand. “Step,” he commands, and I step out of the dress, holding his hand for balance. He stands and tosses my dress and panties onto the chair with Mia’s trench coat. “Arms up,” he says softly. He slips his T-shirt over me and pulls it down, covering me up. I am ready for bed. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, my minty breath mingling with his. 296/551 “As much as I’d love to bury myself in you, Mrs. Grey—you’ve had too much to drink, you’re at nearly eight thousand feet, and you didn’t sleep well last night. Come. Get into bed.” He pulls back the duvet and I climb in. He covers me up and kisses my forehead once more. “Close your eyes. When I come back to bed, I’ll expect you to be asleep.” It’s a threat, a command . . . it’s Christian. “Don’t go,” I plead. “I have some calls to make, Ana.” “It’s Saturday. It’s late. Please.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Ana, if I come to bed with you now, you won’t get any rest. Sleep.” He’s adamant. I close my eyes and his lips brush my forehead once more. “Goodnight, baby,” he breathes. Images of the day flash through my mind . . . Christian hauling me over his shoulder in the plane. His anxiety as to whether or not I’d like the house. Making love this afternoon. The bath. His reaction to my dress. Decking Blond Gi- ant—my palm tingles at the memory. And then Christian putting me to bed. Who would have thought? I grin widely, the word progress running around my brain as I drift. I am


inches apart. “You know what I think?” He cocks his head to the side. “I think I’ll go take a couple days, too. This house suddenly feels too small for the two of us.” His shoulder bumps against hers when he brushes past her. Sloane lets out the breath she was holding when she hears Ethan storm upstairs. She sits at the kitchen table. Ten minutes later, Ethan returns with his gym bag slung over his shoulder. “You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?” His voice is calm. But Sloane can tell by his flushed face that he’s fighting to control the rage boiling inside him. “I’m sure.” His expression goes cold. “Unbelievable,” he huffs, as he turns for the door. Seconds later, the door to the garage slams, rattling the kitchen cabinets behind her. She reaches for Ethan’s untouched beer and takes a swig as she hears his car peel out of their drive. The football game goes to commercial when she steps into the living room. Beer in hand, she sinks onto her couch. That could have gone a lot worse. He didn’t say he was leaving her for good. Even though he looked angry enough to. She’ll give him a few days. Long enough for him to feel the burn of being betrayed. But no more. Any longer, and there would be no coming back. Chapter 18 Lying atop the king bed that feels much too big for one person, Ethan flips through the channels on the large flatscreen in his downtown hotel room, unable to concentrate on anything other than his cheating, lying wife. She must know that he knows. She can’t really think he’s that stupid, can she? Was she so swept away by Brody Carr that she forgot what he does for a living? After leaving the house, he nearly went to a budget motel by the airport but thought better of it. If Sloane can take a weekend getaway to the San Juans with that billionaire asshole, he can spend a couple of nights in a five-star hotel. Especially when it was her lies that drove him out of the house. While he drove, he ran an Internet search on his phone for Brody Carr and the San Juans and learned the app founder owns a home on San Juan Island. He sets down the remote after letting the TV settle on a classic movie channel playing Bullitt. He checks his phone and feels a burst of fresh anger that Sloane hasn’t even tried to contact him after he stormed out of the house. He tosses his phone onto the white duvet, chiding himself for being so desperate. She should be the one who’s scared. Checking her phone, terrified of why he wouldn’t pick up. When he slept with Rachel, he immediately knew it was a mistake. He was sorry. But when he confronted Sloane tonight, she didn’t even blink. What happened to us? He knew on their first date that no other woman would ever come close to making him feel the


he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and laid them carefully on the table. --Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and this, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells. A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth. --Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand. These are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This is for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See. He shot from it two crowns and two shillings. --Three twelve, he said. I think you'll find that's right. --Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers. --No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it. Stephen's hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. --Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You'll find them very handy. Answer something. --Mine would be often empty, Stephen said. The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times now. Three nooses round me here. Well? I can break them in this instant if I will. --Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don't know yet what money is. Money is power. When you have lived as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say? PUT BUT MONEY IN THY PURSE. --Iago, Stephen murmured. He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man's stare. --He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes, but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth? The seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating. --That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets. --Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail. --I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I PAID MY WAY. Good man, good man. --I PAID MY WAY. I NEVER BORROWED A SHILLING IN MY LIFE. Can you feel that? I OWE NOTHING. Can you? Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five


then flopped onto its belly, continuing on with more of a winding, slithering motion. “Wish I had my compound bow,” Aubrey said under her breath. Pristy had to give it to the young woman; she was fearless, if not beyond reckless. “Did you see that thing?” Dr. Kline exclaimed. “What the fuck was that?” Pristy had seen her share of bizarre creatures, but this was one of the oddest. A long alligator snout, long, sharp, protruding teeth, multiple clawed appendages, then there was that bulbous fat belly. What she knew Doc Viv would call a human’s most primitive, protoreptilian brain reacted. Instinctively, she both hated and feared the creature on a level she would have a hard time putting into words. “We need to go,” Resnick said. “We’re going to be seen,” Dr. Kline said, glancing back to the slow-moving creature. “We’re not here at this time by accident. If I’ve timed things right, it’s in between shifts … Again, we have to move fast.” Resnick headed off, keeping low, moving fast. Pristy stayed on his heels, hearing the others fall in behind her. No sooner had they turned a corner, than they came to a stop. “What’s wrong?” she said to Resnick, who was looking at the floor where there was a puddle of something wet. He looked up with a grimace. “Makes sense,” he said more to himself than the others. He looked to Pristy. “It’s not as if those things can climb stairs.” She had no idea what he was talking about. Derrota, looking intrigued, pointed to a series of conjoined dotted lines on the floor, making two rectangles, one green, one red. Resnick patted the top of his shirt with both hands, then pulled an energy bar from his top left pocket. Holding it out in front of himself, he looked to Pristy and smiled. He tossed the bar onto the green rectangle. Instead of falling to the floor as expected, it flew upward, gravity clearly having changed direction. “Who wants to go first?” he said. “I do,” Aubrey said without hesitation and already moving toward the rectangle. Resnick placed a restraining hand onto her shoulder. “Remember, we’re not here.” “Got it, stealth is my middle name,” she said, pushing past him. She stopped just long enough to consider how she was going to do this, then, instead of stepping, she jumped, as if hopping from one hopscotch box to another. Up she went, her hands reaching high overhead—Super Girl incarnate. Resnick looked to the others. “Who’s next?” There were a series of gravity vaults, and not all of them were as vertical as the first one had been. Once Pristy had gotten accustomed to the method of moving between floors, she found it not only super easy, but exhilarating and fun. There were a number of gooey wet puddles, one of which caused LaSalle to lose his footing, but other than that, they made it safely to Resnick’s intended destination. The compound’s primary control center. Huddled outside, Pristy put an ear to the hatch door and listened.


there." "Can you talk French?" "We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay." "Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce." "Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoulles jolis?" "How nicely you do it! Let me see . . . you said, `Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers', didn't you?" "Oui, mademoiselle." "It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?" "Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady." Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie's bashfulness soon wore off, for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the `Laurence boy' better than ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them. "Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?" It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but she checked herself in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way. "I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books, no, I mean studying hard." And Jo blushed at the dreadful `pegging' which had escaped her. Laurie smiled but didn't seem shocked, and answered with a shrug. "Not for a year or two. I won't go before seventeen, anyway." "Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already. "Sixteen, next month." "How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it." "I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the way fellows do either, in this country." "What do you like?" "To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way." Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a splendid polka! Why don't you go and try it?" "If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow. "I can't, for I told meg I wouldn't, because . . ." There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh. "Because, what?" "You won't tell?" "Never!" "Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me


microphone that he and Cecily were going to play some modern rock songs they’d been practising. He launched into ‘Seven Nation Army’ on his electric guitar as Cecily accompanied him with a riff on her acoustic. Devlin, Finn, Natalie and Malia were swaying to the music, enjoying themselves. Lin dragged Josie and Minnie to the drinks table for a refill where Natalie’s fiancé Brandon was engrossed in a conversation with Jimmy Baker, pints of beer clutched in their hands. ‘I can’t dance like I used to.’ Josie waved a hand in front of her face to cool down. ‘I can’t do anything like I used to,’ Lin added sadly, reaching for the Pimm’s and overfilling her glass. ‘Talking of which,’ Minnie grinned. ‘I have a lover.’ ‘A what?’ Lin wasn’t sure she’d heard properly over the music. Minnie raised her voice. ‘Jensen, from New York, the retired theatre director, over here as a consultant for the Playhouse. I mentioned him to you before. We’re in love.’ Josie opened wide eyes. ‘In love? That’s not like you.’ ‘Well, it is now.’ Minnie sipped her Pimm’s. Lin was puzzled. ‘Does he live in Oxford?’ ‘Until October,’ Minnie explained. ‘Then he’s back in New York.’ ‘Will you go there?’ Josie asked. ‘Oh, you can’t leave us,’ Lin exclaimed. ‘Who knows?’ Minnie’s face was ambivalent. ‘I’ll deal with it when I have to.’ ‘Hello, ladies.’ Dangerous Dave was next to them, helping himself to lemonade. ‘I’m strictly off the sauce today.’ ‘I’m not.’ Lin brought the glass to her lips. ‘We have Florence’s stuff for the baby shower on the barge,’ Josie said. ‘We ought to do the presentation soon.’ ‘I’m very grateful to you all.’ Dangerous Dave’s face creased with happiness. ‘I just want the best for my princess.’ ‘We all do…’ Lin agreed, raising her glass. ‘Ah, Lin – where’s Neil today?’ Dave asked. ‘I thought he was going to be here.’ ‘I expect he’ll be along soon.’ Lin tried to make her face cheerful. She swigged the drink desperately. ‘He’s helping a customer with a car… I can’t remember where he’s gone…’ ‘Oh, yes… I remember now.’ Dangerous Dave’s face lit up. ‘He did tell me, a customer – in Charlbury, wasn’t it?’ ‘Yes, no…’ Lin felt blood rush to her face. ‘I’m not sure.’ ‘Charlbury, definitely – he told me he was helping a young lad in Charlbury with his old banger – something about noisy tappets…’ ‘Yes, that was it,’ Lin said miserably. Neil had told her he was going to Tadderly to help an older customer. Dave was blatantly covering for him. Lin swallowed more Pimm’s, relishing the tang on her tongue and the blurring of her thoughts, thinking that her husband was a liar and a cheat who had got his friends to lie for him. She wondered who else knew about Carole Frost – Jimmy, probably, Dickie Senior, Dickie Junior. Everyone in The Sun. The whole of Middleton Ferris. They were probably all gossiping and laughing behind her back. Lin wondered if Josie and Minnie knew. She shook


He took the lamp from the table and crept up-stairs. As he unlocked the door, a smile of joy flitted across his young face and [99] lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change, unless that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome,--more loathsome, if possible, than before,--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilt. Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire of a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? Why was the red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped,--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself up, and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, who would believe him, even if he did confess? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say he was mad. They would shut him up if he persisted in his story. Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton. It was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? And this murder,--was it to dog him all his life? Was he never to get rid of the past? Was he really to confess? No. There was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself,--that was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? It had given him pleasure once to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure.


asked him. “Nothing yet.” At least he was speaking to her. That was progress. “And, Nathaniel, how is your grandmother?” “She’s fine. Says to say hello.” He glanced over at Simon and ducked his head. So he knew. The coffee left a burnt taste in Marion’s mouth. Judy took a big bite of toast and somehow managed to chew with a smirk on her face. “Nathaniel,” Marion said, “can I talk to you for a moment?” “Sure.” Their backyard featured a giant gneiss boulder, which Judy and Marion used to climb and scrape their knees on as kids. Marion had learned at school that rocks like these had been rolled into place by retreating glaciers back in the Ice Age and were known as “glacial erratics.” When she’d told her father that, he’d been impressed: “Well, look at you, with the fancy scientific phrases. You sound like your sister.” The warmth of the compliment had lingered for days after. She leaned against the rock and looked back at the house. “I guess you’ve heard the news?” He nodded. “I have to say, when your father told me, I was shocked. Becoming a chorus girl seems like a rather audacious move.” “I’m not a chorus girl.” Everyone was so obtuse. Could no one even bother to try to see her point of view? It was crucial to get Nathaniel on board with her decision, otherwise she stood no chance. “A student from the dance studio mentioned the auditions at Radio City, and at the last minute I decided to go as well. It was a grueling process, there were hundreds of other girls. When they called out my name, I was shocked. But now I’m a Rockette. It means I get paid to do what I love, which is dance. Isn’t that incredible? I’m excited about it and I hope you can be, too.” “What about our wedding? What about all the planning you have to do this year?” She wanted to say that he hadn’t even proposed yet, so it was all still theoretical. Also, she resented the assumption that she would have to do all the planning, and he’d just show up the day of. But that was probably asking too much. “I can plan a wedding and work. Other women do it all the time.” “What’s your schedule going to be like?” How best to put it? “We work from eleven in the morning to ten at night, three weeks at a time.” “Eleven hours a day? What about weekends?” “Well, today is an exception, as they had some technical issues with the show that’s currently running, which meant the new girls didn’t have to go in. But normally, there are no weekends off. We dance four shows a day on weekends as well. My first performance is next Thursday.” His face fell. It was an insane schedule, to be honest. “But it’s three weeks straight, but then one whole week off,” she added. “I can get a lot done in a week.” “I’m finally back in Bronxville for good,


wondered whether the boy would think the adventure quite so splendid once the Lannister riders caught up with them. The rain had finally stopped and dawn light was seeping through the wet cloth over his eyes when Catelyn Stark gave the command to dismount. Rough hands pulled him down from his horse, untied his 290 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN wrists, and yanked the hood off his head. When he saw the narrow stony road, the foothills rising high and wild all around them, and the jagged snowcapped peaks on the distant horizon, all the hope went out of him in a rush. "This is the high road," he gasped, looking at Lady Stark with accusation. "The eastem road. You said we were riding for Winterfell!" Catelyn Stark favored him with the faintest of smiles. "Often and loudly," she agreed. "No doubt your friends will ride that way when they come after us. I wish them good speed." Even now, long days later, the memory filled him with a bitter rage. All his life Tyrion had prided himself on his cunning, the only gift the gods had seen fit to give him, and yet this seven-times-damned shewolf Catelyn Stark had outwitted him at every turn. The knowledge was more galling than the bare fact of his abduction. They stopped only as long as it took to feed and water the horses, and then they were off again. This time Tyrion was spared the hood. After the second night they no longer bound his hands, and once they had gained the heights they scarcely bothered to guard him at all. It seemed they did not fear his escape. And why should they? Up here the land was harsh and wild, and the high road little more than a stony track. If he did run, how far could he hope to go, alone and without provisions? The shadowcats would make a morsel of him, and the clans that dwelt in the mountain fastnesses were brigands and murderers who bowed to no law but the sword. Yet still the Stark woman drove them forward relentlessly. He knew where they were bound. He had known it since the moment they pulled off his hood. These mountains were the domain of House Arryn, and the late Hand's widow was a Tully, Catelyn Stark's sister . . . and no friend to the Lannisters. Tyrion had known the Lady Lysa slightly during her years at King's Landing, and did not look forward to renewing the acquaintance. His captors were clustered around a stream a short ways down the high road. The horses had drunk their fill of the icy cold water, and were grazing on clumps of brown grass that grew from clefts in the rock. Jyck and Morrec huddled close, sullen and miserable. Mohor stood over them, leaning on his spear and wearing a rounded iron cap that made him look as if he had a bowl on his head. Nearby, Marillion the singer sat oiling his woodharp, complaining of what the damp was doing to his strings. "We


your priorities right, Io.” Thais whipped her head at him. “What are you talking about? She just saved your—” “My love, do you think it is a coincidence this woman found her way onto the Hill—into our walled, secure community—on the day before the elections? After a month of senseless, frenetic murders, the Police Commissioner is found dead in his own house at the hands of an unidentifiable kind of other-born. All that we have fought for would be undone. The city, civilians, and other-born alike would revert to their old violence, and it would be the Moonset Riots all over again.” With every word, his tone grew harder. “Whoever sent this assassin has been playing a very long game.” Assassins—was that what the wraiths were? Assassins sent to dispatch the Police Commissioner a day before he becomes Mayor, meaning to instigate another bout of violence. Gods, Io hated to say it, but it made sense. Sent by whom, though? The answer came to Io fast and obvious. She settled herself in that kitchen, hyperconscious of how her legs spread casually, how her shoulders hunched, how her hands sat in the pockets of her pants, touching the cold brass of Bianca Rossi’s knuckles. Compose yourself, show nothing, lest Thais realize the race of your heartbeat. Her sister had always been too good at reading her. But Thais was too busy bristling at her fiancé’s quip, lip curled in that way of hers that showed she was about to go off. “Io will figure it out,” she said assuredly. “And when she does, we will be the first people she tells.” * * * Edei would be here any minute now. The café was empty, both of pastries and customers. Amos was reading their gigantic book and munching on a slice of raisin bread, while Io tried to put her thoughts in order, face propped on her fists, eyes gazing into space. Ava’s soft music still crooned from above, but her threads were completely motionless—she must have fallen asleep—a relief, because Io really didn’t feel like facing her right now. What would she say? I think your girlfriend sent a wraith to assassinate our sister’s fiancé? There was something indecipherable about these murders. The wraiths claimed to kill for justice, their hand guided by someone powerful enough to hide from the skills of the Nine. Io’s first suspect, Horatio, had turned out to be another victim, punished for his involvement in the wraiths’ abductions during the Riots. Her second suspect had been Saint-Yves, who concealed the wraiths’ identities from the public and failed to prosecute the victims in the past. But he, too, could be ruled out: firstly, because he seemed loyal to the proper justice systems, secondly, because he had offered a partnership to Bianca Rossi, and thirdly—and most importantly—because the newest wraith had just attempted to kill him. The whole attack could be a ruse, but Io didn’t think so. He had come too close to dying today; his fear had looked too genuine to have been staged. And now Io’s


dragon bone, salvaged from the wasteland beyond sunset. Its strings are made of hair, stolen from one of the fiercest harpies in the skies. Its frame is held together by the very wind itself. They say the harp is heavy to mortals, and it would refuse to let such fingers play it without screeching. Only Enva’s hands can make it truly sing.” Now, onto the news you won’t like: I’m going to be away for a while. I’m uncertain how long at the moment, and I won’t be able to write to you. That’s not to say I won’t be thinking of you often. So please know that, even in the silence that must come between us for a little while. I’ll write to you whenever I’m able. Promise me you’ll remain safe and well. Yours, —C. Dear Carver, Let me first say thank you for the myth snippet. I enjoyed it, immensely. I wonder if you are perhaps a wizard, for how you’re able to find missing myths the way you do. As if by magic. But I also can’t help but wonder … where are you going? Are you leaving Oath? Love, Iris She waited for him to write a reply. And when it never came, she hated how her heart sank into the silence. {25} Collision Dear Carver, I don’t know why I’m writing this. You just told me last night you were going away, and yet here I am. Writing to you. As I’ve been doing so compulsively the past few months. Or maybe I’m truly writing for myself today, under the guise of your name. Perhaps it’s a good thing you’re gone. Perhaps now I can fully lower my armor and look at myself, which I’ve resisted doing since my mum died. You know what? I need to completely restart this letter to you to me. Dear Iris, You don’t know what’s coming in the days ahead, but you’re doing just fine. You are so much stronger than you think, than you feel. Don’t be afraid. Keep going. Write the things you need to read. Write what you know to be true. —I. “We need to get the seeds in the ground,” Marisol said with a sigh. They still hadn’t planted the garden yet, despite the fact that it was tilled and ready. “I’m afraid I won’t have time to do it today, though. I’m needed in the infirmary kitchen.” “Iris and I can plant them,” Attie offered, finishing her breakfast tea. Iris nodded in agreement. “Just show us how to do it and we can get everything planted.” Half an hour later, Iris and Attie were on their knees in the garden, dirt beneath their nails as they created mounded rows and planted the seeds. It caught Iris by surprise—this weighted sense of peace she felt as she gave the earth seed after seed, knowing they would soon rise. It quieted her fears and her worries, to let the soil pass through her fingers, to smell the loam and listen to the birdsong in the trees


arrive in the town, however, it's an alien place. You see it through two perspectives, Silas' inner reaction and Eppie's remarks. Time has caused a change here as it does everywhere, and Silas can't recognize the place. Eppie's confused by the noise and crowds. Even Silas has to ask directions. But he's aware that people won't know where Lantern-Yard is. In Raveloe, everyone knows every house, but in the town a back street is familiar only to the people who live there. Silas seems happy when he recognizes Prison Street and the jail. Eppie, however, is disgusted by this "dark ugly place," which "hides the sky" (as usual, Eppie longs for something natural). The grim jail is a lifting symbol for Silas' old life, yet he's attached to it anyway because it's part of his past. Have you ever revisited a place you once knew well and found it changed? If so, you may understand Silas' eagerness and puzzlement. The shops on Prison Street have all changed, but he discovers a few familiar landmarks to lead him to Lantern-Yard. When he turns the last corner, though, a rude shock awaits him. The entire street has been knocked down and replaced with a factory. NOTE: SOCIAL HISTORY This novel is set in an era of transition, when villages like Raveloe still existed but big industrial cities had already sprung up. This brief picture of urban life intensifies by contrast the picture Eliot has drawn of Raveloe. She presents this manufacturing town and its miserable living conditions with a minimum of description, relying mostly upon her characters' remarks to show it to you. Eppie exclaims at how crowded it is. Even Silas is surprised by the smell. Eliot gives you a quick, unsettling glimpse of dirty faces in dark doorways. The factory produces a dehumanized, faceless stream of men and women. With her reverence for the past, Eliot stresses how transient this city is. Silas can't find anyone who's lived there longer than ten years. People and places he used to know seem to be swept away, as though they never existed. Compare this to Raveloe, which is rooted in its past. Would you call your own community transient or rooted in the past? What about America in general? Eliot cuts immediately back to Raveloe, where Dolly helps Silas sort out what happened. Dolly muses that there are many things in life which remain "dark" to ordinary people. Silas agrees, but he says that since Eppie has come to him, "I've had light enough to trusten by"--the darkness of life no longer troubles him. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CONCLUSION In Chapter 6, Mr. Macey said that winter was a strange season for the Lammeters' wedding. The Lammeters were outsiders, but Eppie isn't--she gets married in spring, the right season. Symbolically, the spring is lovely and fertile, filled with flowers and new life. But Eliot also tells you the villagers' practical reasons why spring is best--they have more time for weddings then, and it's better weather for a light dress. This wedding scene works to restore


something from Edgar. Now you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, as I am led to imagine the Heights will be. It is to amuse myself that I dwell on such subjects as the lack of external comforts; they never occupy my thoughts, except at the moment when I miss them. I should laugh and dance for joy if I found their absence was the total of my miseries, and the rest was an un- natural dream. The sun set behind the Grange as we turned on to the moors: by that I judged it to be six o'clock; and my companion halted half an hour to inspect the park and the gardens, and probably the place itself, as well as he could; so it was dark when we dismounted in the paved yard of the farmhouse, and your old fellow-serv- ant Joseph issued out to receive us by the light of a dip candle. He did it with a courtesy that redounded to his credit. His first act was to elevate his torch to a level with my face, squint malignantly, project his under lip, and turn away. Then he took the two horses and led them into the stables, reappearing for the purpose of locking the outer gate, as if we lived in an ancient castle. Heathcliff stayed to speak to him, and I entered the kitchen---a dingy, untidy hole. I dare say you would not know it, it is so changed since it was in your charge. By the fire stood a ruffianly child, strong in limb and dirty in garb, with a look of Catherine in his eyes and about his mouth. "This is Edgar's legal nephew," I reflected---"mine in a manner. I must shake hands, and---yes---I must kiss him. It is right to establish a good understanding at the beginning." I approached, and attempting to take his chubby fist, said,--- "How do you do, my dear?" He replied in a jargon I did not comprehend. "Shall you and I be friends, Hareton?" was my next essay at conversation. An oath, and a threat to set Throttler on me if I did not "frame off," rewarded my perseverance. "Hey, Throttler, lad!" whispered the little wretch, rousing a half-bred bull-dog from its lair in a corner. "Now, wilt thou be ganging?" he asked authorita- tively. Love for my life urged a compliance. I stepped over the threshold to wait till the others should enter. Mr. Heathcliff was nowhere visible, and Joseph, whom I followed to the stables and requested to accompany me in, after staring and muttering to himself, screwed up his nose and replied,--- "Mim! mim! mim! Did iver Christian body hear aught like it? Minching un munching! How can I tell whet ye say?" "I say I wish you to come with me into the house!" I cried, thinking him deaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness. "None o' me. I getten summut else to do," he an- swered, and continued his work, moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and surveying my dress


I’m not more broken up about Athena, so I don’t follow up with either. I don’t want to talk about how much I miss her, or how my days feel so empty without her. The problem is that my days feel completely normal, except for the singular, bewildering fact that Athena is fucking dead, that she’s gone, just like that, and I don’t know how I’m even supposed to feel about it, so I start drinking and panic-eating whenever the blues creep up in the evenings, and I get pretty bloated for a few weeks from all the ice cream and lasagna, but that’s as bad as things get. I am, in fact, rather astounded by my mental resilience. I break down only once, a week after it happened. I’m not sure what triggers it, but I do spend that night watching Heimlich tutorials on YouTube for hours, comparing them to what I did, trying to remember if I positioned my hands the same way, if I yanked with enough force. I could have saved her. I keep saying this out loud, like Lady Macbeth yelling about her damned spot. I could have kept my head on, taught myself how to do it properly, put my fists correctly over her navel, cleared the obstruction, and let Athena breathe again. I am the reason why she died. “No,” says Rory when I call her at four in the morning, weeping so hard I can barely speak. “No, no, no, don’t you think that for a second, do you understand? You are not guilty for anything. You did not kill that girl. You are innocent. Do you understand?” I feel like a toddler as I mumble back, “Yes. Okay. Yeah.” But that’s what I need right now: a child’s blind faith that the world is so simple, and that if I didn’t mean to do a bad thing, then none of this is my fault. “Are you going to be okay?” Rory presses. “Do you want me to call Dr. Gaily?” “No—God, no, I’m fine. Don’t call Dr. Gaily.” “Okay, it’s just, she told us that if you were ever backsliding—” “I’m not backsliding.” I take a deep breath. “This isn’t like that. I’m all right, Rory. I didn’t know Athena that well anyways. It’s fine.” A few days after the news breaks, I write a long Twitter thread about what happened. It feels like I’m writing from a template, drawing on the countless bereavement threads I have pruriently scrolled through in the past. I use phrases like “tragic accident” and “hasn’t sunk in” and “still feels unreal to me.” I don’t delve into details—that’s vile. I write about how shaken I am, what Athena meant to me, and how much I’ll miss her. Strangers keep telling me how sorry they are, how I should be gentle with myself, how it’s totally valid to be reeling like I am from such a traumatic incident. They call me a good person. They send me hugs and well-wishes. They ask if they can set up a


in the morning.” “I’ll miss that too,” Kimmy says. “And sitting on the bench next to the walk-up window, petting all the dogs that come past. And all the junk shops and yard sales. Every time I come here, I end up trying to convince Cleo to rent a U-Haul to drive back.” “A garden filled with lobster traps has a different aesthetic effect in upstate New York,” Cleo says. “Yeah, but we could at least cover our walls with wood-burned signs that say Wicked Pissah.” “Well, now we know what to get you for your birthday,” I say. “Should we all get wicked pissah tattoos?” Parth jokes. “We can do better than that,” Sabrina says. “Giant lobsters,” Wyn puts in. “Mermaids that look like Bratz dolls,” I suggest. “I’ll come up with something.” Sabrina props her chin in one hand, the other fluttering through the shallow water. “What’s something you’ll miss, Harry?” Cleo asks. “Something small.” I say, “Seeing everyone so happy together.” Cleo bats her hand against my leg. “Something for you.” I think some more. “I guess . . . going to sleep.” Parth bursts into laughter. “I’m serious!” I cry. “Your favorite part,” Sabrina says, “of this amazing trip I planned for us . . . is going to sleep.” “No.” I toss a seashell shard toward the sparkling lip of the tide. “It’s going to sleep so tired, in a good way. Feeling content and exhausted and relaxed, but also excited to wake up and still be here.” I catch Wyn’s eyes and look away. “It feels like nothing can go too wrong here. At least once you’re off Ray’s airplane.” Sabrina grabs my hand a little too hard, then lets go on a sigh. “I’ll miss that too. Hell, I’ll even miss Ray.” “I’ll miss Bernie’s,” Cleo says. “Even though it gave you a phantom hangover?” Wyn asks. “For all I know,” Cleo says, “that was the last hangover I’ll ever have. The least I can do is appreciate it.” We get back onto the boat as the sun is beginning its descent. The water is diamond edged, the air cooling and the spray lifting off the sides of the boat positively freezing, despite the sun beating against the crowns of our heads. At the helm, Sabrina glows. She’s where she’s meant to be, doing what she was born to do, and no matter how complicated this week has been, I now realize how worth it it all was. Parth passes out a round of Coronas with lime wedges—and soda for Cleo —and Sabrina cranks up the radio, Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” crackling out. It feels like time has been canceled, thrown out, suspended indefinitely. As long as we stay out here on the water, salt spray flecking our skin, nothing else exists. Kimmy wrangles Cleo into a slow dance, and Parth and I heckle them from our benches until the combination of the setting sun and beer has me heavy eyed and yawning. Beside me, Wyn lifts his arm in invitation, and either


“Every time you loosen your tie or unbutton your shirt, I can’t look away. I love that spot.” He reaches up and kisses it. “I couldn’t be in the same room as that spot without eventually considering whether I might be at least a little queer. And then when I moved in here, I saw it every day, because you don’t understand shirts, and now I’m committed to lewdness and homosexuality. And probably communism. We’ll find out, I guess.” Nick likes the idea of Andy being seduced by his collarbone. Plenty of people have looked at Nick and liked what they saw; he’s pretty sure none of them thought twice about his clavicle. “You’re already pretty committed to communism if you ask the Daily News. Or the FBI, for that matter.” “Shh,” Andy says, as if there’s anyone who might overhear, as if there’s anyone who might see the two of them naked in bed together and focus on communism. “What about you?” Andy asks. “What made you think about me like that?” He’s a little breathless, and he’s definitely looking for a compliment. Nick will give him compliments until his throat goes hoarse, if that’s what he wants. “It was these,” Nick bends his head to kiss the triangle of freckles at the corner of Andy’s mouth. “I love them.” “My birthmarks? Why?” “They’re like an arrow. Like a dare.” He doesn’t mention that he first noticed these freckles about six seconds after they were introduced and that it’s been a steady descent into helpless infatuation ever since. Andy pulls him down into a kiss but soon gentles it. “We should eat something. It’s past six and you didn’t have lunch, unless you count bourbon, which I do not.” “I can run out and get pizza,” Nick offers. “You really can’t. I left a bruise under your jaw. You look obscene. I’ll go.” “You can’t, either. There’s beard burn all over your face and neck.” Andy brings a hand up to his face and touches it with just his fingertips, as if he’ll be able to feel the redness. “We still have some sauce.” Jesus. A week of pasta, meatballs, meatball sandwiches, and more pasta and they’re only half done with that jar. He lightly smacks Andy’s hip. “Come on, you can help boil the water.” * * * They fall back into bed as soon as the pasta bowls hit the sink, Nick kissing his way down Andy’s chest, Andy responding with increasingly unhinged swearing and a fist in Nick’s hair. They’ve taken the edge off, so now Nick makes it last, drawing helpless, sweet sounds from Andy. Nick loves doing this, loves that he can make Andy go from mild-mannered and lighthearted to this, frantic and grasping and desperate. Later, he puts his head on Andy’s thigh and catches his breath, but Andy begins trying to pull him up. “Get up here, come on, come on.” And then his mouth, sweet and hot, trailing a line of kisses downward as he attempts to return the favor. The key that


reclined on the too-many-pillows that the Calvin Inn provided and took my sweatshirt off. I’d put thought into the tank top I wore beneath. “I bet you’re the only person from that ski crowd doing actual useful work now,” I said. “Isn’t everyone else basically just turning money into more money?” He protested, but was clearly flattered. He swished his whiskey and said, “It’s hard to break that pattern of what your parents want. You think you have to earn at least as much as them. Then there were kids like Serenho who didn’t grow up with much. My grandfather and my dad worked their asses off and I get to have this comfortable life in academia, but there’s always the safety net.” “Wait, I thought Serenho was loaded.” I took a sip to hide my shoddy acting. He leaned in, secretive. “No way. He was on massive aid, and the last two years Rachel Popa’s family paid for him.” “Why would they do that?” “Because they could. I don’t know; he’s just a great guy. And he knew how to charm it up with people’s parents. Moms, especially. We’d rag on him, how he was suddenly so polite, like, That sweater really suits you, Mrs. Stiles.” I could see it. He’d been so good with teachers, had the kind of casual relationships with them that meant when I’d show up early for ninth grade English he’d already be there, asking Mrs. Hoffnung how he could get this chocolate ice cream stain out of his favorite oxford. “Wasn’t he always going on vacations with you all?” “Sure. But we’d pay. We’d find ways, like a few of us would gather money for the keg and make sure he didn’t get hit up.” I said, “I guess Thalia knew, obviously. That he was on aid.” “Yeah, but he also never took her home to Vermont, you know? And her showing up later, she didn’t see him when he was wearing crap clothes and cheap skis. She only met him after he had all the stuff we’d given him.” This stung. I’d never noticed that Robbie had dressed badly, maybe because he was a boy, and because even his “crap” clothes were still a step up from Indiana. That he’d undergone his own transformation, parallel to my raiding of Fran’s sisters’ closets, hurt. I couldn’t figure out why. Maybe I felt for him, or maybe I hated that his friends had elevated him to social stardom, when my own transformation, liberating as it was, had only distanced me further from most of my peers. But hadn’t my own friends held me up? Hadn’t I done fine? “I had no idea,” I said. I poured us both more whiskey. “You must’ve felt protective.” I worried Mike would snap into defensive mode, but he leaned back in the floral chair, feet close to mine. He had an impressive five-o’clock shadow. “When everything happened with Thalia, I didn’t realize how vulnerable he might have been. It’s one thing if a rich kid gets accused of something and


lanes and alleys and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos of invalided benches. At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to Tom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of talk. In the course of it Aunt Polly said: "Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody suffering 'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come over on a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give me a hint some way that you warn't dead, but only run off." "Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said Mary; "and I believe you would if you had thought of it." --------------------------------------------------------- -179- "Would you, Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face lightingwistfully. "Say, now, would you, if you'd thought of it?" "I -- well, I don't know. 'Twould 'a' spoiled everything." "Tom, I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt Polly, with a grieved tone that discomforted the boy. "It would have been something if you'd cared enough to think of it, even if you didn't do it." "Now, auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's giddy way -- he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything." "More's the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come and done it, too. Tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and wish you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so little." "Now, auntie, you know I do care for you," said Tom. "I'd know it better if you acted more like it." "I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a repentant tone; "but I dreamt about you, anyway. That's something, ain't it?" "It ain't much -- a cat does that much -- but it's better than nothing. What did you dream?" "Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the bed, and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him." "Well, so we did. So we always do. I'm glad --------------------------------------------------------- -180- your dreams could take even that much trouble about us." "And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here." "Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?" "Oh, lots. But it's so dim, now." "Well, try to recollect -- can't you?" "Somehow it seems to me that the wind -- the wind blowed the -- the -- " "Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!" Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and then said: "I've got it now! I've got it now! It blowed the candle!" "Mercy on us! Go on, Tom -- go on!" "And it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I believe that that door -- '" "Go on, Tom!" "Just let me study a moment -- just


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

not know how to light a fire if I did—I had never done so before. Unfortunately, I happened to glance out the window at that moment and found that it had begun to snow. It was then, as I stared at the empty hearth, hungry and cold, that I began to wonder if I would die here. Lest you think me a newcomer to foreign fieldwork, let me assure you this is not the case. I spent a period of months in a part of Provence so rural that the villagers had never seen a camera, studying a river-dwelling species of Folk, les lutins des rivières. And before that there was a lengthy sojourn in the forests of the Apennines with some deer-faced fate and half a year in the Croatian wilderness as an assistant to a professor who spent his career analysing the music of mountain Folk. But in each case, I had known what I was getting into, and had a student or two to take care of logistics. And there had been no snow. Ljosland is the most isolated of the Scandinavian countries, an island situated in the wild seas off the Norwegian mainland, its northern coastline brushing the Arctic Circle. I had accounted for the awkwardness of reaching such a place—the long and uncomfortable voyage north—yet I was realizing that I had given little consideration to the difficulties I might face in leaving it if something went wrong, particularly once the sea ice closed in. A knock upon the door launched me to my feet. But the visitor was already entering without bothering about my permission, stamping his boots with the air of a man entering his own abode after a long day. “Professor Wilde,” he said, holding out a hand. It was a large hand, for he was a large man, both in height and around the shoulders and midsection. His hair was a shaggy black, his face square, with a broken nose that came together in a way that was surprisingly becoming, though in an entirely uninviting way. “Brought your dog, I see. Fine beast.” “Mr. Egilson?” I said politely, shaking the hand. “Well, who else would I be?” my host replied. I wasn’t sure if this was meant to be unfriendly or if the baseline of his demeanour was mild hostility. I should mention here that I am terrible at reading people, a failing that has landed me in my fair share of inconveniences. Bambleby would have known exactly what to make of this bear of a man, would probably already have him laughing at some charmingly self-effacing joke. Bloody Bambleby, I thought. I haven’t much of a sense of humour myself, something I dearly wish I could call upon in such situations. “Quite a journey you’ve had,” Egilson said, staring at me disconcertingly. “All the way from London. Get seasick?” “Cambridge, actually. The ship was quite—” “Villagers stared as you came up the road, I bet? ‘Who’s that little mouse of a thing, coming up the road?’ they were thinking. ‘She can’t be that


and she could wash away the smell of egg rolls and tomato sauce in her hotel shower. No. Louise would not let this house be haunted. She would not let Mark be the hero of this made-up story. A puppet hadn’t told her to kill baby Mark. She hadn’t tried to kill baby Mark. He had put the stupid dolls in the stupid bathroom. There were true things and false things and ghosts were false things. “Bring me a green tea from Starbucks in the morning,” she said. “And then you’re going to admit this house isn’t haunted and we’re going to call a Realtor and put it on the market.” Mark shook his head sadly and got in his truck. It rocked as he settled. He slammed the door. It sounded loud in the nighttime street. His passenger-side window whirred down. “I’m trying to help,” he said. He looked like a bad actor in one of his shitty Dock Street plays. “Oh, fuck off,” Louise said. Mark’s engine roared to life and the window rolled up. Louise took a step backward. “Don’t forget my tea,” she called, but he was already driving away. His brake lights flared once at the corner, then he was gone, his engine fading away into absolute silence. There were no crickets, no katydids, no dogs barking in the distance. There weren’t any lights on at the neighbors’. Louise looked at her Kia. It would be so easy to wait a few minutes, then shut down the house and head back to her hotel. She could shower and come back early in the morning. Mark wouldn’t even know she’d left. Then she could tell him that his ridiculous fantasy was just immature nonsense, that he had been wrong about everything, and they could call a non-delusional Realtor, put the house on the market, and she could go home to San Francisco and see Poppy. But she wasn’t Mark. She didn’t take shortcuts. Louise did things the right way. Chapter 19 L ouise stood in the dining room. All she could hear was the fan wobbling to itself in the hall bathroom. The smell of cold Chinese food and pizza made her feel greasy, so she grabbed the containers and started scraping them into the sink. There was no point in saving food this bad. She washed the Chinese food down the drain and ran the disposal, then dumped the pizza boxes in a black garbage bag, followed by the clamshells. She tied the garbage bag shut and lugged it into the garage and left it next to the trash can containing the Squirrel Nativity. She thought about opening the lid to make sure it was still there, but couldn’t make herself do it. She hoisted the heavy garbage bag up and set it on top instead. Just in case. She went inside and scrubbed the kitchen counters with spray bleach. She scrubbed the sink. She scrubbed the stove. She scrubbed the plastic tablecloth. She’d lost control and wrecked everything. She didn’t know how she’d get Mark to


doing my muscles an injury." That afternoon Mary noticed that something new had happened in Colin's room. She had noticed it the day before but had said nothing because she thought the change might have been made by chance. She said nothing today but she sat and looked fixedly at the picture over the mantel. She could look at it because the curtain had been drawn aside. That was the change she noticed. "I know what you want me to tell you," said Colin, after she had stared a few minutes. "I always know when you want me to tell you something. You are wondering why the curtain is drawn back. I am going to keep it like that." "Why?" asked Mary. "Because it doesn't make me angry any more to see her laughing. I wakened when it was bright moonlight two nights ago and felt as if the Magic was filling the room and making everything so splendid that I couldn't lie still. I got up and looked out of the window. The room was quite light and there was a patch of moonlight on the curtain and somehow that made me go and pull the cord. She looked right down at me as if she were laughing because she was glad I was standing there. It made me like to look at her. I want to see her laughing like that all the time. I think she must have been a sort of Magic person perhaps." "You are so like her now," said Mary, "that sometimes I think perhaps you are her ghost made into a boy." That idea seemed to impress Colin. He thought it over and then answered her slowly. "If I were her ghost--my father would be fond of me." "Do you want him to be fond of you?" inquired Mary. "I used to hate it because he was not fond of me. If he grew fond of me I think I should tell him about the Magic. It might make him more cheerful." CHAPTER XXVI "IT'S MOTHER!" Their belief in the Magic was an abiding thing. After the morning's incantations Colin sometimes gave them Magic lectures. "I like to do it," he explained, "because when I grow up and make great scientific discoveries I shall be obliged to lecture about them and so this is practise. I can only give short lectures now because I am very young, and besides Ben Weatherstaff would feel as if he were in church and he would go to sleep." "Th' best thing about lecturin'," said Ben, "is that a chap can get up an' say aught he pleases an' no other chap can answer him back. I wouldn't be agen' lecturin' a bit mysel' sometimes." But when Colin held forth under his tree old Ben fixed devouring eyes on him and kept them there. He looked him over with critical affection. It was not so much the lecture which interested him as the legs which looked straighter and stronger each day, the boyish head which held itself up so


French giant lolled upon the veranda of the hotel. Mounting the broad steps, with brandished knife, the Negro made straight for a party of four men sitting at a table sipping the inevitable absinthe. Shouting in alarm, the four took to their heels, and then the black spied Tarzan. With a roar he charged the ape-man, while half a hundred heads peered from sheltering windows and doorways to witness the butchering of the poor Frenchman by the giant black. Tarzan met the rush with the fighting smile that the joy of battle always brought to his lips. As the Negro closed upon him, steel muscles gripped the black wrist of the uplifted knife-hand, and a single swift wrench left the hand dangling below a broken bone. Chapter 26 146 With the pain and surprise, the madness left the black man, and as Tarzan dropped back into his chair the fellow turned, crying with agony, and dashed wildly toward the native village. On another occasion as Tarzan and D'Arnot sat at dinner with a number of other whites, the talk fell upon lions and lion hunting. Opinion was divided as to the bravery of the king of beasts --some maintaining that he was an arrant coward, but all agreeing that it was with a feeling of greater security that they gripped their express rifles when the monarch of the jungle roared about a camp at night. D'Arnot and Tarzan had agreed that his past be kept secret, and so none other than the French officer knew of the ape-man's familiarity with the beasts of the jungle. "Monsieur Tarzan has not expressed himself," said one of the party. "A man of his prowess who has spent some time in Africa, as I understand Monsieur Tarzan has, must have had experiences with lions--yes?" "Some," replied Tarzan, dryly. "Enough to know that each of you are right in your judgment of the characteristics of the lions--you have met. But one might as well judge all blacks by the fellow who ran amuck last week, or decide that all whites are cowards because one has met a cowardly white. "There is as much individuality among the lower orders, gentlemen, as there is among ourselves. Today we may go out and stumble upon a lion which is over-timid--he runs away from us. To-morrow we may meet his uncle or his twin brother, and our friends wonder why we do not return from the jungle. For myself, I always assume that a lion is ferocious, and so I am never caught off my guard." "There would be little pleasure in hunting," retorted the first speaker, "if one is afraid of the thing he hunts." D'Arnot smiled. Tarzan afraid! "I do not exactly understand what you mean by fear," said Tarzan. "Like lions, fear is a different thing in different men, but to me the only pleasure in the hunt is the knowledge that the hunted thing has power to harm me as much as I have to harm him. If I went out with a couple of rifles and


do you think we shall ever find it out?" "Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen. For Miss ----------, read Miss Smith. My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease. That is court. Another view of man, my second brings; Behold him there, the monarch of the seas! That is ship;--plain as it can be.--Now for the cream. But ah! united, (courtship, you know,) what reverse we have! Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown. Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone. A very proper compliment!--and then follows the application, which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of its being written for you and to you." Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel. Emma spoke for her. "There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment," said she, "that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions. You are his object-- and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I thought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen what has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility have really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is a connexion which offers nothing but good. It will give you every thing that you want--consideration, independence, a proper home--it will fix you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in either of us." "Dear Miss Woodhouse!"--and "Dear Miss Woodhouse," was all that Harriet, with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she ought. Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample acknowledgment. "Whatever you say is always right," cried Harriet, "and therefore I suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not have imagined it. It


the book, my broken French immediately betraying me as a foreigner. It sounded like one hundred francs too many and after much gesturing (him turning out his pockets to indicate that I was robbing him blind) we agreed a price. I felt drunk with recklessness, spending the little money I had on another book. As he began wrapping the volumes in brown paper and string, I heard a voice I recognised calling my name. ‘Monsieur Hassan,’ I said, surprised when he, yet again, took my hand and kissed it. I flushed immediately and the bookseller smirked. They then began a conversation in French that I could not follow, but the subject matter soon became clear. ‘I see you have purchased my Baudelaire,’ he said, with a devilish smile. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ ‘I told my friend here to keep this translation for me, but I see he has sold it to you … for a much higher price.’ The implication was not lost on me, that I was a silly woman who’d be taken for a fool. I chose to ignore it. ‘Well then, it is not your Baudelaire but mine,’ I said, taking the package and heading back towards my hotel. ‘At least allow me to offer you dinner tonight, as a felicitation for your excellent bargain,’ he said, his long strides easily catching up with me. ‘No thank you, I cannot accept such an unsuitable invitation. We are strangers.’ ‘Oof,’ he said, mockingly taking a dagger to the heart. ‘But we are not strangers and it would seem that you are alone in Paris …’ ‘I’m not alone,’ I said, defensively. ‘I’m staying with my … aunt.’ ‘Ah, I see,’ he said, nodding and almost admitting defeat. ‘Alors, if you change your mind, Mademoiselle Opaline,’ he added, handing me his card. ‘I will not forget this slight easily but, fortunately for you, I have a forgiving nature.’ With a tip of his hat, he disappeared down a side street and I was left standing there, feeling furious. He was an infuriating, pompous, arrogant man. And I loathed him. And yet I put his card in my pocket rather than throwing it in the Seine. That evening, I wrote one of the postcards I had bought at the bookstall to my Jane. I knew I could trust her to keep my whereabouts a secret. The thing about Jane was, you could hear her laugh before you ever saw her. She adored the outdoors, which Mother declared ‘unladylike’. I missed her terribly, but writing to her closed the distance between us, if only for a short while. I tried to keep my tone cheery as I filled the postcard with statements that ended in exclamation marks. Paris is glorious! Not very original, but still. I fancied that perhaps one day she might come and visit if I were to remain. When I looked at the money I had left, I wasn’t so sure. I had to find a position doing something. I resolved to visit the library the next day and see


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

dressed in her new Wonderland tee and crowned with a pink tiara, the child in question searches through dozens of tiny grayish-taupe puzzle pieces, intent on finding the corners of an elephant’s ear and the tip of a lion’s tail in our African Wild After the Rains jigsaw puzzle. I wonder about the chances that an elephant and a grown lion would stand this close to each other, but it seems a minor quibble. “Unfortunately, no,” I say. It’s already June; our holidays would normally be parsed out and set in stone by now, but with my filming schedule still up in the air, summer plans are as well. “And I’m sorry, Nat, I know it’s a pain. I’ve been going back and forth with Felicity’s agents for weeks. Just make your plans and I’ll work around them.” Nat crosses the room and sets down lunch for each of us before taking a seat on the floor across from me. Normally my daughter and I would be at my place for the weekend, but Stevie’s social circle seems to be ever expanding, with a birthday party tonight and another in the morning. Co-parenting means compromise, and I’m happy to hang out here if it means time together. The food doesn’t hurt, either. It smells amazing; for the two years Nat and I were married I was deeply spoiled by her cooking. When we split, I had to get my shit together—I couldn’t feed my toddler ramen and Happy Meals every weekend. Now I appreciate nothing more than food I don’t have to prepare myself. “How’s everything going with her?” she asks, pulling my attention up from the steaming bowl of pozole. I haven’t shared much with Nat because there isn’t much to tell. Felicity has been communicating with me through her intermediaries—attorney and agents. She has me by the balls and knows it. I swallow a too-hot bite, wincing. “She’s tentatively accepted.” “What are the conditions?” “Her agent is supposed to be sending them over.” “You sound thrilled.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Let me ask you something. Weeks ago, I asked her to do this thing. I offered—she could have turned it down but didn’t. Isn’t it weird that she still seems to be… sort of… questioning my commitment a bit?” With a little laugh, Nat takes a bite and pokes at her bowl with a spoon. “I don’t know that much about her in real life—I mean, she shows us what she wants us to see. She seems playful and funny and adventurous, but a reality show doesn’t seem like something she’d do. There must be a reason she’s considering it, and if she called you out for seeming less than enthusiastic, you’d better get your attitude squared away.” Natalia looks at me straight on. “You’re a wonderful guy, Conn, but you’ve been acting a little snobby, like this is beneath you.” I turn back to the puzzle. “How is it snobby if it’s accurate? I would never do this if Blaine wasn’t forcing me to.” I know


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

Didn’t expect to see you here.” “We have some questions,” Lore said, trying not to sound as out of breath as she felt. “Questions that will probably involve a lot of religious theory and other technically heretical pursuits,” Gabe grumbled. The head librarian grinned. “Then you, my friends, have come to the right place.” He pushed the door wider and beckoned them inside. The Church library rivaled the one within the Citadel, as far as sheer volume went. It was just as beautiful, too, though in a different way. Where the Citadel library was bright and airy, the Church library was austere, everything made of dark, gleaming wood and lit with the golden glow of gas lamps. The room was at least four stories high, though the upper floors were reached by a sliding ladder rather than clever staircases. Long tables ran the length of the room, and down the center of each was a domed glass lane with small hinges placed at equidistant points. A few ancient-looking books rested beneath the glass, where they could be read but not touched. A small door set into the shelves opened on what looked like a reading room, with another glass-covered table. The shelves in that room were full of much thinner books, with covers embossed in gold lettering too ornate for Lore to make out from a distance. Small potted plants had been placed along the bookcases, green tendrils snaking over shelves. There were no windows to provide sunlight, so Lore didn’t know how they grew, but they all appeared to be in perfect health. “Religious theory, you say?” Malcolm walked to one of the books on the long tables and opened a small door in the glass above it. He slipped his hands into a pair of pale gloves before gingerly reaching in to close the cover, then picked the book up with the care of a father to an infant. “That’s a rather broad topic. Narrow it down for me.” “Information on Spiritum,” Gabe said. “Mostly theories on how it might manifest.” “Easy enough.” Malcolm opened one of a series of drawers on the back wall and gently placed the book inside before soundlessly sliding it closed again. “That’s the same thing Anton’s been researching.” CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Answers mean nothing without the right questions. —Kirythean proverb The next week fell into an easy routine. Gabe and Lore would wake up, eat breakfast, and go to the Church library. Then they’d spend hours poring over old manuscripts and bound copies of notes from the years after the Godsfall, Compendiums translated from Eroccan and Kirythean and even old Myroshan, from before Myrosh was subsumed by the Kirythean Empire and the language was outlawed. The mentions of Spiritum, when they found them, were brief. Still, they came every day, looking at the books Malcolm had already procured for Anton, trying to find something to make everything—Bastian, the bodies from the villages, what August and Anton were planning—coalesce into sense. Their studies included more obscure subjects, too. Namely, texts on the strange things accomplished by


liability corporation in your name. Did you sign anything?” “I signed a lot of things. I signed whatever he asked me to.” “You need access to that account, Hazel.” She digs in a designer purse, extracts a matching wallet. From it, she presents a business card. “George Scofield is a forensic accountant. Call him.” I stare blankly at the card. “I… I don’t know what that is.” “George will find out what Benjamin earned during your marriage. I’m sure it’s hidden… in businesses, offshore accounts, creative investments. But George is great at finding out where the bodies are buried.” She realizes her mistake, pats my hand. “Not literally.” There is a weight on my chest, and I struggle to take a breath. I don’t know how to do this. To hire lawyers and accountants and to fight for what is rightfully mine. My vision blurs as tears well in my eyes. Vanessa rubs my back. “I know this is a lot to take in. But I couldn’t stand by and let Benjamin destroy you. Not like he did his first wife.” My head snaps up. “His first wife?” “He didn’t tell you about Karolina?” But it is obvious he didn’t. “Christ,” she mutters, shaking her head. “We were told not to mention her. That it was awkward and uncomfortable for Benjamin. And David said the marriage was a blip. A mistake. That Benjamin shouldn’t be haunted by a bad choice he made years ago.” Since I became Mrs. Laval, Vanessa has been the closest thing I’ve had to a real friend. But she’d still adhered to Benjamin’s wishes. She’d still kept his secrets. My voice is breathy, incredulous. “Tell me now.” “They were only together for a couple of years. She was from Poland. When she left him, he said she was homesick. He blamed cultural differences.” She rolls her eyes. “But he was horrible to her. Condescending. Controlling. Like he was with you.” I am speechless. Benjamin had another wife. Another life that I knew nothing about. When we met, he made it seem like he was a workaholic, a playboy, unable to settle down… until he met me. I’d believed I was special, the only one. But, of course, it was a ruse. And he wanted to keep his first wife a secret. Because he had tried to destroy her, too. “She went back to Poland. Benjamin was determined that she’d get nothing in their divorce. She fought back, though. David told me she filed against him from her home country.” Who was this woman who had been brave enough to walk away from Benjamin? Strong enough to fight for what she deserved? How had she not allowed him to crush her spirit, like he had mine? Unlike Karolina Laval, I am weak and small. Easily controlled by my husband. Easily manipulated by a con man like Carter Sumner. “I wasn’t close to Karolina. None of us were. So, when she left, we just… forgot about her. No one ever heard from her again.” Vanessa suddenly glances at the watch


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

to examine the unicorn. "You are safe now." Harry slid off his back. "Good luck, Harry Potter," said Firenze. "The planets have been read wrongly before now, even by centaurs. I hope this is one of those times." He turned and cantered back into the depths of the forest, leaving Harry shivering behind him. *** Ron had fallen asleep in the dark common room, waiting for them to return. He shouted something about Quidditch fouls when Harry roughly shook him awake. In a matter of seconds, though, he was wide-eyed as Harry began to tell him and Hermione what had happened in the forest. Harry couldn't sit down. He paced up and down in front of the fire. He was still shaking. "Snape wants the stone for Voldemort...and Voldemort's waiting in the forest...and all this time we thought Snape just wanted to get rich..." "Stop saying the name!" said Ron in a terrified whisper, as if he thought Voldemort could hear them. Harry wasn't listening. "Firenze saved me, but he shouldn't have done so...Bane was furious...he was talking about interfering with what the planets say is going to happen...They must show that Voldemort's coming back...Bane thinks Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me...I suppose that's written in the stars as well." "Will you stop saying the name!" Ron hissed. "So all I've got to wait for now is Snape to steal the Stone," Harry went on feverishly, "then Voldemort will be able to come and finish me off...Well, I suppose Bane'll be happy." Hermione looked very frightened, but she had a word of comfort. "Harry, everyone says Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. With Dumbledore around, You-Know-Who won't touch you. Anyway, who says the centaurs are right? It sounds like fortune-telling to me, and Professor McGonagall says that's a very imprecise branch of magic." The sky had turned light before they stopped talking. They went to bed exhausted, their throats sore. But the night's surprises weren't over. When Harry pulled back his sheets, he found his invisibility cloak folded neatly underneath them. There was a note pinned to it: Just in case. CHAPTER SIXTEEN -- THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR In years to come, Harry would never quite remember how he had managed to get through his exams when he half expected Voldemort to come bursting through the door at any moment. Yet the days crept by, and there could be no doubt that Fluffy was still alive and well behind the locked door. It was sweltering hot, especially in the large classroom where they did their written papers. They had been given special, new quills for the exams, which had been bewitched with an Anti-Cheating spell. They had practical exams as well. Professor Flitwick called them one by one into his class to see if they could make a pineapple tapdance across a desk. Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse into a snuffbox -- points were given for how pretty the snuffbox was, but taken away if it had whiskers. Snape made them all nervous, breathing down their necks


adversaries, Vladimir Putin? Another controversy erupted at the same time. An old video recording surfaced of him making denigrating comments about women, sending his campaign into free fall. It was time to stop “managing” Trump within the party and start maligning him. This was the opening I’d been waiting for. While on a road trip through the New Mexico desert a few days after the debate, I called and texted GOP members of Congress to encourage them to turn against the nominee. Now was the time to distance themselves from Trump’s campaign or, better, to un-endorse the candidate altogether. Of course he wouldn’t win the presidency, and if we didn’t isolate him, we’d be associated with his lies and toxic politics for years to come. “There’s an awful lot of reasons to rescind your support,” I texted one legislator, trying to convince him to ditch Trump. “Politically the scandals are destroying his chances and folks are going to use this as a litmus test in the future, i.e. ‘what did Representative XX do when he had the opportunity to rescind his endorsement?’ But the most compelling one is that it’s probably the right thing to do.” The congressman said nothing. The next day, he sent a meme of three faces and three quotes: former president Franklin Delano Roosevelt (“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”), John F. Kennedy (“Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country”), and Trump (“Grab them by the pussy”). To him, it was funny. While some Republicans denounced the nominee’s comments, most quietly stood behind Donald Trump in the end. I couldn’t understand why. Until he won. “Sure, he’s a dick, but now he’s our dick.” Everyone remembers election night 2016 and the shock of Trump’s comeback victory. But what I remember is the gloating, specifically from one GOP representative. A Southern legislator leaned against a gold railing on the House floor several days later, trying to convince me Trump wouldn’t be so bad. The party would benefit from his brash antics, the congressman reasoned. Trump would keep the pressure on “the libs.” “Sure, he’s a dick, but now he’s our dick,” he quipped, ebulliently. The vodka-soaked frat culture of Capitol Hill was already making me feel disillusioned, but the state of denial in the party was worse. The same people who had equated Trump to an “evil force” were now giddy about the prospect of a drain-the-swamp disruptor in the White House. After sneaking away to celebratory happy hours, congressmen would return to the House floor smelling like booze. During votes, they passed out their ID cards so someone else could register the “yeas” and “nays” for them. They were too busy to vote, placing bets on which of them would end up in the new president’s cabinet. Then came the pilgrimages to Trump Tower. To be fair, some sober-minded Republicans hoped to convince the incoming president to recruit serious leaders and statesmen and -women to replace the island of misfit advisors he’d assembled. But