clotted cream on it." "Is there any way in which those children can get food secretly?" Dr. Craven inquired of Mrs. Medlock. "There's no way unless they dig it out of the earth or pick it off the trees," Mrs. Medlock answered. "They stay out in the grounds all day and see no one but each other. And if they want anything different to eat from what's sent up to them they need only ask for it." "Well," said Dr. Craven, "so long as going without food agrees with them we need not disturb ourselves. The boy is a new creature." "So is the girl," said Mrs. Medlock. "She's begun to be downright pretty since she's filled out and lost her ugly little sour look. Her hair's grown thick and healthy looking and she's got a bright color. The glummest, ill-natured little thing she used to be and now her and Master Colin laugh together like a pair of crazy young ones. Perhaps they're. growing fat on that." "Perhaps they are," said Dr. Craven. "Let them laugh." CHAPTER XXV THE CURTAIN And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles. In the robin's nest there were Eggs and the robin's mate sat upon them keeping them warm with her feathery little breast and careful wings. At first she was very nervous and the robin himself was indignantly watchful. Even Dickon did not go near the close-grown corner in those days, but waited until by the quiet working of some mysterious spell he seemed to have conveyed to the soul of the little pair that in the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves--nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them--the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of Eggs. If there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or her innermost being that if an Egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end--if there had been even one who did not feel it and act accordingly there could have been no happiness even in that golden springtime air. But they all knew it and felt it and the robin and his mate knew they knew it. At first the robin watched Mary and Colin with sharp anxiety. For some mysterious reason he knew he need not watch Dickon. The first moment he set his dew-bright black eye on Dickon he knew he was not a stranger but a sort of robin without beak or feathers. He could speak robin (which is a quite distinct language not to be mistaken for any other). To speak robin to a robin is like speaking French to a Frenchman. Dickon always spoke it to the robin himself, so the queer gibberish he used when he spoke to humans did not matter in the least. The robin thought he spoke this gibberish to them because they were not intelligent enough to understand feathered speech. His


him watching me, which made me fumble more. “You don’t look good,” he said. “You look dizzy.” “I’m fine.” “I don’t want you to go yet,” he whined. “I want to have my Ez and eat him, too.” “I’ll be back,” I said. “When?” “I don’t know. Tomorrow.” My eyes were blinking out again. I tried to move faster. “What if I do something?” he asked, sounding desperate. “What if I blow the lid off NuLife because you abandoned me?” “I doubt you will. You haven’t yet.” In the lobby, I teetered around like a drunk, squinting at my phone. I could make out black marks squirming across the screen like ants crawling over spilled sugar. I found my way to the concierge’s desk and held my phone out to the shape behind it. “Can you call Brianna Voorhees for me?” I asked. “She’s in this phone.” I could feel the skepticism of whoever it was in front of me, but they obediently called Brianna and handed me back the phone. I listened to it ring—a little long for Brianna—and was about to hang up when she answered. “Where are you?” she asked. I told her the name of the hotel. “I need you to pick me up and take me to the emergency room.” “Are you okay?” “I’m fine. I just—I need to go to the emergency room.” I was in a taxi with her what felt like minutes later, listening to her making demands of the driver in Urmanese. I pretended to be looking at my shoes. “What is it?” she asked, and put her arm around my shoulders. It might have been her breath, which was warm and citrusy, or her impressive mastery of Urmanese, or the sisterly softness of her body next to mine, or a combination of all three. I talked. “I have glaucoma,” I said, half-audibly. “It sometimes flares up.” “Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me?” I made a show of looking her in the eyes, which I couldn’t see. “You can’t tell anyone,” I said. “I’ll fire you if you tell anyone. I’ll make it very hard for you to get hired again.” “I won’t tell anyone.” “You really can’t tell anyone.” “I swear I won’t.” My jaw felt rigid. I shouldn’t have told her. I shouldn’t have threatened her. I felt her hand on mine. “I’m glad you told me, Ez. I’ll keep it secret.” There was an unwavering smile in her voice despite everything I’d said. I rolled down my window: we were stopping somewhere that smelled like honey and eucalyptus. Brianna got out first and then opened my door, helping me out by the arm. Sliding doors opened with a pneumatic hiss and we walked into a room frigid with air-conditioning, full of people in what sounded like various states of distress. Brianna sat me down and then I heard her speaking Urmanese again, far away, as rapidly as the native speaker she was talking to. “It’s just a ten-minute wait,” she said when she returned. Next I was in some kind


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

their seats. The vibe between them is heavy with disappointment. A bad first date. They glance at each other only when they think the other isn’t looking, and an accidental brush of hands leads to bursting apologies but no shy smiles. No spark. It’s presumptuous of me, but I could walk over there right now and tell them they’ve got no chemistry, no chance. Couldn’t we all? I’m not overly familiar with GeneticAlly, but I know they developed a system that matches people for compatibility based on signatures in their DNA. I’d give this couple a zero. Lifting my chin, I say to Ash, “Think they’re a Gold Match?” He glances over and watches for a handful of seconds before raising his drink to his lips. “Nope. No way.” I look back up at the TV and an idea tickles the edge of my brain. I’ll have to make a few calls. Maybe having time to kill will be a good thing after all. three CONNOR Two hours later, I pull up in front of Natalia’s house. It’s a beautiful place—I should know; I cosigned the loan. The Realtor called it Spanish Colonial Revival, with white stucco walls, a low-pitched tile roof, and a gated courtyard Nat always goes all out decorating for Halloween. But where there was once a tricycle in the yard and pastel chalk animals scribbled on the sidewalk, now there’s a ten-speed and a row of potted orchids leading up to the front door. Natalia took up gardening after our divorce. Post-divorce she’s thriving, and so are the orchids. Waiting for me on the front step is Stevie’s chocolate-brown labradoodle, Baxter. We are absolutely those parents who got their kid a consolation divorce dog. He barks cheerily to alert the house that an intruder has entered the premises and, tail still wagging, promptly rolls over for belly rubs. “All that money for puppy camp and you are still a terrible guard dog,” I say, bending to pet him. “Where is everybody? Where’s Stevie? Can you go fetch her?” The door is slightly open and Baxter nudges it with his nose and goes up the stairs. “Hello?” I call out. It’s cool and quiet inside. Stevie’s homework is spread out on the coffee table and a basket of folded laundry sits on the couch. The walls are filled with photographs, some of Stevie and Natalia, a few with me. We’ve taken photos of Stevie in the same location and in the same pose on her birthday every year, and seeing them grouped together is like a time lapse of her childhood. She’s tall for a ten-year-old, and rail thin. She has her mum’s olive complexion and dark hair, but her eyes—my eyes—are as green as they’ve ever been. Footsteps pound on the stairs and a second later, a body collides into mine, skinny arms wrapping around my waist. Baxter is right behind her. “Finally,” Stevie says into my stomach. I bend, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Sorry, boss. Meeting ran late. Did you have fun with your mum?”


fucking town. “I’m just here for medical intervention,” she said, a suspicious scratch in her voice. “I’m well aware that’s all you want from me.” “Good.” “But you’re looking at my mouth pretty closely for someone who just needs a Band-Aid.” He pushed open the door. “No harm in pointing it out.” Chapter Four Natalie expected a mess. Pizza boxes and dirty gym clothes and beer bottles. Maybe a couple of suspicious tissues. But she could have eaten off the floor of August’s little house. It was that clean. Spices were lined up on the kitchen counter in front of a cutting board. The kitchen and living area were connected and the space was small, so a king-sized easy chair was his only piece of furniture, angled toward the television. He’d managed to make the scene inviting with a rug and a basket holding a blanket. It was . . . nice. Actually, it beat her wineglass graveyard of a guest room by a million miles. “Disappointed that I don’t have centerfolds taped to my wall?” “I’m sure they’re hidden in the closets, along with the rats,” she said breezily, watching the cat prance off with an air of superiority toward the rear of the house. August circled around to look at her face and let out a booming laugh. “Look at you. You’re shocked. You really expected me to live in a frat house, didn’t you?” He entered the bathroom, which was behind the sole door in the short hallway leading to the bedrooms, she guessed. Flipping on the light, he gestured for her to follow him into the tiny room. She started in that direction but paused on the threshold, unsure about being crowded into such a small amount of square footage with a man that large. A man she couldn’t seem to stop being attracted to, despite the fact that he was judgmental and rude and seemed to see the absolute worst in her. “Did you really give yourself stitches in a dust storm twice?” August paused in the act of rooting through his medicine cabinet. His hand, holding a bottle of rubbing alcohol, dropped to the vanity. “Yeah.” “Where?” He turned slightly, propping a hip on the sink. “Why? You want to judge my handiwork before you deem me suitable to fix your royal boo-boo?” No. She was trying to delay the moment when they would be standing close enough to touch, because he scrambled her brain to the point where she started to debate the merits of sleeping with him even after over a month of insults and teasing. “It’s a good practice to ask for credentials.” “Even if those credentials are high on my inner thigh?” “Both of them?” “One of them.” He turned away and hoisted up his T-shirt, baring a profusely muscled back, devoid of ink, unlike his arms, one of which proudly bore the navy insignia. Not that she would have noticed a tattoo when his right shoulder was split in half by a puckered, painful-looking scar. “Here’s the other. Not my best


an uncharted dry wilderness with here and there along its rim and perhaps scattered through it, knots of Fremen. If anything could buy a future for the Atreides line, the Fremen just might do it. Provided the Harkonnens hadn't managed to infect even the Fremen with their poisonous schemes. They have tried to take the life of my son! A scraping metal racket vibrated through the tower, shook the parapet beneath his arms. Blast shutters dropped in front of him, blocking the view. Shuttle's coming in, he thought. Time to go down and get to work. He turned to the stairs behind him, headed down to the big assembly room, trying to remain calm as he descended, to prepare his face for the coming encounter. They have tried to take the life of my son! The men were already boiling in from the field when he reached the yellow-domed room. They carried their spacebags over their shoulders, shouting and roistering like students returning from vacation. "Hey! Feel that under your dogs? That's gravity, man!" "How many G's does this place pull? Feels heavy." "Nine-tenths of a G by the book." The crossfire of thrown words filled the big room. "Did you get a good look at this hole on the way down? Where's all the loot this place's supposed to have?" "The Harkonnens took it with 'em!" "Me for a hot shower and a soft bed!" "Haven't you heard, stupid? No showers down here. You scrub your ass with sand!" "Hey! Can it! The Duke!" The Duke stepped out of the stair entry into a suddenly silent room. Gurney Halleck strode along at the point of the crowd, bag over one shoulder, the neck of his nine-string baliset clutched in the other hand. They were long-fingered hands with big thumbs, full of tiny movements that drew such delicate music from the baliset. The Duke watched Halleck, admiring the ugly lump of a man, noting the glass-splinter eyes with their gleam of savage understanding. Here was a man who lived outside the faufreluches while obeying their every precept. What was it Paul had called him? "Gurney, the valorous." Halleck's wispy blond hair trailed across barren spots on his head. His wide mouth was twisted into a pleasant sneer, and the scar of the inkvine whip slashed across his jawline seemed to move with a life of its own. His whole air was of casual, shoulder-set capability. He came up to the Duke, bowed. "Gurney," Leto said. "My Lord." He gestured with the baliset toward the men in the room. "This is the last of them. I'd have preferred coming in with the first wave, but . . . " "There are still some Harkonnens for you," the Duke said. "Step aside with me, Gurney, where we may talk." "Yours to command, my Lord." They moved into an alcove beside a coil-slot water machine while the men stirred restlessly in the big room. Halleck dropped his bag into a corner, kept his grip on the baliset. "How many men can you let Hawat have?"


lunch she had creep up the back of Sloane’s throat. Any lingering doubts she had about Brody killing Chelsea are now gone. She wants to scream. Underage girls? How could she have been so stupid? Brody wanted Chelsea out of the picture so he wouldn’t go to prison. And he’s brought me into it. Her phone rings atop the counter. Ethan’s eyes follow hers toward the sound. Seeing it is Brody, she swipes Ignore. Her heart pounds, making a mental note to block his number. It’s the first time he’s tried to contact her since Chelsea died. What the hell is he doing calling me when he’s under investigation for murder? Sloane lifts her gaze to Ethan’s, who is still staring at her phone, feeling suddenly exposed. She blinks back the tears that invade her eyes. She feels sick. She needs to lie down. But she can’t fall apart in front of Ethan. When Ethan’s eyes meet hers, there is no trace of the pain that filled them last night. Only a malice-laced suspicion. He interlaces his fingers. “I got the medical report from Bayside Hospital and saw you were the doctor who pronounced Chelsea dead.” Sloane swallows. “Yes, I—I told you last night.” “Yeah, I know.” He leans forward. “Was there any indication that Chelsea had drugs in her system? Like opiates?” Her chest wall freezes as she starts to inhale. The room spins. She recounts yelling at Logan when he asked about giving Narcan. “No. Why?” A shiver runs down her arms as her husband stares at her in silence. She jumps at the chime of Ethan’s ringtone. He keeps his eyes on her while he pulls the phone out of his suit jacket pocket. “Ethan—” He raises a finger in the air as he puts the phone to his ear. “Hey, Jonah.” Ethan slides off the barstool and moves into the living room to take the call. Looking at her phone, Sloane swears under her breath. She grabs another bunch of roses and arranges them in the vase, trying to look busy while she strains to hear what Ethan is saying. But Jonah is doing most of the talking. Brody’s phone records. They would prove she and Brody were having an affair. And that she lied to Ethan about it being over before Chelsea died. She remembers Brody’s text only hours before Chelsea was brought to the ER. When can I see you again? Had Ethan already seen the phone records? Is that why he came home? To confront her? Sloane feels a prick in her finger when she lifts the last bunch of roses from the counter. As soon as Ethan’s off the phone, she’ll convince him she was telling the truth. That she already ended things with Brody, which was why she didn’t reply when he texted her hours before Chelsea died. She has to get him on her side. “Okay, I’ll be right there,” she hears Ethan say. He could be going to interview Brody right now. She’s frozen in place as she watches Ethan move


sir. Your message must be quite old. That system was removed two years ago for security precautions. Moreover, all the access codes were five-digit. Who told you we had a message for you?" "You have no automated phone system?" "No, sir. Any message for you would be handwritten in our services department. What was your name again?" But the man had hung up. Bezu Fache felt dumbstruck as he paced the banks of the Seine. He was certain he had seen Langdon dial a local number, enter a three-digit code, and then listen to a recording. But if Langdon didn't phone the embassy, then who the hell did he call? It was at that moment, eyeing his cellular phone, that Fache realized the answers were in the palm of his hand. Langdon used my phone to place that call. Keying into the cell phone's menu, Fache pulled up the list of recently dialed numbers and found the call Langdon had placed. A Paris exchange, followed by the three-digit code 454. Redialing the phone number, Fache waited as the line began ringing. Finally a woman's voice answered. "Bonjour, vous tes bien chez Sophie Neveu," the recording announced. "Je suis absente pour le moment, mais..." Fache's blood was boiling as he typed the numbers 4... 5... 4. 80 CHAPTER 26 Despite her monumental reputation, the Mona Lisa was a mere thirty-one inches by twenty-one inches-smaller even than the posters of her sold in the Louvre gift shop. She hung on the northwest wall of the Salle des Etats behind a two-inch-thick pane of protective Plexiglas. Painted on a poplar wood panel, her ethereal, mist-filled atmosphere was attributed to Da Vinci's mastery of the sfumato style, in which forms appear to evaporate into one another. Since taking up residence in the Louvre, the Mona Lisa-or La Jaconde as they call her in France-had been stolen twice, most recently in 1911, when she disappeared from the Louvre's "satte impntrable"-Le Salon Carre. Parisians wept in the streets and wrote newspaper articles begging the thieves for the painting's return. Two years later, the Mona Lisa was discovered hidden in the false bottom of a trunk in a Florence hotel room. Langdon, now having made it clear to Sophie that he had no intention of leaving, moved with her across the Salle des Etats. The Mona Lisa was still twenty yards ahead when Sophie turned on the black light, and the bluish crescent of penlight fanned out on the floor in front of them. She swung the beam back and forth across the floor like a minesweeper, searching for any hint of luminescent ink. Walking beside her, Langdon was already feeling the tingle of anticipation that accompanied his face-to-face reunions with great works of art. He strained to see beyond the cocoon of purplish light emanating from the black light in Sophie's hand. To the left, the room's octagonal viewing divan emerged, looking like a dark island on the empty sea of parquet. Langdon could now begin to see the panel of dark glass on the wall. Behind it,


you were somewhere else.” “Yes,” Maud said, as redwoods towered over them. “That’s how it feels.” But then, Alice said, she became someone. An outsider, feminist, queer artist. “Always talking. Always explaining. Blah, blah, blah. Smoking that pipe. I started to hate myself. I mean, really hate myself. And then, you know. More drinking. Harder drugs. Waking up on the floor in some apartment, not remembering where I was. I’m sure you’ve seen the movie. I was killing myself. Not like your previous girlfriend in a river with stones in my pockets. A slow, humiliating death.” It was as if walking loosened Alice’s tongue, or maybe, Maud thought, the words had been driven out of her by the wind on the cliff. “And then one day, you saw the Pacific Ocean,” she said, encouraging Alice on as the trail crossed a shallow stream and they hopscotched over the rocks. “Well, not quite that simple,” Alice said, “but close. I came out here for the opening at the de Young. I was on that stage, fried, ready to do my shtick. And then”—she leaped to another rock—“I didn’t.” The artist declined any questions, the newspaper article had said. Alice sat in sunglasses on the stage, electing silence. She skipped the reception, she told Maud now, and walked out of Golden Gate Park, into the city, through the Presidio, over the Golden Gate Bridge, along Highway One. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said, “for the first time maybe ever, my head was empty. Eventually I saw the sign for this place. And I stopped walking.” “You walked all the way here from the de Young?” “I keep a fast clip, if you haven’t noticed.” She left everything in New York: clothes, books, friends. “Got clean. Started working on this place. Went into town one day and saw a notice about an abandoned Dalmatian. Met Clark. Fell in love. Met his vet. Fell in love.” “And lived quietly ever after,” Maud said. “Yeah, I guess. Until this bigmouthed garden historian came along.” Esperanza reappeared, its silver roofs glinting. Clark waited at the trailhead with his muzzle resting on his front paws. “You don’t miss sculpting?” Maud said. “You don’t miss that feeling?” “It doesn’t matter if I miss it,” Alice said. Clark nosed her leg, and she scratched his ears. You do, Maud thought, watching her still face. That’s why those barn windows are whitewashed. But you don’t know how to have it without all the rest. “Want lunch?” Alice said. “Yes, please,” Maud said. “And I want to go on that hike with you again.” “Then I guess you’re coming back next Wednesday.” Monday morning, while Maud was running irrigation lines at Tennessee Hollow, her phone rang. It was the nurse at Ella’s school. “There’s been an incident,” she said, and Maud’s body seized. “The cut isn’t deep,” the nurse added. On her way out of the Presidio, Maud called Rita’s office at Lone Pines. She left a message for Peter, who was at a conference. She called the mother of one of Louise’s friends


belt.” My mouth falls open, but I can’t say the word. And I don’t need to… because Peter continues. “Suicide,” he says. “But Benjamin Laval drove her to it. He murdered her.” I close my eyes, afraid to ask. “What did he do to her?” “When they were married, he treated her like a dog,” he growls. “She wasn’t allowed to see us. Or even talk to us. My father got sick, and Benjamin wouldn’t let her come home. My father died calling out for her.” My chest hurts. My head throbs. This is so much worse than I expected. “When Karolina finally left him, he made sure she got nothing. Not even our mother’s jewelry that she brought with her to America.” “I could look for it,” I suggest. “I could send it.” But Peter ignores the offer. “Benjamin had videos of my sister doing degrading things,” he continues. “He sent them to her employer. To her friends. To our church.” It is classic Benjamin. So cruel and vindictive. His enormous ego couldn’t take a woman leaving him. “Your husband murdered my sister,” Peter says. “He deserves to rot in hell.” “H-he does,” I stammer. “And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure he pays for it.” The laugh that travels down the line is bitter. “Benjamin Laval will never pay. Not in this life.” There is a slight pause, an intake of breath. “And he will never let you go.” With those ominous words, Peter hangs up. * * * The eggplant and cheese have congealed on the plate, the once-enticing scent now turning my stomach. I feel lost and hopeless, sick at the thought of what Benjamin did to Karolina. What he drove her to. My husband’s plan to murder me may have been intercepted, but he will find a way to destroy me. Just like he did his first wife. Unless I can destroy him first. I find the card Detective French gave me and call her. She answers almost instantly. “I found something out,” I tell her. “Benjamin was married before.” “And he never told you that?” “No. He told our friends to keep it from me. And now his first wife is dead.” I relay the story Karolina’s brother told me, how there were no skid marks, how she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. “Peter Brus thinks it was suicide. That Benjamin tortured her and harassed her until she couldn’t take it anymore.” “We’ll look into it,” French promises, taking down the details. “I’ll talk to the police in Warsaw. And interview Karolina’s family.” “Thank you.” I hang up, feeling slightly more positive. Benjamin may have destroyed the first Mrs. Laval but he won’t destroy this one. I am going to fight back. I will take him down for what he did—to Karolina and to me. At least, I will try. My appetite has finally returned, and I go to the kitchen, reheat the casserole. I am eating it when my phone rings again. “Good news,” Rachelle says when I answer. “Your husband pleaded


to put some authenticity behind my smile. “Yes, I’m sure.” We take a short walk to the local shop. Nia and I rank chocolate bars whilst we’re there; we disagree on many but both hold white chocolate in high regard. We make omelets for dinner and finish season one of The Cabin Plan. Penny Dear Maddie, I’m so sorry to hear about your father. We’re thinking of you and your family at this difficult time. Lots of love to you and we’re here for you if you need anything. Xx * * * Friday is cereal for breakfast and then I sleep until lunch, then decide I’m not hungry yet and skip it. I’ve only cried two … three … four times since my dad died? That’s not enough. Only yesterday Nia made me laugh; this morning, I looked out of the window to another blue cloudless sky and thought, What a beautiful day. Nia pokes her head into my room. “Come on, let’s go to Sainsbury’s, the big one.” I lift my head off my pillow. “Too far.” “The weather’s nice though,” she says as if that decreases the distance, “and I’m craving Twisters.” “The ice cream?” “Yeah. Let’s get a box.” “Okay, I’ll check the bus time.” “It’s only a twenty-minute walk.” The thought alone makes my bones heavy. “I’m really tired, Nia, can’t you go alone?” She smiles plainly. “I want you to come with me.” “Are you afraid to return and find me swinging from the ceiling?” “I am now.” “Not to worry. I don’t have the energy.” “Good to know,” she says. “I’d just take the overdose route.” Nia claps her hands twice. “Enough. Let’s go.” * * * I pull my hair back and put on a bra. My socks are odd, but the world has bigger problems. I have to shield my eyes when we’re outside, and we begin to walk. “Please feel like you can talk about your dad if you want to,” Nia suddenly says. “But also don’t feel like you have to.” “Those two options essentially cancel each other out, leaving the compromise to be … silence?” “I’m just saying, feel free to say what you feel when you feel it. I’ve only just been able to start talking about my dad without feeling some kind of way.” “But it’s been ten years!” She laughs. “Don’t look like that, everyone’s different.” “You know, only recently I’ve been thinking that it was because I never asked.” She shrugs and says, “If you had, I would have shut it down quick.” “I wish I’d called my dad or gone to see him sooner before he died,” I confess. The street’s quite empty today and we stop at a red light. “I was meant to be there that morning, but I went out drinking the night before, and I don’t even drink. I didn’t want to go out that night either, but I made both of those decisions and the regret is eating at me. I’ve never suffered such an irreversible regret before, a regret


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

--If he is, he'll do, said the little old man. --And thanks be to God, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus, that we lived so long and did so little harm. --But did so much good, Simon, said the little old man gravely. Thanks be to God we lived so long and did so much good. Stephen watched the three glasses being raised from the counter as his father and his two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of companionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon. Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless... ? He repeated to himself the lines of Shelley's fragment. Its alternation of sad human ineffectiveness with vast inhuman cycles of activity chilled him and he forgot his own human and ineffectual grieving. * * * * * Stephen's mother and his brother and one of his cousins waited at the corner of quiet Foster Place while he and his father went up the steps and along the colonnade where the Highland sentry was parading. When they had passed into the great hall and stood at the counter Stephen drew forth his orders on the governor of the bank of Ireland for thirty and three pounds; and these sums, the moneys of his exhibition and essay prize, were paid over to him rapidly by the teller in notes and in coin respectively. He bestowed them in his pockets with feigned composure and suffered the friendly teller, to whom his father chatted, to take his hand across the broad counter and wish him a brilliant career in after life. He was impatient of their voices and could not keep his feet at rest. But the teller still deferred the serving of others to say he was living in changed times and that there was nothing like giving a boy the best education that money could buy. Mr Dedalus lingered in the hall gazing about him and up at the roof and telling Stephen, who urged him to come out, that they were standing in the house of commons of the old Irish parliament. --God help us! he said piously, to think of the men of those times, Stephen, Hely Hutchinson and Flood and Henry Grattan and Charles Kendal Bushe, and the noblemen we have now, leaders of the Irish people at home and abroad. Why, by God, they wouldn't be seen dead in a ten-acre field with them. No, Stephen, old chap,


all do what we do," said Montag. He put the Bible in the old man's hands. "Here. I'll chance turning in a substitute. Tomorrow--" "I'll see the unemployed printer, yes; that much I can do." "Good night, Professor." "Not good night. I'll be with you the rest of the night, a vinegar gnat tickling your ear when you need me. But good night and good luck, anyway." The door opened and shut. Montag was in the dark street again, looking at the world. You could feel the war getting ready in the sky that night. The way the clouds moved aside and came back, and the way the stars looked, a million of them swimming between the clouds, like the enemy discs, and the feeling that the sky might fall upon the city and turn it to chalk dust, and the moon go up in red fire; that was how the night felt. Montag walked from the subway with the money in his pocket (he had visited the bank which was open all night and every night with robot tellers in attendance) and as he walked he was listening to the Seashell radio in one car... "We have mobilized a million men. Quick victory is ours if the war comes .. .." Music flooded over the voice quickly and it was gone. "Ten million men mobilized," Faber's voice whispered in his other ear. "But say one million. It's happier." "Faber?" "Yes?" "I'm not thinking. I'm just doing like I'm told, like always. You said get the money and I got it. I didn't really think of it myself. When do I start working things out on my own?" "You've started already, by saying what you just said. You'll have to take me on faith." "I took the others on faith ! " "Yes, and look where we're headed. You'll have to travel blind for a while. Here's my arm to hold on to." "I don't want to change sides and just be told what to do. There's no reason to change if I do that." "You're wise already!" Montag felt his feet moving him on the sidewalk.toward his house. "Keep talking." "Would you like me to read? I'll read so you can remember. I go to bed only five hours a night. Nothing to do. So if you like; I'll read you to sleep nights. They say you retain knowledge even when you're sleeping, if someone whispers it in your ear." "Yes." "Here." Far away across town in the night, the faintest whisper of a turned page. "The Book of Job." The moon rose in the sky as Montag walked, his lips moving just a trifle. He was eating a light supper at nine in the evening when the front door cried out in the hall and Mildred ran from the parlour like a native fleeing an eruption of Vesuvius. Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. Bowles came through the front door and vanished into the volcano's mouth with martinis in their hands: Montag stopped eating. They were like a monstrous crystal chandelier tinkling


husband had been unfaithful. She denied there ever being any domestic violence, but she did hint at having some damning evidence that she could use against him in the divorce proceedings. But she didn’t say what it was.” Ethan crosses his arms. “Did she have any idea why Chelsea would go freediving with him?” “Chelsea told her attorney she was going to tell Carr in person before she filed for divorce, which her attorney advised her was a bad idea. Chelsea said he’d been pleading with her not to divorce him until his latest business acquisition was finalized, but Chelsea said she couldn’t wait any longer. So, maybe she went with him to break the news about her decision to divorce, and he killed her. Carr had more reasons to want his wife dead than I can even count.” “Uh-huh.” “Did you find any evidence of an affair on his phone records?” Ethan shakes his head. “Not so far.” “You okay?” Ethan looks up, realizing he was staring at the floor. Jonah studies him as he waits for Ethan’s response. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Pete called earlier and said, so far, Chelsea’s autopsy doesn’t suggest anything other than an accidental drowning. She has a ligature mark around her leg, but it’s consistent with Carr’s account that she got tangled in bull kelp.” “Hmm. Maybe what we learn from Chelsea’s parents can help us prove otherwise.” Jonah slaps him on the shoulder. “Ready to talk to them?” Ethan notes the striking resemblance Chelsea’s mother, Tanya, bears to her daughter as she sits across from him at the conference table. The tall, slender woman shares the same high cheekbones Ethan has seen in Chelsea’s photos. He guesses Tanya looked nearly identical to Chelsea when she was younger. She locks her red and puffy eyes with Ethan’s. “Chelsea found out about Brody’s taste for underage girls a few months ago. After Mason Hachette was arrested. An ex-model friend of hers sent her a photo of Brody and the young girl on Hachette’s boat.” She fingers the untouched Styrofoam cup of coffee Ethan brought her earlier. “At first, Brody denied it. Said she had no proof of any wrongdoing, and his lawyers would dispute it if Chelsea ever made any claims. And after her friend was murdered, Chelsea got too scared to bring it up again. She and Brody separated, and Chelsea moved into their condo in Belltown.” She stares into her coffee cup. “But Brody convinced her to keep quiet about their separation until after the acquisition of Crush was finalized.” A look passes between Ethan and Jonah on the other side of the table. Her story matches up perfectly with Chelsea’s divorce attorney. Ethan read about the acquisition online earlier that day. Carr purchased the trendy dating app for nearly a billion dollars last month, and the acquisition was projected to increase his fortune by much more than that. “Then, a few weeks ago, Chelsea got a private message on one of her social media accounts,” her father, Don, says. The bags under


suits, heading north and then east along Fifty-Third Street. Bunny got plenty of looks, especially from the men, as her stage makeup looked garish in the harsh daylight. But there was no point in taking it off when she had a show in a couple of hours, and then two more after that. Marion understood what it was like to be gawked at and was impressed with Bunny’s imperviousness to the men’s stares. They stopped in front of a dowdy brown building, four stories high, with a steep set of stairs leading up to a pair of heavy oak doors. “You’re going to love this,” said Bunny, reaching for Marion’s suitcase and lugging it up the steps. Marion followed, unsure of what exactly was going on. The door led to a large parlor where a group of girls around their age were chatting loudly, seated on couches and chairs that looked like they’d been there since the last century. Posters from Broadway shows hung on the walls, along with photos of famous stage actresses, including Ellen Terry and Sarah Bernhardt. The clatter of dishes drifted up from a lower floor. “Where are we?” asked Marion. “The Rehearsal Club. A boardinghouse for girls in the performing arts.” “This is where you live?” “Sure thing. Me and four other Rockettes. Mrs. Fleming, who runs the place, loves us because we get a steady paycheck and never fall behind on rent. The other girls are actress and singer wannabes, with a couple of comedians and opera singers thrown into the mix, but we try not to hold it against them. Comes with room and board.” To live right in the middle of New York, within walking distance of the theater, was a dream. “How much?” “Eighteen dollars a week. Leaves you with more than enough extra for fun. Speaking of fun, I’m going out with my beau tonight, along with a friend of his. You can join us, and we’ll celebrate your new home.” Marion looked about. Living in a boardinghouse with actresses? Her father would have a heart attack. On the train into the city, she’d imagined finding a room at the top of a brownstone owned by an elderly lady with a cat or two. But she didn’t know how to even begin to find accommodations like that. Her life had been so sheltered, she was ashamed to admit. “I’m not sure.” “Not sure about what, the Club or dinner tonight?” “Maybe both?” Bunny looked at her like she was crazy. “Let’s go find Mrs. Fleming; she’ll give you all the details, and then you can decide, all right?” Mrs. Fleming’s office was located at the back of the building, a small room that held a desk, several metal filing cabinets, and an overstuffed brown couch that overwhelmed the space. A gray-haired woman in a simple gray dress sat behind the desk, but when she looked up and smiled, her face flooded with warmth. “What can I do for you, dear?” she asked Bunny. “Mrs. Fleming, my friend Marion here is a new


eyes roamed the office. It took Roman a moment to realize his father was looking for her. For Iris. “She’s not here,” Roman said in a cold voice. Mr. Kitt’s gaze returned to his. “Oh? And where is she?” “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I was promoted.” An awkward silence came between them. Roman could feel Sarah’s glance as she passed by, granting Mr. Kitt a wide berth. A few of the editors had also halted, watching through swirls of cigarette smoke. Roman cleared his throat. “Why are you—” “I made lunch reservations for you and Miss Little,” Mr. Kitt said tersely. “Today. One o’clock sharp at Monahan’s. You’ll be marrying her in three weeks, and your mother thought it would be nice if the two of you spent some time together.” Roman forced himself to swallow a retort. This was the last thing he wanted to do today. But he nodded, even as he felt the life drain from him. “Yes. Thank you, Father.” Mr. Kitt gave Roman an appraising glance, as if he were surprised that Roman had given in so easily. “Good, son. I’ll see you tonight for supper.” Roman watched his father leave. He sank back to his chair and stared at the blank page in his typewriter. The dictionaries he had turned paper side out. He forced his fingers to rest on the keys but he couldn’t write a word. All he could hear was Iris’s voice, as if she were reading her letter aloud to him. You remove a piece of armor for them; you let the light stream in, even if it makes you wince. Perhaps that is how you learn to be soft yet strong, even in fear and uncertainty. One person, one piece of steel. Roman sighed. He didn’t want to be vulnerable with Elinor Little. But perhaps he should take Iris’s advice. Slowly, he began to find words to give to the page. The sun was at its zenith when a huge lorry rumbled into town. Iris was walking with Marisol down High Street, carrying baskets of goods they had just bartered for at the grocer, when the truck arrived without warning. Iris didn’t know what to think of it—its massive tires were coated in mud, its metal body dinged by bullets. It rolled in from the western road, which Iris knew led to the war front. “Oh my gods,” Marisol said with a gasp. She dropped her basket and ran, following the lorry as it drove down another road. Iris had no choice but to set down her basket and follow her. “Marisol! Marisol, what’s happening?” If Marisol heard her, she didn’t slow. Her black hair was like a pennant as she raced, as everyone around them followed suit, until a huge crowd gathered around the lorry. It parked at the infirmary, and that was when Iris, sore for breath with a stitch in her side, realized what this was. The lorry had brought a load of wounded soldiers. “Quickly, get the stretchers!” “Easy, now. Easy.” “Where’s a


his dating life, equal parts flattered and revolted and possessive when he came to me for romantic advice. I found everyone he dated borderline crazy, couldn’t figure out if that was on him or on me. Fran said, “You know I love how you never give up on people, but it’s kind of hilarious that your way of breaking up involves him still living in your house.” “Well, next door.” “So the upshot is,” she said, “you’re single?” “Essentially. Married but single.” “It’s funny that my marriage is more traditional than yours.” I hadn’t told her about Yahav, maybe because I didn’t want to jinx it. Yahav was skittish and unpredictable, a handsome Israeli bunny rabbit, equally likely to drive straight here as to vanish into the woods forever. I’d texted him from the airport that afternoon: As warned, I’ve invaded New England. He texted back only an exclamation point. I had not yet been sleeping with Yahav when I split from Jerome, but his friendship then had been a helpful reminder that not everyone was tired of me, not everyone blamed me for the weather. Yahav had enormous, warm hands. He had dark stubble so thick it consumed his chin and neck, more darkness than light, more night sky than stars. Anne returned and we poured new drinks and the evening turned to a sort of retroactive gossip session. (Wait, remember Dani Michalek? Remember how she tried to pierce her own nose and it got so infected? Yeah, and she had to go home for a month. We were paired for lab and I didn’t do a thing. She hated me. Me too. Whatever happened to her? Didn’t I tell you? She’s a Lutheran minister!) Anne’s encouraging laughter, her bewildered questions, egged us on. If she hadn’t been there, we might’ve said “Remember the Kurt shrine?” and left it at that. But with Anne present, we wound up describing for her sake (and really each other’s) the elaborate shrine we’d built to Kurt Cobain in the woods junior year, and tended from the time he overdosed and was hospitalized (early March, when we wore thick gloves to tack cutout magazine photos to the frozen tree) to the time he died by suicide in April. By then other people knew about the shrine, and the day after his body was discovered, Fran and I found messages and more magazine photos and a Mylar heart balloon and what looked like a leftover Spring Dance corsage stuck to the tree as well. “We were so in love with him,” I said, and then it occurred to me that Fran probably hadn’t been, actually. “Or I was.” “Oh, I loved him,” Fran said. She was drunker than me. “But I was in love with Courtney. Kurt was my beard.” Dessert was caramelized bananas with vanilla ice cream—Anne still sober enough to manage things at the stove, to ignore our demands that she light the bananas on fire—and the more into arcane details we got, and the more lost but patient Anne was, the more hilarious


it done before whiteness fills the chamber to such an extent that it is as blinding as pitch-blackness. The blue eyes are beacons in the ghastly face, the only color in the seamless eggshell that is forming around Durand, a blue that draws him toward the gurney and the burden on it. “Give you what?” he asks again, and then repeats the question in a more demanding voice, “Give you what, old man?” “Help,” the old man says. “Help me. I can’t move. I’m afraid.” As pitiful as he sounds, there is nonetheless an air of deception about him. He looks sly, as if he’s not the old man he once was, but only a body in which something demonic has clothed itself. A wild assurance buoys Durand, a vicious courage, the belief that he can do anything he wishes here and be rewarded for it. The gurney has a hydraulic feature, and at the moment it is not lowered as far as it will go. He powers it down six or eight inches, until it will descend no farther. “Help me,” the old man repeats. The blue that was ferocious is now a weak, robin’s-egg blue that inspires contempt. “Help me.” Looking down on the old man, feeling taller and stronger than he’d been just a minute earlier, Durand says, “Help you what? What do you want? Are you so stupid you don’t know what you want?” He likes how he sounds when he says that in the tone of voice he often wants to use with his parents but dares not. “Stupid geezer can’t even say what he wants.” “Call,” the old fart says. “Call.” “Call who? You want to order a pizza?” Amused by his joke, Durand laughs, but the geezer doesn’t even smile. He says, “Don’t.” This is a test, a challenge, and if Durand passes it, he will be something super, not right away but later, something amazing. He moves around to the head of the gurney. The old fart rolls his head side to side, tries to tip it back to see what’s happening, but he can’t. He says, “No.” Durand says, “Oh, yes. I know what you really are,” because he sees now what he’s got to do to prove he’s special, to show that nothing scares him. He must prove himself to the secret masters of the universe, who work in mysterious ways. The overhead fluorescent panels bleach the elderly man still whiter, and Durand cups his right hand under the respected guest’s stubbled chin, forcing the mouth shut. The man lacks the strength to resist. With his left hand, Durand pinches the nostrils tight. The quadriplegic can move nothing other than his head; he rolls it side to side, and for a minute he is vigorous in defense of his life, but he is not able to break his assailant’s grip. The rightness of the boy’s intention is confirmed for him when, as the light grows and the room blurs into a smooth sphere of whiteness, his pajamas seem to become a richer


thump for their presumption. But not only did each of these famous whales enjoy great individual celebrity --nay, you may call it an ocean-wide renown; not only was he famous in life and now is immortal in forecastle stories after death, but he was admitted into all the rights, privileges, and distinctions of a name; had as much a name indeed as Cambyses or Caesar. Was it not so, O Timor Tom! thou famed leviathan, scarred like an iceberg, who so long did'st lurk in the Oriental straits of that name, whose spout was oft seen from the palmy beach of Ombay? Was it not so, O New Zealand Jack! thou terror of all cruisers that crossed their wakes in the vicinity of the Tattoo Land? Was it not so, O Morquan! King of Japan, whose lofty jet they say at times assumed the semblance of a snow-white cross against the sky? Was it not so, O Don Miguel! thou Chilian whale, marked like an old tortoise with mystic hieroglyphics upon the back! In plain prose, here are four whales as well known to the students of Cetacean History as Marius or Sylla to the classic scholar. But this is not all. New Zealand Tom and Don Miguel, after at various times creating great havoc among the boats of different .. <p 203 > vessels, were finally gone in quest of, systematically hunted out, chased and killed by valiant whaling captains, who heaved up their anchors with that express object as much in view, as in setting out through the Narragansett Woods, Captain Butler of old had it in his mind to capture that notorious murderous savage Annawon, the headmost warrior of the Indian King Philip. I do not know where I can find a better place than just here, to make mention of one or two other things, which to me seem important, as in printed form establishing in all respects the reasonableness of the whole story of the White Whale, more especially the catastrophe. For this is one of those disheartening instances where truth requires full as much bolstering as error. So ignorant are most landsmen of some of the plainest and most palpable wonders of the world, that without some hints touching the plain facts, historical and otherwise, of the fishery, they might scout at Moby Dick as a monstrous fable, or still worse and more detestable, a hideous and intolerable allegory. First: Though most men have some vague flitting ideas of the general perils of the grand fishery, yet they have nothing like a fixed, vivid conception of those perils, and the frequency with which they recur. One reason perhaps is, that not one in fifty of the actual disasters and deaths by casualties in the fishery, ever finds a public record at home, however transient and immediately forgotten that record. Do you suppose that that poor fellow there, who this moment perhaps caught by the whale-line off the coast of New Guinea, is being carried down to the bottom of the sea by the sounding leviathan --do


sea) PROLOGUE CAMP HOLLY SPRINGS June 14, 1998 THE FIRST DAY OF CAMP Holly Springs is like shaking a bottle of soda and taking off the cap: an overflowing, effervescent explosion of sweet, delicious chaos. Girls and their parents, counselors, and staff members fizz over in every direction, campers squealing with joy at being reunited, first-years sobbing with fear, counselors and staff trying to comfort or celebrate, and parents seeking someone with whom to discuss their very specific list of concerns. But six-year-old Daphne Miller isn’t fizzing or sobbing. She is simply studying, taking in the green travel trunks being unloaded from back seats, the brothers and sisters—who likely spend most of their time at home bickering—promising to write, the mothers slathering layers of zinc on their daughters’ noses as if they can make it last for two weeks. Daphne’s aunt, June, owns Camp Holly Springs, and her mother, Melanie, didn’t come to camp drop-off. She is busy relocating them from the only home Daphne has ever known in sleepy Cape Carolina to Manhattan so they can live with her brand-new husband, Vincent. In fact, Melanie was so preoccupied by the move that she allowed young Daphne to fly here alone, a fact that horrified her aunt June. A six-year-old girl should not, in June’s opinion, be an unaccompanied minor. But, then again, June is not in charge. Melanie is. Last night, Daphne shared June’s double bed in her small director’s cabin, where June lives all year. “I know it’s hard to be away from your mom, but we are going to have the best summer. This is just the beginning for you, Daphne,” June said. “I came to camp for the first time when I was your age. So did your mommy. So did Grandma Laura. You are a legacy.” That made Daphne’s heart swell with pride. Her aunt, mother, and grandmother were camp-raised by this same snaking blue-green stretch of river next to June’s tiny home. Daphne has been spoon-fed stories of campouts in the woods, talent show disasters, and sneaking cookie dough from the camp kitchen her entire life. She has been preparing for this moment for as long as she can remember, when she would leave her mother to spend a summer making memories and—she’s heard—best friends. But right now, looking around at the soggy, sniveling group of babies being dropped off at the Songbird Cabin, where the youngest campers stay, Daphne feels like she’s been sold a bill of goods. She can’t imagine making friendship bracelets in the arts and crafts hut with any of these girls, who are acting more like preschoolers than rising first graders. Then June approaches their cabin. June, the director, is royalty here. Everyone fights for her attention, her respect. Because she is the one who makes dreams come to life. Today, June feels proud and happy because opening day of camp is what she and her team work for all year long. It is as if Holly Springs knows this. The grass looks greener, the river sparkles brighter, and the sails


figure smoked into being. I thought you had gone. Dumai pressed her fingertips into the bed. Between dreams and the waking realm, this place seems to float untethered. Hard to find and hold. Her other form walked to the stream. This is an interstice, and we, two wandering stars. She knelt beside the water, seeing only shadow where her body ought to be. Stop, the figure warned, just as their surroundings darkened. I think that trying to cross will break it. Tell me why you speak to me. I know not what I am to you. Only that you and I are bound. Dumai stood. Strange things are afoot, I fear. There are forces at work I do not understand – but we can meet here, to comfort each other. Perhaps that is the reason we were called to this place, to be sisters. I would like that. There was a long quiet, and she felt a heaviness on the other side. I have lost the people I love most, the ones who guided me. Now I have no idea where to turn, except to you. Yours is the voice that steadies me. As yours steadies me. Dumai breathed in, eyes flickering beneath her lashes. The connexion was already waning. You must be on your guard. Wherever you are in the world, I warn you: they are coming. What is coming? A beast of the earth. A wyrm, Dumai told her. Their interstice quaked, and she focused once more, making her temples hurt. Whatever I learn, I will tell you. Be careful, my sister, my mirror. Be ready. ‘Mai?’ Dumai lurched awake. Kanifa sat beside her, his face lit by an oil lamp. ‘Kan.’ She tasted salt. ‘What is it?’ ‘Consort Jekhen has requested your presence at midnight. It seems the Lacustrine court wakes at dusk and sleeps at dawn.’ He held up a tray. ‘The messenger came with a meal.’ ‘Now we know why it was so quiet when we arrived.’ Dumai rubbed the grit from her eyes. ‘How long do I have?’ ‘Two hours. She sent new clothes for you, since the servants took yours to be cleaned.’ ‘I haven’t worn most of them.’ ‘I did tell her.’ As she drew the tray on to her lap, he said, ‘Are you all right?’ She took the lid off a cup, letting out the scent of ginger. ‘Kwiriki has been sending me strange dreams for some time.’ ‘What is it you see?’ ‘A figure in the dark. She says she is from an island.’ Kanifa considered, brows down. ‘I don’t claim to know much of dreams, but it sounds like she is your reflection. A way for you to clear your thoughts, by talking to yourself.’ ‘I thought the same. The person I need to become, mingled with the person I am. Yet she feels separate from me – as if she has her own spirit, not mine.’ Dumai shook her head. ‘Never mind. This alchemist is the most pressing matter. Will you bring Nikeya here?’ ‘Really?’ ‘She has her uses.


so it starts with waving your hands around a lot and ends with the panther idea.” “There’s one thing I didn’t put in there because it didn’t come from a choreographer but from kind of like, I guess he was an image consultant. He recommended I perform shirtless and in leather pants.” “Oh, that’s perfect. But let’s make the pants into shorts. Shorts are even better. Or what if you’re the one who suggests this, and it’s the pivot at the end? So up ’til now, it seems like you’re so resistant to these silly ideas, but you’re just resistant to their silly ideas. And you’re wearing tear-away clothes that you pull off, and you say something like ‘I’m confident that audience engagement will be enhanced by my beautifully sculpted body.’ ” Noah shook his head good-naturedly, and his blond surfer hair shifted a little. “I’m starting to feel like I just dug my own grave. And I’m still with the same label I signed with in 1999. That’s the irony here, as I vilify them in public.” “If it reassures you, there’s no guarantee any sketch will get picked for the live show.” When our eyes met, I said, “But I bet this one will.” “I guess I’m a winner either way,” he said. “Or a loser?” I scrolled through the document, making the changes we’d discussed. When we got to the third page, I said, “This chunk can go because it doesn’t establish anything new. It’s kind of filler.” I could tell he was reading the lines onscreen, then he said, “No, you’re right.” At the end, I inserted the stage directions for him to rip off his clothes then I glanced at him once more. “Want to read it through out loud? You can do the you part, and I’ll be the execs and the choreographer.” We both laughed a few times as we read. When Noah said, “Because my beautifully sculpted body will enhance audience engagement,” I realized it unintentionally echoed the earlier line about cutting-edge choreography enhancing his live performances. I cut the second enhance and replaced it with increase. In general, word repetition worked only when it seemed intentional. “We need a title,” I said. “But just as a placeholder, so don’t overthink it. Something like Choreographer.” “Done,” he said. “Choreographer.” He pointed down at the elastics on my desk. “Is it when you pull your hair back that your magical editing powers kick in?” I laughed. “I’ve heard of novelists who are very precious about their writing rituals, like they have to light a candle or drink herbal tea first, but TNO beats that out of you.” “Well, I feel like I just took a master class in comedy writing. I seriously can’t thank you enough.” “Again, it still has to make it past the table read and rehearsals, but I actually think it’s really fun.” “The way you keep saying actually,” he said. “It’s like you’re surprised.” “Sorry. It’s just that very few hosts write sketches, and even if they do, a writer probably


feet and shouted -- " I done it!" The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that shone upon him out of poor Becky's eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without an outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr. Dobbins had ever administered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty of a command to remain two hours after school should be dismissed -- for he knew who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not count the tedious time as loss, either. Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple; for with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting her own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon, to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with Becky's latest words lingering dreamily in his ear -- "Tom, how could you be so noble!" --------------------------------------------------------- -202- Chapter XXI VACATION was approaching. The school-master, always severe, grew severer and more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to make a good showing on "Examination" day. His rod and his ferule were seldom idle now -- at least among the smaller pupils. Only the biggest boys, and young ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing. Mr. Dobbins' lashings were very vigorous ones, too; for although he carried, under his wig, a perfectly bald and shiny head, he had only reached middle age, and there was no sign of feebleness in his muscle. As the great day approached, all the tyranny that was in him came to the surface; he seemed to take a vindictive pleasure in punishing the least shortcomings. The consequence was, that the smaller boys spent their days in terror and suffering and their nights in plotting revenge. They threw away no opportunity to do the master a mischief. But he kept ahead all the time. The retribution that followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that the boys always retired from the field badly worsted. At last they conspired together --------------------------------------------------------- -203- and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling victory. They swore in the sign-painter's boy, told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had his own reasons for being delighted, for the master boarded in his father's family and had given the boy ample cause to hate him. The master's wife would go on a visit to the country in a few days, and there would be nothing to interfere with the plan; the master always prepared himself for great occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and the sign-painter's boy said that when the dominie had reached the proper condition on Examination Evening he would "manage the thing" while he napped in his chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and hurried away to school.


was difficult for Vic to tell which. “I don’t remember,” Rambo said, still holding onto the boot as if it were a treasure. “It was black and dark and then there was light because Vic made me alive again.” “Older model,” Nurse Ratched said when she finished her scan. “At least a hundred years old. Victor, lift up his shirt, I want to see something.” Vic did as she asked, though his hands were shaking. He tugged on the hem of the android’s shirt. The edges of his thumbs scraped against bare skin, warm and with the slightest amount of give. He jerked back before trying again, careful to avoid touching skin. More damage appeared, though it seemed to be minor. Aside from his missing arm and destroyed foot, he seemed mostly intact. On the right side of his chest was a metal plate, much like the one on Dad. The numbers and letters had been worn away or sanded off, but a few remained that Vic could almost make out. He thought he could see an H and an A and what looked like a P at the end. Nurse Ratched scanned the plate, the light flashing against the metal. Question marks popped up on her screen. “Unknown specific designation. Unknown point of origin. Unknown manufacturing date.” A beat of silence. Then, “I think he is a MILF.” Victor had never heard of that before. “What’s that mean?” “Machine I’d Like to Fornicate.” Vic gaped at her. “Ha, ha,” she said. “Just kidding. I do not wish to fornicate with anything as I do not feel lust or attraction. That was a joke. However, given my knowledge of faces, I would say his is the best I have ever seen. Why is your face not as symmetrical?” “Funny,” Vic grunted, looking back down at the android. She wasn’t wrong. He was certainly … interesting in ways Vic didn’t know how to explain. It confused him more. He tapped the android’s chest just below the metal plate. The compartment hissed as it slid open. Nurse Ratched was right. This android was old. His chest cavity was filled with a circular battery, something Vic hadn’t seen in a long time. The edges of it were corroded and rusted, the casing cracked. “See his arm anywhere?” he asked as he studied the battery. He pushed against it, causing it to wiggle slightly. It looked as if it was ready to fall out. “Nope!” Rambo said, the boot now sitting on top of him. “Though, there are a bunch of arms here. Let’s pick one and take it with us!” He lifted one from the ground. “Too big.” He dropped it before selecting another. “Too small. Ooh, what if we gave him a leg for an arm? And then took his other arm off and made that a leg too? He could run really fast that way!” “Interesting,” Nurse Ratched said. “He would be able to chase you down much faster and most likely end up eating you. I like it when you have ideas.”


She had a hefty slice of cake and several pies in her basket: Odile had said she looked a bit peaky and needed to keep her strength up, then she had winked knowingly. Florence had already decided she’d give the pies to her father for his tea. She wasn’t hungry. As she walked towards Newlands, she passed the Johnsons’ home. She thought about knocking at the door, stopping for a chat with Malia. Her best friend would be going back to uni in a week or so for the final term. Florence gazed up at the house, a neat semi with a tidy garden. It was past five; the family would all be there. Adam Johnson might be home and Florence didn’t really want to see him. There was an intensity in his eyes when he looked at her, there always had been, long before they broke up last summer. And Malia had said he had a new girlfriend – Florence didn’t want to meet her, or to intrude if the family were having dinner. She didn’t feel much like being sociable. She walked on, gazing at her feet. Malia had been so supportive during the visit to Dr Müller’s surgery a few days ago; Natalie too. Dr Müller had talked Florence through the healthcare process and told her that she’d be supported throughout the pregnancy, the birth and afterwards. Dr Müller advised her to tell her father and Florence had shed tears of hopelessness. She welled up again at she thought of it. Her dad’s heart had been broken by her mother. He did his best for Florence; he always called her his princess: this would shatter his trust. She could imagine his face when she told him, he’d be so disappointed, so hurt. Then he’d ask who the father was and become protective. He wouldn’t understand that she couldn’t tell him. Florence could see their house at the bottom of the hill. Her dad would be sitting in his armchair with a cup of tea watching Sky Sports. She ought to tell him about the baby. It was only fair – he deserved to know. Jack Lovejoy drove past in his old car. He’d probably been busking in Tadderly. She didn’t wave and he didn’t notice her. Florence sighed: soon, everyone in the village would know about the baby. They’d see it for themselves. She’d almost reached the front door, the key in her hand, when she decided she’d tell her father straight away, before they made tea. It made sense; otherwise, he might hear it from someone else, and that would be worse. What if Natalie mentioned it to her mother, who’d tell her gran, and Penny Ledbury was bound to say something in the Co-op. Or Natalie would let it slip to George and he’d say something to one of the men in the pub who’d blurt it out to her father. Soon, people would be bound to notice: Florence was slim, the bump didn’t really show yet. But it wouldn’t take long before prying eyes stared at


woman in a tampon commercial: overjoyed, gorgeous, and impossibly comfortable—ready for any highly physical activity, including but not limited to bowling with friends or getting a piggyback ride from the unobtrusively handsome guy hired by central casting to play my boyfriend. All that to say, I am happy. This is the moment that’s carried me through thankless hospital shifts and the sleepless nights that often follow. For the next week, life will be crisp white wine, creamy lobster rolls, and laughing with my friends until tears stream down our cheeks. A short honk blasts from the parking lot. Even before I open my eyes and see her, I’m smiling. “O Harriet, my Harriet!” Sabrina shouts, half falling out of her dad’s old cherry-red Jaguar. She looks, as ever, like a platinum Jackie O, with her perfectly toned olive arms and her classic black pedal pushers, not to mention the vintage silk scarf wrapped around her glossy bob. She still strikes me the same as that first day we met, like an effortlessly cool starlet plucked from another time. The effect is somewhat tempered by the way she keeps jumping up and down with a poster board on which she’s scrawled, in her god-awful serial- killer handwriting, SAY IT’S CAROL SINGERS, a Love Actually reference that could not, actually, make less contextual sense. I break into a jog across the sunlit parking lot. She shrieks and hurls the poster at the car’s open window, where it smacks the frame and flaps to the ground as she takes off running to meet me. We collide in an impressively uncomfortable hug. Sabrina’s exactly tall enough that her shoulder always finds a way to cut off my air supply, but there’s still nowhere I’d rather be. She rocks me back and forth, cooing, “You’re heeeeere.” “I’m heeeeere!” I say. “Let me look at you.” She draws back to give me a stern once-over. “What’s different?” “New face,” I say. She snaps her fingers. “Knew it.” She loops an arm around my shoulders and turns me toward the car, a cloud of Chanel No. 5 following us. It’s been her signature scent since we were eighteen and I was still sporting a Bath & Body Works concoction that smelled like vodka-soaked cotton candy. “Your doctor does great work,” she deadpans. “You look thirty years younger. Not a day over newborn.” “Oh, no, it wasn’t a medical procedure,” I say. “It was an Etsy spell.” “Well, either way, you look great.” “You too,” I squeal, squeezing her around the waist. “I can’t believe this is real,” she says. “It’s been too long,” I agree. We fall into that hyper-comfortable kind of silence, the quiet of two people who lived together for the better part of five years and still, after all this time, have a muscle memory for how to share space. “I’m so happy you could make this work,” she says as we reach the car. “I know how busy you are at the hospital. Hospitals? They have you move around, right?” “Hospitals,” I confirm, “and nothing


on from some article of Sir Henry's -- the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all probability -- and so ran this man down. There is one very singular thing, however: How came Selden, in the dark- ness, to know that the hound was on his trail?" "He heard him." "To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have run a long way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did he know?" "A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all our conjectures are correct --" "I presume nothing." "Well, then, why this hound should be loose to-night. I suppose that it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would be there." "My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think that we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may remain forever a mystery. The question now is, what shall we do with this poor wretch's body? We cannot leave it here to the foxes and the ravens." "I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate with the police." "Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far. Halloa, Watson, what's this? It's the man himself, by all that's wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show yow suspicions -- not a word, or my plans crumble to the ground." A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, and then came on again. "Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it? You are the last man that I should have expected to see out on the moor at this time of night. But, dear me, what's this? Somebody hurt? Not -- don't tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!" He hurried past me and stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath and the cigar fell from his fingers. "Who -- who's this?" he stammered. "It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown." Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply from Holmes to me. "Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?" "He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry." "I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about Sir Henry." "Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking. "Because I


I feel like I have to do this for Sam alone. It’s my responsibility. I want the responsibility.” Natalie ignored the wound that formed in the center of her belly. Just like Corinne and Julian, August wanted things done a certain way and it did not include Natalie. She was not welcome. Both vineyards could be sinking into the red and still, her assistance would not be required. Same old story. But why did it hurt more that August wanted to manage on his own? That he didn’t want any help—her help—with the winemaking? She was used to her family being dismissive of her efforts but August . . . again, he wasn’t supposed to push her away. It stung, even if she understood that his grief over Sam caused him to react in ways no one could fully comprehend. Setting aside the hurt, she took a moment to try to see things from his perspective. He’d gone on this mission for his best friend. August was the only one standing here who knew what Sam wanted. “I haven’t lost anyone close to me, but I think grief can be expressed in a lot of different ways.” August’s shoulders drooped a little, his eyes casting guarded gratitude in her direction. “I wouldn’t talk to the guys about Sam’s death. I didn’t even tell anyone but my CO that I was coming here, buying the vineyard. I didn’t want any of them to ask to be involved. Isn’t that fucked up?” He rubbed at his throat. “It’s just that I was closer to him than anyone else and . . .” “You want to carry all the weight yourself.” “Yeah. If I give anyone else some of the weight, it feels like a cop out. Or like I’m shirking responsibility. So I just have to do it alone.” Natalie marveled over the fact that she could experience such a piercing sense of sympathy for someone she’d once thought was a bumbling ogre. Occasionally still did. “Do you think he would want it this way? You carrying all the weight?” August stopped in the middle of nodding. “No.” He let out a gust of breath. “No, he definitely wouldn’t. But that doesn’t change anything.” “Yeah,” she said softly. “You have to do it your way, August. You’re the only one who knows what that is.” They stared at each other across the barn for several moments, before Natalie realized she was the intruder. Was he waiting for her to leave so he could continue? The possibility made her speak a little too quickly. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work. Sorry for acting like a jealous wife this morning.” “I liked you being a jealous wife—” Immediately, he backpedaled. “No, wait. No. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t like you being jealous, but I loved you expecting more from me.” A weight slowly traveled from her throat to the center of her chest. He said the most impactful things sometimes. And he meant them. But the poor bonehead couldn’t see that simply letting


boasted of its decided superiority over all the other Italian states. He then turned to the ladies, and talked with the same eloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French manners; and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so particularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected by those to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing submissive attention, did not escape his observation. When he could disengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes addressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian operas; and her modesty, simplicity, and correct manners formed a decided contrast to those of her female companions. After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old chesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its shade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here and there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and events of his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures and characters of friends--long since gone from the earth; and he now felt himself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his Emily for his heart to turn to. He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started away, to forget it, if possible, at the social board. St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed, that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but she considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke so eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of grief which he concealed from her. On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she more than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness; now, all was silent and forsaken. But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed it. His constitution had never recovered from the late attack of the fever, and the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert's death had produced its present infirmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they had been by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable, would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone. For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he, by endeavours to diminish his expences


I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a way--so very odd a way--that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw any thing so outree!--Those curls!--This must be a fancy of her own. I see nobody else looking like her!-- I must go and ask her whether it is an Irish fashion. Shall I?-- Yes, I will--I declare I will--and you shall see how she takes it;-- whether she colours." He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing. Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston. "This is the luxury of a large party," said she:--"one can get near every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss Bates and her niece came here?" "How?--They were invited, were not they?" "Oh! yes--but how they were conveyed hither?--the manner of their coming?" "They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?" "Very true.--Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would be making her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as possible, you may be sure. `Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!'--but with many, many thanks--`there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley's carriage had brought, and was to take them home again.' I was quite surprized;--very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized. Such a very kind attention--and so thoughtful an attention!-- the sort of thing that so few men would think of. And, in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse for assisting them." "Very likely," said Emma--"nothing more likely. I know no man more likely than


the need for Their Eyes Were Watching God 111 thought. A Sanford undertaker was pressing his cause through Pheoby, and Janie was listening pleasantly but undisturbed. It might be nice to marry him, at that. No hurry. Such things take time to think about, or rather she pretended to Pheoby that that was what she was doing. “’Tain’t dat Ah worries over Joe’s death, Pheoby. Ah jus’ loves dis freedom.” “Sh-sh-sh! Don’t let nobody hear you say dat, Janie. Folks will say you ain’t sorry he’s gone.” “Let ’em say whut dey wants tuh, Pheoby. To my thinkin’ mourning oughtn’t tuh last no longer’n grief.” 10 One day Hezekiah asked off from work to go off with the ball team. Janie told him not to hurry back. She could close up the store herself this once. He cautioned her about the catches on the windows and doors and swaggered off to Winter Park. Business was dull all day, because numbers of people had gone to the game. She decided to close early, because it was hardly worth the trouble of keeping open on an afternoon like this. She had set six o’clock as her limit. At five-thirty a tall man came into the place. Janie was leaning on the counter making aimless pencil marks on a piece of wrapping paper. She knew she didn’t know his name, but he looked familiar. “Good evenin’, Mis’ Starks,” he said with a sly grin as if they had a good joke together. She was in favor of the story that was making him laugh before she even heard it. “Good evenin’,” she answered pleasantly. “You got all de advantage ’cause Ah don’t know yo’ name.” “People wouldn’t know me lak dey would you.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 113 “Ah guess standin’ in uh store do make uh person git tuh be known in de vicinity. Look lak Ah seen you somewhere.” “Oh, Ah don’t live no further than Orlandah. Ah’m easy tuh see on Church Street most any day or night. You got any smokin’ tobacco?” She opened the glass case. “What kind?” “Camels.” She handed over the cigarettes and took the money. He broke the pack and thrust one between his full, purple lips. “You got a lil piece uh fire over dere, lady?” They both laughed and she handed him two kitchen matches out of a box for that purpose. It was time for him to go but he didn’t. He leaned on the counter with one elbow and cold-cocked her a look. “Why ain’t you at de ball game, too? Everybody else is dere.” “Well, Ah see somebody else besides me ain’t dere. Ah just sold some cigarettes.” They laughed again. “Dat’s ’cause Ah’m dumb. Ah got de thing all mixed up. Ah thought de game was gointuh be out at Hungerford. So Ah got uh ride tuh where dis road turns off from de Dixie High- way and walked over here and then Ah find out de game is in Winter Park.” That was funny to both of them too.


Daphne loved Wilmington, and she was never going to leave the beach, even though, by that time, I honestly wished she would. There was always drinking, always drugs. I felt like the very uncool friend among her very cool ones, but I still worried. I’m not saying it was her friends’ faults, but I knew that sometimes it was harder to change a behavior when you were in the same place with the same group and the same habits. When I walked through the back door of my childhood home spring break of our senior year, Huff and Daphne didn’t see me at first. They were sitting at the dining room table like they had a million times before. Daphne was saying something, Huff was laughing, and, in the split second before he saw me, he looked at her in a way I had never seen him look at anyone. It washed over me that he was in love with her. But I didn’t feel panicked. Yet. “Hi, guys!” I said as cheerily as I could muster. Daphne jumped up to hug me. We hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks, since I had road-tripped from Durham to Wilmington to visit her. The first thing she said was, “Guess who’s moving to Baltimore?” Huff was grinning bigger than the day he got accepted to med school. He got up to hug me too. “Hi, sis. Pretty great, huh?” “I’m sorry,” I said. “Who’s moving to Baltimore?” “I am, silly!” Daphne said. I had wanted to talk to Daphne about possibly moving. But I hadn’t wanted her to move with my brother. “I need to take some prerequisite classes I need to apply to law school, so why not do that in Baltimore? After camp, of course.” In what seemed like slow motion, Huff let me go and took Daphne’s hand. “We’re finally doing this for real.” I think my heart stopped beating. I knew Daphne. I had known her almost my entire life. She would only, could only, break his heart. How many times had she said she didn’t want to get married? How many days had I laughed on the phone while she regaled me with tales of drunken nights out and random hookups? I really let my fear sink in: Was Daphne just a college party girl? Or was she destined to repeat the mistakes she’d seen growing up? Either way, I couldn’t let her go down. I couldn’t let my brother go down with her. They lived in Baltimore for months before I went to visit them for the first time. It was like if I didn’t have to see them all shacked up and cuddly in Huff’s shitty apartment, it wouldn’t be real. Still, I was used to the fact that they were together, and I had even started to come around. Until that visit. The first thing I noticed when I hugged Daphne in front of the Baltimore building whose beautiful brick facade belied its musty, dark interior is that she seemed a little bit jittery.


as she might, Kristi couldn’t concentrate on the sequel to her book about Father John, nor could she get her head into her new book, and it wasn’t because Lenore was batting at her bare toes with a tiny paw while hiding under the desk. No. Her agent’s suggestion that she drop everything and concentrate on delving deep into the sequel was still too new of an idea to even think about writing. For God’s sake, the investigation was just starting. However the real problem was that she was too caught up in her own life, the fact that she was now a widow. She’d told herself that she just needed to bury herself in the work to get through the too-long days and harrowing nights that she spent, sleepless, the claw hammer now under her pillow, the kitten usually under the covers with her. She’d checked with the neighbors, several vets and rescue groups, along with posting online. No one yet had laid claim to the cat and, with each day that passed, Kristi hoped more and more that no one did. She eyed her desk where notes, books, newspaper clippings, and magazine articles were scattered. She was still in the research phase on her book about New Orleans’s most recent string of murders. She’d spent several weeks on research while organizing her notes, adjusting the synopsis she’d written about the 21 Killer, a grotesque serial killer who murdered twins on their twenty-first birthday. 21’s reign of terror was over, thank God, and Kristi’s publisher was interested in the story, but as Kristi sat in her office, going through the evidence against 21 and digging into his psyche as to why he would kill the twins, she found her mind straying and finally, hauling the kitten, gave up and headed downstairs where she poured herself a glass of water and checked the time. The tech from the security company she’d called to upgrade the system had canceled the first appointment as there had been a foul-up in the shipment of some essential part of her new security system, but the part had come in and the technician was supposedly on his way. He was over half an hour late, though, the digital display on her desk clock registering 2:47. Just as she thought about calling the company, she received a text from an anonymous number, indicating “Lance” was on his way and would arrive by 3:00. Good. Maybe the new system would ease her mind and she would sleep better. “Fat chance,” she said aloud as reports of the return of the Rosary Killer had overtaken the local news and were permeating via the Internet to the national level. Many people, including her father, had speculated that Father John had survived in that bayou where it was thought he had died only to return to New Orleans and wreak havoc on the city. “As if we don’t have enough,” she said. Worse yet, the rumors were flying that the killer had taken his vengeance out on Rick Bentz, the detective who


in the Everglades the wind had romped among lakes and trees. In the city it had raged among houses and men. Tea Cake and Janie stood on the edge of things and looked over the deso- lation. “How kin Ah find uh doctor fuh yo’ face in all dis mess?” Janie wailed. “Ain’t got de damn doctor tuh study ’bout. Us needs uh place tuh rest.” A great deal of their money and perseverance and they found a place to sleep. It was just that. No place to live at all. Just sleep. Tea Cake looked all around and sat heavily on the side of the bed. “Well,” he said humbly, “reckon you never ’spected tuh come tuh dis when you took up wid me, didja?” “Once upon uh time, Ah never ’spected nothin’, Tea Cake, but bein’ dead from the standin’ still and tryin’ tuh laugh. But you come ’long and made somethin’ outa me. So Ah’m thankful fuh anything we come through together.” 196 Zora Neale Hurston “Thanky, Ma’am.” “You was twice noble tuh save me from dat dawg. Tea Cake, Ah don’t speck you seen his eyes lak Ah did. He didn’t aim tuh jus’ bite me, Tea Cake. He aimed tuh kill me stone dead. Ah’m never tuh fuhgit dem eyes. He wuzn’t nothin’ all over but pure hate. Wonder where he come from?” “Yeah, Ah did see ’im too. It wuz frightenin’. Ah didn’t mean tuh take his hate neither. He had tuh die uh me one. Mah switch blade said it wuz him.” “Po’ me, he’d tore me tuh pieces, if it wuzn’t fuh you, honey.” “You don’t have tuh say, if it wuzn’t fuh me, baby, cause Ah’m heah, and then Ah want yuh tuh know it’s uh man heah.” 19 And then again Him-with-the-square-toes had gone back to his house. He stood once more and again in his high flat house without sides to it and without a roof with his soulless sword standing upright in his hand. His pale white horse had galloped over waters, and thundered over land. The time of dying was over. It was time to bury the dead. “Janie, us been in dis dirty, slouchy place two days now, and dat’s too much. Us got tuh git outa dis house and outa dis man’s town. Ah never did lak round heah.” “Where we goin’, Tea Cake? Dat we don’t know.” “Maybe, we could go back up de state, if yuh want tuh go.” “Ah didn’t say dat, but if dat is whut you—” “Naw, Ah ain’t said nothin’ uh de kind. Ah wuz tryin’ not tuh keep you outa yo’ comfortable no longer’n you wanted tuh stay.” “If Ah’m in yo’ way—” “Will you lissen at dis woman? Me ’bout tuh bust mah britches tryin’ tuh stay wid her and she heah—she oughta be shot wid tacks!” 198 Zora Neale Hurston “All right then, you name somethin’ and we’ll do it. We kin give it uh poor man’s trial anyhow.” “Anyhow Ah done got rested up and de bed


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

patches. And he's ashamed of it. He's a kind of half-breed, and the colour's come off patchy instead of mixing. I've heard of such things before. And it's the common way with horses, as anyone can see." Chapter 4 Mr. Cuss Interviews the Stranger I have told the circumstances of the stranger's arrival in Iping with a certain fulness of detail, in order that the curious impression he created may be understood by the reader. But excepting two odd incidents, the circumstances of his stay until the extraordinary day of the Club Festival may be passed over very cursorily. There were a number of skirmishes with Mrs. Hall on matters of domestic discipline, but in every case until late in April, when the first signs of penury began, he over-rode her by the easy expedient of an extra payment. Hall did not like him, and whenever he dared he talked of the advisability of getting rid of him; but he showed his dislike chiefly by concealing it ostentatiously, and avoiding his visitor as much as possible. "Wait till the summer," said Mrs. Hall, sagely, "when the artisks are beginning to come. Then we'll see. He may be a bit overbearing, but bills settled punctual is bills settled punctual, whatever you like to say." The stranger did not go to church, and indeed made no difference between Sunday and the irreligious days, even in costume. He worked, as Mrs. Hall thought, very fitfully. Some days he would come down early and be continuously busy. On others he would rise late, pace his room, fretting audibly for hours together, smoke, sleep in the armchair by the fire. Communication with the world beyond the village he had none. His temper continued very uncertain; for the most part his manner was that of a man suffering under almost unendurable provocation, and once or twice things were snapped, torn, crushed, or broken in spasmodic gusts of violence. He seemed under a chronic irritation of the greatest intensity. His habit of talking to himself in a low voice grew steadily upon him, but though Mrs. Hall listened conscientiously she could make neither head nor tail of what she heard. He rarely went abroad by daylight, but at twilight he would go out muffled up enormously, whether the weather were cold or not, and he chose the loneliest paths and those most overshadowed by trees and banks. His goggling spectacles and ghastly bandaged face under the penthouse of his hat, came with a disagreeable suddenness out of the darkness upon one or two home-going labourers; and Teddy Henfrey, tumbling out of the Scarlet Coat one night at half-past nine, was scared shamefully by the stranger's skull-like head (he was walking hat in hand) lit by the sudden light of the opened door. Such children as saw him at nightfall dreamt of bogies, and it seemed doubtful whether he disliked boys more than they disliked him, or the reverse--but there was certainly a vivid enough dislike on either side. It was inevitable that a person of so remarkable an appearance


on her jewellery than he did on their children’s school fees. This line had only been true when the children were in primary school, but he held on to the joke through the decades, shaking his head as he wrote cheques for her to buy “those baubles.” Yèyé did not mind his mockery, so long as the cheques were signed and handed over to her. As it turned out, Aunty Bíọ́lá had been right about everything. That Adémọ́lá, Colonel J. D. Mákinwá’s bespectacled younger brother, was attracted to Yèyé, that Adémọ́lá was not the type to deny paternity as Aunty Jùmọ̀kẹ́’s husband had done initially, and even if he was, the colonel would make sure that his younger brother did the right thing. Yèyé was nineteen when Aunty Bíọ́lá introduced her to Adémọ́lá Mákinwá at a New Year’s party in the seventies. The military had been in power for nearly a decade, Aunty Bíọ́lá had been the third and favourite wife of a brigadier general for three years, and their mother had been dead for four. So what if the brigadier was married to other women already? Aunty Bíọ́lá had one of his duplexes to herself in Bodija, and he took care of her younger sisters as if they were his own children. He opened Yèyé’s first bank account for her and paid her a monthly allowance until she married Adémọ́lá Mákinwá. During her reign as the brigadier’s favourite wife, Aunty Bíọ́lá dedicated herself to making sure that her sisters met and married suitable men. The men Aunty Bíọ́lá considered suitable were university educated, moneyed and single. She told her sisters often that though there was nothing she could do about them ending up in polygamous marriages, she wanted to make sure they could at least be first wives, because any position after that was worthless. She said this even when the brigadier was in the room, which made Yèyé’s face hot but did not seem to bother the man. Most of the officers Aunty Bíọ́lá knew were already married, but they had cousins and brothers whose proximity to power made them suitable. Adémọ́lá was one of those suitable men. From their meeting on New Year’s Day until they got married, Yèyé’s side of the relationship was directed by her eldest sister. She sat at Adémọ́lá’s table during the New Year’s party, positioning herself across from him as instructed by Aunty Bíọ́lá, in his line of vision but just out of reach. He stared at her all night. Once, he bent over the table to speak to her, but the music was too loud, and she did not lean towards him. They talked when the party ended at dawn, yawning between sentences. He invited her to two birthday parties later that month. She gave him a hand job after one of those celebrations, grinning as she startled him into open-mouthed silence in the back seat of his car. Even her body obeyed Aunty Bíọ́lá’s counsel, and she conceived Láyí within a month after she met Adémọ́lá. And just as her sister had