childlessness. She knows Godfrey feels deprived. She wanted children, too, but she can deal with her own sense of loss. She humbly accepted the death of their one baby, fourteen years ago. Since then, she's devoted herself to Godfrey to make up for it. But there's one thing she won't do--adopt a child. Eliot points out that adoption wasn't very common then (as it became in her own time and in ours). NOTE: Nancy tends to form rigid opinions and cling to them. These are essential to her personality--they grow in her mind like grass, Eliot says (more plant imagery). Nancy formed her code early in life, and formed it out of superstition as well as rational thought. How does Eliot seem to feel about Nancy's principles? Nancy is convinced that adopting a child would be going against the will of God. You can hear her recalling Godfrey's arguments against this. Interestingly, he talks about adopting a specific child--Eppie. Nancy is talking about a principle, however, and she won't budge. She says it was all right for Silas to adopt Eppie because the child came to him unsought--like Dolly, she accepts the mysterious workings of God. But this doesn't bring her peace. Eliot digresses to describe Godfrey's own feelings about adopting Eppie. Since you have seen Silas and Eppie together, you can imagine the effect of this adoption on Silas, but Eliot says Godfrey never worries about this. Why not? He believes that anyone would want Eppie to rise in social class. Some readers think Eliot condemns Godfrey for this attitude, for he's really fulfilling his own desire for his child. Others say he can't help his class prejudices, and they point out that Eliot says that he's no longer as bad as he was in Part One. Back in Nancy's mind, you see she's grateful that Godfrey has been so good to her, in spite of her refusal to adopt a child. Then you go back into Godfrey's mind. He appreciates Nancy's loving attention and understands how important her convictions are to her. But his sense of her firm morals only makes it harder to explain the truth about Eppie. He does love Nancy. But because their marriage is childless, he blames this for his unhappiness. Eliot says this is a common human mistake--life is never entirely happy for anybody, but most people can't accept this. Godfrey aggravates this natural tendency by thinking that he's been denied a child to punish him for his past. Who does he seem to think is punishing him? Nancy rouses herself from her thoughts with a sense, like Dolly's, that she must just live one day at a time. A servant brings in tea and tells her that people have been running up the road away from the village. Nancy looks out the window. You see that it's a beautiful scene, but in her anxiety it looks ominous to her. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 18 The next chapter is swift and dramatic, as a sudden turn of events draws the story to its climax. Godfrey


“I’m still just trying to figure out which part of this is bad.” “It’s not bad, exactly. It just might be awkward.” “I can handle awkward.” “But why would you want to?” Joe tilted his head, like it was already obvious. “To help you out.” At the word help, I felt my usual knee-jerk nope. I didn’t want his help! I didn’t need— … But actually, I did need his help. I wouldn’t be standing in this hallway sobbing if I had any other options. Would it be so terrible to just let him help me? I thought about the very recent moment when I’d given my favorite dress to a total stranger in a public bathroom. It did feel good to help other people out sometimes. Fine, I decided, with a long sigh. He wanted to help me? I’d let him help me. What other choice did I have? Maybe this was a moment of personal growth. “Things I might do to you,” I said, “include, but aren’t limited to: Staring at you a lot, peering at you, and leaning in close. Studying you. Asking you to describe your face to me while I’m painting it. Projecting a grid over your face and mapping it out mathematically. Measuring your features with a tape measure. And touching your face, neck, and shoulders. Is any of that objectionable?” “As long as you don’t put me in a Burt Reynolds toupee.” “But what do you think?” “I think I don’t know why we’re still talking about it.” But then I had to ask: “Would it bother your girlfriend?” “My what?” I tilted my head to gesture down the hall. “Aren’t you dating Busty McGee?” He looked in the direction of my gesture. “Do you mean Marie Michaux?” “Huh. I guess she has a real name.” “You know she’s a scientist, right? Dr. Marie Michaux.” “No,” I said. “I just know she looks fantastic in a tank top.” Joe shook his head. “She is a trailblazing evolutionary biologist and herpetologist.” “Herpetologist? She studies herpes?” Joe sighed. “Herpetologists study reptiles. She, in particular, studies the effects of climate change on snake coloration.” I stared down the hall at her closed apartment door. “That’s not the profession I would’ve guessed.” “She was just featured in Science magazine. She’s brilliant.” “So…” I said then, just to irritate him. “You’re dating a brilliant herpesologist.” “Herpetologist,” he said, making a couple of tuh, tuh noises afterward to emphasize the T. “And we’re not dating.” That perked me up a little, though I’d never admit it. It perked me up so much, in fact, that I did not submit any follow-up questions—on the chance that he might follow “We’re not dating” with something ghastly like “We’re just sleeping together.” Don’t ask, don’t tell. What he did or didn’t do with the snake-a-tologist was his business. “I can’t pay you,” I said then. “Not with money, anyway.” That got his attention. “What will you pay me with?” “Well,” I said, “I can’t give you the portrait itself, because they’re auctioning those off.”


through his head. He was too much a coward to ask Lucy herself. If he ended up being wrong, his suspicion would completely ruin their friendship, something he had come to treasure more than he’d like. She was the only person who had gotten him to relax in weeks, and confronting her with any of this would likely lead to disaster. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to deal with that. Until William woke and could offer the answers to all these mysteries, Simon would have to occupy his time with something else and pretend all was well. “I hate to say it, old friend, but your sister may actually beat you in a race.” Forester let himself into Simon’s chambers, where he had been trying—and failing—to get work done, and he dropped himself onto the bed with a deep sigh. “She certainly left me in the dust this morning.” Simon was still a bit too distracted by Lucy to really pay attention to his friend, but he did his best. “Is that the truth or another one of your stories?” Forester chuckled. “I tell tales only when they are to my benefit. No point in wasting creativity if there is nothing to gain.” As telling as that statement was when it came to Forester’s strange inclination to lie, Simon could hardly focus on that when he felt like his mind had been scrambled. How had his life come to this? “Did you ever see your life going in a different direction than it has?” “Ah, I see we’ve gotten to the root of the melancholy.” A restless energy pushed Simon up from his desk, and he started to pace the room. At least Forester seemed to have caught on that the situation was more serious than he’d thought; he sat up and frowned as he watched Simon make his rounds. The man had a nasty habit of playing the fool a little too well, but at least he could be sober when it mattered. “I always knew I would be Lord Calloway.” Forester nodded. “Because you were born to it.” “But I wasn’t born to be a businessman.” That had made itself clear, especially this last week. How many more of Father’s ventures would Simon have to sell because he was incapable of doing the job as well as the last Lord Calloway? “The curse of being your father’s son,” Forester said with a shrug. Far from making Simon feel better, that comment made his anxiety rise. “Then, why couldn’t William—” “William has never taken responsibility for a thing in his life. Do you honestly think he could help your father’s endeavors thrive? He would run them to the ground.” Simon grunted. “So would I, apparently.” Rising, Forester placed himself in Simon’s path and narrowed his eyes at him, fixing him with a stare that made his heart pound a little harder. Simon hadn’t seen this much conviction in his friend’s face in years, and it was enough to pull his full attention. “One sugar farm is nothing when one


her credentials as a social analyst. Now Eliot fills in the details of her setting. She locates Raveloe on the map, in the English Midlands. She sets a date for the story, by referring to coach-roads (by Eliot's own day, railroads had replaced coaches) and the Napoleonic Wars. She describes the buildings of the village and sketches its social hierarchy, headed by a few farmers with large land holdings. Picture the village to yourself. Do you think it's a glorified vision or a realistic one? What evidence can you point to? Silas came to this place from the north fifteen years ago, you learn, but he's never joined in the village life. Eliot shows you the villagers' view of him. She tells Jem Rodney's story about finding Silas in a paralyzed trance on the road one day, and you overhear the locals' eager discussion about this event. The gossipers also refer to another incident, when Silas magically used herbs to cure someone named Sally Oates. After this, Eliot explains in her own voice why Marner is tolerated in Raveloe--they fear him and, pragmatically, they need his skill. Then she plunges deeper, into Silas' past. She speaks of his "metamorphosis"--a scientific word for an insect's change in shape. (Watch for more insect imagery.) Indeed, you learn, he was a different creature in the past. He was deeply involved in a small religious sect, made up mostly of skilled workers like himself. Unlike the villagers, these people thought Silas' trances were a sign of God's favor. Silas also had a dear best friend, William Dane. Dane, however, with his narrow eyes and egotism, forms a definite contrast to Silas, with his deer-like eyes and his gentle, trusting nature. NOTE: Eliot seems unsympathetic to the Lantern-Yard sect. The very name suggests that its faith casts only a dim light (a lantern) of knowledge in a closed-in space (a yard). She says that it gives its members a sense of security, but she describes their joyless beliefs with heavy irony. Notice how long and roundabout her sentences get, mocking the brethren's interpretation of Silas' fits. She also shows how they persuaded Silas to give up his herbal studies, which he enjoyed. Her description of Dane's views is sarcastic, while she pities Silas for his earnest doubts. Eliot continually hints at William's falseness as she tells Silas' story. Dane seems to undermine Silas' engagement to Sarah and his place in the sect (Dane interprets Silas' fits as a mark of the devil). So when you see Silas sharing with William the job of nursing an ill deacon of the church, you may suspect trouble. Silas stays late at the old man's bedside, but William never shows up. Silas falls asleep--or probably has a fit--and when he comes to, the deacon is dead. Silas innocently goes off to work as usual. But that night he is summoned to a mysterious church meeting (it's William Dane who comes to fetch him). There, Silas is shown his own pocket-knife, which was found in the dead deacon's dresser drawer--where a bag


did nothing, Furtia came closer and huffed, so Dumai could smell the brine on her breath. And she understood what the dragon wanted. With a hundred thousand eyes on her, she reached out with trembling fingers. A living dragon, slippery as a fish, real and alive beneath her palm. There was kinship in that touch, and strength. Furtia nudged back with her snout. Come. She made a sound like distant thunder, and Dumai took another step. She closed her eyes, feeling a pull, a likeness, a want. The black scales were too slick to hold without slipping. Finding she was unafraid, she sank her hands into the waterfall of manehair. Her fingers closed in the heavy, oily mass, which smelled of steel and seaweed. Even though court had drained her strength, she still had enough to hold her own weight. She climbed until she could hook a leg across the dragon. She looked towards her father, and she saw the change in him, the hope. She had one brief, dizzying impression of the blue above, the stunned faces below, before the dragon surged into the sky. The wind howled, drowning out all sound. Dumai clung to Furtia, face already windburnt, and laughed as the sky welcomed her like an old friend. She had nothing to fear from it. Furtia Stormcaller rose towards the sun, and Noziken pa Dumai was flying, just as she had always dreamed. **** Evening painted over the last strokes of dusk. Furtia passed wisps of cloud, silvering them with the light that filled her crown. Dumai breathed in the cleanness of the air. Her robe clung to her skin, but she relished the cold, even as her nose ran. It was a long time before something interrupted the dark. Molten lava, pouring out from the land, exploding into thick billows of steam. That was her very first glimpse of the sea – but she could hardly make it out, let alone treasure the moment. She gazed at the firefall until her eyes hurt. Long before Kwiriki came, Seiiki had often been restless, shuddering and shedding fumes. Once dragons had settled on the island, it had quietened, and now it was only steam it breathed, from the hot springs – but as the gods slept, this mountain had woken. Furtia spooled her huge body into a cave, where the air was stifling and dry. Too warm. Dumai slid down, bending her knees when she hit the ground. She turned to face the dragon. ‘Great one, ask what you will of me.’ Even as she spoke, her insides wound tight, making her feel unwell. Something was very wrong in this place. I have brought you here to show you chaos . . . Dumai concentrated. She tried to speak with her mind, though it gave her a headache. Where is this? A tunnel from the deep beneath. Furtia moved farther into the dark, and Dumai followed, keeping a hand on her scales. There. In the cavern ahead, molten rock flowed with a sizzling hiss. It took several long moments to


over there.” She wondered what Alice was doing at the site if she was so uncommitted to the project. “I’m planting the pomegranate tree.” “I can see that,” Alice said. Her mouth flickered in what might be a smile. “Do you want to see the final garden design?” Maud said. “I’m almost done. I can print it out and mail it to you.” “I wanted to ask you about a consulting job at my place,” Alice said. “There’s a plant in one of my fields that I can’t get rid of. I’d pay you, to state the obvious. You can show me your design then if you want.” Maud wasn’t sure how she was supposed to reply to this request. Would doing this consultation help Maria make their case? Saying no didn’t seem like a good idea, so she said sure, she’d be happy to. “Can you do Wednesday at ten?” Alice said without first asking about convenient days or times or windows. Maud thought about saying that day wouldn’t work, just to prove a point, but clearly you didn’t play games with Alice, or if you did, she set the rules. Maud found such breezy belligerence refreshing in a woman, but Maria was right that Alice was exhausting. “Park on the shoulder, climb the gate, and come straight to the house,” Alice said, having given Maud an address on Highway One. She patted Clark on the head. “See you then.” “Climb the gate?” Maud called. “It’s low,” Alice said without turning around. That Sunday morning, as Maud and Peter were reading the newspaper in the kitchen, Annette stopped by the house in a cocktail dress with a box of cinnamon buns from a bakery in Mill Valley. Louise, still in her pajamas, grabbed pastries for herself and Ella to eat in front of the TV. “Why are you so dressed up?” she asked Annette as she headed back to the living room. “Last night’s date lives in Tiburon,” Annette said. “The guest room had an amazing view of the water,” she added, winking at Maud. “I’ll leave you two to gab,” Peter said. He evacuated the kitchen with his coffee and the business section of the paper. “Did I embarrass him?” Annette kicked off her shoes. “He’s probably jealous,” Maud said. “It’s been over a year for us.” She gave Annette a mug of coffee. “You do realize that’s insane.” “Turns out giving up sex is like giving up sugar. After a while, you lose the taste.” “Are you sure he’s not finding it somewhere else?” “He wouldn’t do that again. Anyway, not now.” At the table, Annette put her feet in Maud’s lap, a ritual they’d started in their teenage years, imitating their elderly aunts. Maud cracked Annette’s toes and massaged her heels. They went only that far, whereas their aunts shaved each other’s calluses with a razor. “So, what?” Annette said. She took another minuscule bite from the cinnamon roll, having scraped off the frosting. “You’ve taken a vow of chastity?” “I’m not thinking about it.” “When women don’t


stuff in the blood and the blood hits the brain like a mallet, bang, a couple of thousand times and the brain just gives up, just quits." "Stop it!" said Montag. "I was just sayin'," said the operator. "Are you done?" said Montag. They shut the machines up tight. "We're done." His anger did not even touch them. They stood with the cigarette smoke curling around their noses and into their eyes without making them blink or squint. "That's fifty bucks." "First, why don't you tell me if she'll be all right?" "Sure, she'll be O.K. We got all the mean stuff right in our suitcase here, it can't get at her now. As I said, you take out the old and put in the new and you're O.K." "Neither of you is an M.D. Why didn't they send an M.D. from Emergency?" "Hell! " the operator's cigarette moved on his lips. "We get these cases nine or ten a night. Got so many, starting a few years ago, we had the special machines built. With the optical lens, of course, that was new; the rest is ancient. You don't need an M.D., case like this; all you need is two handymen, clean up the problem in half an hour. Look"-he started for the door-"we gotta go. Just had another call on the old ear-thimble. Ten blocks from here. Someone else just jumped off the cap of a pillbox. Call if you need us again. Keep her quiet. We got a contra-sedative in her. She'll wake up hungry. So long." And the men with the cigarettes in their straight-lined mouths, the men with the eyes of puff-adders, took up their load of machine and tube, their case of liquid melancholy and the slow dark sludge of nameless stuff, and strolled out the door. Montag sank down into a chair and looked at this woman. Her eyes were closed now, gently, and he put out his hand to feel the warmness of breath on his palm. "Mildred," he said, at last. There are too many of us, he thought. There are billions of us and that's too many. Nobody knows anyone. Strangers come and violate you. Strangers come and cut your heart out. Strangers come and take your blood. Good God, who were those men? I never saw them before in my life! Half an hour passed. The bloodstream in this woman was new and it seemed to have done a new thing to her. Her cheeks were very pink and her lips were very fresh and full of colour and they looked soft and relaxed. Someone else's blood there. If only someone else's flesh and brain and memory. If only they could have taken her mind along to the dry-cleaner's and emptied the pockets and steamed and cleansed it and reblocked it and brought it back in the morning. If only . . . He got up and put back the curtains and opened the windows wide to let the night air in. It was two o'clock in the morning. Was it


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

not going to ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do—I simply wish to speak to you.” Upon this he noiselessly slid into view. “Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?” “I would prefer not to.” “Will you tell me any thing about yourself?” “I would prefer not to.” “But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel friendly towards you.” He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my bust of Cicero, which as I then sat, was directly behind me, some six inches above my head. “What is your answer, Bartleby?” said I, after waiting a considerable time for a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable, only there was the faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated mouth. “At present I prefer to give no answer,” he said, and retired into his hermitage. It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm disdain, but his perverseness seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from me. Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortified as I was at his behavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my offices, nevertheless I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I dared to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last, familiarly drawing my chair behind his screen, I sat down and said: “Bartleby, never mind then about revealing your history; but let me entreat you, as a friend, to comply as far as may be with the usages of this office. Say now you will help to examine papers to-morrow or next day: in short, say now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:—say so, Bartleby.” “At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,” was his mildly cadaverous reply. Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed suffering from an unusually bad night’s rest, induced by severer indigestion then common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby. “Prefer not, eh?” gritted Nippers—”I’d prefer him, if I were you, sir,” addressing me—”I’d prefer him; I’d give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do now?” Bartleby moved not a limb. “Mr. Nippers,” said I, “I’d prefer that you would withdraw for the present.” Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word “prefer” upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining me to summary means. As Nippers, looking very sour


page, the crude shape of one of Ewers’s runes. Clarimonde Bauer was attempting to cast a spell on them; each line she drew was a word in an incantation. To run out at that moment might have been the most instinctive solution, but if Montserrat understood something it was that curses are not outrun. And although fear or a strangled scream might have been an understandable reaction, she gritted her teeth. Montserrat extended a hand and grabbed one of the pieces of charcoal and began to draw her own symbol on the surface of the white table, each stroke hard, staring back at Clarimonde. The woman’s anger was almost palpable, and Montserrat pushed back against that anger with a smooth determination and rage of her own. There was plenty of anger inside of her, after all. Plenty of kindling. Let it burn. “I refuse you,” Montserrat said and at the last word tossed the piece of charcoal away. Smoke rose, and the paper Clarimonde had been drawing on turned black, the page curling and burning away into ashes within seconds. Clarimonde’s eyes were very wide. She stared at her in surprise. “A counter-spell. Who taught you that?” “I read it somewhere,” Montserrat muttered. Clarimonde was shaken; her eyes looked a little wild. She raised a hand, as if to touch Montserrat, then seemed to think better of it. “You will not be safe, ever, unless you give me that film. Only I can protect you.” “Yeah, it didn’t work for Abel, did it? Come on.” Montserrat grabbed Tristán by the hand and pulled him toward the entrance. They moved fast. She feared someone would bar the door, but they made it out and into their car without any issue. She began driving toward her apartment. Her heart was pounding, and her fingers were wrapped tight around the steering wheel. In her ears there was a soft ringing. She reached for the dial and turned on the stereo, but Tristán immediately switched it off. “How did you do that back there?” he asked. “Did you read it in that book?” “It’s…kind of. I mean…I don’t know.” “You don’t know?” “She was trying to cast a hex, drawing runes. I stopped it. Reflected it. I don’t know…I’ll take you to your apartment.” She winced and pressed one hand against her ear. “I don’t have any booze in my apartment, so let’s go to yours. You look like you need a drink.” “Make it three.” She did have a bottle of tequila that she hadn’t opened. As soon as they walked in Montserrat grabbed the first two cups she saw on the drying rack and filled them with booze. They were not proper tequila glasses, but she placed them on the table. “That was messed up.” Tristán sipped his drink. Montserrat downed hers so quickly she thought it would burn a hole in her throat. She was a light drinker. One glass was enough for her. Tristán almost spat out the drink in his mouth when he saw her pouring herself a second one and


living room and sit on the couch beside my daughter. In her expression I read compassion, sadness, weariness. A deep well of concern. Her face was the first I ever glimpsed that looked anything like mine—from the moment of her birth, I knew that I was not alone. Now nearly twelve, she never resembles me more than when her steady brown eyes, my eyes, are like this, serious and appraising. She has always been her own person, frequently leaving me, the person who birthed her, wondering where she came from and who she will be. And yet I know she is who she is in part because I am her mother, just as I am who I am because of mine. “Mama,” she says, “are you okay?” I know she means in this moment, not all the ones to come. I reach for her, pull her into a hug, and give her the truth. “I’m not okay,” I say. “But someday I will be.” I will be. Because of her, and her sister, and my husband, and everyone who loves me. Because my parents love me, and to live is to remember them. I will always miss my mother. In the months and years to come, I’ll wish for many impossible things: that cancer had never invaded her body; that the world had not changed; that I could be with her when she died; that I could have split myself in two, defied the laws of the universe and linear time, to be present in every moment she and my father needed me. But I will also feel a deep and profound gratitude for our last day together. For whatever it was—love, grace, chance, or premonition—that pushed me to ask for her forgiveness, tell her that her life was a blessing and I was lucky to be hers. I won’t have to wonder if she understood or forgave me. I’m not holding on to anything I wish I’d told her. In the end, there was nothing broken or left unsaid between us. While my mother sleeps, my daughter and I sit side by side, our faces half-lit by the westward-facing windows, watching the sun creep down to the edge of the mountains my parents and I have known and loved in every season. We talk about the evening ahead: When Mom wakes up from her nap, we’ll ask what she wants for dinner, burgers or tacos. Maybe we’ll watch a movie, or play a game of cards—she is teaching my daughter how to play rummy—or maybe we’ll just sit and talk until it’s time for us to go to bed. We have to leave in the morning, but we still have one more night. I keep my arm around my daughter, and together we wait for my mom to wake. Notes & Acknowledgments I am deeply grateful to Marie Howe, whose words have long been a source of solace and inspiration, for permitting me to title this book with a phrase from her poem “For Three Days” and excerpt “What the Living


of pain, not one plaint of horror. The only sounds are quick footfalls as they react to a new awareness of his strategy, avoiding corners, hoping that he lacks enough ammunition to keep harassing them back and forth through that high space until their luck runs out. He is impatient to transcend. Perhaps his rage abated with the realization of his true immortal nature, but now it swells hot once more. If this game has one rule, it is that in all situations and circumstances, violence is the only winning course of action. The violent bear it away. The future belongs to the violent. They bear away those who choose not to kill. They bear away everything of which they disapprove, all art and music and writing and philosophy that they find displeasing, all thought that offends them. They bear away all traditions, institutions, and ultimately all civilization as it was once constituted. He knows this game. He is the master of this game, and he is infuriated that at this late hour, with one move left to clear the board, he is being frustrated. He ejects the depleted magazine. Slaps in a fresh one. He has twenty additional rounds available in yet a third magazine. Stepping into the hall, he surveys the ceiling, which is a darker shade of green than the walls. He cocks his head left and right, trying to gauge the trio’s location by the telltale sounds they’re making. He enters the next room on the right, wishing that their body heat could reveal them by translating through the attic floor and manifesting as green glowing footprints on this ceiling, an irrational desire perhaps related to the Benzedrine. He squeezes off three rounds to no effect and returns to the hallway, attention focused overhead. A scissoring sound, blade against blade, and a series of soft clicks puzzle him. He can’t figure out what Mace and his companions are doing up there, and then he realizes the source of the noise is not in the attic. When he looks south, a daunting apparition comes off the stairs and into the hallway, an entity so bizarre that it evokes in him the closest thing to fear that he has felt since he was seven years old and purged himself of that hampering emotion. Never before have mere bennies troubled him with hallucinations. At first, in the strange light that his goggles conjure from the dark, the intruder seems spiderlike, the number of its legs difficult to discern. Then it goes erect on its two back limbs, revealing that it has only four legs, and its body appears to reconfigure in some way, with a soft whir and a softer chunk-chunk-chunk. As Calaphas begins to realize that this is neither a hallucination nor some monstrous insect, that it’s a machine, and as alarm rises in him, the intruder projects a broad beam of light— —LIGHT so bright that the night-vision unit is overwhelmed. Calaphas can see nothing. He yanks off the headset and throws it aside and begins to bring up


In outliving everything, even his own emotional attachments. Assuming he ever liked you in the first place. Do you think he likes you, Maurice? Because he gave me to understand he did not. Like I think it’s possible he likes you even less than he likes me, and he really does not like me.” Maurice won’t look at me. Yeah, he knows what Stefan thinks, all right. Old bastard probably tells him on a regular basis. “And Elaine will never know why you abandoned her.” * * * — In Maurice’s version of the story, Lillian met Peter Antonin when they were very young. He was smart, she was smarter, but people didn’t always get that, because people are assholes and he was louder and brasher than she was. They teamed up, and shared credit, which basically meant he took some of hers. But they were a team, all the same, until Stefan came along, and then it was over. Lillian was free of Peter’s ego and Peter’s career, and Peter took his money and went off into deserved obscurity. Lillian and Stefan had a gay old time and then it ended. Like Stefan’s version, it’s perfectly in character, perfectly anodyne. Probably, the same PR team made them up. “So what was her name, Maurice?” “Whose name?” “Before she married Peter. What was her name?” “I don’t know.” “Lillian Brown. Lillian Beauregard. Smith. Jones. Klassen. Hatchard. Odunayo. Nespoli. Come on, man, throw something in here.” “I never heard it. I’m sorry, Cal.” “Why did you try to kill me? I honestly have no idea.” “You were annoying Stefan.” “Bullshit, try again.” He slaps his hands down on the arms of the chair. Zoegar twitches upright, hands moving to the small of his back. I figure pistols, twinned, with heavy ammunition. Maurice doesn’t see him but subsides anyway, and Zoegar doesn’t finish the draw. Maurice scowls at me. “I was just fucking tired of you, okay? Of your fucking snooping and your shit. I was tired of Athena crying about you, Cal! I don’t like that she has my job. That is bullshit. It’s bullshit and fuck Stefan for even thinking that fucking infant can do it better than I can. Okay? So yeah, sure, I hope she dies in a ditch. But she’s still family. When you hurt our family, when you reject our family, that’s all of us, and who the fuck are you? You’re no one. Some ant with ideas of humanity. Fuck you. You can’t even let her move on, you just keep her on the hook year after fucking year. You’re a prick. I was tired of it. And you upset Elaine.” I wait. “You upset Elaine,” he says again. And after that it gets pretty quiet in the room, because Doublewide is trying to look like he hasn’t heard anything and that’s the loudest silence I’ve ever heard. I didn’t tell him about Athena, and there’s no reason he’d know. I told him I was Daniel and Stefan was the lion. Now he knows better. Well, it


laburnum will be as golden next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will have its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we did not dare to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!" Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the fretted purple of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion, for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time it flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro. Suddenly Hallward appeared at the door of the studio, and made frantic signs for them to come in. They turned to each other, and smiled. "I am waiting," cried Hallward. "Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks." They rose up, and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and- white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the end of the garden a thrush began to sing. "You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, looking at him. "Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?" [18] "Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer." As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry's arm. "In that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped upon the platform and resumed his pose. Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair, and watched him. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when Hallward stepped back now and then to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open door-way the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. After about a quarter of an hour, Hallward


the family a great many years. Can you tell me whether there ever was a Pyncheon whom she takes after?" "I don't believe there ever was," answered the venerable man. "At any rate, it never was my luck to see her like among them, nor, for that matter, anywhere else. I've seen a great deal of the world, not only in people's kitchens and back-yards but at the street-corners, and on the wharves, and in other places where my business calls me; and I'm free to say, Miss Hepzibah, that I never knew a human creature do her work so much like one of God's angels as this child Phoebe does!" Uncle Venner's eulogium, if it appear rather too high-strained for the person and occasion, had, nevertheless, a sense in which it was both subtile and true. There was a spiritual quality in Phoebe's activity. The life of the long and busy day--spent in occupations that might so easily have taken a squalid and ugly aspect--had been made pleasant, and even lovely, by the spontaneous grace with which these homely duties seemed to bloom out of her character; so that labor, while she dealt with it, had the easy and flexible charm of play. Angels do not toil, but let their good works grow out of them; and so did Phoebe. The two relatives--the young maid and the old one--found time before nightfall, in the intervals of trade, to make rapid advances towards affection and confidence. A recluse, like Hepzibah, usually displays remarkable frankness, and at least temporary affability, on being absolutely cornered, and brought to the point of personal intercourse; like the angel whom Jacob wrestled with, she is ready to bless you when once overcome. The old gentlewoman took a dreary and proud satisfaction in leading Phoebe from room to room of the house, and recounting the traditions with which, as we may say, the walls were lugubriously frescoed. She showed the indentations made by the lieutenant-governor's sword-hilt in the door-panels of the apartment where old Colonel Pyncheon, a dead host, had received his affrighted visitors with an awful frown. The dusky terror of that frown, Hepzibah observed, was thought to be lingering ever since in the passageway. She bade Phoebe step into one of the tall chairs, and inspect the ancient map of the Pyncheon territory at the eastward. In a tract of land on which she laid her finger, there existed a silver mine, the locality of which was precisely pointed out in some memoranda of Colonel Pyncheon himself, but only to be made known when the family claim should be recognized by government. Thus it was for the interest of all New England that the Pyncheons should have justice done them. She told, too, how that there was undoubtedly an immense treasure of English guineas hidden somewhere about the house, or in the cellar, or possibly in the garden. "If you should happen to find it, Phoebe," said Hepzibah, glancing aside at her with a grim yet kindly smile, "we will tie up the shop-bell for good


why. So he Their Eyes Were Watching God 169 didn’t blurt out the insults he had intended. But he couldn’t hold in everything. They talked about the prospects for the coming season for a moment, then Tea Cake said, “Yo’ wife don’t seem tuh have nothin’ much tuh do, so she kin visit uh lot. Mine got too much tuh do tuh go visitin’ and too much tuh spend time talkin’ tuh folks dat visit her.” “Mah wife takes time fuh whatever she wants tuh do. Real strong headed dat way. Yes indeed.” He laughed a high lungless laugh. “De chillun don’t keep her in no mo’ so she visits when she chooses.” “De chillun?” Tea Cake asked him in surprise. “You got any smaller than him?” He indicated the son who seemed around twenty or so. “Ah ain’t seen yo’ others.” “Ah reckon you ain’t ’cause dey all passed on befo’ dis one wuz born. We ain’t had no luck atall wid our chillun. We lucky to raise him. He’s de last stroke of exhausted nature.” He gave his powerless laugh again and Tea Cake and the boy joined in with him. Then Tea Cake walked on off and went home to Janie. “Her husband can’t do nothin’ wid dat butt-headed woman. All you can do is treat her cold whenever she come round here.” Janie tried that, but short of telling Mrs. Turner bluntly, there was nothing she could do to discourage her completely. She felt honored by Janie’s acquaintance and she quickly for- gave and forgot snubs in order to keep it. Anyone who looked more white folkish than herself was better than she was in her criteria, therefore it was right that they should be cruel to her 170 Zora Neale Hurston at times, just as she was cruel to those more negroid than her- self in direct ratio to their negroness. Like the pecking-order in a chicken yard. Insensate cruelty to those you can whip, and groveling submission to those you can’t. Once having set up her idols and built altars to them it was inevitable that she would worship there. It was inevitable that she should accept any inconsistency and cruelty from her deity as all good wor- shippers do from theirs. All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be worshipped. Through indiscriminate suf- fering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood. Mrs. Turner, like all other believers had built an altar to the unattainable—Caucasian characteristics for all. Her god would smite her, would hurl her from pinnacles and lose her in deserts, but she would not forsake his altars. Behind her crude words was a belief that somehow she and others through worship could attain her paradise—a heaven of straighthaired, thin-lipped, high-nose boned white seraphs. The physical impossibilities in no way injured faith. That was the mystery and mysteries


led the way, and Summer came close behind. His brother was strong for his age, and Bran was as light as a bundle of rags, but the stairs were steep and dark, and Robb was breathing hard by the time they reached the top. He put Bran into bed, covered him with blankets, and blew out the 220 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN candle. For a time Robb sat beside him in the dark. Bran wanted to talk to him, but he did not know what to say. "We'll find a horse for you, I promise," Robb whispered at last. "Are they ever coming back?" Bran asked him. "Yes," Robb said with such hope in his voice that Bran knew he was hearing his brother and not just Robb the Lord. "Mother will be home soon. Maybe we can ride out to meet her when she comes. Wouldn't that surprise her, to see you ahorse?" Even in the dark room, Bran could feel his brother's smile. "And afterward, we'll ride north to see the Wall. We won't even tell Jon we're coming, we'll just be there one day, you and me. It will be an adventure." "An adventure," Bran repeated wistfully. He heard his brother sob. The room was so dark he could not see the tears on Robb's face, so he reached out and found his hand. Their fingers twined together. EDDARD "Lord Arryn's death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord," Grand Maester Pycelle said. "I would be more than happy to tell you what I can of the manner of his passing. Do be seated. Would you care for refreshments? Some dates, perhaps? I have some very fine persimmons as well. Wine no longer agrees with my digestion, I fear, but I can offer you a cup of iced milk, sweetened with honey. I find it most refreshing in this heat." There was no denying the heat; Ned could feel the silk tunic clinging to his chest. Thick, moist air covered the city like a damp woolen blanket, and the riverside had grown unruly as the poor fled their hot, airless warrens to jostle for sleeping places near the water, where the only breath of wind was to be found. "That would be most kind," Ned said, seating himself. Pycelle lifted a tiny silver bell with thumb and forefinger and tinkled it gently. A slender young serving girl hurried into the solar. "Iced milk for the King's Hand and myself, if you would be so kind, child. Well sweetened." As the girl went to fetch their drinks, the Grand Maester knotted his fingers together and rested his hands on his stomach. "The smallfolk say that the last year of summer is always the hottest. It is not so, yet ofttimes it feels that way, does it not? On days like this, I envy you northerners your summer snows." The heavy jeweled chain 222 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN around the old man's neck chinked softly as he shifted in his seat. "To be sure, King Maekar's summer was hotter than


see her bring honour to the family by an alliance with the Lintons; and as long as she let him alone she might trample on us like slaves, for aught he cared. Edgar Linton, as mul- titudes have been before, and will be after him, was in- fatuated, and believed himself the happiest man alive on the day he led her to Gimmerton Chapel, three years subsequent to his father's death. Much against my inclination, I was persuaded to leave Wuthering Heights and accompany her here. Little Hareton was nearly five years old, and I had just begun to teach him his letters. We made a sad parting, but Catherine's tears were more powerful than ours. When I refused to go, and when she found her entreaties did not move me, she went lamenting to her husband and brother. The former offered me munificent wages; the latter ordered me to pack up. He wanted no women in the house, he said, now that there was no mistress; and as to Hareton, the curate should take him in hand by-and-by. And so I had but one choice left---to do as I was ordered. I told the master he got rid of all decent people only to ride to ruin a little faster. I kissed Hare- ton, said good-bye, and since then he has been a stranger; and it's very queer to think it, but I've no doubt he has completely forgotten all about Ellen Dean, and that he was ever more than all the world to her, and she to him. * * * * * * * * * * * At this point of the housekeeper's story she chanced to glance towards the timepiece over the chimney, and was in amazement on seeing the minute-hand measure half-past one. She would not hear of staying a second longer---in truth, I felt rather disposed to defer the sequel of her narrative myself. And now that she is van- ished to her rest, and I have meditated for another hour or two, I shall summon courage to go also, in spite of aching laziness of head and limbs. CHAPTER X. A charming introduction to a hermit's life! Four weeks' torture, tossing, and sickness. Oh, these bleak winds, and bitter northern skies, and impassable roads, and dilatory country surgeons! And, oh, this dearth of the human physiognomy! and, worse than all, the terrible intimation of Kenneth that I need not expect to be out of doors till spring! Mr. Heathcliff has just honoured me with a call. About seven days ago he sent me a brace of grouse--- the last of the season. Scoundrel! He is not altogether guiltless in this illness of mine, and that I had a great mind to tell him; but, alas! how could I offend a man who was charitable enough to sit at my bedside a good hour, and talk on some other subject than pills and draughts, blisters, and leeches? This is quite an easy in- terval. I am too weak to read, yet I feel as if


had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, -- but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations; and she watched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another. Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner affected. -- Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued however impenetrably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud, ``That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.'' Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and Elizabeth sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid her anxiety had done no good. -- Others of the party were now applied to. ``If I,'' said Mr. Collins, ``were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a clergyman. -- I do not mean however to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a parish has much to do. -- In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards every body, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor


Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you.'' Jane shook her head. ``Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. -- No one who has ever seen you together, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been one intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.'' ``If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,'' replied Jane, ``your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself.'' ``That is right. -- You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.'' ``But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?'' ``You must decide for yourself,'' said Elizabeth, ``and if, upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him.'' ``How can you talk so?'' -- said Jane faintly smiling, -- ``You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate.'' ``I did not think you would; -- and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion.'' ``But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!'' The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she


want to rig the sky so it rains and thunders for three days (but not scary thunder) and the rain magically doesn’t flood anything or make the roads too treacherous to get a pesto-based pizza delivered in a reasonable amount of time, also the power doesn’t ever go out and the Wi-Fi stays strong, plus I get to wear the same threadbare sweatshirt I always wear, without a pinching-ass digging-ass bra, and we watch thirteen straight hours of television and then make out in the dark and go to sleep in separate rooms and maybe I’ll use my high-tech vibrator that simulates sucking human lips alone (you need one of those!), if I’m not too exhausted. You’re lying if you say that doesn’t sound like the best night of your life. No one is actually fantasizing about figuring out which leg hole is which in the Sexy-Illusion Bodystocking! I can’t find this on Pornhub anymore, so I’ve got “Two Old Nuns Having Amzing [sic] Lesbian Sex” queued up on a site purporting to have “the best in lesbian erotica.” And I want to talk about how this porn movie you are supposed to furtively jerk off to in your linen closet, or wherever you hide from your family, is thirty-nine minutes and eleven seconds long. I am genuinely curious: Does anyone need this much time to bring themselves to orgasm, as they risk second-degree-burning the tops of their thighs from a blisteringly hot laptop? Also, are there people who watch porn like a show and, I don’t know, take note of the cinematography and shit while they eat chips? Thirty-nine minutes is such a long time to keep one hand hovering over the pause button in case someone wakes up or comes home! I would like to be finished in a maximum of three minutes and nineteen seconds!!!!!! Okay so, we open with a sweeping overhead shot of the Italian (?) countryside (??), and then we follow the camera inside the convent to find a very stern “nun” in a bright white habit, draped in large wooden beads and pretending to read a thick, old Bible. I typically fast-forward through this part because I can feel God watching me and shaking his head with disapproval. There’s a knock at the door and another nun enters the room, eyes cast downward as she says, “I found the other book you wanted, in the archives.” You know what just occurred to me? I could probably write something like this. I have no idea what it would pay or how permanent the (cum) stain on my career might be, but I certainly could come up with something more titillating than “I found this old book in the archives”??? The archival nun (work with me here, okay) is younger than the stern nun, who snatches the book away meanly from her hands while saying, “Let me see!” The room they’re in looks vaguely churchy, with stark white walls, filled with old books and flickering votives in red glass holders. The stern nun sits to flip through


hear, I have always loved you. You’re my son. And I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become. One day, we’ll see each other again. I know we will. Hap, do I have your word? Will you do what I’ve asked?” Hap hesitated before nodding. Relief flooded Dad’s face. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Trust Victor. Trust my son. I’ll do what I can to keep them away. Nurse Ratched. Can you hear me?” “Yes, Gio.” “Butterflies flap their wings, and all the world sings.” Her screen went dark before the words ACTIVATE SAFETY PROTOCOL? appeared. “But what do the birds say?” And Dad said, “In the sky, you are free.” “Password accepted. Safety Protocol six one four dash seven.” Dad stepped back away from the stairs. Vic screamed for him as he pressed his hand against the side of the bookcase once more. Hap grabbed Vic by the back of his coat, pulling him down as the stairs receded back into the wall. The last Vic saw of his father before the floor closed above them was Dad squaring his shoulders, turning toward the doorway. “No!” Vic cried, slamming his hands against the wall. “Dad! Dad.” “Enough,” Hap snarled in his ear. “You’ll h-hurt yourself. Stop it.” He pulled Vic away from the wall. Vic struggled, trying to get away from him, but Hap held on tight. “Let me go!” “N-no,” Hap said. “Stop. L-look.” Vic sagged against him. He lifted his head. They were in a bunker of sorts, one Victor hadn’t known existed. The walls were metal, as was the ceiling. It was roughly the size of the ground house above them but filled with equipment unlike anything Vic had ever seen before. Against the far wall sat a row of glass tubes, all empty, the surfaces smudged with dust. The wall to the right was filled with screens like the one Nurse Ratched had, three large across the top, six smaller ones underneath, above a console that blinked. The left wall was shelving filled with books and discarded tools, all looking as if they hadn’t been touched in years. Vic’s gaze slid over some of the books, not able to comprehend what he was reading on the spines: Gray’s Anatomy and Atlas der Anatomie des Menschen and Leonardo da Vinci on the Human Body and What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Nurse Ratched went to the console below the screens as Rambo hurried around the bunker, his fan running as he scooped up the dust from the floor. “Dirty,” he muttered. “Dirty, so dirty, must clean, must clean.” “Wh-what is this p-place?” Hap asked. Vic didn’t know. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He jumped when Nurse Ratched beeped loudly, one of her tentacles extending and attaching itself to a port in the console. Her screen filled with numbers and letters and symbols Victor didn’t recognize. The same symbols rolled onto the screens above her. Vic flinched at the harsh light as each screen filled with an image, a low roar filling the bunker. The


of that must show in his expression because Andy looks away, that smile still in place. “What if I did?” Nick asks, feeling ridiculously bold. But he thinks Andy’s flirting with him, or at least trying to, and Nick wants to make sure he doesn’t let the ball drop. His heart’s in his throat. Andy’s smile doesn’t falter, exactly, but it melts a little, going soft at the edges as his eyes go wide. “Let’s walk over to Shatzkin’s. I’ll buy you a knish,” Nick offers. It’s sunny, one of those clear April days that make you forget it could rain for a solid week at any moment. The breeze that comes in off the sea is cool, but nothing a jacket can’t contend with. And the boardwalk is almost empty, nobody but a few people out for a stroll, a beat cop, and some seagulls fighting over the contents of a spilled garbage can. The beautiful thing about Shatzkin’s is that they have exactly one type of knish on the menu, so Andy is spared the ordeal of making a choice and the man behind the counter is spared a coronary. They take the knishes outside and find a bench at a comfortable distance from the marauding seagulls. “How was the rally? What was it like?” Nick asks. “There were thirty thousand people there, or close to it. Did you know that one of the organizers is gay? And a communist, apparently.” Hearing Andy say gay—which Nick only hears from other gay men—makes him feel like the bench has turned into a seesaw. “He’s probably neither of those things. Every civil rights leader gets called a communist. Every communist gets called a queer.” “Well, he was arrested for vagrancy, and it was the sort of vagrancy that involved another man.” The knish has turned to lead in Nick’s stomach. “And people just . . . know? They talk about it? He still has a job?” “Apparently.” Andy shrugs. “It’s an open secret.” “Jesus.” Being a . . . known homosexual, or whatever the parlance is, seems bad enough. Being Black on top of that—and one who’s involved in a movement that’s already greeted with violence at every turn—is something Nick can’t imagine. “You okay?” Andy asks, nudging him with an elbow. “Yeah, yeah.” The frame of a roller coaster looms in front of them, disconcertingly fragile, silent and still in the off-season, birds squawking from the rails. “I missed you.” Nick feels shy saying it, even though it isn’t even close to the sappiest thing he’s said to Andy, or Andy to him. But now I missed you carries an extra weight that’s new and a little unwieldy. “Yeah?” Andy says it as if he’s surprised, the idiot. “I like it better when you’re around.” He tosses a bit of knish to a seagull. “Good thing I’m around, then.” They don’t have to have this conversation. They could eat their food, sit on the bench, and trust that they’re good enough friends that they don’t need to clear the air about


every night, awash in every cruel thing the internet has ever said about me. It’s cathartic, in a perverse way. I like to concentrate all the negativity, to take it all in at once. I take comfort in the fact that it could literally not get any worse than this. I’ve entertained, occasionally, the question of what literary redemption might look like. What if I begged my haters for forgiveness? What if, instead of holding the line, I admitted everything and made an attempt at reparations? Diana Qiu has an article up on Medium titled “June Hayward Must Make Amends, and Here’s How.” The twelve-item laundry list includes things like: “Provide public proof she’s taken a training course in racial sensitivity,” “Donate the entirety of her earnings from The Last Front and Mother Witch to a charity selected by an objective committee of Asian American writers,” and “Post her tax returns from the last three years to confirm how much she profited from Athena Liu’s work.” Tax returns. Is she fucking serious? Who does Diana think she is? I can stand to be a pariah. But to bend, to throw away all my savings, to kowtow to the Twitterati and prostrate myself before the taunting, smug crowd—I would rather die. One night, I see a surprisingly thoughtful take amidst the kiddie pool of filth. It’s a review of The Last Front published two months ago, so verbose that it’s nearly a full-length article. Drama aside, I find the question of authorship so interesting, reads the penultimate paragraph. Unless Hayward releases a detailed and honest statement, we’ll never quite know the truth behind its creation. But a close reading leads one to believe that this is indeed a text of mixed authorship, for it seems quite schizophrenic in its handling of its central themes. At times it is so outraged about the covering up of the CLC that the moralizing bleeds off the page. At others, it descends to the same romantic platitudes that the rest of the text criticizes. It’s either a very clever manipulation of the reader, or it is what we think it might be—a work partially completed by one author, and finished by another. I sit up, suddenly curious. Who is this person? I click on their profile, but the username is bland and innocuous—“daisychain453.” There is no profile picture. The account has no friends or followers I recognize, and its previous review history—similarly thoughtful takes on much-hated books like The Help and American Dirt—is fascinating to skim through, but reveals no clues about the author. I’m frightened by how well this reviewer seems to know me. The earlier portions of the review were so clever, so incisive about the techniques employed in the text, that I wonder if she somehow got access to my editor’s emails, if she is perhaps someone who worked at Eden. It’s the last paragraph, however, that lingers in my mind: What no one’s really touched on in this discourse, however, is the nature of Liu and Hayward’s relationship. All the evidence suggests that


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time came for him to say good-bye to Norbert if they hadn't been so worried about what they had to do. It was a very dark, cloudy night, and they were a bit late arriving at Hagrid's hut because they'd had to wait for Peeves to get out of their way in the entrance hall, where he'd been playing tennis against the wall. Hagrid had Norbert packed and ready in a large crate. "He's got lots o' rats an' some brandy fer the journey," said Hagrid in a muffled voice. "An' I've packed his teddy bear in case he gets lonely." From inside the crate came ripping noises that sounded to Harry as though the teddy was having his head torn off. "Bye-bye, Norbert!" Hagrid sobbed, as Harry and Hermione covered the crate with the invisibility cloak and stepped underneath it themselves. "Mommy will never forget you!" How they managed to get the crate back up to the castle, they never knew. Midnight ticked nearer as they heaved Norbert up the marble staircase in the entrance hall and along the dark corridors. UP another staircase, then another -- even one of Harry's shortcuts didn't make the work much easier. "Nearly there!" Harry panted as they reached the corridor beneath the tallest tower. Then a sudden movement ahead of them made them almost drop the crate. Forgetting that they were already invisible, they shrank into the shadows, staring at the dark outlines of two people grappling with each other ten feet away. A lamp flared. Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair net, had Malfoy by the ear. "Detention!" she shouted. "And twenty points from Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the night, how dare you -- " "You don't understand, Professor. Harry Potter's coming -- he's got a dragon!" "What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! Come on -- I shall see Professor Snape about you, Malfoy!" The steep spiral staircase up to the top of the tower seemed the easiest thing in the world after that. Not until they'd stepped out into the cold night air did they throw off the cloak, glad to be able to breathe properly again. Hermione did a sort of jig. "Malfoy's got detention! I could sing!" "Don't," Harry advised her. Chuckling about Malfoy, they waited, Norbert thrashing about in his crate. About ten minutes later, four broomsticks came swooping down out of the darkness. Charlie's friends were a cheery lot. They showed Harry and Hermione the harness they'd rigged up, so they could suspend Norbert between them. They all helped buckle Norbert safely into it and then Harry and Hermione shook hands with the others and thanked them very much. At last, Norbert was going...going...gone. They slipped back down the spiral staircase, their hearts as light as their hands, now that Norbert was off them. No more dragon -- Malfoy in detention -- what could spoil their happiness? The answer to that was waiting at the foot of the stairs. As they


that, June. I can’t give you telehealth care if you’re not in Connecticut. I’m not licensed to practice in Virginia.” “Oh.” I wipe my nose. My hand comes away streaked with snot. My mind feels very blank right then. “I see.” “But I can set you up with some referrals.” I think I hear papers shuffling. “You said you’re in Rosslyn, right?” I can’t do this. “Actually, Dr. Gaily, it’s all right—I can look up in-state therapists myself. I’m sorry for wasting your time—” “Hold on,” she says. “June, are you having any thoughts of harming yourself? Or anyone else? Because I can connect you to a hotline—” “No—no, I’m okay.” I’m suddenly so embarrassed. I didn’t mean to take things so far; I didn’t mean to be such a problem. “I’m not suicidal. I’m fine, I’m just—I’m having a really bad day. I just wanted someone to talk to.” “I understand, Junie.” Her tone softens. “I can’t offer you care in another state. But we’re going to set you up with the help you need, all right? Can you be patient for me?” “Okay,” I croak. “Yeah. That sounds good.” “Then I’ll email you some referrals tomorrow first thing in the morning. Are you still using the same address on file?” “I—yeah. That one works.” “Then you’ll have some contacts in the morning. Take care, Junie.” She hangs up. I sit cross-legged on my bed, my face pressed into my hands. I feel even worse than before. I want to disappear. Why did I fucking do that? It’s past nine on a weekday. Long past work hours. Dr. Gaily must be bitching to her husband right now—Sorry, dear, I had a former patient call; she was being a psycho— My phone lights up. I lunge at it, desperate—but it’s not Rory. It’s an Instagram notification. It’s from the ghost. This time Athena is sitting in a booth at Saxby’s, sticking her tongue mischievously out over her straw. She’s wearing precisely the same outfit I saw her in at the reading, at Coco’s Coffee—the outfit I thought I saw at Saxby’s this afternoon. Lips painted scarlet. Eyes glimmering. Spotted an old friend today. I wonder if she remembers me. I want to scream. I can’t take this anymore. I have to know the truth. I cannot move on. This will gnaw at me my entire life until I know, for better or worse, who or what she is. I need release. If I can’t get help, I at least need answers. I need something to happen, or I’ll explode. I open my phone, navigate to Athena’s account, and write: okay. You got my attention. what do you want??? The ghost is online. She responds immediately. exorcist steps. tomorrow night. eleven. Twenty-Three ATHENA IS ALIVE. I can think of no other explanation. The Exorcist steps are our private joke. The steep, pitch-black stairs a block off the Georgetown campus, the site where Father Karras dies in The Exorcist, are famously haunted, and I’ve always found those steps so slippery with rain and snow


scholars might be interested in doing a study. Athena would like that. She was always so thrilled when academics wrote about her work; she said it was better validation than the . . . the adoration of the masses. Her words. Anyhow, it’s not like I’m doing anything important with them.” She nods to the corner. I follow her gaze, and my breath catches. The notebooks are right there, piled unceremoniously together in a big cardboard box, shelved beneath a large bag of rice and what looks like a smooth, unstriped watermelon. Wild fantasies flood my mind. I could grab them and run out, be halfway down the block before Mrs. Liu realizes what’s happening. I could douse this whole place in oil while she’s out and burn them, and no one would be any wiser. “Have you read what’s in them?” I ask cautiously. Mrs. Liu sighs again. “No, I’ve thought about it, but I . . . It’s very painful. You know, even when Athena was alive, it was difficult for me to read her novels. She drew so much from her childhood, from stories her father and I told her, from things . . . things in our past. Our family’s past. I did read her first novel, and that’s when I realized it’s very hard to read about these memories from someone else’s point of view.” Her throat pulses. She touches her collar. “It makes me wonder if we should have spared her all that pain.” “I understand,” I say. “My relatives are the same way with my work.” “Oh yes?” No, that’s a lie; I don’t know what compelled me to say it. My folks couldn’t care less about what I write. My grandfather griped about having to pay the cost of my useless English degree all four years that I was at Yale, and my mother still phones once a month to ask whether I’ve decided yet to try something that will let me earn real money, like law school or consulting. Rory did read my debut novel, though she didn’t understand it at all—she kept asking why the sisters were so insufferable, which baffled me, because the sisters were supposed to be us. But what Mrs. Liu wants right now is company and sympathy. She wants to hear the right words. And words are, after all, what I’m good at. “They feel too close to the subject matter,” I say. “I draw a lot on my own life in my novels, too.” This part is true; my debut novel was nearly autobiographical. “And I didn’t exactly have a smooth childhood, so it’s hard for them . . . I mean, they don’t like to be reminded of their mistakes. They don’t like seeing things through my eyes.” Mrs. Liu nods vigorously. “I can understand that.” I see my way in. And it’s so obvious, it almost feels too easy. “And, well, that’s sort of why I wanted to come talk to you today.” I take a breath. “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Liu. I


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

to concentrate on research now, with a marriage proposal from one of the Folk dangling over my head? I could almost imagine myself a maiden in one of the stories, but stories didn’t leave dirty teacups scattered throughout the cottage, or underline passages in my books—in ink—no matter how many times I ordered them not to. Of course I wanted to marry Wendell. That was the most infuriating thing about the whole business—my feelings conspired against my reason. I will not lie and say my desire was purely romantic, for I couldn’t stop myself from imagining the picture we would make back at Cambridge—despite his controversies, Wendell Bambleby was still a celebrated scholar, and yes, we would be a fearsome team indeed. I doubted I would have to worry ever again about securing funding for future fieldwork, nor being overlooked when it came to conference invitations. It was the thought of invitations—yes, that thought—that made me rise from my bed. I yanked open my door, intending to stomp down the hall and —well, throw myself at him. I wanted to see what he would do, but more important, I needed to know if it was something I would enjoy. I was not going to marry someone without making sure of that. But before I could take a step in his direction, a calm settled over me like a dream. Instead of going to Wendell’s door, I returned to my own room and dressed in warm clothes. Shadow remained asleep at the foot of my bed, though it was a strange sleep—he twitched and whined, his huge paws batting at invisible foes. I left my room and pulled on my cloak. As I did, I happened to glance down at my hand. The ring was there, but it was no longer a ring of shadow. It was a ring of ice, polished smooth and patterned with tiny blue crystals. I knew exactly what was happening, of course. I have had enough faerie magic thrown at me over the years that I believe I have become somewhat inured to it—at the very least, I have trained myself to recognize when enchantment is affecting me; the absence of such recognition is what dooms most mortals. The truth is that it is not impossible to throw off faerie spells if you have a focused mind. But most people don’t try, because they fail to recognize that it is enchantment pushing them to dance until their feet bleed, or murder their families, or any other number of horrors inflicted upon hapless mortals by the Folk. Unfortunately, in this case, the knowledge of my own enchantment was of little use, for it was uncommonly strong magic, and held me like an iron vise. I did what I could to push against it, to feel about for cracks. I could not stop myself from donning my boots, but I was able to slow the process by fumbling with the laces. Yet eventually, the laces were fastened, and then I was opening the door and stepping into the night. I


strong that he has covered his ears under his cloak. Still, his hands are chapped and his eyes watery. As soon as Clytemnestra and Leon dismount their horses, the man steps forward. “King Menelaus is waiting for you. You are to come at once.” His voice sounds like nails screeching on rock. “Is my sister safe?” “Queen Helen is entertaining a guest. You are to see King Menelaus first. That is what he commands.” “Bring me to him, then.” They walk up the stairs, hurrying to match the man’s pace. As soon as they cross the threshold inside, the warmth welcomes them like an embrace. The man guides them to the megaron, turning every once in a while to check on them, as though Clytemnestra didn’t know the way. When they reach the hall, the man motions them to wait outside. Standing by the closed door, they hear him announce them: “Queen Clytemnestra, my king.” “What are you waiting for? Let her in.” Menelaus’s voice, mocking the man. “Bring food and wine.” The door opens again and a servant runs outside, an empty platter in her hands. She nods quickly to Clytemnestra and disappears in the kitchen’s direction. Menelaus is seated in what was Tyndareus’s throne near the hearth. At his feet, two house dogs eat a long bone. The queen’s chair next to him, draped with lambskins, is empty. Thanks to the many lit torches that illuminate the frescoes, the room is even warmer than the rest of the palace. Clytemnestra walks toward the hearth, Leon close behind her. She stops by the images of running men, their bodies the color of hazelnut, and waits for her brother-in-law to speak. For what feels like a very long time, Menelaus keeps silent. He looks at her, pensive. His bronze hair has grown grayer with the years, but his face is still handsome. Finally, the servant comes back to the room, breathless and with a full platter, and Menelaus seems to wake from his trance. “Please, eat,” he says, smiling. “I am glad to have you here.” Clytemnestra picks up a piece of goat cheese and accepts the cup of wine the girl is offering her. “And I am glad to be back.” Menelaus smirks, as though her response was a jest. “You have a very strange family, Clytemnestra,” he says. She sips the wine. She doesn’t know where he is leading. Menelaus stretches in his throne and she notices the precious rings on his fingers, not the kind of jewelry a true Spartan would wear. “A sister who fucks women but then deserts her husband for another man. Two brothers who kidnap girls promised to their cousins. My wife, who refuses to talk to her husband.” He is not speaking with anger; rather, he seems confused by the situation he is in, like a child who asks his mother why the world works in a certain way. “Phoebe and Philonoe seem to be the only sane members of your family. Married off to useless kings. At least I hear they make them


the One was lost,' said Mithrandir, 'and while it still lies hid, we can master the Enemy, if we gather our strength and tarry not too long.' Then the White Council was summoned; and Mithrandir urged them to swift deeds, but Curunr spoke against him, and counselled them to wait yet and to watch. 'For I believe not,' said he, 'that the One will ever be found again in Middle-earth. Into Anduin it fell, and long ago, I deem, it was rolled to the Sea. There it shall lie until the end, when all this world is broken and the deeps are removed.' Therefore naught was done at that time, though Elrond's heart misgave him, and he said to Mithrandir: 'Nonetheless I forbode that the One will yet be found, and then war will arise again, and in that war this Age will be ended. Indeed in a second darkness it will end, unless some strange chance deliver us that my eyes cannot see.' 'Many are the strange chances of fee world,' said Mithrandir, 'and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.' Thus the Wise were troubled, but none as yet perceived that Curunr had turned to dark thoughts and was already a traitor in heart: for he desired that he and no other should find the Great Ring, so that he might wield it himself and order all the world to his will. Too long he had studied the ways of. Sauron in hope to defeat him, and now he envied him as a rival rather than hated his works. And he deemed that the Ring, which was Sauron's, would seek for its master as he became manifest once more; but if he were driven out again, then it would lie hid. Therefore he was willing to play with peril and let Sauron be for a time, hoping by his craft to forestall both his friends and the Enemy, when the Ring should appear. He set a watch upon the Gladden Fields; but soon he discovered that the servants of Dol Guldur were searching all the ways of the River in that region. Then he perceived that Sauron also had learned of the manner of Isildur's end, and he grew afraid and withdrew to Isengard and fortified it; and ever he probed deeper into the lore of the Rings of Power and the art of their forging. But he spoke of none of this to the Council, hoping still that he might be the first to hear news of the Ring. He gathered a great host of spies, and many of these were birds; for Radagast lent him his aid, divining naught of his treachery, and deeming that this was but part of the watch upon the Enemy. But ever the shadow in Mirkwood grew deeper, and to Dol Guldur evil things repaired out of all the dark places of the world; and they were united again under one will, and their malice was directed against the Elves and the survivors of Nmenor. Therefore


said firmly. ‘Furtia and I will get her away.’ ‘Taugran is much stronger than Furtia,’ Nikeya protested. ‘You know this, Dumai.’ ‘Not for long. I feel the coming of the star.’ It was true. Her awareness of it was taut and strong, a string pulled along the neck of a lute, tuned to something that moved closer by the hour. ‘Nikeya,’ Unora said quietly, touching her shoulder, ‘will you leave us a moment, and watch over Epabo?’ ‘Of course.’ Nikeya dealt Dumai a concerned look and went back to the tent. Unora took Dumai by the cheek. ‘Do not go to Muysima.’ ‘I have to—’ ‘I wished, Dumai. When I was twenty.’ Her voice strained. ‘I asked a wish of Pajati the White.’ Dumai stared at her. ‘I wished for a way to reach the court, so I could save my father. Sipwo dreamed of me that night.’ Unora spoke in little more than a whisper. ‘Pajati is an elder dragon – born of the stars themselves, not the sea. His light was still within me when you were conceived.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘He told me it would last one turn of the sun.’ She pressed one hand to her stomach, low down. ‘I think it woke the old gifts of your line, in the waters of my womb.’ ‘You could have been executed. It was forbidden.’ ‘A blade would have been kinder than a death by thirst, or a wasting sickness. I had nothing left to lose, but now I do.’ Unora kept hold of her face. ‘Muysima is where my father perished. A curse lies on that island. Please, my kite – stay here, where it’s safe.’ Unora was no longer the hardened woman who had survived a hostile mountain. One mention of that island, and she was the dying girl from a dust province, alone in the world. Dumai drew up her sleeve. ‘You must stay here. The people in this camp need a leader they trust.’ She reached for the fraying strand at her wrist and worked it off. ‘Kanifa gave this to me, from our rope, before I left for court. Hold it for me, like the end of a line. Take it and know I am your kite.’ Unora clasped the strand between their hands. ‘I can never regret that wish,’ she finally said. ‘If I had not gone to the great Pajati, my bones would lie in the dusts of Afa, and I would never have had you.’ Dumai pressed their foreheads together. ‘I will let you go, as your grandmother taught me. I will keep hold of this line and wait for your return to me.’ ‘As soon as I can,’ Dumai whispered to her. ‘No matter how long I am gone, I am coming.’ **** Dumai prepared herself in her tent. She wove a rainbow through the darkness of her hair, cords in every colour she had worn when her father brought her to Antuma. Once she had fastened her armour, she picked up her ice sickles and made to secure them


with doe's eyes and a cascade of soft brown hair. Renly had seemed anxious to know if the girl reminded him of anyone, and when Ned had no answer but a shrug, he had seemed disappointed. The maid was Loras Tyrell's sister Margaery, he'd confessed, but there were those who said she looked like Lyanna. "No," Ned had told him, bemused. Could it be that Lord Renly, who looked so like a young Robert, had conceived a passion for a girl he fancied to be a young Lyanna? That struck him as more than passing queer. Jory held out the doublet, and Ned slid his hands through the armholes. "Perhaps Lord Stannis will return for Robert's tourney," he said as Jory laced the garment up the back. "That would be a stroke of fortune, my lord," Jory said. Ned buckled on a longsword. "In other words, not bloody likely." His smile was grim. Jory draped Ned's cloak across his shoulders and clasped it at the throat with the Hand's badge of office. "The armorer lives above his shop, in a large house at the top of the Street of Steel. Alyn knows the way, my lord." Ned nodded. "The gods help this potboy if he's sent me off haring after shadows." It was a slim enough staff to lean on, but the Jon Arryn that Ned Stark had known was not one to wear jeweled and silvered plate. Steel was steel; it was meant for protection, not ornament. He A GAML OF THRONLS 245 might have changed his views, to be sure. He would scarcely have been the first man who came to look on things differently after a few years at court . . . but the change was marked enough to make Ned wonder. "Is there any other service I might perform?" "I suppose you'd best begin visiting whorehouses." "Hard duty, my lord." Jory grinned. "The men will be glad to help. Porther has made a fair start already." Ned's favorite horse was saddled and waiting in the yard. Varly and Jacks fell in beside him as he rode through the yard. Their steel caps and shirts of mail must have been sweltering, yet they said no word of complaint. As Lord Eddard passed beneath the King's Gate into the stink of the city, his grey and white cloak streaming from his shoulders, he saw eyes everywhere and kicked his mount into a trot. His guard followed. He looked behind him frequently as they made their way through the crowded city streets. Tomard and Desmond had left the castle early this morning to take up positions on the route they must take, and watch for anyone following them, but even so, Ned was uncertain. The shadow of the King's Spider and his little birds had him fretting like a maiden on her wedding night. The Street of Steel began at the market square beside the River Gate, as it was named on maps, or the Mud Gate, as it was commonly called. A mummer on stilts was striding through the


itself against the barrier. I slid backward with each blow to my magic. “Did I ever burn your favorite quilt?” A peculiar look flashed over Usr Jasad’s head of staff. It was the look of someone who believed one wrong pull of the ropes would bring the sky crashing down. A look I recognized from my childhood. His thick brows furrowed. “I should have let you take it to the courtyard,” he said. Soraya was right. Mirrors. My memories were fragments, reflections of what I needed them to be to survive. Dawoud’s pained admission cracked open the day I burned his quilt. The shatter echoed into my body, ringing in my bones. Essiya was no better than Sylvia. I had always been this broken. This selfish. Sylvia was just a reflection of the worst parts of a girl I had buried. In a burst of fury, Al Anqa’a surged past the barrier of my magic. Sparks fell like gold rain from the breached barrier. Its talons closed around my body, and I swore as my feet left the ground. Its grip faltered when I kicked out. A single talon pierced the back of my tunic like a hook. I dangled downward, the fabric of my tunic slowly ripping. Al Anqa’a’s wings thrashed, struggling to lift us against my magic’s wall. On the ground, Dawoud picked up the dagger. He stared at me, tears tracking down the face that had once been more beloved to me than my own mother’s. Dawoud’s mouth moved, and I realized what he meant to do a split second before he plunged the dagger into his heart. “No!” I screamed. Al Anqa’a cried out as the barrier broke in a sky-shaking tremor. Gold sparks shot through the air like falling stars. Dawoud crumpled, and I lifted my arms, sliding out of my tunic and crashing to the ground. The dagger had slid into Dawoud in the same place Soraya stabbed me. Al Anqa’a flapped to the east, abandoning prey that had become more trouble than it was worth. “Your Gedo Niyar would be so proud of you,” Dawoud said when I skidded to my knees next to him. I pressed my trembling hands to his wound, and he groaned. “I should have believed them when they said you were alive. I didn’t dare to. The thought of you alone for so long, while we—” He coughed, red droplets splattering on his chin. “Your cuffs were never meant to last this long. No one is meant to be alone for so long.” “Then don’t leave me.” Desperation turned the words into a plea. Blood gushed between my fingers, and my cuffs heated as I called on every ounce of magic I had. My magic had to act somehow. Dawoud would not die in the dirt in Dar al Mansi. He would not be another Jasadi claimed by this village. “I should have never stopped searching for you.” His hand came to rest over mine, his calloused palm cool over my knuckles. I flinched at the touch, and Dawoud’s sharp


the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in silence all the time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced in his direction, that he was looking at me with great intensity. The country roads seem to be not very good in that part of the world, for we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to see something of where we were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the journey, but the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us, and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove away. "It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand. "'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not keep you waiting an instant,' said he, and vanished into the darkness. "I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises


the eyes among them. They spoke of "the touch of the spicebrush" to mean a man had gone too native. And there was always a hint of distrust in the idea. "There was a time when we did not ride the maker in the light of day in these latitudes," Paul said. "But Rabban has little enough air cover left that he can waste it looking for a few specks in the sand." He looked at Gurney. "Your aircraft were a shock to us here." To us . . . to us . . . Gurney shook his head to drive out such thoughts. "We weren't the shock to you that you were to us," he said. "What's the talk of Rabban in the sinks and villages?" Paul asked. "They say they've fortified the graben villages to the point where you cannot harm them. They say they need only sit inside their defenses while you wear yourselves out in futile attack." "In a word," Paul said, "they're immobilized." "While you can go where you will," Gurney said. "It's a tactic I learned from you," Paul said. "They've lost the initiative, which means they've lost the war." Gurney smiled, a slow, knowing expression. "Our enemy is exactly where I want him to be," Paul said. He glanced at Gurney. "Well, Gurney, do you enlist with me for the finish of this campaign?" "Enlist?" Gurney stared at him. "My Lord, I've never left your service. You're the only one left me . . . to think you dead. And I, being cast adrift, made what shrift I could, waiting for the moment I might sell my life for what it's worth -- the death of Rabban." An embarrassed silence settled over Paul. A woman came climbing up the rocks toward them, her eyes between stillsuit hood and facemask flicking between Paul and his companion. She stopped in front of Paul. Gurney noted the possessive air about her, the way she stood close to Paul. "Chani," Paul said, "this is Gurney Halleck. You've heard me speak of him." She looked at Halleck, back to Paul. "I have heard." "Where did the men go on the maker?" Paul asked. "They but diverted it to give us time to save the equipment." "Well then . . ." Paul broke off, sniffed the air. "There's wind coming," Chani said. A voice called out from the ridgetop above them: "Ho, there -- the wind!" Gurney saw a quickening of motion among the Fremen now -- a rushing about and sense of hurry. A thing the worm had not ignited was brought about by fear of the wind. The factory crawler lumbered up onto the dry beach below them and a way was opened for it among the rocks . . . and the rocks closed behind it so neatly that the passage escaped his eyes. "Have you many such hiding places?" Gurney asked. "Many times many," Paul said. He looked at Chani. "Find Korba. Tell him that Gurney has warned me there are men among this smuggler crew who're


over her shoulder. “Did you do that?” he asked, and she followed his gaze to the back door and its broken pane of glass. “You broke that window?” “I didn’t have a key,” she said. “I’m charging you for that,” he said. “You can’t come in here and break my stuff.” He stormed off to his truck and Louise was left alone in the garage with her mom’s art and the garbage can and pupkin He’d just slid down deeper in the trash, that’s all. She could open the can and find him if she wanted, but she didn’t want to do that. Then she thought about what else she’d seen in there. His bag was torn open. It had torn on something. He hadn’t ripped his way out of it. He was a puppet, he couldn’t . . . Mark. Of course. He’d probably come by and gone to throw something out and seen Pupkin and taken him to mess with Louise. He was going to hide him in her purse or someplace when she wasn’t looking. Maybe set him up with the TV again. Fine. She’d go even slower on the art. For once, Mark wasn’t going to win. It’d take more than a puppet to get her out of this house. Chapter 11 L ouise stood in her bedroom doorway and looked at Buffalo Jones sitting on her bed, with Red Rabbit, Hedgie Hoggie, and Dumbo above him on their shelf, and realized they were the only things she wanted from her old room. Poppy would love them, and they’d give her a way to tell stories to Poppy about when she’d been little, about Poppy’s grandmother, and maybe help her try to explain death again, only better this time. She gathered them up in her arms and headed out into the sunny front yard. “Hey!” Mark called from his camp chair. “Where you going?” “They’re mine, Mark,” Louise said, not stopping on the way to her Kia. “No,” he said, “they’re mine.” “They’re for Poppy,” she said. “Did you pay for them or did Mom and Dad?” he asked, pushing himself up out of his chair and lumbering over. “All you get is Mom’s art and anything you paid for. If you don’t have a receipt, then I’m afraid they belong to the estate, and the estate belongs to me.” Louise’s skin flushed hot. She turned, marched back into the house, dumped them on the sofa, got a twenty out of her purse, and went back outside. She balled it up and threw it at Mark. It bounced off his chest and landed on the grass. “Is that enough?” she asked. “That’s barely beer money,” he said, smiling. “I was thinking more like a hundred apiece.” “Four hundred dollars?” she asked. “For my childhood stuffed animals?” “I wouldn’t pay it, either,” he said. “I mean, good thing you didn’t like them much anyways. You always kept them up on a shelf.” She bent over and picked up her twenty. “Mom’s puppets are her art,” she said. “I’m taking