them, and lost a week's salary and faced Mildred's insane anger, which showed itself in veins and blotches. But now at night he lay in his bunk, face turned to the wall, listening to whoops of laughter below and the piano-string scurry of rat feet, the violin squeaking of mice, and the great shadowing, motioned silence of the Hound leaping out like a moth in the raw light, finding, holding its victim, inserting the needle and going back to its kennel to die as if a switch had been turned. Montag touched the muzzle. . The Hound growled. Montag jumped back. The Hound half rose in its kennel and looked at him with green-blue neon light flickering in its suddenly activated eyebulbs. It growled again, a strange rasping combination of electrical sizzle, a frying sound, a scraping of metal, a turning of cogs that seemed rusty and ancient with suspicion. "No, no, boy," said Montag, his heart pounding. He saw the silver needle extended upon the air an inch, pull back, extend, pull back. The growl simmered in the beast and it looked at him. Montag backed up. The Hound took a step from its kennel. Montag grabbed the brass pole with one hand. The pole, reacting, slid upward, and took him through the ceiling, quietly. He stepped off in the half-lit deck of the upper level. He was trembling and his face was green-white. Below, the Hound had sunk back down upon its eight incredible insect legs and was humming to itself again, its multi-faceted eyes at peace. Montag stood, letting the fears pass, by the drop-hole. Behind him, four men at a card table under a green-lidded light in the corner glanced briefly but said nothing. Only the man with the Captain's hat and the sign of the Phoenix on his hat, at last, curious, his playing cards in his thin hand, talked across the long room. "Montag . . . ?" "It doesn't like me," said Montag. "What, the Hound?" The Captain studied his cards. "Come off it. It doesn't like or dislike. It just `functions.' It's like a lesson in ballistics. It has a trajectory we decide for it. It follows through. It targets itself, homes itself, and cuts off. It's only copper wire, storage batteries, and electricity." Montag swallowed. "Its calculators can be set to any combination, so many amino acids, so much sulphur, so much butterfat and alkaline. Right?" "We all know that." "All of those chemical balances and percentages on all of us here in the house are recorded in the master file downstairs. It would be easy for someone to set up a partial combination on the Hound's 'memory,' a touch of amino acids, perhaps. That would account for what the animal did just now. Reacted toward me." "Hell," said the Captain. "Irritated, but not completely angry. Just enough 'memory' set up in it by someone so it growled when I touched it." "Who would do a thing like that?." asked the Captain. "You haven't any enemies here, Guy." "None that I know of."


Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, `I am older than you, and must know better'; and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, `Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I'LL soon make you dry enough!' They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. `Ahem!' said the Mouse with an important air, `are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! "William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--"' `Ugh!' said the Lory, with a shiver. `I beg your pardon!' said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: `Did you speak?' `Not I!' said the Lory hastily. `I thought you did,' said the Mouse. `--I proceed. "Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--"' `Found WHAT?' said the Duck. `Found IT,' the Mouse replied rather crossly: `of course you know what "it" means.' `I know what "it" means well enough, when I find a thing,' said the Duck: `it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?' The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, `"--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--" How are you getting on now, my dear?' it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. `As wet as ever,' said Alice in a melancholy tone: `it doesn't seem to dry me at all.' `In that case,' said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, `I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--' `Speak English!' said the Eaglet. `I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and,


hair. Then he began to read in a low, stumbling voice that grew firmer as he progressed from line to line, and his voice went out across the desert, into the whiteness, and around the three sitting women there in the great hot emptiness: "`The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world."' The chairs creaked under the three women. Montag finished it out: "'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.'" Mrs. Phelps was crying. The others in the middle of the desert watched her crying grow very loud as her face squeezed itself out of shape. They sat, not touching her, bewildered by her display. She sobbed uncontrollably. Montag himself was stunned and shaken. "Sh, sh," said Mildred. "You're all right, Clara, now, Clara, snap out of it! Clara, what's wrong?" "I-I,", sobbed Mrs. Phelps, "don't know, don't know, I just don't know, oh oh..." Mrs. Bowles stood up and glared at Montag. "You see? I knew it, that's what I wanted to prove! I knew it would happen! I've always said, poetry and tears, poetry and suicide and crying and awful feelings, poetry and sickness; all that mush! Now I've had it proved to me. You're nasty, Mr. Montag, you're nasty! " Faber said, "Now..." Montag felt himself turn and walk to the wall-slot and drop the book in through the brass notch to the waiting flames. "Silly words, silly words, silly awful hurting words," said Mrs. Bowles. "Why do people want to hurt people? Not enough hurt in the world, you've got to tease people with stuff like that ! " "Clara, now, Clara," begged Mildred, pulling her arm. "Come on, let's be cheery, you turn the `family' on, now. Go ahead. Let's laugh and be happy, now, stop crying, we'll have a party!" "No," said Mrs. Bowles. "I'm trotting right straight home. You want to visit my house and `family,' well and good. But I won't come in this fireman's crazy house again in my lifetime! " "Go home." Montag fixed his eyes upon her, quietly. "Go home and think of your first husband divorced and your second husband killed in a jet and your third husband blowing his brains out, go home and think of the dozen abortions you've had, go home and think of that and your damn Caesarian sections, too, and your children who hate your guts! Go home and think how it all happened and what did you ever do to


hot.” “And you’re turning this conversation around, getting away from the point.” “Okay, I hear you. No more interviews without your permission first.” “Absolutely. I thought that was understood. The way we do things.” “Got it.” “And don’t ever get my friend to coerce me.” “Hey, wait! That’s not the way it went down. She contacted me.” Kristi believed it. “Okay. Just check with me in the future.” “Promise,” her agent said. “And you get me that outline.” “Fine,” Kristi agreed. “Later.” She cut the connection and decided that Zera was right, she did need a new project. And wasn’t Jay’s murder the most important story to follow, the mystery to solve? Wasn’t making Jay’s killer face justice of prime importance? Instead of being mad at Bella and Zera for forcing the issue, she should thank them because now she had a path forward. You bet she’d write the story of the Rosary Killer, right after she made him pay for murdering her husband. She picked up the book about Father John and skimmed some of the pages. It was true that everything was pointing to him as the killer, that he’d survived being shot in the bayou and had waited until just the right time to strike again. Leaning back in her chair, she saw Lenore leap just before the kitten landed on her lap. “Hey there, little one,” she said, as Lenore climbed to her shoulder to settle and purr into Kristi’s ear. “I love you, too,” Kristi said, petting her tiny head before flipping open the book to its middle and finding a black and white shot of the man who had pretended to be a priest. He was about the right height and build of the man who had attacked her and killed Jay, but something was off about that. Why would he wait so long to return? Was he injured? Out of the country? Surely if he’d been incarcerated, her father would have known of it, so why now? And why come after her? Because of the book? She ruffled through the pages. That didn’t seem right; the book and the tie-in TV movie had been years before. But the movie’s being replayed. Over and over again. On cable. On the Internet. Streaming. Was the attack generated because she’d immortalized his sins in her book or possibly because her father had thwarted him from his original purpose, hunted him down, exposed him and, everyone had thought, killed him in the bayou? Then why attack Kristi? Why not go after Bentz himself? Did he think killing Kristi would emotionally wound her father and that would be his supreme triumph? Implausible. She stroked the kitten as she thought. Then there was the MO. All wrong. The attacker in the wet poncho might not have been dressed as a priest at all. But neither was Father John. It didn’t seem right. Didn’t fit. Three other books were on the desk. Her gaze landed on American Icon/American Killer. Mandel Jarvis. As Lenore stretched, then moved from her shoulder to the desk,


SHAKESPEARE Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long train of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman. On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber. When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in sorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only was absent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had retired to her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither: he took her hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was some moments before he could so far command his voice as to speak. It trembled while he said, 'My Emily, I am going to prayers with my family; you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else ought we to seek it--where else can we find it?' Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where, the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the departed. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon the book, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotion gradually elevated his views above this world, and finally brought comfort to his heart. When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he tenderly kissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you, from your earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you the great importance of it through life, not only as it preserves us in the various and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude and virtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous, yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for their consequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged at the expence of our duties--by our duties I mean what we owe to ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of those various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be the sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the precepts I have so often given you, and which your own experience has so often shewn you to be wise. 'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace remark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not annihilate your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; for whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other hand, is all vice--vice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the effect consoled for, by any semblance or possibility of good. You know my sufferings, and are,


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew that way -- all over the place. Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel -- Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig. Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell. "Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year." "Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy." "All right, thirty-seven then," said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over. Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?" Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said slowly, "So I'll have thirty...thirty..." "Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia. "Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then." Uncle Vernon chuckled. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair. At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried. "Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She can't take him." She jerked her head in Harry's direction. Dudley's mouth fell open in horror, but Harry's heart gave a leap. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs of all the cats she'd ever owned. "Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he'd planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn't easy when he reminded himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again. "We could phone Marge,"


Mr. Darcy, ``There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of course familiar with -- "Keep your breath to cool your porridge," -- and I shall keep mine to swell my song.'' Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display. Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who, with some of the Lucases and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room. Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began. ``What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! -- There is nothing like dancing after all. -- I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies.'' ``Certainly, Sir; -- and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. -- Every savage can dance.'' Sir William only smiled. ``Your friend performs delightfully;'' he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; -- ``and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.'' ``You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, Sir.'' ``Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James's?'' ``Never, sir.'' ``Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?'' ``It is a compliment which I never pay to any place, if I can avoid it.'' ``You have a house in town, I conclude?'' Mr. Darcy bowed. ``I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself -- for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.'' He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her, ``My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? -- Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable


He climbed carefully along one of the branches, holding tight to his broomstick, trying to see through the leaves. Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn't alone. Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn't make out the look on his face, but he was stuttering worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they were saying. "...d-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus..." "Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Snape, his voice icy. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Sorcerer's Stone, after all." Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape interrupted him. "Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?" "B-b-but Severus, I -- " "You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking a step toward him. "I-I don't know what you -- " "You know perfectly well what I mean." An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He steadied himself in time to hear Snape say, " -- your little bit of hocus-pocus. I'm waiting." "B-but I d-d-don't -- " "Very well," Snape cut in. "We'll have another little chat soon, when you've had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie." He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing. It was almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing quite still as though he was petrified. *** "Harry, where have you been?" Hermione squeaked. "We won! You won! We won!" shouted Ron, thumping Harry on the back. "And I gave Malfoy a black eye, and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single-handed! He's still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says he'll be all right -- talk about showing Slytherin! Everyone's waiting for you in the common room, we're having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and stuff from the kitchens." "Never mind that now," said Harry breathlessly. "Let's find an empty room, you wait 'til you hear this..." He made sure Peeves wasn't inside before shutting the door behind them, then he told them what he'd seen and heard. "So we were right, it is the Sorcerer's Stone, and Snape's trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy -- and he said something about Quirrell's 'hocus pocus' -- I reckon there are other things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through -- " "So you mean the Stone's only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?" said Hermione in alarm. "It'll be gone by next Tuesday," said Ron. CHAPTER FOURTEEN -- NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN RIDGEBACK Quirrell, however, must have been braver than they'd thought. In the weeks that followed he did seem to be getting paler and thinner, but it didn't look as though he'd cracked yet. Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry, Ron, and Hermione would press their ears


rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to talk. I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way, "I want to say something to you, miss." I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak fully. So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been sayin' about the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but I didn't mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I'm gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think of it, and we don't want to feel scart of it, and that's why I've took to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit, only I don't want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect. And I'm so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye see, I can't get out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at once. The chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an' greet, my deary!"-- for he saw that I was crying--"if he should come this very night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a waitin' for somethin' else than what we're doin', and death be all that we can rightly depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to me, my deary, and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we be lookin' and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! Look!" he cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It's in the air. I feel it comin'. Lord, make me answer cheerful, when my call comes!" He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a few minutes' silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said goodbye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me very much. I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always


the creek and I move toward the sound. Eventually, I come across an offshoot from the path, overgrown and barely noticeable, and I cut deeper into the undergrowth. Blackberry bushes grab at my clothes, try to scratch my skin, but I push through until I emerge into a small clearing. The creek is little more than a trickle now, not the rushing brook of my childhood. But I remember this place. My mom and I had picnicked here a handful of times. It was never fancy—ham and American cheese sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a couple of sodas—but it had been special for us. A treat. When we were here, we didn’t worry about bills or money or keeping up with our friends and neighbors. We’d talked and we’d laughed, and we’d enjoyed each other’s company. A sob of grief—and of relief—erupts from my chest. My mom escaped from the nursing home and came here of her own volition. Somehow, I know it. She had grasped that wisp of a memory, and she chose this spot to lie down and let go. Benjamin didn’t take her. He didn’t kill her. My mother had a peaceful death, surrounded by nature, beauty, and happy memories, no matter how diluted. My cheeks are wet, and I realize I am crying. It is loss and joy and release. Because I know my mom’s life was short and difficult, but it was not without moments, like the ones we shared here, of beauty. Finally, I say goodbye. 62 I AM DREAMING. MY MOTHER is there, young and pretty, her dark hair blowing in the wind, dangly earrings kissing her cheeks. We are at the beach, and we have a dog, though we never had a dog. It is medium-sized, black and white, smiling with its tongue lolling. My mom calls to it: Pepper! Come here, boy! It lumbers happily toward her, and she ruffles his fur. Hazel! The wind whips her voice, but she is calling me now. Come see Pepper! Happily, I move toward them. Though my mom is a younger version of herself, I am not. We are roughly the same age, but this doesn’t bump for me. It feels normal. Mother and daughter together. Natural and right. And then Pepper turns on me, his teeth bared. He is no longer a friendly family pet. He is a snarling, snapping beast, all fangs and claws, blood and saliva. He lunges for me, and I shrink back, cry out, but no sound comes from my throat. I am weak and defenseless as this angry creature attacks, tearing into my skin and tissues, cracking my bones. The only sound I can make is a whimper, a moan. I am utterly defenseless as the creature clamps down on my neck. And then I wake up. I’m in a pool of sweat, in another motel room, this one even seedier than the last. It is quiet outside the plastic blinds, a soft gray light slipping through them. According to my phone, it is predawn. But I know I


Ilvatar and understands most clearly his purposes. He was appointed to be, in the fullness of time, the first of all Kings: lord of the realm of Arda and ruler of all that dwell therein. In Arda his delight is in the winds and the clouds, and in all the regions of the air, from the heights to the depths, from the utmost borders of the Veil of Arda to the breezes that blow in the grass. Slimo he is surnamed, Lord of the Breath of Arda. All swift birds, strong of wing, he loves, and they come and go at his bidding. With Manw dwells Varda, Lady of the Stars, who knows all the regions of E. Too great is her beauty to be declared in the words of Men or of Elves; for the light of Ilvatar lives still in her face. In light is her power and her joy. Out of the deeps of E she came to the aid of Manw; for Melkor she knew from before the making of the Music and rejected him, and he hated her, and feared her more than all others whom Eru made. Manw and Varda are seldom parted, and they remain in Valinor. Their halls are above the everlasting snow, upon Oioloss, the uttermost tower of Taniquetil, tallest of all the mountains upon Earth. When Manw there ascends his throne and looks forth, if Varda is beside him, he sees further than all other eyes, through mist, and through darkness, and over the leagues of the sea. And if Manw is with her, Varda hears more clearly than all other ears the sound of voices that cry from east to west, from the hills and the valleys, and from the dark places that Melkor has made upon Earth. Of all the Great Ones who dwell in this world the Elves hold Varda most in reverence and love. Elbereth they name her, and they call upon her name out of the shadows of Middle-earth, and uplift it in song at the rising of the stars. Ulmo is the Lord of Waters. He is alone. He dwells nowhere long, but moves as he will in all the deep waters about the Earth or under the Earth. He is next in might to Manw, and before Valinor was made he was closest to him in friendship; but thereafter he went seldom to the councils of the Valar, unless great matters were in debate. For he kept all Arda in thought, and he has no need of any resting-place. Moreover he does not love to walk upon land, and will seldom clothe himself in a body after the manner of his peers. If the Children of Eru beheld him they were filled with a great dread; for the arising of the King of the Sea was terrible, as a mounting wave that strides to the land, with dark helm foam-crested and raiment of mail shimmering from silver down into shadows of green. The trumpets of Manw are loud, but Ulmo's voice is deep as the


all voluntary thought was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded my feelings and allowed me to be calculating and calm at periods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion. My first resolution was to quit Geneva forever; my country, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed. And now my wanderings began which are to cease but with life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth and have endured all the hardships which travellers in deserts and barbarous countries are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared not die and leave my adversary in being. When I quitted Geneva my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled, and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue. As night approached I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it and approached the tomb which marked their graves. Everything was silent except the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark, and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around and to cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the mourner. The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass and kissed the earth and with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the daemon who caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life; to execute this dear revenge will I again behold the sun and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my eyes forever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me." I had begun my adjuration with solemnity and an awe which almost assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard


McGonagall meant...you really are a natural. I'm just going to teach you the rules this evening, then you'll be joining team practice three times a week." He opened the crate. Inside were four different-sized balls. "Right," said Wood. "Now, Quidditch is easy enough to understand, even if it's not too easy to play. There are seven players on each side. Three of them are called Chasers." "Three Chasers," Harry repeated, as Wood took out a bright red ball about the size of a soccer ball. "This ball's called the Quaffle," said Wood. "The Chasers throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through one of the hoops to score a goal. Ten points every time the Quaffle goes through one of the hoops. Follow me?" "The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through the hoops to score," Harry recited. "So -- that's sort of like basketball on broomsticks with six hoops, isn't it?" "What's basketball?" said Wood curiously. "Never mind," said Harry quickly. "Now, there's another player on each side who's called the Keeper -- I'm Keeper for Gryffindor. I have to fly around our hoops and stop the other team from scoring." "Three Chasers, one Keeper," said Harry, who was determined to remember it all. "And they play with the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are they for?" He pointed at the three balls left inside the box. "I'll show you now," said Wood. "Take this." He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short baseball bat. "I'm going to show you what the Bludgers do," Wood said. "These two are the Bludgers." He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed that they seemed to be straining to escape the straps holding them inside the box. "Stand back," Wood warned Harry. He bent down and freed one of the Bludgers. At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted straight at Harry's face. Harry swung at it with the bat to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it zigzagging away into the air -- it zoomed around their heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it and managed to pin it to the ground. "See?" Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the crate and strapping it down safely. "The Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock players off their brooms. That's why you have two Beaters on each team -- the Weasley twins are ours -- it's their job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and knock them toward the other team. So -- think you've got all that?" "Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the Keeper guards the goal posts; the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team," Harry reeled off. "Very good," said Wood. "Er -- have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?" Harry asked, hoping he sounded offhand. "Never at Hogwarts. We've had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that. Now, the last


on this pile of rugs," said Julian. "And we two boys will have this pile." George looked as if she didn't want to be put with Anne, and classed as a girl. But Anne didn't wish to sleep alone in her corner, and she looked so beseechingly at George that the bigger girl smiled at her and made no objection. Anne thought that George was getting nicer and nicer! "Well, now we'll get down to business," said Julian, and he pulled out his map. "We must study this really carefully, and find out exactly under what spot the entrances to the dungeons are. Now- come around and let's do our best to find out! It's up to us to use our brains- and beat that man who's bought the island!" They all bent over the traced map. It was quite dry now, and the children looked at it earnestly. It was plain that in the old days the castle had been a very fine place. "Now look," said Julian, putting his finger on the plan of the dungeons. "These seem to run all along under the castle- and here- and here- are the marks that seem to be meant to represent steps or stairs." "Yes," said George. "I should think they are. Well, if so, there appear to be two ways of getting down into the dungeons. One lot of steps seems to begin somewhere near this little room- and the other seems to start under the tower there. And what do you suppose this thing is here, Julian?" She put her finger on a round hole that was shown not only in the plan of the dungeons, but also in the plan of the ground floor of the castle. "I can't imagine what that is," said Julian, puzzled. "Oh yes, I know what it might be! You said there was an old well somewhere, do you remember? Well, that may be it, I should think. It would have to be very deep to get fresh water right under the sea- so it probably goes down through the dungeons too. Isn't this thrilling?" Everyone thought it was. They felt happy and excited. There was something to discover- something they could and must discover within the next day or two. They looked at one another. "Well," said Dick, "what are we going to start on? Shall we try to find the entrance to the dungeons- the one that seems to start round about this little room? For all we know there may be a big stone we can lift that opens above the dungeon steps!" This was a thrilling thought, and the children jumped up at once. Julian folded up the precious map and put it into his pocket. He looked round. The stone floor of the little room was overgrown with creeping weeds. They must be cleared away before it was possible to see if there were any stones that looked as if they might be moved. "We'd better set to work," said Julian, and he picked up a spade. "Let's clear


citizenry would be viewed as the final guardrail of democracy. The people themselves are the ones who choose government leaders and ultimately decide whether the country remains united. But I believe their ability to save the republic from self-destruction depends on something more fundamental, something which is also at risk. Chapter 8 THE ANGEL But what is government itself, but the greatest of all reflections on human nature? If men were angels, no government would be necessary. If angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary. —JAMES MADISON, FEDERALIST NO. 51, 1788 PART I November 3, 2020 “Meet Dennis,” Bill said, gesturing at the imposing figure emerging from the driver’s seat of the SUV. A handsome black man in his early fifties, Dennis looked more like an NFL linebacker than a security agent. He towered over his boss, Bill. “Good to meet you, sir,” Dennis said, shaking my hand, which was compressed within his like a child’s. Bill finished the briefing. “Effective noon today, your protective detail starts. Dennis will be with you wherever you go. He’s able to call backup if it’s needed,” he explained. Bill was a former Secret Service agent who now managed private security operations for celebrities and foreign dignitaries. Dennis was a former Marine. I certainly couldn’t afford a bodyguard. But thanks to a Good Samaritan (who ironically wished to remain anonymous), I had a team providing digital and physical overwatch amid the death threats. The assignment was open-ended, basically until things cooled down. I told Bill I’d spent a lot of time around Secret Service agents, so he didn’t need to tell me the usual: Don’t distract Dennis while he’s scanning for threats. Don’t make plans without telling Dennis in advance. Don’t even go for a walk without Dennis. But he felt compelled to add a note about something that peeved agents. “Just don’t ask him to pick up luggage or a bag or anything like that. He needs to remain hands-free while he’s with you.” What he was really saying was that Dennis needed to be able to pull out his gun. “Of course,” I told him. Bill left, and my new bodyguard studied me, as if waiting for orders. “Well, uh, I’m going to go back up to the apartment for a bit,” I told Dennis. “No need to join. I’ll text you my plans for the day. Really appreciate what you’re doing.” “Yes, sir. I’ll be in the car, sir,” he said. I went back inside the building, up fourteen floors, and into the lifeless apartment. It was Election Day 2020, one of the most important days of my life, but I didn’t have much to do. I had tried to play the role of happy warrior on the outside, rallying the REPAIR alliance of GOP figures for a burst of last-minute statements and advertisements against Trump. But the Anonymous revelation had created too many distractions. What I had wanted to do on voting day—leave the apartment and go door-knocking to boost turnout for Biden—was a


you names,” Nick says uselessly. Sal snorts and looks at him like he’s crazy. “It doesn’t mean anything. Knowing that my dad called you those things sort of takes the sting out when kids at school say all that stuff to me. Because you’re—” He makes a sweeping gesture at Nick. Nick stares into his half-empty glass. “Kid, the reason it’s wrong to call people names is because it’s a shitty thing to do, not because it’s inaccurate.” “Yeah, but—” “I mean, do you think I’m not any of those things?” Nick wants to go back in time and talk to himself when he was Sal’s age, when he was realizing that all the schoolyard taunts actually applied to him. He wants to see that kid and—and what? What can he possibly tell that kid? Sal stares at him. “All those insults do is convince everyone that being, I don’t know, sensitive or queer or skinny are the worst things a man can be. And what fucking good does that do anybody? It doesn’t matter whether the person being insulted actually is any of those things, but I can tell you that it feels a hell of a lot worse when it’s true.” Nick’s mouth is dry and his collar feels too tight. He feels exposed. In danger. As if having said that much to his own nephew could come back to haunt him. Sal could tell anyone. Word could get around. But for the first time, anger outweighs the fear. It’s not that the fear is less, only that the anger is more, tipping the scales decisively. All he wants to do is be himself, do his job, and love his boyfriend, and instead he’s ready to black out from nerves in his own goddamn apartment. When Sal turns his attention back to the television, Nick sits next to him, trying to act like the music on this show isn’t making him suffer. He keeps thinking of how miserable his fourteen-year-old self would be if he had known that this was his future—afraid in his own home, afraid of his own family, which was pretty much exactly how he’d felt at fourteen. Sticking out from between the couch cushions, he sees a corner of white linen. It’s one of Andy’s handkerchiefs. He wonders how many others are in there. Is that where they all go? If Nick took the cushions off, would he find two hundred linen handkerchiefs? Suddenly, he knows exactly what he’d tell his fourteen-year-old self: You’ll be loved by the best person you know. And that’s—Christ, it’s not enough, but it’s enough to start with. He goes to the bathroom and splashes some water on his face. When he comes out, he finds Sal standing in front of the refrigerator, the television still playing in the background, the worst music in the world sounding tinnily through the apartment. “Help yourself to whatever you find in there,” Nick says. “I made pork chops last night and there should be a couple left. It’s the dish covered in foil.” Sal


I could see Fran mentally rewinding to the last nonprivate thing we’d mentioned. She said, “We were talking about Denny Bloch. You remember him? He taught music?” “Sure, he was only here a year or two.” “Three years,” Fran said. “I remember because he came when we were sophomores, and he got some going-away prize at Senior Day.” I said, “They gave him a prize for leaving?” “Oh,” Dana said, “he was off to teach in Russia. No, Bulgaria. I’m sure they gave him a Granby scarf or something. That poor wife.” “Why?” “Oh, just—well, who wants to move to Bulgaria?” I’d somehow forgotten that you’d moved to Bulgaria. Bulgaria! At the time it hadn’t seemed any stranger than seniors heading to college in California or Colorado or even Scotland, all of which sounded exotic to me. Dana steadied herself on our table with one tented hand. She said, “I remember he left us in the lurch. Have the good grace to announce your departure in January, for the love of Pete, so we can get a decent replacement. The woman they found was just awful. But that’s who’s looking for a job in May.” “In May,” I said dumbly, and I did remember you telling me right before graduation that you were “graduating too,” surprise, surprise. Dana said, “Then he came back and was teaching in Providence, and I don’t know after that. Gordon Dar was in touch with him, but then Gordon retired. Those young teachers come and go so fast. Faster than the students, sometimes!” “His kids must be grown,” Fran said. Dana said, “He was a funny one. I remember he taught that opera course. I couldn’t believe kids signed up.” Fran said, “Did you ever find him a bit sketchy? Regarding the students?” Dana took her hand off the table, stepped back and likely regretted it, pitching forward again to support her weight on the back of Fran’s chair. “Nooooo! Denny Bloch? No, not at all! Oh, he was a sweetheart. I think,” she said, “I think it’s become so trendy, don’t you? To accuse people of things.” Fran locked wide eyes with me, a look I’d known since 1991: trying not to laugh and trying not to scream. And a small part of me said, silently, “Yes, Dana, I agree, because since when is a thirty-six-year-old consensually dating a twenty-one-year-old grooming or assault?” and a larger part of me said, also silently, “You don’t know what you’re talking about and I’m increasingly concerned that Mr. Bloch was having sex with Thalia Keith from 1994 to 1995.” What I said aloud was, “Tell me about the desserts here. Do you have a favorite?” Dana eventually tilted back to her own table, and we ordered baklava and an ill-advised second bottle of Sangiovese. Fran said, “Just promise me you aren’t bringing him into this.” “Who?” “Denny Bloch. Into the podcast. That would be really dumb.” “I told you, I’m not accusing him of anything.” “You just think Thalia was sleeping with Robbie and Omar and Mr. Bloch. That’s


CHAPTER 33 Sophie's SmartCar tore through the diplomatic quarter, weaving past embassies and consulates, finally racing out a side street and taking a right turn back onto the massive thoroughfare of Champs-Elyses. Langdon sat white-knuckled in the passenger seat, twisted backward, scanning behind them for any signs of the police. He suddenly wished he had not decided to run. You didn't, he reminded himself. Sophie had made the decision for him when she threw the GPS dot out the bathroom window. Now, as they sped away from the embassy, serpentining through sparse traffic on Champs-Elyses, Langdon felt his options deteriorating. Although Sophie seemed to have lost the police, at least for the moment, Langdon doubted their luck would hold for long. Behind the wheel Sophie was fishing in her sweater pocket. She removed a small metal object and held it out for him. "Robert, you'd better have a look at this. This is what my grandfather left me behind Madonna of the Rocks." Feeling a shiver of anticipation, Langdon took the object and examined it. It was heavy and shaped like a cruciform. His first instinct was that he was holding a funeral pieu-a miniature version of a memorial spike designed to be stuck into the ground at a gravesite. But then he noted the shaft protruding from the cruciform was prismatic and triangular. The shaft was also pockmarked with hundreds of tiny hexagons that appeared to be finely tooled and scattered at random. "It's a laser-cut key," Sophie told him. "Those hexagons are read by an electric eye." A key? Langdon had never seen anything like it. "Look at the other side," she said, changing lanes and sailing through an intersection. When Langdon turned the key, he felt his jaw drop. There, intricately embossed on the center of the cross, was a stylized fleur-de-lis with the initials P.S.! "Sophie," he said, "this is the seal I told you about! The official device of the Priory of Sion." She nodded. "As I told you, I saw the key a long time ago. He told me never to speak of it again." Langdon's eyes were still riveted on the embossed key. Its high-tech tooling and ageold symbolism exuded an eerie fusion of ancient and modern worlds. "He told me the key opened a box where he kept many secrets." Langdon felt a chill to imagine what kind of secrets a man like Jacques Saunire might keep. What an ancient brotherhood was doing with a futuristic key, Langdon had no idea. The Priory existed for the sole purpose of protecting a secret. A secret of incredible power. Could this key have something to do with it? The thought was overwhelming. "Do you know what it opens?" Sophie looked disappointed. "I was hoping you knew." Langdon remained silent as he turned the cruciform in his hand, examining it. "It looks Christian," Sophie pressed. Langdon was not so sure about that. The head of this key was not the traditional long-stemmed Christian cross but rather was a square cross-with four arms of equal length-which predated Christianity


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

he turns his eyes up to me, the distance in his gaze sends a chill down my arms. “What we shared felt much deeper than sex, Felicity, but at the first sign of trouble you fled. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours feeling angry and hurt and incredibly stupid for trusting you. It makes it very hard for me to believe you now.” Mortification isn’t a swift punch to the gut; it is a slow seeping of ice-cold water into my veins. I can’t imagine what Connor thinks about me right now—I wonder if he’s regretting putting the Heroes’ hearts in my hands, let alone putting his own precious heart there. I agreed to do this show in the middle of my worst and deepest writer’s block, and I justified it by saying I was doing it for the audience. And now I’m telling him to date me in secret, putting his job and his life here in jeopardy after I fled the hotel room like a panicked idiot the first time he confessed that he might not be a perfect human. It was supposed to be us against the world, and I blew it all up. I have never in my life felt like such a profound failure. thirty-nine CONNOR This time when Fizzy leaves, I only feel blank inside. I’d wanted to hold on to this anger—had spent the day going from indignant to hurt to disappointed and back again—but as I watched the excited flush drain from her face, breathless hope replaced by grim understanding, my anger slipped away, and I just felt… tired. Now there’s only the silence of my thoughts, and the flat bleakness of the door firmly shut, literally and metaphorically. I should feel relief that it’s finally over and I can get back to focusing on what got me here in the first place, namely my job and my family, but I don’t. I feel like absolute shit. And she told me she’s in love with me. * * * Blaine is the last person I want to see Monday morning, but he barges into my office just as I’m packing up to leave for the set. “I can tell you’re on your way out, but we need to talk first,” he says, closing my office door. “Did the final numbers come in?” Brenna’s text from about six this morning showed numbers up over week one, on track to break another record. “Fuck the numbers right now,” he says. “Just tell me I’m not going to have to deal with any fucking drama on your crew.” I go still, setting my car keys down on my desk. The possibility of photos of Fizzy and me together… “What’s this about?” “Social media is raking Trent’s crew and Smash Course over the coals because of this doping bullshit.” My first reaction is relief. And then I frown, leaning in like I need to be closer to his words to process them. I was so wrapped up in the drama with Fizzy this weekend that I feel completely


her be,” he warned. At that same moment, Samiya’s friends called her name. With an apologetic “See you later,” she waved goodbye and sped to the exit. Chimdi’s arms were crossed. “I still don’t get how you can be okay with this, Edei. She’s attending his rallies now?” He breathed out, long and slow, like these last few moments had been torturous. “She can do whatever she likes. I’m not the boss of her, and neither are you.” He glanced down at Chimdi. “She’s a clever girl. If she sees some value in the Initiative, then there must be some.” Io’s first thought was, She’s not clever, she’s gullible. But that was mean, and Io hated mean. She didn’t know the girl and, if she was being completely honest, didn’t know the Initiative, either. Edei was obviously against it, yet he stepped back while his girlfriend made her own choices. If he trusted Samiya’s instincts, then so would Io. “Which way?” Edei asked. No one answered. “Io. Which way?” Startled, she glanced at the thread in her fist. “Through that door.” Edei obeyed, holding the door open for them. The room they entered was a dressing area. Members of Saint-Yves’s team were gathered in circles, chatting and taking their makeup off. The phobos-born wasn’t among them—and neither was Thais or Saint-Yves. “Excuse us,” Nico said brightly. “Boss sent us down here for the good detergent—apparently the folks in box eighty-four left quite a mess behind.” The heads that had snapped up when they came in looked back down, disinterested. Still, Io had the sense to place her fist on her chest. If there was a moira-born among Saint-Yves’s people, they wouldn’t discern the stray thread from her many own. Edei crossed to another room, this one empty, and farther down to a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT. Rain greeted them, sudden and cold against their cheeks. The neo-monsoon had arrived. A thin layer of water was forming on the cobblestones, soon to be joined by the tide. In a few minutes, the water would be up to their ankles; they had to get on the roofs. Others had the same idea, too. At the mouth of the alley, people ran by, holding umbrellas and raincoat hoods, on the way to the trolley or the bridges. Something else caught Io’s attention. One of her own threads was spinning directions fast—Thais’s thread. Io ran to the mouth of the alley just in time to spot an automobile speed by, spraying twin arcs of water on the sidewalk. Saint-Yves sat in the back of the automobile, his lips stretched wide with laughter. And leaning into his side, a hand on his chest, was Thais. The thread connecting the sisters danced across Io’s vision as the automobile took Thais up-Hill. “Quickly,” Edei said. “Chimdi, Nico, go after them.” The two friends rushed around the corner after the car. Io considered stopping them, telling them she would do it herself, but what if Thais noticed their shared thread? What if she realized her little sister, who she apparently


a Caucus-race?' said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that SOMEBODY ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. `Why,' said the Dodo, `the best way to explain it is to do it.' (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (`the exact shape doesn't matter,' it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no `One, two, three, and away,' but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out `The race is over!' and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, `But who has won?' This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, `EVERYBODY has won, and all must have prizes.' `But who is to give the prizes?' quite a chorus of voices asked. `Why, SHE, of course,' said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, `Prizes! Prizes!' Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece all round. `But she must have a prize herself, you know,' said the Mouse. `Of course,' the Dodo replied very gravely. `What else have you got in your pocket?' he went on, turning to Alice. `Only a thimble,' said Alice sadly. `Hand it over here,' said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying `We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble'; and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. `You promised to tell me your


it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?" "No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's apron pattern." "Oh-it's-it's too dark," cried Anne. "Too dark? Why, it's only twilight. And goodness knows you've gone over often enough after dark." "I'll go over early in the morning," said Anne eagerly. "I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla." "What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley? I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart too." "I'll have to go around by the road, then," said Anne, taking up her hat reluctantly. "Go by the road and waste half an hour! I'd like to catch you!" "I can't go through the Haunted Wood, Marilla," cried Anne desperately. Marilla stared. "The Haunted Wood! Are you crazy? What under the canopy is the Haunted Wood?" "The spruce wood over the brook," said Anne in a whisper. "Fiddlesticks! There is no such thing as a haunted wood anywhere. Who has been telling you such stuff?" "Nobody," confessed Anne. "Diana and I just imagined the wood was haunted. All the places around here are so-so-COMMONPLACE. We just got this up for our own amusement. We began it in April. A haunted wood is so very romantic, Marilla. We chose the spruce grove because it's so gloomy. Oh, we have imagined the most harrowing things. There's a white lady walks along the brook just about this time of the night and wrings her hands and utters wailing cries. She appears when there is to be a death in the family. And the ghost of a little murdered child haunts the corner up by Idlewild; it creeps up behind you and lays its cold fingers on your hand-so. Oh, Marilla, it gives me a shudder to think of it. And there's a headless man stalks up and down the path and skeletons glower at you between the boughs. Oh, Marilla, I wouldn't go through the Haunted Wood after dark now for anything. I'd be sure that white things would


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

his right. --Do you see that old chap up there, John? he said. He was a good Irishman when there was no money in the job. He was condemned to death as a whiteboy. But he had a saying about our clerical friends, that he would never let one of them put his two feet under his mahogany. Dante broke in angrily: --If we are a priest-ridden race we ought to be proud of it! They are the apple of God's eye. TOUCH THEM NOT, says Christ, FOR THEY ARE THE APPLE OF MY EYE. --And can we not love our country then? asked Mr Casey. Are we not to follow the man that was born to lead us? --A traitor to his country! replied Dante. A traitor, an adulterer! The priests were right to abandon him. The priests were always the true friends of Ireland. --Were they, faith? said Mr Casey. He threw his fist on the table and, frowning angrily, protruded one finger after another. --Didn't the bishops of Ireland betray us in the time of the union when Bishop Lanigan presented an address of loyalty to the Marquess Cornwallis? Didn't the bishops and priests sell the aspirations of their country in 1829 in return for catholic emancipation? Didn't they denounce the fenian movement from the pulpit and in the confession box? And didn't they dishonour the ashes of Terence Bellew MacManus? His face was glowing with anger and Stephen felt the glow rise to his own cheek as the spoken words thrilled him. Mr Dedalus uttered a guffaw of coarse scorn. --O, by God, he cried, I forgot little old Paul Cullen! Another apple of God's eye! Dante bent across the table and cried to Mr Casey: --Right! Right! They were always right! God and morality and religion come first. Mrs Dedalus, seeing her excitement, said to her: --Mrs Riordan, don't excite yourself answering them. --God and religion before everything! Dante cried. God and religion before the world. Mr Casey raised his clenched fist and brought it down on the table with a crash. --Very well then, he shouted hoarsely, if it comes to that, no God for Ireland! --John! John! cried Mr Dedalus, seizing his guest by the coat sleeve. Dante stared across the table, her cheeks shaking. Mr Casey struggled up from his chair and bent across the table towards her, scraping the air from before his eyes with one hand as though he were tearing aside a cobweb. --No God for Ireland! he cried. We have had too much God In Ireland. Away with God! --Blasphemer! Devil! screamed Dante, starting to her feet and almost spitting in his face. Uncle Charles and Mr Dedalus pulled Mr Casey back into his chair again, talking to him from both sides reasonably. He stared before him out of his dark flaming eyes, repeating: --Away with God, I say! Dante shoved her chair violently aside and left the table, upsetting her napkin-ring which rolled slowly along the carpet and came to rest against the foot of an easy-chair. Mrs Dedalus


you are quite cold, except when you affront me. What, did you come digging here entirely because of me?" "Entirely. To see you; nothing more. The smockfrock, which I saw hanging for sale as I came along, was an afterthought, that I mightn't be noticed. I come to protest against your working like this." "But I like doing it--it is for my father." "Your engagement at the other place is ended?" "Yes." "Where are you going to next? To join your dear husband?" She could not bear the humiliating reminder. "O--I don't know!" she said bitterly. "I have no husband!" "It is quite true--in the sense you mean. But you have a friend, and I have determined that you shall be comfortable in suite of yourself. When you get down to your house you will see what I have sent there for you." "O, Alec, I wish you wouldn't give me anything at all! I cannot take it from you! I don't like--it is not right!" "It IS right!" he cried lightly. "I am not going to see a woman whom I feel so tenderly for as I do for you, in trouble without trying to help her." "But I am very well off! I am only in trouble about--about--not about living at all!" She turned, and desperately resumed her digging, tears dripping upon the fork-handle and upon the clods. "About the children--your brothers and sisters," he resumed. "I've been thinking of them." Tess's heart quivered--he was touching her in a weak place. He had divined her chief anxiety. Since returning home her soul had gone out to those children with an affection that was passionate. "If your mother does not recover, somebody ought to do something for them; since your father will not be able to do much, I suppose?" "He can with my assistance. He must!" "And with mine." "No, sir!" "How damned foolish this is!" burst out d'Urberville. "Why, he thinks we are the same family; and will be quite satisfied!" "He don't. I've undeceived him." "The more fool you!" D'Urberville in anger retreated from her to the hedge, where he pulled off the long smockfrock which had disguised him; and rolling it up and pushing it into the couch-fire, went away. Tess could not get on with her digging after this; she felt restless; she wondered if he had gone back to her father's house; and taking the fork in her hand proceeded homewards. Some twenty yards from the house she was met by one of her sisters. "O, Tessy--what do you think! 'Liza-Lu is a-crying, and there's a lot of folk in the house, and mother is a good deal better, but they think father is dead!" The child realized the grandeur of the news; but not as yet its sadness; and stood looking at Tess with round-eyed importance, till, beholding the effect produced upon her, she said-- "What, Tess, shan't we talk to father never no more?" "But father was only a little bit ill!" exclaimed Tess distractedly. 'Liza-Lu came up. "He dropped down just now,


the author of many series, including the Turners, Seducing the Sedgwicks, the Regency Impostors, and the London Highwaymen. Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com. Praise for Cat Sebastian The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes “If romance is designed to lay bare the innermost workings of a person’s heart, then it’s ruthless to put Marian and Rob . . . in a romance. . . . I couldn’t love them more.” —Olivia Waite, New York Times Book Review “With a pair of intoxicatingly audacious leads . . . readers will root for the success of every bad idea, including their unlikely romance. . . . [S]tunningly successful.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review) “From its brilliantly crafted opening . . . to its blissfully romantic conclusion, everything about Sebastian’s latest exceedingly sensual, superbly nuanced Georgian-set historical romance is perfectly on point.” —Booklist (starred review) “If you’re not already a fan of historical romance, you will be when you’re done reading The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes.” —BookPage The Queer Principles of Kit Webb “[This] book does not so much tear down class boundaries as dynamite the very idea of class itself, which is becoming a satisfying theme in Sebastian’s work. Laws that exist only to hurt people are unjust; systems that depend on people’s misery should be subverted and dismantled at every chance. The right to love and be loved as we are is a compass that always points toward justice.” —Olivia Waite, New York Times Book Review “Cat Sebastian is an author at the absolute top of her game.” —Erin Sterling, New York Times bestselling author of The Ex Hex “[Kit and Percy’s] sexual tension is a living, breathing thing on the page.” —BookPage (starred review) “Entertaining and delightful. . . . An irresistible story of love and adventure that will delight both newcomers and regular readers of queer romance.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review) “Wielding a rapier-sharp wit and displaying an exceptional gift for insightful characterization, Sebastian fashions another fiercely romantic, fabulously sexy m/m love story that not only delivers a delicious surfeit of slow-burn sexual chemistry but also deftly illustrates the true complexity of all human relationships.” —Booklist Praise for Previous Books “This book is a marvel and a gem.” —New York Times Book Review on Unmasked by the Marquess “This book is a pleasure that cuts deep. It’s a slow-motion stained-glass heartbreak, all sparkling color and velvet shadow and sharp edges slicing you without mercy.” —Seattle Review of Books on Unmasked by the Marquess “Sebastian gives readers a beautiful, emotional romance between two people who are thoroughly perfect for each other; Alistair’s response to Robin’s revelations is as powerful and poignant as the couple’s happily ever after is triumphant.” —Sarah MacLean, bestselling author, Washington Post, on Unmasked by the Marquess “Sebastian sends out her Seducing the Sedgwicks series in style with this intimate Regency romance. . . . [A] delight.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Two Rogues Make a Right “Romance supernova Sebastian once again brings her A game. . . . The author’s exquisite writing and vividly detailed


prowess when it came to fast, short jumps across space-time. Overhead, metal catwalks spanned the space—a complex tapestry of suspended bridges. At specific junctures, open-air GravLifts provided access to the various levels, one of which, the fifth level, was solely dedicated to manufacturing wormholes, hyperspace conduits that spanned vast distances within the known cosmos. Hardy and Coogong stood, enveloped in the eerie silence, one that bore a kind of ominous weight. Hardy envisioned the compartment in its former state, brimming with ceaseless commotion, bathed in the gentle radiance emitted by the activated stations that adorned the surroundings. He envisioned crew members stationed diligently at their respective consoles, interacting with the mesmerizing three-dimensional projection displays, manipulating their touchpad control boards—a seamless synergy between man and machine. Here, this had been an awe-inspiring realm of scientific advancement, one that defied the very laws of physics. This extraordinary SpaceWing-designed dreadnought would have traversed vast regions of the galaxy, venturing into uncharted territories of the universe. But now, it sat quiet and desolate. Hardy, realizing Coogong had moved away and was standing, working at a nearby station, took note of the surrounding ambient air—now crackling with energy. That, and it carried the faint scent of ionized particles—a testament to the immense power harnessed within this ship’s power plant. Coogong was bringing Lincoln’s drives fully awake. The deck plates beneath their feet thrummed with vibrations, resonating with the low hum of three immense propulsion drives. Hardy joined him. “The QFR … You mentioned you knew where it was?” He gestured with a metal hand to the expansive space around them. Coogong, having found a small crate to stand upon, made several more taps at the board before answering. “I was mistaken, Hardy. Very clever, the previous crew of this starship, clever indeed.” Patience would not have been one of John Hardy’s virtues all those decades prior, when he was flesh and bone, human, and certainly had not evolved in the slightest now that he was an abstract ChronoBot personality attribute. “Coogong, where is the damn thing?” Miming Hardy’s gesture, but using both of his stick-figure hands, Coogong gestured out to the entirety of the space. “It is all of it. The quantum flux reverser is, in fact, integrated into this entire E & P department.” “That would make it difficult to box up and relocate over to Adams.” “Indeed.” Hardy looked down to the control board, took in the information being projected upon multiple displays. “And by the look of things, it’s not quite operational yet, is it?” “In a word? No.” Chapter 41 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Captain Galvin Quintos I was feeling as though I personally knew Captain Stone after so many hours watching his log entries from eight-plus years earlier. In his final weeks, he, and the rest of Lincoln’s crew, had become all too aware of the slowly approaching red ships. It hadn’t been clear to Stone why the red ships, seemingly arbitrarily, would stop, sometimes for days or weeks at a time, before resuming their trek forward. No matter what


buttons. She remained home: preserved, contained, scratching at the walls. After Papa’s funeral, Miss de Vries had summoned Mrs. King. The housekeeper entered the room quietly, smoothly, already wearing a black armband. The sight of it sent a shiver through Miss de Vries’s chest. “I’m minded to hold a ball,” she said. She expected astonishment, demurral, doubts about propriety. Or better still: a rebuttal. Loyalties to Papa were shifting and eddying: things felt febrile. Certain members of the household might be reconsidering their options altogether. Miss de Vries welcomed some aggression, even insolence. It would provide a reason to give certain people their notice. “Have you considered a date, Madam?” asked Mrs. King, unruffled. It was already high season: Miss de Vries had missed the private view at the Royal Academy; she had no costume for Ascot Week. “Before the end of June. No later,” she said, knowing what a strain it would cause for the household. A ball was an entrance, an entrée: it had to be enormous, gargantuan, the best in the calendar. “I quite agree,” said Mrs. King, in an obliging tone. She took on the whole operation, almost as if it were of her own design, startling Miss de Vries with her efficiency. She worked up the menus and managed the worst negotiations with Cook. Ordered the flowers, new linens, fresh crystal ware, waiters, tents and tarpaulins, entertainments. Listed out the necessary staff: new house-parlormaids, daily women, even a sewing maid to help with the costume. Closed off half the rooms, opened up others, rearranged the furniture, clearing drawers, putting things in packing cases. “You can leave all that to the girls, Mrs. King,” Miss de Vries said, uneasily, seeing her rifling through one of the closets. “You shouldn’t exhaust yourself.” Mrs. King had given her a steady gaze. “I’m never exhausted, Madam,” she said. * * * It was Mr. Shepherd who brought the news. He’d come at dawn this morning, flustered, wearing an entirely disagreeable expression. “I thought I’d better tell you at once, Madam,” he said. “The lamp-boy caught Mrs. King entering the gentlemen’s quarters. We think she was planning an assignation.” Miss de Vries had dressed in deepest mourning, no jewels, her hair concealed beneath Chantilly lace. Entirely modest, virtuous. “Which footman?” she asked. He paused, just a half second. “William,” he said. “How disgusting,” Miss de Vries said, without emotion. “Do the other servants know?” “I fear they may, Madam.” “Then we need to set an example. She must leave today.” She could feel pleasure tingling in her veins. One by one, she thought. I’ll get them out one by one. Shepherd’s eyes flickered in their sockets. Ever since she’d left the schoolroom and Papa had given her charge of the housekeeping, Shepherd had been chasing her for decisions. Appointments, expenditures, complaints, approvals. He came through the door every hour, bringing cards, notes, tea, messages, deliveries. It was as if he had leashed himself to her leg, spying on her. Miss de Vries sometimes wondered what he would do if she lifted a


and watched the news. Reporters

were interviewing folks who’d camped just outside Clarence House, in

hopes of getting a front-row seat at the wedding. We went to the window

and looked at the thousands of them, in tents and bedrolls, up and down the

Mall, which runs between Buckingham Palace and Trafalgar Square. Many

were drinking, singing. Some were cooking meals on portable stoves.

Others were wandering about, chanting, celebrating, as if they were getting

married in the morning.

196

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Willy, rum-warmed, shouted: We should go and see them!

He texted his security team to say he wanted to do so.

The security team answered: Strongly advise against.

No, he shot back. /t’s the right thing to do. I want to go out there. I need

to see them!

He asked me to come. He begged.

I could see in his eyes that the rum was really hitting hard. He needed a

wingman.

Painfully familiar role for me. But all right.

We went out, walked the edge of the crowd, shaking hands. People

wished Willy well, told him they loved him, loved Kate. They gave us both

the same teary smiles, the same looks of fondness and pity we’d seen that

day in August 1997. I couldn’t help but shake my head. Here it was, the eve

of Willy’s Big Day, one of the happiest of his life, and there was simply no

avoiding the echoes of his Worst Day. Our Worst Day.

I looked at him several times. His cheeks were bright crimson, as if he

was the one with frostnip. Maybe that was the reason we bade farewell to

the crowd, turned in early. He was tipsy.

But also, emotionally, physically, we were both all in. We needed rest.

I was shocked, therefore, when I went to collect him in the morning and

he looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink. His face was gaunt, his eyes red.

You OK?

Yeah, yeah, fine.<span


would be absorbed with weeding and tending her vegetables. Besides, what was worse, Josie would have to pass Chandos, and she didn’t want to see Gerald Harris after he’d invited her for a date. She’d had no idea how to respond to his invitation – Minnie had bailed her out, suggesting that it was thoughtful of him, but Josie wasn’t in need of someone to organise her life as if it was a military strategy, which was clearly Gerald’s great strength. Minnie had been so sweet when she’d said it, Gerald had almost taken it as a compliment. She reached for a light jacket, although she thought she’d probably end up carrying it. The air was warm outside, almost humid; she’d stroll towards St Peter and St Paul’s church, down Tadderly Road and call in on Cecily. She’d take a packet of biscuits and stop for a cuppa. She needed company and Cecily probably did too. Josie checked her phone. There was an email from djellis, and she read it quickly. David Ellis had adored her idea of creating a handsome love interest for his heroic inspector, Alain di Angelo. He wanted to thank her and to tell her that the novel was underway again; he’d completed 51,000 words. Alain, the protagonist, was currently fascinated by the dark mysterious stranger, Dario Elijah, although he wasn’t sure yet if he was a friend or a suspect. Josie replied quickly – she was glad David was back on track with his opus and she wished him the best of luck. She set off towards Nobb’s End, where the big new-build houses were. She thought about Darryl and Charlotte Featherstone and decided she ought to get to know them better. She recalled that Florence had offered to organise the next lunch meeting, although Josie wasn’t sure when it was, but she might ask her if Darryl and Charlotte could be invited. It would be a neighbourly thing to do. Josie glanced across the village green, to the willow tree where Natalie Ledbury and her fiancé Brandon were sitting together. She paused and a little sigh escaped without her intending it to; at Natalie’s age, she and Harry had cuddled beneath the same willow tree, holding hands. He’d proposed to her there. She’d said yes immediately – she’d known it was what she wanted for the rest of her life. She wondered if Natalie and Brandon would be standing where she was in fifty years’ time, looking at another young couple all loved up beneath the willow. In her heart, she wished they wouldn’t have to suffer what she was going through now. Natalie stood up quickly, then Brandon was on his feet and Josie realised they were arguing. Natalie walked away and Brandon reached out and grabbed her arm to pull her back. Josie watched, wondering if it was just a tiff. Natalie shouted something angrily as she rushed down the road. Brandon chased after her, his voice distraught. Josie watched for a moment longer to make sure it was a lovers’ spat, nothing more.


firing of, 273–74 Google hiring controversy and, 205–7, 208, 215, 216, 252 initial faith in “Axis of Adults” of, 53–54, 59, 135, 136, 144, 147, 200–201, 278, 307 January 6 insurrection and, 291–93, 295–96 and Kelly’s departure from DHS, 67–69, 91 Kolbe as mentor to, 49, 295–97, 305 MAGA harassment and threats against, 4, 237–38, 239, 245, 255–56, 257, 268, 269–70, 271, 272, 278, 279, 286, 287, 289 Marcos Island sojourn of, 202–5, 210 mass resignation proposal and, 143–44 McCain’s death and, 130–32 North Korea threat and, 96–98 note-taking and documenting of Trump’s behavior by, 163, 171, 172, 182, 197 in Oval Office meetings with Trump, 9, 56, 62–64, 79–80, 103, 122, 145, 151, 162–63, 168–74, 236 overdose of, 6, 195, 208–10 paranoia of, 1–2, 3, 6, 204, 256, 278–79 in post-2016 election visit to Trump Tower, 27–29 in public opposition to Trump, 3, 4, 6–7, 231–32, 234–39, 240, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246, 248, 249, 251, 252, 253, 255, 269, 271, 272, 286, 302 public’s negative perception of, 99, 129–30, 205–7, 252 public support for, 237, 245, 279–80, 282, 285 Reddit AMA by, 212–14, 251 relationship stresses of, 239, 249, 250, 275, 278 Russian 2016 election interference and, 23–25 schooling of, 18 in secret 2021 gathering on future of moderates in GOP, 305–6 secret book project of, see Warning, A (Anonymous) security precautions of, 2, 3, 4, 6, 164–66, 201, 203, 204, 238, 239, 256–57, 267–68, 270, 272–73, 275, 277, 278–79, 280–81, 284, 286–87, 289–90, 291–92 Stephens’s “Dear Anonymous” letter to, 147 suicidal ideation of, 7, 278–79, 283 suspicions and attempts to unmask “Anonymous” identity of, 3, 137–39, 164, 207, 211, 215–16, 231, 248–49 therapy sought by, 89–91, 95, 101–2, 210, 289 toll on personal life of, 7, 54, 94–95, 106, 129, 163–64, 176, 232, 239, 278 in trip to southern border (2019), 176–83, 184 Trump in attacks against, 2–3, 136–37, 236, 239, 240, 254, 255, 271 Trump’s immigration/border obsession and, 9, 10, 79–80, 100–101, 109, 142, 145, 162–63, 166–83, 187, 190, 225 in 2016 attempts to organize GOP rejection of Trump, 26 in 2017 trip to Middle East, 54–55, 56–57 2020 alliance of anti-Trump ex-officials and GOP figures and, 5, 6, 210, 212, 232–33, 235, 240–44, 246, 250, 253, 268, 285, 286 Washington Post op-ed and backlash against, 234–38 in weaponized drones talk with Trump, 127–28 wedding of, 163–64, 166, 239 at White House Correspondents’ Dinner, 98–99, 101–6, 107, 109–10 Taylor, Patrick, 208, 209, 210, 311 Tea Party, 18, 20, 34, 43, 156 Teddy Roosevelt Island, 283 Teller, Miles, 256 Texas, 169, 173, 191 Thompson, Bennie, 31 Tillerson, Rex, 52, 53, 60, 61, 102 Treasury Department, U.S., 179 Troye, Olivia, 81, 92–93, 231, 240–41 in public opposition to Trump, 242, 243, 247, 250 Trump, Donald, 7–8, 18, 30, 31–32, 48, 67, 68, 70–71, 77, 91, 95, 104, 112, 113, 149, 156, 157, 158, 164, 187, 196, 215, 221, 245, 262, 264, 274, 278, 291, 299, 307 “acting” officials installed by, 76, 152, 184 affinity for foreign adversaries and dictators by, 9, 20, 80, 86, 135, 136, 223, 224 anonymous New


wearisome, snapping at and teasing Catherine continually, at the imminent risk of exhausting her limited patience. We excused her, to a certain extent, on the plea of ill-health. She was dwindling and fading before our eyes. But one day, when she had been peculiarly wayward, rejecting her breakfast, complain- ing that the servants did not do what she told them; that the mistress would allow her to be nothing in the house, and Edgar neglected her; that she had caught a cold with the doors being left open, and we let the parlour fire go out on purpose to vex her, with a hundred yet more frivolous accusations, Mrs. Linton peremptorily insisted that she should get to bed, and having scolded her heartily, threatened to send for the doctor. Men- tion of Kenneth caused her to exclaim instantly that her health was perfect, and it was only Catherine's harsh- ness which made her unhappy. "How can you say I am harsh, you naughty fond- ling?" cried the mistress, amazed at the unreasonable assertion. "You are surely losing your reason. When have I been harsh, tell me?" "Yesterday," sobbed Isabella, "and now!" "Yesterday!" said her sister-in-law. "On what occa- sion?" "In our walk along the moor. You told me to ramble where I pleased, while you sauntered on with Mr. Heathcliff!" "And that's your notion of harshness?" said Cather- ine, laughing. "It was no hint that your company was superfluous. We didn't care whether you kept with us or not. I merely thought Heathcliff's talk would have nothing entertaining for your ears." "Oh no," wept the young lady; "you wished me away because you knew I liked to be there!" "Is she sane?" asked Mrs. Linton, appealing to me. "I'll repeat our conversation, word for word, Isabella; and you point out any charm it could have had for you." "I don't mind the conversation," she answered. "I wanted to be with------" "Well?" said Catherine, perceiving her hesitate to complete the sentence. "With him; and I won't be always sent off!" she con- tinued, kindling up. "You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no one to be loved but yourself!" "You are an impertinent little monkey!" exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in surprise. "But I'll not believe this idiocy. It is impossible that you can covet the admira- tion of Heathcliff---that you consider him an agreeable person! I hope I have misunderstood you, Isabella?" "No, you have not," said the infatuated girl. "I love him more than ever you loved Edgar; and he might love me, if you would let him!" "I wouldn't be you for a kingdom, then!" Catherine declared emphatically; and she seemed to speak sin- cerely.---"Nelly, help me to convince her of her mad- ness. Tell her what Heathcliff is---an unreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation, an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone. I'd as soon put that little canary into the park on a winter's day, as recommend you to bestow your heart on him. It is deplorable ignorance of his character, child, and noth- ing else, which makes


is dying. I drag the knowledge that I will lose mine through every day, every moment. And yet the first two months of 2020 are normal compared with what will follow. There are so many things I can and do take for granted, like my children’s health, my family’s safety, our daily routines of work and school, my ability to get on a plane and fly anywhere. I travel to Oregon and back again. I attend a conference at the end of February, around the time my mother begins hospice care: I hug colleagues, shake dozens of hands, eat elbow to elbow with strangers in crowded rooms, not knowing that in a few weeks all of this will feel like a fantasy borrowed from another universe. By March, we can’t go an hour without hearing of another emergency cancellation. Businesses, basketball games, book tours, baby showers—every aspect of life, it seems, has been disrupted by COVID-19. The kids’ schools close. We’re asked to stay home, shelter in place, but when the request comes from overburdened nurses and doctors wearing trash bags instead of the medical-grade PPE they need, it sounds more like a plea. We no longer see anyone outside our immediate household, unless it’s over a screen. My best friend one neighborhood away feels almost as far as my sister in Portland. I stress over which key supplies and shelf-stable foods to buy, stock up on my asthma medicine, and try not to touch my face. I had planned to visit my mother again in mid-March, with a family trip to follow during the kids’ spring break in April. There are no more forms to fill out, no more fraught decisions to make; Mom and I just want to spend more time together while we can. The day before my flight, March 13, I call and say that I’m going to postpone my trip. She agrees it’s probably for the best. “Hopefully this will be over soon, and you and the kids can fly out in a month or two,” she says. I want my children to have at least one more chance to see their grandma. But with each passing day, it’s harder to imagine traveling across the country with them. We know so little about the virus in these early days. Is it airborne? Spread via surfaces? Do cloth masks really help? How badly do kids suffer when they get it? How much risk is compounded if you have coexisting conditions, as I do, or a developmental disability, as my younger daughter does? If one of us picks it up while we’re traveling, will we pass it to my immunocompromised mother, or her hospice nurse, or her other caregivers? At least, I tell myself, Mom’s current risk of exposure is about as low as it gets. She lives in a town of a few thousand people, hundreds of miles from the nearest major outbreak. She and her sister, who recently moved in to care for her, have a handful of masked visitors—a few of my mother’s friends from church,


every item in the de Vries house on Park Lane. Nearly every item. You girls—” she nodded to the Janes “—are going to need to fill in the gaps.” Jane-one raised her pencil into the air. “What for, Madam?” “Don’t call me Madam. Call me Mrs. King.” “What for, Mrs. King?” “Because we’re going to take the items listed and sell them.” Mrs. King gave them a smile. “I don’t intend to miss a thing.” Jane-two crossed her arms. “How much are you selling?” “Everything, darling,” said Hephzibah, reaching for the dessert trolley, swiping a lemon pudding. “Am I right?” “Quite right.” Mrs. Bone rubbed her chin. “Fantastical.” “Risks later,” said Mrs. King. “Maneuvers first. The job will be executed on the twenty-sixth of June. Mark the date in your diaries, ladies. Alice, tell us what’s happening that night.” Alice started, but found her voice. “There’s going to be a ball.” “A ball?” said Hephzibah, licking her lips. Mrs. King opened her arms wide. “A costumed ball, ladies. The most magnificent party. The kind you’ll tell your grandchildren about. It will be, I can tell you, a right knees-up.” Mrs. Bone pursed her lips. “While their precious master’s still warm in his grave?” “Life goes on, Mrs. Bone. And just think of the crowd that the house of de Vries could command. Americans. High rollers. Royalty.” Hephzibah smoothed her gown. “Royals are usually very dowdy.” “Mad,” said Mrs. Bone at once. “No, entirely sane,” said Mrs. King. “We couldn’t ask for more favorable conditions for this enterprise. I myself have been intimately involved in all the preparations. Half the rooms will be closed off for their own protection. A quarter of the goods can be put into safekeeping before the first guests even arrive.” She nodded to her sister. “Alice won’t be the only new arrival on Park Lane. They’ve got a big staff but a ball on this scale requires an even bigger one. I’ve lined up all the appropriate posts: house-parlormaids, daily women, et cetera. Mrs. Bone, if we can count on your resources, we’ll be able to get people expediting our affairs on every floor of the building.” She looked at Hephzibah. “And with your talents, Hephz, we’ll be providing half the guests, and all of the entertainment. They’ll be really rather critical: moving people around is important. Our estimates are that we’ll commence the full clearance at midnight.” “Our estimates?” said Mrs. Bone, sending a piercing gaze across the room. “I’ve gone over the timings, Mrs. Bone,” said Winnie helpfully. “In great detail.” “Nobody knows this house better than Winnie Smith,” said Mrs. King smoothly, before Mrs. Bone could speak. She patted the Inventory. “Believe me.” Mrs. Bone folded her arms. “And I s’pose you’d be expecting my fences to get the stuff moving?” “Every van you’ve got, Mrs. Bone,” agreed Mrs. King. “Every carthorse, come to that.” “Have some donkeys,” said Mrs. Bone. “There’s a few in this room.” She shook her head, tutting. “You don’t rob a place when there’s a party going on. You wait


police didn’t question him after the murders?” “They couldn’t. Ricardo Mayhew was gone. After that night, he was never seen again.” Carter eyes me over his glass, waiting for my reaction. I respond appropriately, my jaw dropping in surprise. “And his wife—” “Berniece.” The name jars my memory. Lenora mentioned her in passing. Berniece was the kitchen maid who wished her a half-hearted happy birthday. “She never saw him again, either?” “Nope.” “And she had no idea where he went or what happened to him?” “None,” Carter says. “She’s still around, though. Most folks say she never left town because she’s waiting for her husband to return. It’s more likely the poor woman has nowhere else to go.” “So you think Ricardo Mayhew murdered the rest of the Hope family and then ran?” “That’s my guess. Short of Lenora killing them, it’s the only thing that makes sense.” “But why would the groundskeeper want to kill Winston Hope and his family?” “I don’t know,” Carter says. “Why would Lenora?” A fair point. One I’m still trying to understand myself. But Carter didn’t just spend the entire day helping her type. He didn’t read about the bloody nightgown. Or Lenora tossing a knife into the ocean. Or leaving the terrace to get rope that, I assume, was later tightened around her sister’s neck. And even though I want to tell him all those things, I don’t. It seems wrong to mention anything until I learn the whole story. Only then will I spill any details. I think that’s what Lenora ultimately wants—for me to be the voice she doesn’t have. Even if what I’m saying is her long-delayed confession. “If you’re right—and that’s a very big if—it still doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t Lenora say anything? If Ricardo killed her parents and her sister, why wouldn’t she tell that to the police?” Or to me, for that matter. So far, she hasn’t once typed the name Ricardo Mayhew. If she thought he did it, why wasn’t that the first thing she wrote? Instead, she began when, to use her phrasing, it was all but over. “Maybe she didn’t know,” Carter suggests. But Lenora did know her parents were dead. She told me so. They were dead and her nightgown was bloody and she threw the knife over the terrace railing despite knowing it was evidence of two brutal crimes. Why would she do that if she wasn’t the one who had used it? I finish my drink, my thoughts rattling like the ice in my now-empty glass. In that tumbling mental chaos, a new theory takes shape. One I can’t share with Carter. Not just yet. “I need to go,” I say, standing suddenly. “Thanks for the drink.” Carter watches in confusion as I give a quick wave goodbye, leave the cottage, and cross the damp lawn. On the terrace, I watch for shingles underfoot and steer clear of the railing. Only when I’m under Lenora’s window do I risk an upward glance. Although her room is still dark and nothing appears at


of woods, between those boles they caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond any thing that Emily had ever imagined. St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt and Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that particularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of the Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses of conversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently fixed his eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so much animation the taste and energy of her mind; and when he spoke again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice, that defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent pauses became more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to interrupt them; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk again, and again, of the woods and the vallies and the mountains, to avoid the danger of sympathy and silence. From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travellers into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibited their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of the mountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices where human foot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height, and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others impending far over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodged a weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound, threatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on every side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of grandeur--the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; vallies of ice, and forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and clearness of the air in these high regions were particularly delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire them with a finer spirit, and diffused an indescribable complacency over their minds. They had no words to express the sublime emotions they felt. A solemn expression characterized the feelings of St. Aubert; tears often came to his eyes, and he frequently walked away from his companions. Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to Emily's notice some feature of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere, through which every object came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded her; who could scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so near, were, in reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes was broken only at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering round some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air; except when the travellers listened to the hollow thunder