that came from, but it was already out of my mouth and out in the world. It was in direct opposition to everything I’d been taught, every value my parents had instilled. Family first. John looked taken aback. “June, you’re our only hope. Paula and I can try, but no court in the world is going to grant custody to family friends over a biological relative.” Of course not. Even in my state I knew that. I felt like my throat was closing. I loved Daphne more than life, but if I had custody, how could I justify going back to camp alone, spending six cold, dark months barely getting out of bed? It was the only future I could see for myself. I couldn’t take care of my sister. I hadn’t saved her. How could I take care of a child? I shook my head. “Melanie’s dead, John. I’m dead too. Daphne would be better off alone.” I turned to walk away, and John grabbed my wrist, catching my mother’s pearl bracelet. It was old and fragile, and when John pulled his hand away, the clasp snapped and the pearls bounced across the stone floor of the church. Now, a tsunami of beads cascading onto the floor of the arts and crafts hut broke me out of my memory, the past merging with the present. Little Alee’s face scrunched at the sight of the pieces of her necklace scattering. “It’s okay!” I said, jumping up to help her. “We’ll fix it together!” These kids had saved me. That summer after my sister died, after those long months alone bathing in my shame and loneliness and grief, the sun came out, and the children—including my niece—came back. They laughed and sang and danced and loved me back to life. They put me back together like this necklace I was restringing for a six-year-old, like the pearl bracelet Paula had later fixed for me. She had each of the pearls hand-knotted. That way, if the bracelet ever broke again, only one pearl would fall, not all of them. But it didn’t matter. I never wore that bracelet again. It was a reminder of losing my sister; it was a reminder of failing my niece. I had never forgiven myself for that. I did, at least, attempt to get custody two years later when I got my head out from under water and felt like I could be a responsible caregiver. Daphne was fifteen. There was no evidence Ray had done anything to warrant losing custody of her and, by that time, I got the feeling that Daphne didn’t care all that much anymore anyway. She spent so much time with Lanier and her family, was so involved with her school and friends and boys that, when Ray maintained custody, I think Daphne almost felt relieved. And her moving in with Lanier’s family felt like a natural transition, gave her a stable end of her childhood that I didn’t want to disrupt. Daphne and I were so close as adults, and I hoped we


was nothing. And then— His eyes widened. “No way.” He jogged toward the ground house. Electric lights burned inside, reflecting off glass jars filled with unused parts and unplanted seeds. The floor creaked under Vic’s weight with every step he took. He wound his way through the shelves and piles of books and electronics. A washing machine, though it was broken beyond repair. What his father called an icebox, though it never made any ice. Dad never liked to throw anything away, saying there was a use for everything even if it wasn’t readily apparent. Vic was the same way, which is why it frustrated him that his father didn’t like when they went hunting in the Scrap Yards. The ground house was filled with objects his father had salvaged, even if he hadn’t been back in quite a while. How was it any different when Vic did the same? But he ignored it, all of it, because of the sounds that rolled over him, warm and sweet. Music. It was music. But it wasn’t like the music boxes against the far walls. Those were monophonic, and though enchanting, they did not compare. A voice unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, soft, sweet. Higherpitched, and it took Vic a moment to realize why. A woman. Above the gentle plink of piano keys, a woman sang about the doggoned moon above, making her need someone to love. Entranced, he followed the voice. Vic found Giovanni Lawson sitting in an old recliner, Rambo in his lap. His eyes were closed as he petted the vacuum. Rambo grumbled happily, sensors flashing slowly. Nurse Ratched sat next to them. On her screen, a line bounced in a circadian rhythm, keeping time with the beat from the song. On top of the wooden work bench a record player lay open, a record spinning and skipping, the voice slightly warbled but still clear. “It works,” Vic whispered in awe. “You fixed it.” Dad didn’t open his eyes. He hummed under his breath before saying, “I did. This is Beryl Davis singing. Such a lovely voice, don’t you think?” Vic approached the work bench. He could hear the sound of a record turning against the needle. He bent over, examining the machine. It looked as it always had. He couldn’t see anything new. He itched to take it apart to see how its innards moved to create the sound he was hearing. “How did you fix it?” “A little love,” Dad said. “A little time.” “Dad.” He chuckled. “The hand crank. Wasn’t connected properly.” Vic blinked in surprise as he stood upright. “That’s it?” “That’s it. Simple, isn’t it? We were thinking too big, too grand. Sometimes, it’s the smallest things that can change everything when you least expect it.” Vic turned around to see his father watching him. The skin of his face was wrinkled and soft, his bright eyes kind. His hair hung in white waves around his ears, his beard extending down to his chest. When Vic was younger, he’d asked why he looked nothing like


to one of my smallpox scars. Grandmother and Miss Zhao exchange glances, then return their faces to me, both of them smiling. “Don’t you know that those heavenly flowers marks are what make you so beautiful?” asks Miss Zhao, who I’ve always considered to be even more exquisite than Respectful Lady. “Total perfection is not so desirable.” * * * We sustain a few more deaths, but we begin to have many successes, with family members and other residents returning to the main part of the compound. On the morning Ailan is to be released, I wrap her feet in clean bindings. Her soles are badly scarred but once she reaches adulthood they will not be seen by anyone except her and perhaps a servant. Her future husband will be able to hold her embroidered shoes in his hands and never know the ugliness that lies beneath the bindings. I support Ailan as we walk together over the zigzag bridge and along the paths to the gate to the Courtyard of Whispering Willows. Yesterday I informed the guards that she would be going home. Throughout the invasion of the disease, I’ve stayed on my side of the gate to prevent infection from spreading into the household. This time I position myself in the threshold in the hope that I’ll find Yuelan and Chunlan waiting for their sister. They’ve come. My husband too. He looks well and strong in his black scholar’s robes. Poppy is nearby. She lifts up Lian so I can see him. Maoren tells me that he’s officially accepted the name I gave our son, for which I’m grateful, and I can see Lian’s grown a lot while I’ve been in here. I hope he’ll remember me once I can take him back in my arms. “Only a few more days,” I say. “I await your return to me with my full heart,” my husband responds. The guards shut and bolt the gate, leaving me to wonder if Maoren knows about Snowpink and the death of their newborn son and what he might mean by “my full heart.” I’m nearing the Hermitage when a high-pitched scream pierces the silence, echoing off the surrounding walls. I hurry to the terrace to find Miss Chen covering Manzi’s body with her own. She suffered when her daughter died, but this? Utter devastation… When I reach her, she looks up to the sky. I hear her whisper something to herself, words that barely reach my ears but immediately agitate my mind. “I always assured him our son would become master of the Garden of Fragrant Delights. Now Manzi never will.” She begins to weep as only a mother who has lost a son can. I know I should comfort her, but I am too distracted by what she has said. Her words have turned a key in my mind and opened a door. Manzi never looked like Master Yang. If my unborn son died, Manzi would have eventually become the new master, according power to Manzi and his natal family. Spinster Aunt had something


do the same to the beasts of the Dreadmount?’ Gashan raised an eyebrow. ‘Who is Canthe?’ ‘No one you need to worry about,’ Esbar said, giving Tunuva a nod. ‘Gashan, have you told Kediko?’ ‘No.’ Gashan tucked the tablet away. ‘He believes in the significance of the celestial bodies. I feared he might not prepare Nzene if he thought an answer would fall from the sky.’ ‘So you did notice his flaws.’ ‘Not now, Esbar,’ Gashan said curtly, marching on. ‘What is this about another magic?’ ‘Not now, Gashan. If a comet does come, so be it. If not, we will need to fight for our lives.’ Kediko Onjenyu was dressed for battle, but seated in comfort, with a goblet and a bowl of fruit. Seeing Esbar approach, he winched his features into his usual smile, but Tunuva saw what two years of chaos had done to him. His war crown failed to conceal his grey hairs. ‘Leave us,’ he told his servants, who departed. ‘Esbar. I hear you are now Prioress. Congratulations on your promotion.’ ‘Congratulations on your survival, High Ruler. We are honoured to have spent the last two years keeping wyrms away from your fine palace,’ Esbar said, with a tight smile. Kediko broadened his. ‘At your invitation, I have brought my daughters to Nzene, to fight for the House of Onjenyu – but before we raise our blades, I wish to reassure myself that you have not mistaken this for an invasion. I understand our presence has unnerved you recently.’ ‘If I gave Tunuva that impression, I apologise. You are welcome here. After all, we are all humans, born of flowers, bound together in the shadow of the Dreadmount.’ Kediko drummed his fingers on the throne. ‘I relish this opportunity for the Priory to prove its prowess.’ ‘I believe we have proven our prowess already, in several of your cities,’ Esbar said, her smile turning dangerous. ‘We drove Dedalugun away from Jrhanyam.’ ‘Driving him away is one thing. Slaying him would prove my doubts wrong, once and for all. If you cannot slay a wyrm, what edge has the Priory over a conventional army?’ ‘Will you be joining us?’ Esbar asked, still with that smile. ‘I hear you were a fighting man in your youth.’ ‘I would. Gladly,’ Kediko said, ‘but I would hate to take that Mother-given duty from you. After all, you have waited all your lives for something to protect me from.’ He sat back. ‘Good luck to you, Esbar.’ Before Esbar could kill him, Gashan led her away. ‘I swear by the Mother,’ Esbar bit out, ‘I will humble that smiling fool if I have to personally chew Dedalugun to death, picking off each scale with my teeth. I should let him burn.’ ‘He wants this, Esbar.’ Gashan steered her up the stairs. ‘He wants to goad you into slaying Dedalugun.’ ‘I would hate to disappoint.’ On the terrace, they looked out across Nzene – the sky, the tarnished platter of the sun. Tunuva reached for Esbar, and Esbar looked at her, her eyes


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

Harry stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering... *** They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table. " 'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk." She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address: Mr. H. Potter Room 17 Railview Hotel Cokeworth Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared. "I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room. *** "Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage. "Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared. It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled. "It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television." Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday -- and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television -- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun -- last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. Still, you weren't eleven every day. Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd bought. "Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!" It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there. "Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!" A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them. "I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!" It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what


that, in face of the new proposals I have brought, it is hardly possible for Madame Olenska not to return to her husband?" "Good God!" Archer exclaimed; and his visitor gave out a low murmur of confirmation. "Before seeing her, I saw--at Count Olenski's request--Mr. Lovell Mingott, with whom I had several talks before going to Boston. I understand that he represents his mother's view; and that Mrs. Manson Mingott's influence is great throughout her family." Archer sat silent, with the sense of clinging to the edge of a sliding precipice. The discovery that he had been excluded from a share in these negotiations, and even from the knowledge that they were on foot, caused him a surprise hardly dulled by the acuter wonder of what he was learning. He saw in a flash that if the family had ceased to consult him it was because some deep tribal instinct warned them that he was no longer on their side; and he recalled, with a start of comprehension, a remark of May's during their drive home from Mrs. Manson Mingott's on the day of the Archery Meeting: "Perhaps, after all, Ellen would be happier with her husband." Even in the tumult of new discoveries Archer remembered his indignant exclamation, and the fact that since then his wife had never named Madame Olenska to him. Her careless allusion had no doubt been the straw held up to see which way the wind blew; the result had been reported to the family, and thereafter Archer had been tacitly omitted from their counsels. He admired the tribal discipline which made May bow to this decision. She would not have done so, he knew, had her conscience protested; but she probably shared the family view that Madame Olenska would be better off as an unhappy wife than as a separated one, and that there was no use in discussing the case with Newland, who had an awkward way of suddenly not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted. Archer looked up and met his visitor's anxious gaze. "Don't you know, Monsieur--is it possible you don't know--that the family begin to doubt if they have the right to advise the Countess to refuse her husband's last proposals?" "The proposals you brought?" "The proposals I brought." It was on Archer's lips to exclaim that whatever he knew or did not know was no concern of M. Riviere's; but something in the humble and yet courageous tenacity of M. Riviere's gaze made him reject this conclusion, and he met the young man's question with another. "What is your object in speaking to me of this?" He had not to wait a moment for the answer. "To beg you, Monsieur--to beg you with all the force I'm capable of--not to let her go back.--Oh, don't let her!" M. Riviere exclaimed. Archer looked at him with increasing astonishment. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his distress or the strength of his determination: he had evidently resolved to let everything go by the board but the supreme need of


blame him alone. When they were back in Mycenae, bruised and wounded, cut and broken, they found comfort in each other. Clytemnestra was in the garden, a sword in her hand. She had refused to be tended and cleaned and had threatened anyone who came near her. Her hair was still caked in layers of mud from Aulis, her knees and elbows scraped. Her hands were a mass of blood, some nails missing. Leon found her as she was swinging her sword madly. “My queen,” he said. She looked up then. He was standing by the flowers, his throat greenish and swollen, one of his eyes half-shut. They had beaten him again and again back in Aulis until he had fallen unconscious and they had left him for dead. He took a step forward, his bruised arm extended. She took it but stumbled and fell. Leon knelt next to her and put aside her sword as if she might hurt herself. They stayed like that for a long time on the grass. Then Leon left, and when he came back, he was holding a soaked cloth. He approached her hesitantly, as you do with a wounded beast. She stayed still while he wiped her face and arms, then her hair and legs, removing all the layers of blood and dirt. His care calmed her, and she gazed into his umber eyes, strong and comforting, like tree bark. When he had finished, he put down the cloth and started sobbing. His breath came in muffled pants, like a soldier wounded in battle. She had never seen a man cry before. She drew him to her, and his head shook against her shoulder. “She is gone,” she whispered. “She is gone.” He cried even louder, and she thought of how cold his hands were in her lap. The stars were coming out when, at last, he stopped. He looked up at her, his face a mess of bruises and tears. He looked at her as though he didn’t see her or as though he saw her for the first time—it was hard to tell. Then he leaned forward and kissed her. Her mouth opened under his. He was trembling and she tried to hold him still. She grasped his arms as hard as she could, knowing the pain would give him pleasure. She knew it because that was what she wanted too—and he gave it to her. They tore the clothes away from each other’s bodies and flinched as they touched each other’s wounds. As he moved inside her, she cried, thinking of his half-dead body in Odysseus’s tent, one of the last things she had seen before her world had fallen apart. 26 The Stranger IN THE EARLY morning, the megaron is empty and quiet. She wraps her lynx skin around her shoulders and sits on Agamemnon’s raised throne, waiting, as the feeble light of the hearth flickers on the frescoed walls. A man comes forward from the anteroom, alone. He is not one of her queen’s guards—he isn’t wearing any golden armor


that, after all these years, I’d find myself on the bank of the same river, kissing that same boy I’d loved a lifetime ago. But sometimes life is like that. Sometimes your summer love becomes something more. Maybe it was that the first day of camp was here, but in this moment, I felt like anything could happen. In Rich’s arms, by the river I loved, I felt like maybe we would get it right this time. Rich smiled down at me. I smiled up at him. And I realized it wasn’t just a season; it was a feeling. Maybe when you finally find where you’re meant to be, summer never ends. June PART OF THE MAGIC WE CALLED IT THE SUMMER of songbirds, that first year my Daphne was at Holly Springs with her best friends, Lanier and Mary Stuart. And now, as they sat around the “staff” table on the opening night of camp—all my campers tucked safe and sound in their beds—I couldn’t help but think that maybe the summer of songbirds never really ended. I loved knowing that this camp played a role in their forever friendship. Daphne raised her paper cup. “To you, Aunt June. You saved Holly Springs again, and we are so grateful you did.” I shook my head. “The three of you did that.” “Nope. The four of us,” Lanier said. Mary Stuart raised her cup. “To the four of us!” I wasn’t one of the songbirds, not really. But when I was with them, when I was a part of the magic that the three of them could make, I felt like maybe I was. I looked around the mess hall of this camp where I had spent every summer since I was six, and I felt how deeply it was ingrained in my heart, in my mind, in my history. I was as shocked as anyone that at the end of the summer I would pack up my meager belongings and move to my aunt Gracie’s house, in the town where I grew up. It was a place that, much like this camp, held both joy and sadness for me. But that was the balance of life, I believed now. Joy and sadness. You could not have one without the other. I used to wonder what my life would have been like if my parents hadn’t died young, if my sister was still here. Maybe I would have been happier. Maybe not. Either way, what I had learned in the past fifty years was that we don’t get do-overs. This was our one life—as far as I could tell, anyway—and while coming back to camp was a step along life’s journey for the hundreds of little girls who came here every summer, it was a hideout for me for far too long. Now I could keep Henry after school during the off-season and, fingers crossed, a new little baby of Daphne and Huff’s. I wanted to, as my mom had always preached, put family first. “I have an idea!” I suddenly said.


Beth was too bashful to go to school.It had been tried, but she suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to devote her skill and energy to Soldiers' Aid Societies, Beth went faithfully on by herself and did the best she could. She was a housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little world was peopled with imaginary friends,and she was by nature a busy bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for Beth was a child still and and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one whole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them in, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh words or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart or the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed with an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of dollanity had belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck in the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth and taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat little cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these deficiencies by folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed to this chronic invalid. If any had known the care lavished on that dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it, took it out to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and never went to be without kissing its dirty face and whispering tenderly, "I hope you'll have a good night, my poor dear." Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but a very human little girl, she often `wept a little weep' as Jo said, because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn't keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, "


above all their other magniloquent ascriptions of dominion; and the modern kings of Siam unfurling the same snow-white quadruped in the royal standard; and the Hanoverian flag bearing the one figure of a snow-white charger; and the great Austrian Empire, Caesarian, heir to overlording Rome, having for the imperial color the same imperial hue; and though this pre-eminence in it applies to the human race itself, giving the white man ideal mastership over every dusky tribe; and though, besides all this, whiteness has been .. <p 186 > even made significant of gladness, for among the Romans a white stone marked a joyful day; and though in other mortal sympathies and symbolizings, this same hue is made the emblem of many touching, noble things --the innocence of brides, the benignity of age; though among the Red Men of America the giving of the white belt of wampum was the deepest pledge of honor; though in many climes, whiteness typifies the majesty of Justice in the ermine of the Judge, and contributes to the daily state of kings and queens drawn by milk-white steeds; though even in the higher mysteries of the most august religions it has been made the symbol of the divine spotlessness and power; by the Persian fire worshippers, the white forked flame being held the holiest on the altar; and in the Greek mythologies, Great Jove himself made incarnate in a snow-white bull; and though to the noble Iroquois, the midwinter sacrifice of the sacred White Dog was by far the holiest festival of their theology, that spotless, faithful creature being held the purest envoy they could send to the Great Spirit with the annual tidings of their own fidelity; and though directly from the Latin word for white, all Christian priests derive the name of one part of their sacred vesture, the alb or tunic, worn beneath the cassock; and though among the holy pomps of the Romish faith, white is specially employed in the celebration of the Passion of our Lord; though in the Vision of St. John, white robes are given to the redeemed, and the four-and-twenty elders stand clothed in white before the great white throne, and the Holy One that sitteth there white like wool; yet for all these accumulated associations, with whatever is sweet, and honorable, and sublime, there yet lurks an elusive something in the innermost idea of this hue, which strikes more of panic to the soul than that redness which affrights in blood. This elusive quality it is, which causes the thought of whiteness, when divorced from more kindly associations, and coupled with any object terrible in itself, to heighten that terror to the furthest bounds. Witness the white bear of the poles, and the white shark of the tropics; what but their smooth, flaky whiteness makes them the transcendent horrors they are? That ghastly whiteness it is which imparts such an abhorrent mildness, even .. <p 187 > more loathsome than terrific, to the dumb gloating of their aspect. So that not the fierce-fanged tiger in his heraldic coat


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

from rude persecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and my conscience justified me in the attempt; though indeed it was not so successful as I could have wished. So fearful was I of being again hunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that, surrendering my business to Nippers, for a few days I drove about the upper part of the town and through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed over to Jersey City and Hoboken, and paid fugitive visits to Manhattanville and Astoria. In fact I almost lived in my rockaway for the time. When again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon the desk. I opened it with trembling hands. It informed me that the writer had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed to the Tombs as a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he wished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the facts. These tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. At first I was indignant; but at last almost approved. The landlord’s energetic, summary disposition had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not think I would have decided upon myself; and yet as a last resort, under such peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan. As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be conducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his pale unmoving way, silently acquiesced. Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent procession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of the roaring thoroughfares at noon. The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew, and closed by suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement as possible till something less harsh might be done—though indeed I hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview. Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. And so I found him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves. “Bartleby!” “I know you,” he said, without looking round,—”and I want nothing to say to you.” “It


ever had with them, searching for clues you might have missed or overtures you misunderstood, over and over again until you die. Shopping a show is exactly like that, multiplied by the number of networks your agent has a good relationship with and who’d be willing to spend fifteen minutes listening to you grasping for example shows they already know and like to compare yours to (“Umm, okay, wait, uhhh, it’s like Insecure meets Hoarders meets Mystery Diagnosis?”) because they skimmed the script you sent over weeks ago five minutes before they met you. With every pass, I felt more and more relieved. Who the hell am I to have a show anyway, a thick-skinned marble slab of a woman with chromium insides and no feelings? No! I have depression and rude friends! My frazzled nerves wouldn’t make it past the first Variety announcement, let alone the eventual weeks of bad reviews and tweets. It’s good not to have your own show. It’s good to be staff on a show already in production and not made by a loser; the stakes are lower, the insults and cruel memes feel (slightly) less personal, you don’t have to worry about sounding dumb at the costume meeting. Mental health–wise, this across-the-board rejection of my life as I’ve lived it could actually be a blessing? Anyway, back to the pilot. In this scene, Sam and Dennis argue while unloading the cake at a palatial mansion and in front of a harried wedding planner who is pissed they are late, and Sam vomits into a planter before screaming that she’s gonna shit her pants and runs into the venue, doing that increasingly urgent hybrid yell-sob that only comes out when you really gotta poop, run-walking past conference rooms and trying every locked door lining the hallways, dodging men in suits and fancy ladies in tasteful daytime formal. INT. WEDDING VENUE HALLWAY AND BATHROOM—MOMENTS LATER The camera toggles between Sam stumbling through the hallways of this very posh wedding venue, dry-swallowing chalky diarrhea pills and sweating through her clothes; Sam in the pharmacy, head hung in shame at what’s about to transpire. Meanwhile, Pharmacy Sam doesn’t even speak. She just shakes her head, like “Oh no, here it comes.” In my mind and out my butt, I imagined this being at the Woman’s Club of Evanston, a place where I once delivered a bunch of opera tortes for some gala or something while actively trying not to shit on myself, because weddings and expensive parties are the most humiliating place to take a gross poo, and I say this as a person who’s been forced to shit in the street. The juxtaposition of a wild-eyed woman leaking feces through a $500-per-person wedding??? Hilarious! And, also terrible. Sam bursts into a bathroom to find it completely empty. Phew! She slams into a stall and struggles to get her pants down and apron off. After a beat, EMILY, the bride, and three bridesmaids pour in, circling in the lounge area right in front of Sam’s stall. I’m not even sure


and setting me up for it. So, who do I fear the most? Which life is the safest? Or do I start over on my own terms? Take this money and build a brand-new life somewhere else? A seaside village in Scotland. A stylish arrondissement in Paris. A funky neighborhood in Berlin… Jesse’s journal and pen are still in my canvas bag. I dig them out and open the notebook full of exercise programs. And then I bring up my flight options. If I choose Panama, when can I leave? It is a long flight—over eleven hours, but the distance makes me feel safer. I write down the first flight, leaving tonight, with a three-hour stop in Houston. It departs just after the Austin flight. My next option is not until tomorrow. If I spend one more night at the motel, will I be safe? As I peruse another travel site, Jesse’s pen rolls off the table and lands with a heavy clunk. Reaching down to retrieve it, I realize it has broken, the top half completely severed from the bottom. Picking up the two pieces, I notice that one half of the pen contains a USB stick. I have never seen this before—a working pen with a concealed thumb drive—but it’s probably not that unusual. Out of curiosity, I plug the storage device into the computer. I’m expecting more exercise routines, maybe a nutrition schedule, but two audio files pop up. They are labeled simply: Tape 1 and Tape 2. My brow furrows as I inspect the pen further. It’s an actual pen, but I notice a small microphone embedded in it, and the clip is an on/off switch. I have heard of these covert recording devices, these “spy gadgets.” They are sometimes marketed to students to record class lectures, but they’re perfect for surreptitious taping. So, what—and who—had Jesse recorded? I need to listen to these files, but not here, not in public. I need headphones. There were a pair in my trunk at one point, but I haven’t seen them since my iPhone was stolen. And would they be compatible with this computer? Scanning the room, I see a guy seated near the door wearing earbuds plugged into the desktop. With the canvas bag in hand, I approach him. “Excuse me?” I tap the desk to get his attention. His eyes dart up to me and he quickly closes his onscreen window. Whatever he was perusing—porn probably—he doesn’t want me to see it. “Yeah?” He’s instantly wary of me… and for good reason. My clothes are worn and rumpled. Despite the night at the hotel, I am exhausted, wearing my stress and fear on my face. “Can I borrow your earbuds? I’ll give you fifty bucks.” He snorts. “You serious?” “I only need them for a few minutes. Half an hour, at the most.” “I’m using them,” he says, clocking my desperation. “Make it a hundred.” “Fine.” I fish in the canvas bag and remove two fifties. “I should’ve asked for more,” he mutters as he unplugs the cord


typed on his keyboard, the clack, clack, clack echoing flatly around him. “I see,” he said on the fifty-second day after he’d first felt the ache in his chest. He stared at the screen, checking his numbers. It was loneliness, pure and simple. Numbers never lied. Three more years went by. Three years of the ache in his chest only growing stronger. Three years of quiet, of longing to hear a voice aside from his own. He would look out the window of his laboratory to see that it was snowing, when just yesterday the forest had been caught in the throes of summer. On a day that began no differently than all the ones that had come before, two people burst from the trees, their eyes wide in fright, their skin slick with sweat. A man and a woman. The woman clutched a bundle of rags against her chest. Giovanni startled. “Help us!” the woman cried. “Please, you must take him. Take him and hide him away. It’s not safe.” And then she held out the bundle of rags. Except it wasn’t just rags. Swaddled tightly inside was a child. A boy who blinked slowly up at Giovanni before he scrunched up his face and cried. “What has happened?” Giovanni asked, looking back up at the woman in alarm. “Come, come. I will keep you safe. All of you.” But the woman shook her head. “They will find us.” Tears trickled down her cheeks as she stepped forward, kissing the baby on the forehead. “I love you. I’ll return when I’m able.” The man said, “Hurry. They’re coming.” The woman laughed bitterly. “I know. I know. They always do, in the end.” The man grabbed her by the hand and pulled her away, away, away. “Wait!” Giovanni called after them. “His name!” But they were gone. He never saw anyone else. No one ever came looking for the man and the woman. Or the child. And he never saw the man and woman again. Later, much later when the boy was grown, Giovanni would tell the boy that the woman—his mother—hadn’t wanted to leave him. “She will come back,” Giovanni would tell him. “One day, when all is well, she will return.” Until then, he had desired a child, and now here one was. Oh, how fortuitous! How wonderful! Giovanni took his time in deciding a designation for the baby. It was when the leaves were changing from green to red and gold that he found the perfect one. “Victor,” he told his son. “Your name shall be Victor. Victor Lawson. What do you think?” The loneliness he’d felt—massive and profound—was chased away as if it’d never existed at all. Giovanni worried when Victor grew and grew and grew, but still didn’t speak. He knew Victor listened to him when he spoke, could see the way the boy understood. “Is there a fault in your coding?” Giovanni asked him when the boy was four years old. “Did I make a mistake?” Victor didn’t respond. Instead, he lifted his arms, opening and


and Harry were having too good a time to think much about Flamel. They had the dormitory to themselves and the common room was far emptier than usual, so they were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. They sat by the hour eating anything they could spear on a toasting fork -- bread, English muffins, marshmallows -- and plotting ways of getting Malfoy expelled, which were fun to talk about even if they wouldn't work. Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This was exactly like Muggle chess except that the figures were alive, which made it a lot like directing troops in battle. Ron's set was very old and battered. Like everything else he owned, it had once belonged to someone else in his family -- in this case, his grandfather. However, old chessmen weren't a drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he never had trouble getting them to do what he wanted. Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had lent him, and they didn't trust him at all. He wasn't a very good player yet and they kept shouting different bits of advice at him, which was confusing. "Don't send me there, can't you see his knight? Send him, we can afford to lose him." On Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed looking forward to the next day for the food and the fun, but not expecting any presents at all. When he woke early in the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a small pile of packages at the foot of his bed. "Merry Christmas," said Ron sleepily as Harry scrambled out of bed and pulled on his bathrobe. "You, too," said Harry. "Will you look at this? I've got some presents!" "What did you expect, turnips?" said Ron, turning to his own pile, which was a lot bigger than Harry's. Harry picked up the top parcel. It was wrapped in thick brown paper and scrawled across it was To Harry, from Hagrid. Inside was a roughly cut wooden flute. Hagrid had obviously whittled it himself. Harry blew it -- it sounded a bit like an owl. A second, very small parcel contained a note. We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Taped to the note was a fifty-pence piece. "That's friendly," said Harry. Ron was fascinated by the fifty pence. "Weird!" he said, "What a shape! This is money?" "You can keep it," said Harry, laughing at how pleased Ron was. "Hagrid and my aunt and uncle -- so who sent these?" "I think I know who that one's from," said Ron, turning a bit pink and pointing to a very lumpy parcel. "My mom. I told her you didn't expect any presents and -- oh, no," he groaned, "she's made you a Weasley sweater." Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand-knitted sweater in emerald green and a large box of homemade fudge. "Every year she makes us a sweater," said Ron, unwrapping his own, "and mine's always maroon."


June. Three weeks and three days, and she was counting every moment. Truthfully, of course, it had been conceived months before, the very moment Papa set sail for the Continent in search of spa cures and the best gaming tables, entirely distracted from home affairs. He would not have held any sort of party. No breakfasts, luncheons, high teas or dinners were permitted at Park Lane. Those things would put Miss de Vries entirely on display, up for auction on the market. He refused to countenance that. Papa went out into the world: to the Royal Regatta, and the diplomatic dinners, and the Queen’s Drawing Room, and the gymkhana. He wore his yellow-spotted neckerchiefs and his most vulgar waistcoats, and spent lavishly on the charity dances—and people roared for him. They feasted on anecdotes of his extravagance and lowborn manners and brilliant 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


convince myself that things are going to be fine?” “That’s one way to do it.” “But what if I don’t believe it?” “Then keep arguing.” I was supposed to argue myself into feeling optimistic? “I’ve never been great at optimism,” I said. “That’s what the arguing is for.” “I’m not very good at arguing, either.” “Maybe this is a chance to get better.” But I’d learned long ago that arguing didn’t get you very far. “Can you give me a hint?” “Try to step back and look at the big picture,” Dr. Nicole said. “That’s where you can see it more clearly.” “See what?” “That no matter what happens, you will find a way to be okay—whether your prosopagnosia is temporary or permanent.” “My proso…” I asked, giving up on the word halfway through. “What’s that?” “That’s the condition you have right now,” Dr. Nicole said, “based on these test scores.” Then she handed me a diagnosis: “Acquired apperceptive prosopagnosia.” I waited for those syllables to make sense. But they didn’t. So she said it again. “Acquired apperceptive prosopagnosia.” Then she added: “Also known as face blindness.” Five AND AFTER ALL that, to add massive insult to once-in-a-lifetime injury, who should I run into in the elevator of my building on the very morning I came home? You guessed it. The one-night-stand guy. The Weasel. Fresh back from the hospital, I had walked in slow motion through the lobby of my building, holding my breath as faceless people wandered blithely around me. I kept my eyes to the carpet, stepped gingerly through the elevator doors, and pressed the button to the top floor—my hair smelling of hospital shampoo and gathered in a careful, stitches-covering ponytail. I was trying with all my might not to accidentally knock that cork in my skull loose while also holding back a tsunami of life-altering realizations about the week I’d just been through … just as the Weasel himself catapulted through the closing doors and tossed his arms up in victory as he cleared them at the last second. Let’s just say he wasn’t matching my fragile energy. I couldn’t recognize his face now, of course. Or anything else about his rather nondescript self. What I did recognize—other than his terrible personality—was the red-and-white non-vintage vintage bowling jacket. There couldn’t be more than one of those walking around. Oh my god! The Weasel! I’d forgotten about the woman in his bed. I’d meant to go find his apartment that night and wake her up and get her the hell out of there—but in all the hubbub of, ya know, the brain surgery, I’d forgotten. He wasn’t still holding her captive in there, was he? I thought about asking. But that’s when he turned to me, all friendly and breathless, and said, “Made it!” The way a nice person might talk to another nice person. I kept my eyes down and edged away. Really, pal? You think you can just wildly bad-mouth your one-night stands and also get to be a normal member of society? Not on my


to one ton.” Then he opened the hatch and a white Bengal tiger stood awkwardly in the passenger compartment, purring loudly. I stepped back, heart pounding, and Orson clapped his hands together and crowed with laughter. “This is Mickey,” Dexter said. “He’s totally harmless. I had the drone grab him from my place.” Mickey stepped gingerly out of the drone, and Orson collapsed to his knees and held his hand out to Mickey, who began licking it like a dog. “See, that’s the beauty of the air taxi,” Dexter said. “It can be programmed to fly wherever you want using the simple GPS technology I’ve got on my watch.” He held up his watch face, tapped it. “I don’t even need the remote control. Tell me this isn’t shit you want to get behind.” “We want to get behind it,” I said, distracted by Orson’s giggles as the tiger licked his palm. “Can Mickey be in the photo shoot?” Orson asked. “Hell yes,” Dexter said. “You’ve got creative control, man. We can pose with the tiger, we can pose in midair, whatever.” Orson turned to me, gleeful, all pretense of composure abandoned. “Isn’t this great?” he asked. I smiled. His eyes were so bright it was hard not to. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s really great.” * * * The profile came out a week later. “Bliss Effect: The Combined Genius of Orson Ortman and Dexter Ellhorn.” Orson and Dexter standing arms akimbo among a sea of mini drones. Orson flying a drone while Dexter watched. Orson and Dexter and Mickey peering out of the air taxi, hovering in midair. I speed-read the profile aloud while Orson lay in the hotel bed next to me. As usual, I had Brianna book us two rooms, and as usual, we’d completely neglected one of them. Orson was still naked from our exploits, smoking, staring at the ceiling. I was spent and giddy, a compound coursing through my system that I could only describe as him. “Well that was nice,” he said, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed. “That was a lot of nice things at once.” “All merited.” He turned on his side and draped his leg across mine. “Maybe yes, maybe no.” His smile was tense, and there was an opacity in his gaze that gave me pause. “What’s wrong?” “Mm,” he said, and then said nothing else. “What?” “There’s just a lot going on.” I sat up on my elbows. “Like what?” “Like a lot.” He flopped onto his back again. “I don’t know what to say.” Now I could feel myself beginning to sweat. “You can say anything.” “You’re not going to like it.” “Just say it.” “I don’t think we should sleep together for a while.” “What do you mean.” I couldn’t bring myself to inflect the question. “Well, you know—the people coming to the Farm are very traditional. They’ve got kids. They’re straight.” “You’re not straight, though.” He sighed. “But I have to play a certain role. I have to be as the people see me.”


Dr. Wúrà, I called and called about your style.” “That’s why we are here, Caro. She will choose something now.” “I’m sorry, Aunty Caro. I wanted to call you back, but I kept forgetting.” Aunty Caro led the way into her living room, then went across the corridor to get some magazines, taking the kerosene lantern with her. On the centre table, a candle flickered, pooling even more wax onto a wax-encrusted milk tin. Shadows slid across the room as its flame wavered. Unable to dispel darkness, the candle had settled for rearranging it. Aunty Caro soon returned with a stack of magazines that she thrust into Wúràọlá’s arms. “Thank you for accommodating us at every hour, Caro,” Yèyé said. Aunty Caro smiled and set the kerosene lantern down on a stool beside Wúràọlá. The magazines were mostly old copies of Ovation; the most recent was at least two years old. There was nothing Wúràọlá particularly liked, and when she finally pointed out a floor-length long-sleeved dress, her mother shook her head. “No way, this one would look like you’re coming from a convent.” “I think it will be nice.” “You’re a sisí, there is no reason to dress like an old woman. Look good o, there will be many eligible bachelors at that party, Láyí is inviting many of his friends from Lagos. Show your legs or your shoulders, this thing would cover your whole body.” “What about Kúnlé? Your good boy from a good family? You don’t like him again?” Wúràọlá asked. “I like him,” Yèyé said, “but this one, that after one year, you people are still doing boyfriend and girlfriend, maybe he is not your destined husband.” “Seriously? Destined?” Wúràọlá laughed. “Àfi destined husband, Yèyé o.” “Boyfriend and girlfriend when you people are not fifteen. I like him o, but he has not married you yet, he has not even engaged you, so we must keep our options open. Àbí, he has spoken to you about marriage, ni? Let me know quickly o, so I can plan.” Wúràọlá picked up another magazine and angled it towards the kerosene lantern. Kúnlé had talked about marriage a few times, but she was not about to tell her mother that just yet. She could do without the swarm of advice that would come first in person, then via text messages and phone calls that would wake her up at dawn. When she’d turned twenty-three and was, thanks to various university strikes, still in her third year of medical school, her mother had gone from telling her to face her books and not follow any foolish boys to being interested in every detail of her romantic life. It was one of the reasons she’d felt confident about allowing Nonso to come over. Wúràọlá was twenty-eight now, and though her mother had so far not talked to her about how thirty was looming, her aunties exercised no such restraint. Some of them had made it clear that Wúràọlá was already doing overtime as a single woman, twenty-five was the prime marriageable age, and


cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless-- and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain. How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more. In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury-- and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place. This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.-- He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself. Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even


and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with the police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which will probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business. Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing had transpired as to the whereabouts of the missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or some other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange disappearance of the bride.'" "And is that all?" "Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a suggestive one." "And it is--" "That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a danseuse at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years. There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands now--so far as it has been set forth in the public press." "And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my own memory." "Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page-boy, throwing open the door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-colored gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden eyeglasses. "Good-day, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Pray take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over." "A most painful matter to me, as you


warm, like he downed a cup of hot cocoa or put on a pair of mittens. It’s sort of how he felt as a little kid, when everywhere he looked there was an aunt or a cousin. Maybe this is what it’s like, having friends, real friends, friends who know him. It’s—well, it’s a bit much, sometimes, and he’s blaming Andy for all of it. * * * Later that week, Nick’s source at the Property Clerk’s Office calls and tells him that the police department has changed their procedure for how they log evidence and how many cops have the combination to the evidence safe. It’s all but an admission that cops have been stealing evidence, and it’s a small—but likely ineffective—attempt to stop the practice. It’s not a victory, nothing that big, but it’s proof that Nick’s writing did something other than keep people entertained on their morning commute. * * * As soon as the ink is dry on the deed and Andy (and Chemical Corn Bank) officially own the building, something loosens in Nick, some old tension evaporating almost immediately. It’s alarming, because he isn’t expecting it—he had been a little ambivalent about Andy buying the building, but now that it’s done, Nick feels like he has about a dozen fewer things to worry about. He tells himself that he’s only pleased because it means Andy really is here to stay, and maybe that’s part of it. But honestly Nick had already known Andy would stay and he doesn’t need a building as proof. It’s something simpler and more material than that: the guarantee of a roof over his head. It’s the ability to lean on someone. It’s something Nick hasn’t had—maybe hasn’t let himself have—since he was a child. It’s space. It’s room to breathe. The idea of not having to worry about steady work lets Nick imagine a world where life doesn’t revolve around the predictable arrival of his paycheck. Andy already knows that Nick’s getting ready to pitch a couple of ideas to some magazines. A year ago Nick would have rejected the idea out of hand—he was a city reporter, and that was that. That had been the safest and best place for him. But now he thinks he can carve out another, better place for himself. “I mean, you’re right,” Andy says later when Nick, abashed, explains all this to him. It’s late enough that half the lights are out in the newsroom, but Andy and the Chronicle’s treasurer have been burning the midnight oil, trying to find money for the kind of equipment they need to put out a glossy magazine on Sundays. “It goes both ways, you know. If the paper folds, figuring out the next step is less of an emergency since you’ll probably have work.” Andy says this so simply and with such total faith in the idea that Nick is on board with the entangling of their lives and their futures, Nick is momentarily speechless. “Did I get that wrong?” Andy asks, his face going blotchy with rising


her down the stairs. He jangled the apartment keys in his jacket pocket as they walked through the lobby. “Interesting fellow, isn’t he? He told me a story about Irma Dorantes that I’d never heard before. A raunchy one.” “Were there any occultists in that one?” “No.” “Beyond the Yellow Door is the kind of stuff they might cover on Enigma,” Montserrat mused. “Cornelia’s still working there.” “That’s a terrible show. I don’t understand how it’s on the air.” “Because people watch that stuff. Nino Canún has guests talking about UFOs every damn month on his show. He and Jaime Maussan, that’s all they talk about.” “What’s going through that devious little brain of yours?” “Nothing,” she said, sliding her arms into her jacket and adjusting the collar. “Liar.” But he was right. There was something going through her mind, and that was the simple fact that Enigma had money and needed content. American money, to be exact. The backers for that show were folks from Miami who were trying to slide into the Latin American market. Telemundo was now aiming to make their own soap operas, and the folks backing Enigma were looking for the same thing: original programming. Montserrat didn’t know how to pitch stories to TV suits, but Cornelia did. You could get a two-hour special out of a German occultist if Nino Canún could get eleven hours and ten minutes on the air showing grainy video footage of lights that were supposed to be spaceships. Amphibian babies, little gray men who abducted women in the middle of the night, pyramids designed by people from Atlantis. That’s what people wanted, and there was money to be made in that stupid line of work. She knew it because she’d seen Cornelia’s condo and her fancy furniture. Meanwhile, editing audio at Antares wasn’t leading her anywhere, and her sister was in a tight financial spot. She checked her wristwatch. “I’ve gotta run.” “Wish me luck,” Tristán said as he held open the front door for her. “What luck?” “For the ad campaign.” “No such thing as luck, but I’ll tell Araceli to buy you a rabbit’s foot next time she goes to the Mercado de Sonora.” “Very funny. Have lunch with me next week. You can help me run a few lines.” “I need to finish the project I’m working on.” “Phone me!” She smiled, taking three steps from his doorway, hands in her pockets. “Go get that gig, handsome!” she yelled before she trotted off to find her car. 4 Tristán’s coping tactic was erasure. He was avoiding newsstands, he had vanished the calendar from his home, he had placed the box with Karina’s photos at the back of his closet where he couldn’t get to it easily. The little picture he carried in his wallet remained there because he never took that one out, but otherwise he was determined to pretend this was an ordinary month. He had plenty of other things to worry about, anyway. The ad campaign for the whiskey was going to another guy, and Yolanda


he's lost his tiller. As an overladen Indiaman bearing down the Hindostan coast with a deck load of frightened horses, careens, buries, rolls, and wallows on her way; so did this old whale heave his aged bulk, and now and then partly turning over on his cumbrous rib-ends, expose the cause of his devious wake in the unnatural stump of his starboard fin. Whether he had lost that fin in battle, or had been born without it, it were hard to say. Only wait a bit, old chap, and I'll give ye a sling for that wounded arm, cried cruel Flask, pointing to the whale-line near him. Mind he don't sling thee with it, cried Starbuck. Give way, or the German will have him. With one intent all the combined rival boats were pointed for this one fish, because not only was he the largest, and therefore the most valuable whale, but he was nearest to them, and the other whales were going with such great velocity, moreover, .. <p 351 > as almost to defy pursuit for the time. At this juncture, the Pequod's keel had shot by the three German boats last lowered; but from the great start he had had, Derick's boat still led the chase, though every moment neared by his foreign rivals. The only thing they feared, was, that from being already so nigh to his mark, he would be enabled to dart his iron before they could completely overtake and pass him. as for derick, he seemed quite confident that this would be the case, and occasionally with a deriding gesture shook his lamp-feeder at the other boats. The ungracious and ungrateful dog! cried Starbuck; he mocks and dares me with the very poor-box I filled for him not five minutes ago! --then in his old intense whisper -- give way, greyhounds! Dog to it! I tell ye what it is, men --cried Stubb to his crew -- It's against my religion to get mad; but I'd like to eat that villanous Yarman --Pull--won't ye? Are ye going to let that rascal beat ye? Do ye love brandy? A hogshead of brandy, then, to the best man. Come, why don't some of ye burst a blood-vessel? Who's that been dropping an anchor overboard --we don't budge an inch --we're becalmed. Halloo, here's grass growing in the boat's bottom --and by the Lord, the mast there's budding. This won't do, boys. Look at that Yarman! The short and long of it is, men, will ye spit fire or not? Oh! see the suds he makes! cried Flask, dancing up and down -- What a hump --Oh, do pile on the beef --lays like a log! Oh! my lads, do spring --slap-jacks and quohogs for supper, you know, my lads --baked clams and muffins --oh, do, do spring --he's a hundred barreler --don't lose him now --don't oh, don't! -- see that Yarman --Oh! won't ye pull for your duff, my lads --such a sog! such a sogger! Don't ye love sperm? There goes three thousand dollars, men!


conductor. "And how far?" "As far as that will carry us," said Clifford. "It is no great matter. We are riding for pleasure merely." "You choose a strange day for it, sir!" remarked a gimlet-eyed old gentleman on the other side of the car, looking at Clifford and his companion, as if curious to make them out." The best chance of pleasure, in an easterly rain, I take it, is in a man's own house, with a nice little fire in the chimney." "I cannot precisely agree with you," said Clifford, courteously bowing to the old gentleman, and at once taking up the clew of conversation which the latter had proffered. "It had just occurred to me, on the contrary, that this admirable invention of the railroad --with the vast and inevitable improvements to be looked for, both as to speed and convenience--is destined to do away with those stale ideas of home and fireside, and substitute something better." "In the name of common-sense," asked the old gentleman rather testily, "what can be better for a man than his own parlor and chimney-corner?" "These things have not the merit which many good people attribute to them," replied Clifford. "They may be said, in few and pithy words, to have ill served a poor purpose. My impression is, that our wonderfully increased and still increasing facilities of locomotion are destined to bring us around again to the nomadic state. You are aware, my dear sir,--you must have observed it in your own experience,--that all human progress is in a circle; or, to use a more accurate and beautiful figure, in an ascending spiral curve. While we fancy ourselves going straight forward, and attaining, at every step, an entirely new position of affairs, we do actually return to something long ago tried and abandoned, but which we now find etherealized, refined, and perfected to its ideal. The past is but a coarse and sensual prophecy of the present and the future. To apply this truth to the topic now under discussion. In the early epochs of our race, men dwelt in temporary huts, of bowers of branches, as easily constructed as a bird's-nest, and which they built,--if it should be called building, when such sweet homes of a summer solstice rather grew than were made with hands,--which Nature, we will say, assisted them to rear where fruit abounded, where fish and game were plentiful, or, most especially, where the sense of beauty was to be gratified by a lovelier shade than elsewhere, and a more exquisite arrangement of lake, wood, and hill. This life possessed a charm which, ever since man quitted it, has vanished from existence. And it typified something better than itself. It had its drawbacks; such as hunger and thirst, inclement weather, hot sunshine, and weary and foot-blistering marches over barren and ugly tracts, that lay between the sites desirable for their fertility and beauty. But in our ascending spiral, we escape all this. These railroads--could but the whistle be made musical, and the rumble and the jar got rid of--are


He said, “You need to add me. Please. Can you make me nine inches long with the balls of a god?” For weeks, he’d mouth it to me in the hall or the dinner line: balls of a god. Is it wrong if that still cracks me up? Unlike the bingo sheet, our list didn’t put anyone in danger, didn’t turn anyone into a ring to be grabbed. Plus, dicks were in our faces, figuratively or literally, whether we wanted them there or not. I never sought out a dick, hoping to see it, until college. But here they were. Even nervous Brian Wynn, that summer, had been the one to undo his belt, push my head down with his sweaty hand. Dorian Culler exposed himself to me three times. Once was in the back hallway of the gym. He’d passed where I sat on the floor studying, then returned with a couple of friends, already laughing. He said, “Bodie, when you snuck into my room last night you left a bite mark on my cock.” He pulled it out the top of his gym shorts and managed a confused, wounded look. Instinctively, I held my hand up to block my view—he was only a few feet away—and he said, “God, Bodie, look at you reaching for me again. You’re insatiable. And when I’m wounded! I need medical attention.” I chastised myself for doing the wrong thing. What would the right thing have been? They left, but I had a feeling they’d be back so I scooped up my books and found another floor to sit on. Which is all to say: Documenting the dicks of Granby felt more like revenge than predation. I tried to imagine Jerome whipping it out in front of Jasmine Wilde. But no, Jerome was not Dorian. I tried to imagine Jerome pulling her onto his lap at an after-party. I tried to imagine him saying, “You should come by my studio tonight; I’ll give you some pointers.” Or “You know I can make or break people in this world.” Just because you can’t picture someone doing something doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of it. All of this went through my head in the time it took Lola to find a photo of Mike on their laptop—his official shot from the UConn website—and show the class. Britt was bouncing in her corner seat. “Can I interview him? Lola, can I interview him?” Lola shrugged. I said, “He knew Thalia pretty well. He’d know Omar, too. He was an athlete.” Mike would have more to say than I had: Another ski star, he was one of Robbie Serenho’s best friends. He’d been both in the show and at the mattresses. He’d likely spoken to the police at much greater length than me. Plus, if he talked to Britt he’d see how obsessed she was, and, if news of the podcast got out to my classmates, he could maybe vouch for the fact that I hadn’t put her up to this. Lola said to Britt, “I mean, I can


with rage. She did not cry, but ground her teeth. "There was some one crying--there was--there was!" she said to herself. She had heard it twice now, and sometime she would find out. She had found out a great deal this morning. She felt as if she had been on a long journey, and at any rate she had had something to amuse her all the time, and she had played with the ivory elephants and had seen the gray mouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion. CHAPTER VII THE KEY TO THE GARDEN Two days after this, when Mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed immediately, and called to Martha. "Look at the moor! Look at the moor!" The rainstorm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the night by the wind. The wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland. Never, never had Mary dreamed of a sky so blue. In India skies were hot and blazing; this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. The far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray. "Aye," said Martha with a cheerful grin. "Th' storm's over for a bit. It does like this at this time o' th' year. It goes off in a night like it was pretendin' it had never been here an' never meant to come again. That's because th' springtime's on its way. It's a long way off yet, but it's comin'." "I thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in England," Mary said. "Eh! no!" said Martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes. "Nowt o' th' soart!" "What does that mean?" asked Mary seriously. In India the natives spoke different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not surprised when Martha used words she did not know. Martha laughed as she had done the first morning. "There now," she said. "I've talked broad Yorkshire again like Mrs. Medlock said I mustn't. `Nowt o' th' soart' means `nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and carefully, "but it takes so long to say it. Yorkshire's th' sunniest place on earth when it is sunny. I told thee tha'd like th' moor after a bit. Just you wait till you see th' gold-colored gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th' broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all purple bells, an' hundreds o' butterflies flutterin' an' bees hummin' an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. You'll want to get out on it as sunrise an' live out on it all day like Dickon does." "Could I ever get there?" asked Mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue. It was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color. "I don't know," answered Martha. "Tha's never used tha' legs


has to get you ready,” says Haymitch. It’s a relief to be alone with Cinna, to feel his protective arm around my shoulders as he guides me away from the cameras, down a few passages and to an elevator that leads to the lobby of the Training Center. The hospital then is far underground, even beneath the gym where the tributes practiced tying knots and throwing spears. The windows of the lobby are darkened, and a handful of guards stand on duty. No one else is there to see us cross to the tribute elevator. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness. And when we ride up to the twelfth floor, the faces of all the tributes who will never return flash across my mind and there’s a heavy, tight place in my chest. When the elevator doors open, Venia, Flavius, and Octavia engulf me, talking so quickly and ecstatically I can’t make out their words. The sentiment is clear though. They are truly thrilled to see me and I’m happy to see them, too, although not 346 like I was to see Cinna. It’s more in the way one might be glad to see an affectionate trio of pets at the end of a particularly difficult day. They sweep me into the dining room and I get a real meal — roast beef and peas and soft rolls — although my portions are still being strictly controlled. Because when I ask for seconds, I’m refused. “No, no, no. They don’t want it all coming back up on the stage,” says Octavia, but she secretly slips me an extra roll un- der the table to let me know she’s on my side. We go back to my room and Cinna disappears for a while as the prep team gets me ready. “Oh, they did a full body polish on you,” says Flavius en- viously. “Not a flaw left on your skin.” But when I look at my naked body in the mirror, all I can see is how skinny I am. I mean, I’m sure I was worse when I came out of the arena, but I can easily count my ribs. They take care of the shower settings for me, and they go to work on my hair, nails, and makeup when I’m done. They chatter so continuously that I barely have to reply, which is good, since I don’t feel very talkative. It’s funny, because even though they’re rattling on about the Games, it’s all about where they were or what they were doing or how they felt when a specific event occurred. “I was still in bed!” “I had just had my eyebrows dyed!” “I swear I nearly fainted!” Everything is about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena. We don’t wallow around in the Games this way in District 12. We grit our teeth and watch because we must and try to 347 get back to business as soon as possible when they’re over. To keep from hating the prep team, I effectively tune out most


becomes infected, I will remove your hand at the wrist. I cannot wait.” Vic flexed his hand. The pain was already diminishing. “I don’t think we’ll need to worry about that. Let’s get him back home.” “What about Gio?” Rambo asked. He looked down at the vacuum. “We’ll just keep this between us for now, okay? Just until I know what we’re dealing with.” “White lies?” Rambo asked, sounding nervous. Vic shook his head. “We’ll tell him, just not yet.” He wanted to prove to his father he could handle the unexpected, even this. “It might be nothing. I don’t want to worry him if I don’t have to.” “Oh,” Rambo said. “And that’s not lying?” “Right. It’s more…” He struggled to find the words. “Getting the lay of the land before exploring.” “It is lying,” Nurse Ratched said. “Victor is asking us to lie.” Vic sighed and turned his face toward the sky. “Let’s get out of here before the Old Ones wake back up.” CHAPTER 4 They made it to Vic’s lab without incident. Dad was shut inside the ground house working. “Lights on,” Vic grunted as sweat dripped down his face. Above them, a large bulb flared to life. Vic’s lab wasn’t as large or as extravagant as his father’s. Dad liked to create. Vic liked to tinker. Next to the tree trunk in the center of the room was a large metal table that Dad had gifted Victor on his sixteenth birthday once the lab was completed. Above it, hanging from the ceiling attached to long, thin metal spindles, were all sorts of tools: soldering iron, soldering gun, four magnifying glasses of varying strengths, metal shaver, metal nibbler, polisher, and a magnetic drill. Fixed to one end of the table was an arbor press. Beyond the table and against the far wall was a band saw next to an anvil and a bead roller. To the left of the table was a row of windows that looked out onto the compound. To the right, a wall of tools: assorted hammers in all shapes and sizes, plyers, drills and dozens of bits, a torch that caused sparks to fly. And for working with wood, there were chisels, carving gouges and knives, veiners and V-carving tools. On the bench below the tools sat a metal lathe and a milling machine. He’d used them all at one point or another. He’d learned watching his father as he described the purpose of each tool, starting Vic young, saying that children were remarkable sponges for information, or so he’d heard. Dad had been delighted when Vic took to the act of creation as if he were made for it. Rambo went to the windows, pulling the slats closed as Nurse Ratched and Vic lifted the android onto the table. Once that was done, Vic stepped away, hands going to his back. He grimaced. “Heavy.” “He is,” Nurse Ratched said. “He weighs almost three hundred pounds.” “How much do I weigh?” Rambo asked. “Five pounds,” Nurse Ratched replied. “Oh. Is that good?” “I could


its flat head resting against its body. “A talisman,” said Dawes, her cheeks glowing with pride. “It worked!” “But what does it—” Alex choked back a gasp as the snake uncoiled in her hand. It spiraled around her forearm, all the way up to her elbow, then vanished into her skin. “Look!” Mercy cried. There were gleaming scales all over Alex’s bare arms. They glowed brightly and then dimmed, leaving nothing behind. “Was that supposed to happen?” she asked. “I’m not sure,” said Dawes. “The spell Mercy found—” “It was just a guardian spell,” Mercy finished. “Do you feel any different?” Alex shook her head. “Battered, bruised, and full of quality soup. No change.” Tripp reached into the crucible, nearly toppling into it. Turner grabbed him by the waistband of his shorts and hauled him back. There was some kind of bird in Tripp’s hand. “Is it a gull?” he asked. “It’s an albatross,” Dawes corrected, her voice troubled. As they watched, its white salt wings unfurled. It took flight, circled once around Tripp, then landed on his shoulder, folding into his body as if it had found the perfect place to roost. A pattern of silvery feathers cascaded over Tripp and disappeared into his skin. “They’re amazing birds,” said Mercy, her hands flapping as if she too were about to take flight. “They can lock their wings in place and sleep while they fly.” Tripp grinned, arms outstretched. “No shit?” “No shit,” said Mercy. It was the most civil exchange they’d had. Hesitantly, Dawes reached into the ash. “I … What is that?” The tiny salt creature in Dawes’s hand had enormous eyes and strange hands and feet that looked almost human. It sat as if it were hiding its face. “It’s a slow loris,” said Mercy. “It’s adorable is what it is,” said Alex. The salt loris peeked out from behind its hands, then climbed up Dawes’s arm, its movements graceful and deliberate. It nuzzled her ear and then curled into the crook of her neck, dissolving. For a moment, Dawes’s eyes seemed to glow like moons. Turner didn’t look impressed. “Is it going to kill those demons with cuteness?” “They can be deadly,” Mercy said defensively. “They’re the only primates with a poisonous bite, and they move nearly silently.” “How do you know all of this?” Alex asked. “I was a really lonely kid. The advantage to being unpopular is you get a lot more reading done.” Alex shook her head. “Boy, did you come to the right place.” “I’ve read about the loris,” said Dawes. “I’d just never seen one. They’re nocturnal. And they make terrible pets.” Alex laughed. “Sounds about right.” Turner sighed and peered into the heap of ash. “There better be a fucking lion in there.” He drew a sculpture out of the crucible. “A tree?” he asked incredulously. Tripp burst out laughing. “I think it’s an oak,” said Dawes. “A mighty oak?” offered Mercy. “Why did everyone else get something good and I got a damn plant?” “The spell indicated the guardians would come


a courtyard, with a learned air about it that seemed very well suited to the stray rooks and jackdaws who came down from the Cathedral towers to walk with a clerkly bearing on the grass-plot - and was introduced to my new master, Doctor Strong. Doctor Strong looked almost as rusty, to my thinking, as the tall iron rails and gates outside the house; and almost as stiff and heavy as the great stone urns that flanked them, and were set up, on the top of the red-brick wall, at regular distances all round the court, like sublimated skittles, for Time to play at. He was in his library (I mean Doctor Strong was), with his clothes not particularly well brushed, and his hair not particularly well combed; his knee-smalls unbraced; his long black gaiters unbuttoned; and his shoes yawning like two caverns on the hearth-rug. Turning upon me a lustreless eye, that reminded me of a long-forgotten blind old horse who once used to crop the grass, and tumble over the graves, in Blunderstone churchyard, he said he was glad to see me: and then he gave me his hand; which I didn't know what to do with, as it did nothing for itself. But, sitting at work, not far from Doctor Strong, was a very pretty young lady - whom he called Annie, and who was his daughter, I supposed - who got me out of my difficulty by kneeling down to put Doctor Strong's shoes on, and button his gaiters, which she did with great cheerfulness and quickness. When she had finished, and we were going out to the schoolroom, I was much surprised to hear Mr. Wickfield, in bidding her good morning, address her as 'Mrs. Strong'; and I was wondering could she be Doctor Strong's son's wife, or could she be Mrs. Doctor Strong, when Doctor Strong himself unconsciously enlightened me. 'By the by, Wickfield,' he said, stopping in a passage with his hand on my shoulder; 'you have not found any suitable provision for my wife's cousin yet?' 'No,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'No. Not yet.' 'I could wish it done as soon as it can be done, Wickfield,' said Doctor Strong, 'for Jack Maldon is needy, and idle; and of those two bad things, worse things sometimes come. What does Doctor Watts say,' he added, looking at me, and moving his head to the time of his quotation, '"Satan finds some mischief still, for idle hands to do."' 'Egad, Doctor,' returned Mr. Wickfield, 'if Doctor Watts knew mankind, he might have written, with as much truth, "Satan finds some mischief still, for busy hands to do." The busy people achieve their full share of mischief in the world, you may rely upon it. What have the people been about, who have been the busiest in getting money, and in getting power, this century or two? No mischief?' 'Jack Maldon will never be very busy in getting either, I expect,' said Doctor Strong, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'Perhaps not,' said Mr. Wickfield; 'and you bring me back


her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so much to do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air. "I don't mean to act any more after this time. I'm getting too old for such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about `dressing-up' frolics. "You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that." "I can't help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I don't choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, I'll drop. If I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful. I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece. "Do it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, `Roderigo` Save me! Save me! and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling. Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "Ow!" was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. "It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don't blame me. Come on, Meg." "Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect. Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild,"Ha! Ha!" "It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows. "I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things. "Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think THE WITCHES CURSE, an Operatic Tragedy is rather a nice thing, but I'd like to try McBETH, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. `Is that a dagger that I see before me?" muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do. "No, it's


wood. `The first thing I've got to do,' said Alice to herself, as she wandered about in the wood, `is to grow to my right size again; and the second thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I think that will be the best plan.' It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply arranged; the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea how to set about it; and while she was peering about anxiously among the trees, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a great hurry. An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and feebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her. `Poor little thing!' said Alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to it; but she was terribly frightened all the time at the thought that it might be hungry, in which case it would be very likely to eat her up in spite of all her coaxing. Hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick, and held it out to the puppy; whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off all its feet at once, with a yelp of delight, and rushed at the stick, and made believe to worry it; then Alice dodged behind a great thistle, to keep herself from being run over; and the moment she appeared on the other side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head over heels in its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was very like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again; then the puppy began a series of short charges at the stick, running a very little way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely all the while, till at last it sat down a good way off, panting, with its tongue hanging out of its mouth, and its great eyes half shut. This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape; so she set off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath, and till the puppy's bark sounded quite faint in the distance. `And yet what a dear little puppy it was!' said Alice, as she leant against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with one of the leaves: `I should have liked teaching it tricks very much, if--if I'd only been the right size to do it! Oh dear! I'd nearly forgotten that I've got to grow up again! Let me see--how IS it to be managed? I suppose I ought to eat or drink something or other; but the great question is, what?' The great question certainly was, what? Alice looked all round her at the flowers and the blades of grass, but she did not see anything that looked like the right thing to eat or


bale of hay. At the heart of the godswood, the great white weirwood brooded over its reflection in the black pool, its leaves rustling in a chill wind. When it felt Bran watching, it lifted its eyes from the still waters and stared back at him knowingly. He looked east, and saw a galley racing across the waters of the Bite. He saw his mother sitting alone in a cabin, looking at a bloodstained knife on a table in front of her, as the rowers pulled at their oars and Ser Rodrik leaned across a rail, shaking and heaving. A storm was gathering ahead of them, a vast dark roaring lashed by lightning, but somehow they could not see it. He looked south, and saw the great blue-green rush of the Trident. He saw his father pleading with the king, his face etched with grief. He saw Sansa crying herself to sleep at night, and he saw Arya watching in silence and holding her secrets hard in her heart. There were shadows all around them. One shadow was dark as ash, with the terrible face of a hound. Another was armored like the sun, golden and beautiful. Over them both loomed a giant in armor made of stone, but when he opened his visor, there was nothing inside but darkness and thick black blood. He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise. Finally he looked north. He saw the Wall shining like blue crystal, and his bastard brother Jon sleeping alone in a cold bed, his skin growing pale and hard as the memory of all warmth fled from him. And he looked past the Wall, past endless forests cloaked in snow, past the frozen shore and the great blue-white rivers of ice and the dead plains where nothing grew or lived. North and north and north he A GAME OF THRONES 145 looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks. Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. "Why?" Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling. Because winter is coming. Bran looked at the crow on his shoulder, and the crow looked back. It had three eyes, and the third eye was full of a terrible knowledge. Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like spears. He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon their points. He was desperately afraid. "Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?" he


would be most thrilling for the drive over. May I?” He gestured to the seat next to her, then hopped inside, even though he should have waited until Lucy was in the coach before alighting. Then again, Nick had never seemed one for following the rules, so Lucy shouldn’t have been surprised that he would disregard so many standards of conduct. “Tell me,” he said as soon as he was situated. “What is the most difficult part of being a lady’s maid?” “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with him,” Simon muttered. Lucy would have responded if she hadn’t looked up into the man’s face and realized the cloud had gone, replaced by a small smile of genuine friendship. Simon liked Nick’s oddities, and Nick was good for him. Maybe if Lucy charged Nick with looking after his friend when she was gone, Simon would be okay. She would discuss the matter with him after they returned from Penworth. For now, Lucy would simply have to hold herself together and pray she could survive the next few hours. When Simon helped her into the carriage and settled beside her close enough that their knees brushed, she knew that would take all her courage and concentration. Chapter Twenty-One If not for Forester and the maid’s endless conversation during the short drive to Penworth, Simon was sure the coach would have remained silent. Lucy kept her eyes out the window, as did he, and neither seemed inclined to continue the conversation they had been having before the others joined them. Perhaps they should have left the maid behind, as Forester served enough as a chaperone to keep Simon and Lucy from being alone. Honestly, he wouldn’t have even thought one necessary if Forester hadn’t confronted him that morning. He and Lucy hadn’t had one before now—though they were hardly ever on their own—and Simon had only wanted to get to know his future sister-in-law better. But the longer he knew Lucy, the more difficult he found it to keep his imaginations and hopes to himself. And if Forester’s assertions were correct, Simon was not being subtle about how he was starting to feel. She is to marry William, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. The words hadn’t done him much good, however, and he hated that he even had to tell himself anything of the sort. He shouldn’t have even looked at Lucy with any sort of intention, but ignoring her was next to impossible. She got under his skin. Despite his lingering misgivings about her, something about her forced him to reconsider bachelorhood. He had feared perhaps it was simply jealousy—not for her specifically but for William’s life in general. William had always had freedom and joy in a way Simon could only dream of. He had only responsibility for himself, and he had lived his life well with that knowledge. And now he was settling down. He had found himself a wife and would soon have children running about to spoil and laugh with and watch grow. Simon wanted all