To the thoughtful mind there will be no tinge of superstition in what we figuratively express, by affirming that the ghost of a dead progenitor--perhaps as a portion of his own punishment--is often doomed to become the Evil Genius of his family. The Pyncheons, in brief, lived along, for the better part of two centuries, with perhaps less of outward vicissitude than has attended most other New England families during the same period of time. Possessing very distinctive traits of their own, they nevertheless took the general characteristics of the little community in which they dwelt; a town noted for its frugal, discreet, well-ordered, and home-loving inhabitants, as well as for the somewhat confined scope of its sympathies; but in which, be it said, there are odder individuals, and, now and then, stranger occurrences, than one meets with almost anywhere else. During the Revolution, the Pyncheon of that epoch, adopting the royal side, became a refugee; but repented, and made his reappearance, just at the point of time to preserve the House of the Seven Gables from confiscation. For the last seventy years the most noted event in the Pyncheon annals had been likewise the heaviest calamity that ever befell the race; no less than the violent death--for so it was adjudged--of one member of the family by the criminal act of another. Certain circumstances attending this fatal occurrence had brought the deed irresistibly home to a nephew of the deceased Pyncheon. The young man was tried and convicted of the crime; but either the circumstantial nature of the evidence, and possibly some lurking doubts in the breast of the executive, or" lastly--an argument of greater weight in a republic than it could have been under a monarchy,--the high respectability and political influence of the criminal's connections, had availed to mitigate his doom from death to perpetual imprisonment. This sad affair had chanced about thirty years before the action of our story commences. Latterly, there were rumors (which few believed, and only one or two felt greatly interested in) that this long-buried man was likely, for some reason or other, to be summoned forth from his living tomb. It is essential to say a few words respecting the victim of this now almost forgotten murder. He was an old bachelor, and possessed of great wealth, in addition to the house and real estate which constituted what remained of the ancient Pyncheon property. Being of an eccentric and melancholy turn of mind, and greatly given to rummaging old records and hearkening to old traditions, he had brought himself, it is averred, to the conclusion that Matthew Maule, the wizard, had been foully wronged out of his homestead, if not out of his life. Such being the case, and he, the old bachelor, in possession of the ill-gotten spoil,--with the black stain of blood sunken deep into it, and still to be scented by conscientious nostrils, --the question occurred, whether it were not imperative upon him, even at this late hour, to make restitution to Maule's posterity. To a man living so much in


late. And Jessica saw a thing she hoped Jamis did not see. Paul's defensive reactions were blindingly fast, but they moved each time at the precisely correct angle they would take if a shield were helping deflect part of Jamis' blow. "Is your son playing with that poor fool?" Stilgar asked. He waved her to silence before she could respond. "Sorry; you must remain silent." Now the two figures on the rock floor circled each other; Jamis with knife hand held far forward and tipped up slightly; Paul crouched with knife held low. Again, Jamis pounced, and this time he twisted to the right where Paul had been dodging. Instead of faking back and out, Paul met the man's knife hand on the point of his own blade. Then the boy was gone, twisting away to the left and thankful for Chani's warning. Jamis backed into the center of the circle, rubbing his knife hand. Blood dripped from the injury for a moment, stopped. His eyes were wide and staring--two blue-black holes--studying Paul with a new wariness in the dull light of the glowglobes. "Ah, that one hurt," Stilgar murmured. Paul crouched at the ready and, as he had been trained to do after first blood, called out: "Do you yield?" "Hah!" Jamis cried. An angry murmur arose from the troop. "Hold!" Stilgar called out. "The lad doesn't know our rule." Then, to Paul: "There can be no yielding in the tahaddi-challenge. Death is the test of it." Jessica saw Paul swallow hard. And she thought: He's never killed a man like this . . . in the hot blood of a knife fight. Can he do it? Paul circled slowly right, forced by Jamis' movement. The prescient knowledge of the time-boiling variables in this cave came back to plague him now. His new understanding told him there were too many swiftly compressed decisions in this fight for any clear channel ahead to show itself. Variable piled on variable--that was why this cave lay as a blurred nexus in his path. It was like a gigantic rock in the flood, creating maelstroms in the current around it. "Have an end to it, lad," Stilgar muttered. "Don't play with him." Paul crept farther into the ring, relying on his own edge in speed. Jamis backed now that the realization swept over him--that this was no soft offworlder in the tahaddi ring, easy prey for a Fremen crysknife. Jessica saw the shadow of desperation in the man's face. Now is when he's most dangerous, she thought. Now he's desperate and can do anything. He sees that this is not like a child of his own people, but a fighting machine born and trained to it from infancy. Now the fear I planted in him has come to bloom. And she found in herself a sense of pity for Jamis--an emotion tempered by awareness of the immediate peril to her son. Jamis could do anything . . . any unpredictable thing, she told herself. She wondered then if Paul had glimpsed this future, if he


tell...Sing to it.

They often sing back.

Oh, come on. You’re telling fairytales, Pa!

No, its absolutely true!

Did I imagine—did Pa promise—that the selkies might also grant a

wish?

We talked a bit during that dinner about the stress we’d been under. If

we could just convince the papers to back off, we said...for a little while.

Pa nodded. But he felt it very important to remind us—

Yes, yes, Pa. We know. Dont read it.

At tea the next day the good vibes continued. We were all laughing,

talking about one thing and another, when Pa’s butler burst into the room,

pulling a land line behind him.

Your Royal Highness, Her Majesty.

Pa sat bolt upright. Oh, yes. He reached for the phone.

I’m sorry, sir, but shes calling for the Duchess.

Oh.

We all looked stunned. Meg tentatively reached for the phone.

It seemed Granny was calling to talk about Meg’s father. She was

responding to a letter Meg had written her, asking for advice and help.

Meg said she didn’t know how to make the press stop interviewing him,

enticing him to say horrid things. Granny now suggested that Meg forget

the press, go and see her father, try to talk some sense into him.

372

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.me/Afghansalarlibrary

Meg explained that he lived in a Mexican border town and she didn’t

know how she’d ever get through the airport, through the press

surrounding his house, then through that part of town, and back again,

quietly, safely.

Granny acknowledged the many problems with this plan.

In that case, perhaps write him a letter?

Pa agreed. Splendid idea.

53.

M EG AND I WENT DOwN to the beach in front of the castle. Chilly day,

but the sun was bright.


be an awful fix. Let's try some other way, so as not to go through there." "Well. But I hope we won't get lost. It would be so awful!" and the girl shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities. --------------------------------------------------------- -286- They started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long way, glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything familiar about the look of it; but they were all strange. Every time Tom made an examination, Becky would watch his face for an encouraging sign, and he would say cheerily: "Oh, it's all right. This ain't the one, but we'll come to it right away!" But he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently began to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in desperate hope of finding the one that was wanted. He still said it was "all right," but there was such a leaden dread at his heart that the words had lost their ring and sounded just as if he had said, "All is lost!" Becky clung to his side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back the tears, but they would come. At last she said: "Oh, Tom, never mind the bats, let's go back that way! We seem to get worse and worse off all the time." "Listen!" said he. Profound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were conspicuous in the hush. Tom shouted. The call went echoing down the empty aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that resembled a ripple of mocking laughter. "Oh, don't do it again, Tom, it is too horrid," said Becky. --------------------------------------------------------- -287- "It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear us, you know," and he shouted again. The "might" was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it so confessed a perishing hope. The children stood still and listened; but there was no result. Tom turned upon the back track at once, and hurried his steps. It was but a little while before a certain indecision in his manner revealed another fearful fact to Becky -- he could not find his way back! "Oh, Tom, you didn't make any marks!" "Becky, I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never thought we might want to come back! No -- I can't find the way. It's all mixed up." "Tom, Tom, we're lost! we're lost! We never can get out of this awful place! Oh, why did we ever leave the others!" She sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that Tom was appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason. He sat down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in his bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing regrets, and the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter. Tom begged her to pluck up hope again, and she said she could not. He fell


for self-defense. Because of these precautions, the shops with the priciest merchandise can maintain an illusion of timeless glamour and riskless privilege. A surprisingly clean brick-paved alleyway offers doors to rear entrances and merchandise-receiving rooms that are as secure as the doors to munitions bunkers and presented with simple elegance rarely found in the backstreets of commercial districts. Even the dumpsters are in good repair, freshly painted, and discreet. In gloom that the veiled moon little relieves, preferring light but well adapted to darkness, Michael proceeds to a five-story brick building on the right. A man-size door and a double-wide garage roll-up are matte black and bear no street number or business name. There is an electronic lock he must release and a security-system circuit he must sustain while he steps into a dimly lighted vestibule and quietly closes the door. He is so new to this life and his abilities that he still amazes himself. The law firm of Woodbine, Kravitz, Benedetto, and Spackman owns this building, occupies all five aboveground floors, and employs sixty-one people. To Michael’s left is a door that leads to two floors of subterranean parking. He pushes through a swinging door directly in front of him and follows a ground-floor hallway that leads past rooms of records and the offices of certain members of the legal-support staff. At the end of the hallway, he passes through another swinging door. The wealth and power of the firm are implied by the cavernous amount of unproductive space dedicated to the lobby, which at this late hour is revealed only by soft, indirect lighting. Black granite floors. Honey-toned quarter-cut anigre paneling. A domed, scalloped ceiling leafed in white gold. Millions of dollars’ worth of large, dramatic—and, in Michael’s opinion, tedious—paintings by Jackson Pollock present snarls of meaningless color that distract from the lustrous elegance of the piano-finish paneling. Two elevators feature stainless-steel doors with a subdued Art Deco design. For security reasons, these lifts can be accessed only by entering five digits in a keypad. Each person who works here has a unique pass code. During business hours, clients and guests are escorted into the elevators by one of two receptionists. Although lacking a code, Michael can obtain that of anyone who works here and use an elevator if he wishes, but even if the pneumatic-rail system is quiet, the sound might alert those he’s come here to see. An emergency stairwell is required in the event of fire. One is detailed in the blueprints that are on file with the city’s building department and readily accessible to him. The stairs are concealed behind paneling on which hangs a large vertical-format Pollock work that convincingly depicts and celebrates the mental chaos of extreme alcoholism. A concealed pressure latch in the frame of the painting releases the lock, and the hidden door swings out. The switchback stairs are concrete, not metal, and each tread is cushioned with ribbed rubber to minimize the danger of a slip-and-fall lawsuit. The regularly spaced LED wall sconces operate around the clock, seven days a


Hamlet's ghost could not know of were he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. That is why the speech (his lean unlovely English) is always turned elsewhere, backward. Ravisher and ravished, what he would but would not, go with him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, with its mole cinquespotted. He goes back, weary of the creation he has piled up to hide him from himself, an old dog licking an old sore. But, because loss is his gain, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the wisdom he has written or by the laws he has revealed. His beaver is up. He is a ghost, a shadow now, the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you will, the sea's voice, a voice heard only in the heart of him who is the substance of his shadow, the son consubstantial with the father. --Amen! was responded from the doorway. Hast thou found me, O mine enemy? ENTR'ACTE. A ribald face, sullen as a dean's, Buck Mulligan came forward, then blithe in motley, towards the greeting of their smiles. My telegram. --You were speaking of the gaseous vertebrate, if I mistake not? he asked of Stephen. Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as with a bauble. They make him welcome. WAS DU VERLACHST WIRST DU NOCH DIENEN. Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most. He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the right hand of His Own Self but yet shall come in the latter day to doom the quick and dead when all the quick shall be dead already. Glo--o--ri--a in ex--cel--sis De--o. He lifts his hands. Veils fall. O, flowers! Bells with bells with bells aquiring. --Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. A most instructive discussion. Mr Mulligan, I'll be bound, has his theory too of the play and of Shakespeare. All sides of life should be represented. He smiled on all sides equally. Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled: --Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name. A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features. --To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like Synge. Mr Best turned to him. --Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He'll see you after at the D. B. C. He's gone to Gill's to buy Hyde's LOVESONGS OF CONNACHT. --I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here? --The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired perhaps of our brilliancies of theorising. I hear that an actress played Hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. Vining held that the prince was a woman. Has no-one made him out to be an Irishman? Judge Barton, I believe, is searching for some clues. He swears (His Highness not His


ten-year sentence, and gotten out for good behavior. While in prison he found God, became a minister of his own church, and managed, through the help of his publicist, to spread the word outside the prison walls. By the time he walked out of the gates to a newfound freedom, he had a huge following of over twenty thousand believers. Today the membership of his church boasted more than a hundred thousand due to broad television coverage of a reformed sinner preaching the gospel, living the good life, and promising salvation. Now Kristi flipped open the book to the midsection where photos of Mandel Jarvis filled the pages. Pictures of him from infancy, through childhood with his brothers, in college in full uniform, again as an NFL pro athlete, his disarming smile ever-present. Then shots of Filipa and the wedding on the Greek isle, celebrity head shots, some candid photos of the couple, and finally the police images of the bloody crime scene, a New Orleans mansion forever stained by murder. She snapped the book closed. In the nearly five years since his freedom was regained, Mandel had lost none of his swagger. He had married his current wife, a B-level actress with whom he’d been rumored to have been involved while married to Filipa. Despite his tarnished reputation or possibly because of it, Mandel Jarvis was still considered handsome and “cool,” and today he maintained his innocence, that the cops set him up somehow. Today he was a major player in the community, preaching about God and police brutality and the corruption of the system. Despite finding the “path to heaven through Jesus,” he still seemed filled with hatred for the police, prison system, and specifically Rick Bentz. Worse yet, American Icon/American Killer, timed for publication just as he was released from prison, was a best seller and brought more attention to him, which he had turned to his advantage, using his fame or infamy to preach against sin, corruption, and the American legal system, all the while growing his congregation exponentially. So would he, after all this time, still be harboring a grudge so deep that he would risk everything he’d gained—millions of dollars, a wife and son—for revenge? Was he deranged enough to think he could turn a second murder around to his advantage? Had he been lying in wait for Kristi and when things went sour, killed Jay either intentionally or accidentally? Besides, Mandel Jarvis was a muscular black man, who was just over six feet and about 220 pounds. She hadn’t been able to see the attacker’s face, nor skin tone, but she didn’t think he was that size, not that heavy and certainly not that tall. But she could be mistaken. The night had been dark, the rain a downpour, visibility practically nil. And she’d been freaked out of her mind, fighting for her damned life, concerned only about saving herself and her unborn child, not in her right mind. She froze. Thought about how she’d reacted that night, how intense her need to save herself


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

came together again; Bastian slipped a hand around her waist, and she did the same as they circled each other, a movement that would’ve looked predatory without the softness dancing brought it. “That dress suits you,” Bastian said, not trying to hide the turn of his eyes up and down her form. “I didn’t get a very good look at you during the Consecration—or yesterday morning in the gardens, occupied as I was—but I thought it might.” So he did recognize her from the gardens. Lore gave him a self-deprecating smile. “That was you? How embarrassing. My belongings didn’t arrive on time, so I had to borrow a dress from the Church’s donations.” Hands left waists, came to face height and hovered within an inch of each other, palms flat as Lore orbited around him. “How fortunate,” Bastian murmured, “to have such a close contact in the Church.” The dance ended. Around them, other couples were in a pose with their right hands together and the other curved above their heads, but Bastian and Lore still stood with their palms facing between them, almost touching but not quite. “I look forward to having you around, Lore.” His voice was low, breath brushing her temple as he leaned forward to speak into her ear. “It certainly has the potential to be interesting.” “Do you think so, Your Highness?” He was close enough that she felt the brush of his lips curving. “I know so.” Across the room, Alie watched them, giggling behind her hand. Next to her, Gabe caught Lore’s eye, arched a sardonic brow. She tried to make a face that communicated what else am I supposed to do? but mostly just succeeded in looking nauseous. Bastian stepped back. He reached into his coat, and for a wild moment, Lore thought he was going to pull out a dagger or one of those tiny pistols, prove himself the Kirythean informant his father thought he was by taking care of her right here in the middle of his own party. The courtiers would probably love it. They’d all bring in peasants to murder at their own balls; it’d be the next big trend in masquerade hosting. But all Bastian pulled from his coat was a pressed flower, a line of pale-purple blooms on a green stem. “A foxglove for a foxglove.” Bastian handed it to her with a bow and a flourish. “Beautiful and poisonous. Much like yourself, if I may be so bold as to make an assessment after our brief acquaintance.” Gingerly, Lore took the bloom. The dry petals crunched slightly between her fingers. “Until next time, Lore.” Bastian turned and walked away, a drop of ink in a sea of color. Lore closed the door to the apartments behind her and leaned back against it. “I suppose that went about as well as it could.” “You performed your assignment admirably,” Gabriel said, sitting down on the couch with a long sigh. “It seems ingratiating myself with Bastian won’t be the hard part.” Lore pulled off her mask and let it


and if you open them you’ve got about twenty seconds before the whole floor gets flooded in water from the roof tank. Oh, well, yes, and there’s a freight entrance, which she controls from here. Yes, there’s a security camera record, but the camera is over there, so it doesn’t show faces of guests as they come in. Yes, that’s a policy decision of the owner. Privacy matters here. The freight entrance is different, the camera there has a zoom function and night vision, so you can make sure there is no monkey business. Or watch the foxes. No, she doesn’t recall Roddy Tebbit having a visitor that night, but the commuter hours are busy and she’s not required to check every single entry during that time. So if someone came in at six thirty and left in the morning, she wouldn’t know. If they left before nine in the evening, really, she wouldn’t know. She is paid to keep an eye on things, but also, as she has already said, to not. Yes, Layla Catchpole did come in with someone, a glossy older fellow Jerelyn took to be up to no good. I ask her about the takeout delivery. Roddy got meals from a takeout place around the corner sometimes. Yes, he got one last night. Oh, dear, that means he did have a visitor, after all. She meant no one social. Yes, she buzzed the kid in. She uses the same place sometimes, it’s not expensive. It’s mostly Goan food but the chef is Hungarian. The combination works. Go figure. The kid’s sweet, it’s good to see a young person working with their parents. Education is a fine aspiration but there’s such a thing as a family business. We need both in the world. If I go over there, tell his mother that Jerelyn says hi. I look around for the security camera. Too high and too far away, and like she says, intended to give everyone a little privacy. Perfect for compliance and liability, not so great for an actual investigation. Gratton’s people can do the hard labour, matching entry and exit to residents. That’s what uniforms are for. I give Jerelyn my card and tell her to call me if she thinks of anything she doesn’t want to tell the police, and I walk out into the winter. I can smell snow between the mist and lake water, and the heat from the cars. * * * — The Goan-Hungarian place is called Bela’s but the chef’s name is Atilla, pronounced like oh-tah-loh. His wife, Mâri, runs the business and she’s the brains. Oh, Jerelyn from over there? That’s a good woman. And yes, Mâri says, she knows Roddy. Occasionally he comes and sits in. He always orders the same things, very particular. He doesn’t drink much. Always used to come in by himself. No, never with Mrs. Catchpole—Mâri does not love Mrs. Catchpole—but there was a girl, a pale, pretty girl, she looked tiny next to him but she was about the same height as Mâri. Atilla


object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the color of his accomplice's hair. The 4 pounds a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it. and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation." "But how could you guess what the motive was?" "Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clew. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar--something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building. "So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen." "And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?" I asked. "Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign


hair. He looks like he works in the media. “Hi,” he says, smiling warmly at us. Christian puts his arm around me and nods politely. “I’ve just moved in. Apartment sixteen.” “Hello.” I return his smile. He has kind, soft brown eyes. The elevator arrives and we all walk in. Christian glances down at me, his ex- pression unreadable. 110/551 “You’re Christian Grey,” the young man says. Christian gives him a tight smile. “Noah Logan.” He holds out his hand. Reluctantly, Christian takes it. “Which floor?” Noah asks. “I have to input a code.” “Oh.” “Penthouse.” “Oh.” Noah smiles broadly. “Of course.” He presses the button for the eighth floor and the doors close. “Mrs. Grey, I presume.” “Yes.” I give him a polite smile and we shake hands. Noah flushes a little as he gazes at me a fraction too long. I mirror his flush and Christian’s arm tightens around me. “When did you move in?” I ask. “Last weekend. I love the place.” There’s an awkward pause before the elevator stops at Noah’s floor. “Great to meet you both,” he says sounding relieved and steps out. The doors close silently behind him. Christian taps in the entry code and the elevator ascends again. “He seemed nice,” I murmur. “I’ve never met any of the neighbors before.” Christian scowls. “I prefer it that way.” “That’s because you’re a hermit. I thought he was pleasant enough.” “A hermit?” “Hermit. Stuck in your ivory tower,” I state matter-of-factly. Christian’s lips twitch with amusement. “Our ivory tower. And I think you have another name to add to the list of your admirers, Mrs. Grey.” I roll my eyes. “Christian, you think everyone is an admirer.” “Did you just roll your eyes at me?” My pulse quickens. “I sure did,” I whisper, my breath catching in my throat. He cocks his head to one side, wearing his smoldering, arrogant, amused ex- pression. “What shall we do about that?” “Something rough.” He blinks to hide his surprise. “Rough?” “Please.” “You want more?” 111/551 I nod slowly. The doors to the elevator open and we’re home. “How rough?” he breathes, his eyes darkening. I gaze at him, saying nothing. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then grabs my hand and hauls me into the foyer. When we burst through the double doors, Sawyer is standing in the hallway, looking expectantly at the two of us. “Sawyer, I’d like to be debriefed in an hour,” Christian says. “Yes, sir.” Turning, Sawyer heads back into Taylor’s office. We have an hour! Christian glances down at me. “Rough?” I nod. “Well, Mrs. Grey, you’re in luck. I’m taking requests today.” “Do you have anything in mind?” Christian murmurs, pinning me with his bold gaze. I shrug, suddenly breathless and agitated. I don’t know if it’s the chase, the adrenaline, my earlier bad mood—I don’t understand, but I want this, and I want it badly. A puzzled expression flits across Christian’s face. “Kinky fuckery?” he asks, his words a soft caress. I nod, feeling my face flame. Why am


someone, but I had no one to call. My therapist, I supposed, but I hadn’t talked to her since Stahl died, and the idea of explaining everything made me feel ill. I wanted Liv. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I dropped my hands and strode to the door, my thoughts half-formed and wild. I walked the few steps to room 4 and knocked before I could think better of it. Ethan answered the door, looking concerned. “Naomi. Are you okay? What’s up?” He’d lost the cozy sweater he usually wore and was down to an undershirt and jeans. The sweater had hidden a surprisingly muscular build and a tattoo on his left shoulder—a solid black ring about four inches across. He rubbed a thumb across it absently as he spoke. “Can I come in?” I asked. He glanced behind him. “Uh. Sure,” he said. He opened the door farther and stepped backward, letting me enter without putting my back to him. I shut the door behind me and stood there, fingers resting against the cold door. His dirty clothes were heaped in an open suitcase at the end of the bed. Recording equipment was stored more neatly by the desk, and his laptop was open, with sound-editing software up and running. I wondered if he was editing my “interview.” I walked over, trying to decode the tangle of sound waves and icons. “Naomi?” His fingers brushed my elbow. I dragged my eyes back to his face. “What’s going on?” “I don’t want to be alone,” I said. His fingertips were still on my elbow, barely touching me, like he was afraid of what would happen if he made real contact. Or if he let go. “Do you want to talk?” he asked. Did I? I needed to tell someone. I needed to speak the words to ease the aching pressure in my chest, but I had no one to tell. “Tell me what’s happening,” he said. His voice was so painfully gentle, so kind. His touch as tender as he’d been when he lifted Liv from the water. “I can’t,” I said. I stepped toward him. Some people reach for a bottle. I have never been able to silence my thoughts with alcohol. It only ever blunts my defenses, lets loose all the creeping things in the corners of my mind. I’ve found other ways to cope. I stepped into him and he let out a startled breath, eyes widening. I rested a hand on his chest. His heart beat rapidly under my palm, and I thought of the rush of blood, of how easily it escapes the skin. “Naomi,” he said. “Ethan,” I replied. I leaned into him, almost touching, not quite. A gap that was easy to close, if he wanted to. He wanted to. But he didn’t. His hand skimmed up my arm, over my shoulder, until his fingers rested at the back of my neck. “What are you doing?” he asked me. “I told you. I don’t want to be


resuscitation efforts after he shot Carr gives him a gnawing feeling that he can’t shake. He returns his focus to the assault case when Jonah’s desk phone rings. “Detective Nolan.” Ethan reads the assault victim is thirty-two-old Hannah West, who was attacked on her way to a bus stop last night at eleven p.m. on her way home from work. There were no witnesses, and it was on a poorly lit street, so she didn’t get a good look at her attacker. He was wearing a dark hood, had a beard. He came at her from behind, hurling his fist into her face when she turned around, before swinging a blunt object at the side of her head. She collapsed and passed out. An Uber driver called 911 after finding her ten minutes later. Ethan finds that the only upside to the report. “Okay, thanks,” he hears Jonah say before hanging up. “That was Pete.” His partner’s voice takes on a wary tone. “Chelsea Carr’s toxicology just came back.” Ethan spins around. “And?” “It’s positive for oxycodone. It doesn’t change her cause of death being drowning. Pete said the amount of opioids in her system wasn’t likely enough to cause respiratory depression, although it would depend on her tolerance for the drug. It does explain why she didn’t put up much of a fight to free herself. Or fight off her husband, if that’s what happened.” Jonah taps a pen against his desk. “We will have no way of knowing whether she took them herself or if Carr somehow slipped them to her.” Jonah lifts his gaze to Ethan’s. “Which adds to the other things we don’t have answers to in this case.” From the look on Jonah’s face, it’s clear one of the things is Sloane’s possible involvement in Chelsea’s death. After Jonah turns back to his desk, Ethan does the same. He stares at the open case file, thinking back to when the fire captain told him and Jonah about the ER doctor shouting at the nurse who suggested Narcan. Behind him, Jonah rolls back his chair. “I’ve got a witness to interview. Call me if you need me.” “Okay.” Ethan shuts the case file. “Oh.” Jonah stands from his chair. “Maybe your wife told you already, but I got word Bayside finished their medical review of Chelsea’s resuscitation this morning. Found no evidence of malpractice in Chelsea’s medical care. So, there’s that. The hospital thinks they can trust her. ” Jonah walks out of the unit without waiting for his partner to respond. Leaning his elbows on his desk, he presses his hands together and lets his chin rest against the sides of his fingers. Sloane said she had no reason to believe Chelsea had drugs in her system, but after all he’s seen of Sloane in the last couple of months, can he really trust that she’s telling the truth? “How did the affair start?” Ethan asked her a few weeks ago after they went to bed. “I mean, you’re not on social media, and you said you


make it through a few more minutes. After which he would take a cab back to his hotel and get to his room as fast as possible. Then he would pull up those pictures that he’d added to his camera roll from social media and stroke one out to Natalie in her wedding dress. If that wasn’t a sign that he’d grown obsessed with this woman, nothing was. He actually got off remembering the moment she’d vowed in public to be his wife. That couldn’t be normal. Natalie gripped the meatiest part of his arms and shook him. “August. I know. I know you can’t walk me to my room without coming inside.” She slid her palms up, along his shoulders and higher, cradling his face. It felt so incredible, he had to stifle a moan. “You don’t have to protect yourself. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m coming home with you. To St. Helena. I’m staying there. With you. Because of you.” What? August’s lungs were suddenly empty, the lobby sounds dulling to a whisper around him. Had someone slipped him an Ambien on the plane and he was dreaming this whole scenario, because he could have sworn Natalie just said she was coming home with him. His entire body was one big pulse and he could barely gather his thoughts over the booming noise it made. “I don’t understand. You’re coming back to stay, even though I’ve been a jackass? Even though you have the trust fund? And the investor?” “You’re better than all of those things,” she whispered, eyes shining. He doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees, doubt finally giving way to joy, which spread through him like wildfire. “You better not be pranking me.” “Take me upstairs and find out.” They took a giant step toward each other at the same time, Natalie tucking her small, elegant hand into his larger one. Their fingers threaded together and held. Christ, what a privilege. This was happening. It was actually happening. The elevator ride to Natalie’s floor was a blur. He couldn’t even scramble enough brain power to kiss her, because it was all occupied with relief and shock and happiness. So much happiness. Doors opened, feet moved along a carpeted hallway, and with her room in sight, their official reunion imminent, his brain finally, blessedly came back online. Mostly. When had he backed her up against the door? Their mouths were a breath away from touching, her tits flattened against his chest. He was burning alive with the need to give her an orgasm. Hearing her demands, feeling those fingers twist in his hair, her pussy clamping down— “Stop thinking about it, August, and do it.” She licked into his mouth slowly, dragging his bottom lip through her teeth. “Bring me inside. Put me up against the wall.” If a hotel guest happened by at that moment, they would have assumed Natalie was being mugged, he reached for her bag so fast. “Key, princess. Key.” A desperate sound bubbled out of her, both of them


he doesn’t press for details. “My new patient’s a stroke victim. Lives out on the Cliffs.” I say it hoping he’ll be impressed—or, at the very least, intrigued—by the idea of rich people trusting me enough to take care of someone. If he is, he doesn’t show it. “Okay,” he says. I know the one sure way to get my father’s full attention is to tell him the name of my new patient. Just like with Kenny, I don’t even consider it. Knowing I’ll be caring for Lenora Hope will only make my father think less of me. If such a thing is possible. “Do you need anything before I go?” I say instead. My father takes another bite of sandwich and shakes his head. The pang I’d felt outside returns with another kick. Harder this time. So hard I swear a chunk of my heart has broken off and is now dropping into the depths of my stomach. “I’ll try to check in every two weeks.” “No need,” my father says. And that’s all he says. I hover in the doorway a moment—waiting, hoping, silently pleading for more. Anything will do. Goodbye. Good riddance. Fuck off. Anything but this hostile silence that makes me feel like nothing. Worse than nothing. Invisible. That’s how I feel. I leave after that, not bothering to say goodbye. I don’t want to be met with silence when my father refuses to say it back to me. THREE Duran Duran blasts from my car stereo as I follow a road that hugs the rocky coastline, climbing higher and higher until the Escort shimmies and the rough waters of the Atlantic become blurs of white crashing against strips of sand far below. In my rearview mirror is an area that is definitely the Cliffs. It practically screams old money, with massive houses clinging to the craggy bluffs like gannet nests, half hidden behind brick walls and swaths of ivy. How the other half lives. That’s how my mother would have described those cliffside dwellings with turrets, widow’s walks, and bay windows facing the sea. I beg to differ. Not even the other half can afford to live at the Cliffs. The area has always been—and always will be—rarefied air. It’s home to the cream of the crop, perched over everyone and everything, as if God himself had placed them there. “Yet here you are, Kit-Kat,” my mother would have said. “On your way to a job in one of these places.” Again, I would disagree. Where I’m heading isn’t anyone’s idea of a prime destination. Hope’s End. Until today, I’d only heard it referred to simply as the Hope house, usually in that hushed tone reserved for tragic things. Now I know why. Hope’s End strikes me as a startlingly apocalyptic name for an estate. Especially considering what happened there. My knowledge doesn’t extend far beyond the rhyme. I know that Winston Hope made a fortune in shipping and built his estate on the rocky coast of northern Maine and not in Bar Harbor or Newport because


to catch up with the others. Presently Ralph stopped and turned back to Piggy. "Look." Jack and Simon pretended to notice nothing. They walked on. "You can't come." Piggy's glasses were misted again--this time with humiliation. "You told 'em. After what I said." His face flushed, his mouth trembled. "After I said I didn't want--" "What on earth are you talking about?" "About being called Piggy. I said I didn't care as long as they didn't call me Piggy; an' I said not to tell and then you went an' said straight out--" Stillness descended on them. Ralph, looking with more understanding at Piggy, saw that he was hurt and crushed. He hovered between the two courses of apology or further insult. "Better Piggy than Fatty," he said at last, with the directness of genuine leadership, "and anyway, I'm sorry if you feel like that. Now go back, Piggy, and take names. That's your job. So long." He turned and raced after the other two. Piggy stood and the rose of indignation faded slowly from his cheeks. He went back to the platform. The three boys walked briskly on the sand. The tide was low and there was a strip of weed-strewn beach that was almost as firm as a road. A kind of glamour was spread over them and the scene and they were conscious of the glamour and made happy by it. They turned to each other, laughing excitedly, talking, not listening. The air was bright. Ralph, faced by the task of translating all this into an explanation, stood on his head and fell over. When they had done laughing, Simon stroked Ralph's arm shyly; and they had to laugh again. "Come on," said Jack presently, "we're explorers." "We'll go to the end of the island," said Ralph, "and look round the corner." "If it is an island--" Now, toward the end of the afternoon, the mirages were settling a little. They found the end of the island, quite distinct, and not magicked out of shape or sense. There was a jumble of the usual squareness, with one great block sitting out in the lagoon. Sea birds were nesting there. "Like icing," said Ralph, "on a pink cake." "We shan't see round this corner," said Jack, "because there isn't one. Only a slow curve--and you can see, the rocks get worse--" Ralph shaded his eyes and followed the jagged outline of the crags up toward the mountain. This part of the beach was nearer the mountain than any other that they had seen. "We'll try climbing the mountain from here," he said. "I should think this is the easiest way. There's less of that jungly stuff; and more pink rock. Come on." The three boys began to scramble up. Some unknown force had wrenched and shattered these cubes so that they lay askew, often piled diminishingly on each other. The most usual feature of the rock was a pink cliff surmounted by a skewed block; and that again surmounted, and that again, till the pinkness became a stack of balanced


over a bulbous, springy surface. I frowned. Odd, why would the vines be— I looked down and screamed. My legs violently recoiled, knocking my knees against my chin. Stretched on the ground beside my bed was the soldier I killed. A bone of his snapped neck protruded from the waxen glaze of his skin. Insects skittered in the open gash under his belly. My stomach turned as his lips pulsed, parting briefly as a roach escaped onto his cheek. I had seen many corpses, but never quite this far into death. Yuck. He must have been a nightmare for the guards to carry. I stretched my leg to hop over him when something much more unsettling caught my eye. On the soldier’s chest lay a wrapped sesame-seed candy. The door opened. Jeru and Vaun entered, moving to opposite sides of the frame. They stood at attention. Arin strode past them. With his hair swept tidily from his face and his vest meticulously laced beneath his coat, it was hard to imagine someone with such self-possession had nearly strangled me to death. His attention found my face and settled, eradicating the small hope I had indulged that perhaps the soldier’s body had been in this room before I arrived. Arin wanted a reaction. I had a split second to decide which one I should give. I could give him innocence, feign shock and horror at the mutilated corpse and maybe break into tears. I could offer the Heir subdued distress and ask him what happened. Every option I considered fell flat, because they all inevitably led to the same consequence: my death. He had declared as much in the war room. I bent down and plucked the candy from the soldier’s chest. I studied it between two fingers, bringing it to my nose for a sniff. Filth and sugar. “I think you misplaced this,” I said, casual. No response. I may as well have spoken to a stone. He wanted a reaction? Well, that made two of us. I flicked the candy. It fell against his boot. “I do not care much for sweets, myself.” Vaun stepped forward, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Jeru grasped his elbow. “Out.” Arin did not raise his voice or move his eyes from mine. A sour-faced Vaun wrenched his elbow away and stormed out. Jeru followed, closing the door behind him. We were alone. I bit my lip. The urge to break the silence battered me, an unfortunate relic from my time with Hanim. Silence was danger. The more still he was, the more unsettled I became. I forced myself to hold his gaze. The blackness was gone, replaced with his placid blue. Not a suggestion of the savagery I had witnessed remained in his frosty disposition. One question pushed and pushed, forcing itself into creation. “Is Fairel—” I cleared my throat. “Is Fairel alive?” Arin arranged himself on a long-backed wooden chair, crossing his ankle over his knee. His gloved hand dangled loosely over his bent knee. “Yes,” he said. Relief crashed through


breaking out the champagne.” Nathaniel. She’d been so busy today that she’d barely thought of him. Meanwhile, he was in Florida procuring her engagement ring. The impulsivity of her actions scared her a little. Perhaps this was what her mother had felt like when she’d been cast in a Broadway show and then been forced to make a choice between her career and having a family. It was all a muddle. “I suppose,” said Marion. Simon paused a moment, studying her, and she tried not to squirm. “Now, tell me, what exactly did you do with yourself today?” It was almost as if he knew she’d been up to something. Luckily, before Marion could come up with a response, Mrs. Hornsby entered carrying a pitcher of water. “What are you still doing here?” said Simon with mock outrage. “Go home already. We’ve got to get used to being without you eventually.” Mrs. Hornsby smiled serenely at him as she refilled his glass. “Mr. Brooks, I’m retiring on December 31, not a day before. Don’t think you can push me out the door so fast.” “We’re going to miss you terribly, Mrs. Hornsby,” said Judy. “I’m not sure how Dad will manage without your apple turnovers.” “Are you kidding?” said Simon. “You’ll have to pry my hands from around her ankles that day, or she’ll be dragging me behind her the whole way home.” Mrs. Hornsby laughed and flicked her dishcloth at him. “Tommy’s taking me to California for a vacation on the first of January, and he only bought two plane tickets, so you’ll have to restrain yourself.” Her son, Tommy, was a New York policeman, and Mrs. Hornsby, a widow, was as devoted to him as he was to her. Marion watched as they all joked and teased each other. She already felt excluded from her father’s and Judy’s lives. Meanwhile, her close friends from high school had either gone off to college or were married, and the other teachers at the dance studio lived in the city and led busy lives of their own. Her own choices—waiting around for Nathaniel and spending most of her time at the dance studio—had left her lonely and isolated. She had no one to turn to for advice, right when she needed it most. * * * Marion woke up early and stared at the ceiling. What if Bunny was right, and she’d just shined for that one day, driven by her competitive nature and the need to prove everyone who doubted her wrong? Or what if it was her beauty that had gotten the judges’ attention and landed her the job, not her dancing? If she showed up at the first rehearsal today, she’d find out. And no one needed to know. She figured if Mr. Markert found her dancing subpar and fired her, she’d be able to move on with her life without wondering what might have been. Before she could change her mind, she pulled on her dance clothes, threw a skirt and a sweater over them, and headed out the


at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!' `But I'm NOT a serpent, I tell you!' said Alice. `I'm a--I'm a--' `Well! WHAT are you?' said the Pigeon. `I can see you're trying to invent something!' `I--I'm a little girl,' said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered the number of changes she had gone through that day. `A likely story indeed!' said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest contempt. `I've seen a good many little girls in my time, but never ONE with such a neck as that! No, no! You're a serpent; and there's no use denying it. I suppose you'll be telling me next that you never tasted an egg!' `I HAVE tasted eggs, certainly,' said Alice, who was a very truthful child; `but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you know.' `I don't believe it,' said the Pigeon; `but if they do, why then they're a kind of serpent, that's all I can say.' This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding, `You're looking for eggs, I know THAT well enough; and what does it matter to me whether you're a little girl or a serpent?' `It matters a good deal to ME,' said Alice hastily; `but I'm not looking for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn't want YOURS: I don't like them raw.' `Well, be off, then!' said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled down again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the trees as well as she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. After a while she remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height. It was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes, and began talking to herself, as usual. `Come, there's half my plan done now! How puzzling all these changes are! I'm never sure what I'm going to be, from one minute to another! However, I've got back to my right size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden--how IS that to be done, I wonder?' As she said this, she came suddenly upon an open place, with a little house in it about four feet high. `Whoever lives there,' thought Alice, `it'll never do to come upon them THIS size: why, I should frighten them out of their wits!' So she began nibbling at the righthand bit again, and did not venture to go near the house till she had brought herself down to nine inches high.


a place you once knew well and found it changed? If so, you may understand Silas' eagerness and puzzlement. The shops on Prison Street have all changed, but he discovers a few familiar landmarks to lead him to Lantern-Yard. When he turns the last corner, though, a rude shock awaits him. The entire street has been knocked down and replaced with a factory. NOTE: SOCIAL HISTORY This novel is set in an era of transition, when villages like Raveloe still existed but big industrial cities had already sprung up. This brief picture of urban life intensifies by contrast the picture Eliot has drawn of Raveloe. She presents this manufacturing town and its miserable living conditions with a minimum of description, relying mostly upon her characters' remarks to show it to you. Eppie exclaims at how crowded it is. Even Silas is surprised by the smell. Eliot gives you a quick, unsettling glimpse of dirty faces in dark doorways. The factory produces a dehumanized, faceless stream of men and women. With her reverence for the past, Eliot stresses how transient this city is. Silas can't find anyone who's lived there longer than ten years. People and places he used to know seem to be swept away, as though they never existed. Compare this to Raveloe, which is rooted in its past. Would you call your own community transient or rooted in the past? What about America in general? Eliot cuts immediately back to Raveloe, where Dolly helps Silas sort out what happened. Dolly muses that there are many things in life which remain "dark" to ordinary people. Silas agrees, but he says that since Eppie has come to him, "I've had light enough to trusten by"--the darkness of life no longer troubles him. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CONCLUSION In Chapter 6, Mr. Macey said that winter was a strange season for the Lammeters' wedding. The Lammeters were outsiders, but Eppie isn't--she gets married in spring, the right season. Symbolically, the spring is lovely and fertile, filled with flowers and new life. But Eliot also tells you the villagers' practical reasons why spring is best--they have more time for weddings then, and it's better weather for a light dress. This wedding scene works to restore a sense of harmony after the crisis in Chapter 19. Eppie accepts her wedding dress from Nancy, smoothing over hard feelings. Godfrey has provided the wedding feast, and soon you'll see he's made additions to Silas' cottage in preparation for Aaron's moving in. Everyone in town, from Priscilla Lammeter to Mr. Macey, is on hand to watch the wedding party walk to church. But there is an undertone of sadness. Nancy needs to be kept company; Godfrey has some vague excuse for being away. How do you think they feel today? All of the village rituals are observed. Mr. Macey makes a little speech to Silas, blessing the marriage. Guests gather in the churchyard early so they can tell their old stories about Silas and Eppie over again. The men head for the Rainbow after the service. NOTE: A FAMILY


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

of Kemp's House Kemp read a strange missive, written in pencil on a greasy sheet of paper. "You have been amazingly energetic and clever," this letter ran, "though what you stand to gain by it I cannot imagine. You are against me. For a whole day you have chased me; you have tried to rob me of a night's rest. But I have had food in spite of you, I have slept in spite of you, and the game is only beginning. The game is only beginning. There is nothing for it, but to start the Terror. This announces the first day of the Terror. Port Burdock is no longer under the Queen tell your Colonel of Police, and the rest of them; it is under me--the Terror! This is day one of year one of the new epoch --the Epoch of the Invisible Man. I am Invisible Man the First. To begin with the rule will be easy. The first day there will be one execution for the sake of example--a man named Kemp. Death starts for him to-day. He may lock himself away, hide himself away, get guards about him, put on armour if he likes; Death, the unseen Death, is coming. Let him take precautions; it will impress my people. Death starts from the pillar-box by midday. The letter will fall in as the postman comes along, then off! The game begins. Death starts. Help him not, my people, lest Death fall upon you also. To-day Kemp is to die." Kemp read this letter twice. "It's no hoax," he said. "That's his voice! And he means it." He turned the folded sheet over and saw on the addressed side of it the postmark Hintondean, and the prosaic detail, "2d. to pay." He got up, leaving his lunch unfinished--the letter had come by the one o'clock post--and went into his study. He rang for his housekeeper, and told her to go round the house at once, examine all the fastenings of the windows, and close all the shutters. He closed the shutters of his study himself. From a locked drawer in his bedroom he took a little revolver, examined it carefully, and put it into the pocket of his lounge jacket. He wrote a number of brief notes, one to Colonel Adye, gave them to his servant to take, with explicit instructions as to her way of leaving the house. "There is no danger," he said, and added a mental reservation, "to you." He remained meditative for a space after doing this, and then returned to his cooling lunch. He ate with gaps of thought. Finally he struck the table sharply. "We will have him!" he said; "and I am the bait. He will come too far." He went up to the belvedere, carefully shutting every door after him. "It's a game," he said, "an odd game--but the chances are all for me, Mr. Griffin, in spite of your invisibility. Griffin contra mundum--with a vengeance!" He stood at the window staring at the hot hillside. "He must get food every


and he's only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to the line, "There's another, not a sister, he looked right down at you." "Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you are my bosom friend, but I cannot allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed? Let's run a race and see who'll get to the bed first." The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little whiteclad figures flew down the long room, through the spareroom door, and bounded on the bed at the same moment. And then-something-moved beneath them, there was a gasp and a cry-and somebody said in muffled accents: "Merciful goodness!" Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how they got off that bed and out of the room. They only knew that after one frantic rush they found themselves tiptoeing shiveringly upstairs. "Oh, who was it-WHAT was it?" whispered Anne, her teeth chattering with cold and fright. "It was Aunt Josephine," said Diana, gasping with laughter. "Oh, Anne, it was Aunt Josephine, however she came to be there. Oh, and I know she will be furious. It's dreadful-it's really dreadful-but did you ever know anything so funny, Anne?" "Who is your Aunt Josephine?" "She's father's aunt and she lives in Charlottetown. She's awfully old-seventy anyhow-and I don't believe she was ever a little girl. We were expecting her out for a visit, but not so soon. She's awfully prim and proper and she'll scold dreadfully about this, I know. Well, we'll have to sleep with Minnie May-and you can't think how she kicks." Miss Josephine Barry did not appear at the early breakfast the next morning. Mrs. Barry smiled kindly at the two little girls. "Did you have a good time last night? I tried to stay awake until you came home, for I wanted to tell you Aunt Josephine had come and that you would have to go upstairs after all, but I was so tired I fell asleep. I hope you didn't disturb your aunt, Diana." Diana preserved a discreet silence, but she and Anne exchanged furtive smiles of guilty amusement across the table. Anne hurried home after breakfast and so remained in blissful ignorance of the disturbance which presently resulted in the Barry household until the late afternoon, when she went down to Mrs. Lynde's on an errand for Marilla. "So you and Diana nearly frightened poor old Miss Barry to death last night?" said Mrs. Lynde severely, but with a twinkle in her eye. "Mrs. Barry was here a few minutes ago on her way to Carmody. She's feeling real worried over it. Old Miss Barry was in a terrible temper when she got up this morning-and Josephine Barry's temper is no joke, I can tell you that. She wouldn't speak to Diana at all." "It wasn't Diana's fault," said Anne contritely. "It was mine. I suggested racing to see who would get into bed first." "I knew it!" said Mrs. Lynde, with the


half turned in Paul's arms, extended his left hand, palm up, toward the Emperor, exposing the tiny needle cupped against the fingers. "See, Majesty?" he called. "See your traitor's needle? Did you think that I who've given my life to service of the Atreides would give them less now?" Paul staggered as the old man sagged in his arms, felt the death there, the utter flaccidity. Gently, Paul lowered Hawat to the floor, straightened and signed for guardsmen to carry the body away. Silence held the hall while his command was obeyed. A look of deadly waiting held the Emperor's face now. Eyes that had never admitted fear admitted it at last. "Majesty," Paul said, and noted the jerk of surprised attention in the tall Princess Royal. The words had been uttered with the Bene Gesserit controlled atonals, carrying in it every shade of contempt and scorn that Paul could put there. Bene-Gesserit trained indeed, Paul thought. The Emperor cleared his throat, said: "Perhaps my respected kinsman believes he has things all his own way now. Nothing could be more remote from fact. You have violated the Convention, used atomics against --" "I used atomics against a natural feature of the desert," Paul said. "It was in my way and I was in a hurry to get to you, Majesty, to ask your explanation for some of your strange activities." "There's a massed armada of the Great Houses in space over Arrakis right now," the Emperor said. "I've but to say the word and they'll --" "Oh, yes," Paul said, "I almost forgot about them." He searched through the Emperor's suite until he saw the faces of the two Guildsmen, spoke aside to Gurney. "Are those the Guild agents, Gurney, the two fat ones dressed in gray over there?" "Yes, m'Lord." "You two," Paul said, pointing. "Get out of there immediately and dispatch messages that will get that fleet on its way home. After this, you'll ask my permission before --" "The Guild doesn't take your orders!" the taller of the two barked. He and his companion pushed through to the barrier lances, which were raised at a nod from Paul. The two men stepped out and the taller leveled an arm at Paul, said: "You may very well be under embargo for your --" "If I hear any more nonsense from either of you," Paul said, "I'll give the order that'll destroy all spice production on Arrakis . . . forever." "Are you mad?" the tall Guildsman demanded. He fell back half a step. "You grant that I have the power to do this thing, then?" Paul asked. The Guildsman seemed to stare into space for a moment, then: "Yes, you could do it, but you must not." "Ah-h-h," Paul said and nodded to himself. "Guild navigators, both of you, eh?" "Yes!" The shorter of the pair said: "You would blind yourself, too, and condemn us all to slow death. Have you any idea what it means to be deprived of the spice liquor once you're addicted?" "The eye that looks


the mountain. He clenched his fist and beat hammer-wise on the red wall at his right. His lips were tightly compressed and his eyes yearned beneath the fringe of hair. "Smoke." He sucked his bruised fist. "Jack! Come on." But Jack was not there. A knot of boys, making a great noise that he had not noticed, were heaving and pushing at a rock. As he turned, the base cracked and the whole mass toppled into the sea so that a thunderous plume of spray leapt half-way up the cliff. "Stop it! Stop it!" His voice struck a silence among them. "Smoke." A strange thing happened in his head. Something flittered there in front of his mind like a bat's wing, obscuring his idea. "Smoke." At once the ideas were back, and the anger. "We want smoke. And you go wasting your time. You roll rocks." Roger shouted. "We've got plenty of time!" Ralph shook his head. "We'll go to the mountain." The clamor broke out. Some of the boys wanted to go back to the beach. Some wanted to roll more rocks. The sun was bright and danger had faded with the darkness. "Jack. The beast might be on the other side. You can lead again. You've been." "We could go by the shore. There's fruit." Bill came up to Ralph. "Why can't we stay here for a bit?" "That's right.'' "Let's have a fort." "There's no food here," said Ralph, "and no shelter. Not much fresh water." "This would make a wizard fort." "We can roll rocks--" "Right onto the bridge--" "I say we'll go on!" shouted Ralph furiously. "We've got to make certain. We'll go now." "Let's stay here--" "Back to the shelter--" "I'm tired--" "No!" Ralph struck the skin off his knuckles. They did not seem to hurt. "I'm chief. We've got to make certain. Can't you see the mountain? There's no signal showing. There may be a ship out there. Are you all off your rockers?" Mutinously, the boys fell silent or muttering. Jack led the way down the rock and across the bridge. CHAPTER SEVEN Shadows and Tall Trees The pig-run kept close to the jumble of rocks that lay down by the water on the other side and Ralph was content to follow Jack along it. If you could shut your ears to the slow suck down of the sea and boil of the return, if you could forget how dun and unvisited were the ferny coverts on either side, then there was a chance that you might put the beast out of mind and dream for a while. The sun had swung over the vertical and the afternoon heat was closing in on the island. Ralph passed a message forward to Jack and when they next came to fruit the whole party stopped and ate. Sitting, Ralph was aware of the heat for the first time that day. He pulled distastefully at his grey shirt and wondered whether he might undertake the adventure of washing it. Sitting under what seemed an unusual heat, even


was getting

good, that didn’t mean his staff was behind it.

But we had proof. Reporters, inside actual newsrooms, assuring us that

this woman was selling us out.

Pa refused to listen. His response was churlish, pathetic. Granny has

her person, why cant I have mine?

By Granny’s person he meant Angela. Among the many services she

performed for Granny, she was said to be skilled at planting stories.

What a rubbish comparison, Willy said. Why would anyone in their

right mind, let alone a grown man, want their own Angela?

But Pa just kept saying it. Granny had her person, Granny had her

person. High time he had a person too.

I was glad that Willy felt he could still come to me about Pa and

Camilla, even after all we’d been through recently. Seeing an opportunity

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to address our recent tensions, I tried to connect what Pa and Camilla had

done to him with what the press had done to Meg.

Willy snapped: /’ve got different issues with you two!

In a blink he shifted all his rage onto me. I can’t recall his exact words,

because I was beyond tired from all our fighting, to say nothing of the

recent move into Frogmore, and into new offices—and I was focused on

the imminent birth of our first child. But I recall every physical detail of

the scene. The daffodils out, the new grass sprouting, a jet taking off from

Heathrow, heading west, unusually low, its engines making my chest

vibrate. I remember thinking how remarkable that I could still hear Willy

above that jet. I couldn’t imagine how he had that much anger left after the

confrontation in Nott Cott.

He was going on and on and I lost the thread. I couldn’t understand and

I stopped trying. I fell silent, waiting for him to subside.

Then I looked back. Meg was coming from the house, directly towards

me. I quickly took the phone off speaker, but she’d already heard. And


Don’t open the door to anyone who … I don’t know … anyone who shouldn’t be alive.” She hung up and sprinted across Elm. Even with the Gray’s strength, her legs were already shaking, her muscles exhausted from the ordeals of the last week. Alex risked a glance back, trying to scan the crowds of students in their hats and coats. She paused to punch another number into her phone. She was running again before Dawes picked up. “Are you still with Tripp?” Alex asked. Her voice was thready and breathless. “Get to Il Bastone.” “We’re not allowed at Il Bastone.” “Dawes, just get there. And get Turner and Tripp there too.” “Alex—” “Just fucking do it! I brought something back with me. Something bad.” Alex looked over her shoulder again, but she wasn’t sure what she expected to see. Hellie? Len? Some other monster? There was nothing to do but keep running. 30 As she raced down Orange Street, Alex could feel the little Gray clamoring to be released, rattling around her head like someone had given him too much sugar. But she wasn’t letting him go until she knew she could get inside Il Bastone. Alex took the steps in a single, awkward leap. What would it mean if this door remained closed to her now? If the Lethe board had already banished her from this place of protection? From quiet and safety and plenty? But the door flew open. Alex lurched inside, falling forward. She felt the little Gray’s ghost yanked free, the wards preventing him from entering, even hidden inside her body. He left in a sulky rush, taking his strength with him. The door slammed behind her, hard enough that the windows shook. Alex felt her thighs wobbling with fatigue. She used the banister to pull herself up, felt the cool wood beneath her palm, pressed her forehead against the finial, the ridges of the sunflower pattern hard against her skin. This was home. Not her dorm room. Not the wreckage she’d left behind in Los Angeles. She drew a few long breaths and made herself peer through the window in the front parlor. Hellie—or the demon pretending to be Hellie—stood on the sidewalk across the street. How had Alex mistaken a monster for the real thing? Hellie had the confident grace of an athlete, easy in her beauty, even when their lives were fraying at the edges. But the thing across the street held itself taut, wary, its hunger barely leashed. I was the one who was meant to bounce back. I was supposed to leave you behind. “Shut up,” Alex muttered. But she couldn’t pretend those words were a demon lie. The wrong girl had died at Ground Zero. Alex picked up her phone and texted the group. There’s a blonde outside of Il Bastone. Looks like a girl. IS NOT A GIRL. Use salt. But her eye caught movement on the sidewalk. Dawes and Tripp. Had they seen her message? Alex hesitated. She didn’t have time to raid the armory for salt and weapons.


has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my glass. Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it. He say that I afford him a curious psychological study, and I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never mind. Arthur says that every day. There, it is all out, Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since we were children. We have slept together and eaten together, and laughed and cried together, and now, though I have spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn't you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I write, for although I think he loves me, he has not told me so in words. But, oh, Mina, I love him. I love him! There, that does me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we used to sit, and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter, and I don't want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all. Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you think about it. Mina, pray for my happiness. Lucy P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret. Goodnight again. L. LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY 24 May My dearest Mina, Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy. My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till today, not a real proposal, and today I had three. Just fancy! Three proposals in one day! Isn't it awful! I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don't know what to do with myself. And three proposals! But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas, and imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from every one except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly


a clear signal that she was the one doing the comforting. He made a shushing sound. Did he think she was going to cry? She needed to end this before it got out of hand. She gave Mark one quick squeeze, then stepped back and away. He released her and they stood looking at each other in the empty parking lot, a respectable distance restored. “Feel better?” he asked. “I hope you feel better,” she said. “I’m fine.” “I’m great,” he said, and then he seemed to realize that this wasn’t what he thought it was. His eyes narrowed. “Did you think you were—?” She cut him off. “So what do we do now?” she asked. “About the house. I mean, clearly that’s not Mom and Dad in there. The bad vibes you felt, all that stuff, that’s Pupkin. And you killed him.” “No doubt,” Mark said. “I mean, I definitely shot that little fucker.” “You shot him a lot,” Louise agreed. “But what about the other stuff? We can’t ignore it this time. It’s our responsibility.” “The Mark and Louise dolls,” Mark said. “Yeah,” Louise said. “Exactly.” She didn’t know how to confess that she’d been holding back on the Squirrel Nativity. “You’re right,” Mark said, rubbing his hand down his face, from top to bottom. “We have to take care of the rest. We should probably burn the whole place down. That’s what they do to haunted houses and cursed shit in horror movies, right? Fire cleanses everything.” “Is that your solution to everything?” Louise asked. Mark’s neck got stiff. “That’s not funny,” he said. “I’m sorry,” Louise said, embarrassed, but Mark was already talking over her, grinning. “That’s really funny,” he said. “I didn’t think you had it in you.” Traffic passed on the road, one car, then three, gradually picking up as the morning grew brighter around them. “It’d be stupid to go back in the house,” Mark said. “What’s valuable is the lot, anyways. Whoever buys it is just going to tear it down to build something bigger.” “I said the same thing to Mercy,” Louise said. “She told me the house actually has a lot of value because it’s got a good floor plan. She thinks we can sell it to a family for way more than a developer would pay for the lot.” “Shit,” Mark said, and walked in a small circle, swinging his arms. “Shit!” “I know,” Louise said. “Capitalism’s really got us over a barrel,” Mark said. “There’s no one else,” Louise said. “Let’s call Agutter,” Mark said. “He’ll do it in an hour.” Louise shook her head. “Crap,” Mark said. “I really don’t want to do this.” “You shot him,” Louise said. “He’s all messed up. Let’s burn him and the rest will be easy. There’s no way they can take both of us at the same time. We just have to stick together.” Chapter 24 T hey sat in Mark’s truck staring at the dark house, trying to get up the courage to go inside. “I mean,” Mark said, “we just


asked in a saccharine chirp how I was doing, what I’d been up to, whether I was stressed or overworked. I grunted monosyllabic answers and waited for her to whisk herself away to her next premiere or cameo, which she always did. Orson was profiled in major magazines and made several TV appearances. It was so satisfying reading about him and watching him onscreen: this was him at his least bored, his most happy. He wanted to be adored and here the world was, adoring him. He spent weeks flying around the country, which meant we saw each other rarely, but it also meant that he saw Emily rarely, too. And of Emily and me, who was it who had built a kingdom for him? Who was it who made him happiest? In a rare instance when we were interviewed together, on a morning talk show, Orson told the host that if people were going to praise him, they might as well praise me first. “Because Ezra’s the brains behind this operation.” “Is that so?” the host asked, her lipsticked mouth puckered questioningly. “Ezra, what is it you do?” “I make it possible for Orson to shine,” I said. “Come on,” Orson said, pretending to punch my shoulder. “Really?” the host asked. “Yes, really. I keep him fed and watered, keep stuff running behind the scenes. Basically, I do what I can to keep pace with a once-in-a-generation talent.” “Sweet words from NuLife’s CFO,” the host said, turning to the audience. “True words,” I corrected. “All true.” * * * STARS was headquartered in Florida, where Dexter Ellhorn was from, and when the helicopter carrying Orson and me descended onto Dexter’s tarmac, I could already feel how thick the air was with heat. Dexter greeted us wearing yet another tracksuit, this one paired with a thin gold chain; he held out an identical one for Orson. “For the photo shoot,” he shouted over the thwack of the propeller. “Thanks,” Orson said, inspecting the chain. “Glad the profile’s happening.” “Absolutely. Ez, it’s been too long.” It hadn’t been long enough. “How are you feeling about the 2.0?” “Never felt better.” He cracked his knuckles loudly. “How are you feeling?” “I’m feeling ready to see it.” Dexter laughed and pointed to a white SUV rumbling across the tarmac toward us. “That’s my driver, Omar,” he said. “You don’t need to remember his name.” We got in and Omar began driving. The fat palm trees lining the tarmac appeared to be doing yogic backbends toward the sun. I rolled down my window and watched the sky, massive and equatorial, feeling like my prescription sunglasses were useless against the hot white insistence of the daylight. “So there’s going to be drones,” Orson said. Dexter’s eyes creased with a smile. “Combat drones, yeah.” “We’re about peace,” I said. “We don’t like combat.” “Oh, I know, I know. There are civilian drones, too. I just think—I think the future is with drones.” “Mhm,” Orson said. I noticed he’d joined me in watching the sky. “They deliver packages, they


Trump will go on offense. Americans should expect the resurrection of zombie policies involving destructive force against innocent civilians. This might include the regular use of tear gas to repel arriving migrants, the deployment of heat-ray technology to make asylum-seekers feel like their skin is on fire, or shoot-to-kill orders for anyone who rushes the U.S. border—all in the name of deterrence. They might even be treated as terrorists. Trump contemplated the possibility. In a phone call with DHS leaders, the president once raised the idea that asylum-seekers should be declared “unlawful enemy combatants” against the United States. In the past, the same classification was given to terrorist suspects the U.S. military targeted for lethal strikes. White House staff also talked about naming migrant smuggling networks as “foreign terrorist organizations,” the legal designation that is applied to ISIS and al Qaeda. You would be right to pause here and ask, Is any of this really possible? The fact is, the Trump administration already laid the groundwork. Proposals involving armed drones, troop deployments, “unlawful enemy combatant” designations, and the use of the prison at Guantánamo Bay were not arbitrary. The White House wanted to turn the nation’s lethal security forces against immigration violators. Militia groups will be a worry, too. President Trump was eager to permit roaming bands of armed citizens to help him enforce immigration law. While he never approved an official policy allowing it to happen, a future leader could conceivably use presidential powers to enable private militias to drive away incoming migrants. Elected MAGA leaders in border states have proposed similar initiatives. And it’s frightening to think what vigilantes might be able to get away with, while the government conveniently looks the other way. To American citizens I say: the government of the Next Trump could treat you as friend or foe, based on your political leanings. Trump imparted a lesson to his MAGA apprentices. He learned it in the business world. “When you threaten to sue somebody, they don’t do anything,” Trump told a group of staff gathered in the Oval Office one afternoon. “They say ‘Pshhhh!’ ” He waved his hand in the air theatrically. “And they keep doing what they want. But when you sue them, they go ‘Ooooh!’ and they settle. It’s as easy as that.” Twice I heard him share the tip. The message was self-explanatory. Words don’t work; if you want someone to do something, you need influence over them. The Trump philosophy of leverage has infused the entirety of the Republican Party. MAGA leaders regularly propose using the levers of government to coerce or punish political enemies on the left, and they are keen to institute a system of selective protection in the United States. Imagine a burglar enters your home. You call 911. The police answer and tell you that before dispatching the nearest squad car, they have to check your voter registration. Republicans get priority. Democrats have to wait. Now picture this on a national scale. Under the Next Trump, DHS might automatically respond to emergencies in red states but hold


their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say, "Words cannot express it; it is too beautiful, too beautiful for this mortal earth." After the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself into a bulletin-board, and read off "notices" of meetings and societies and things till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of doom -- a queer custom which is still kept up in America, even in cities, away here in this age of abundant newspapers. Often, the less there is to justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it. And now the minister prayed. A good, generous prayer it was, and went into details: it pleaded for the church, and the little children of the church; for the other churches of the village; for the village itself; for the county; for the State; for the State officers; for the United States; for the churches of the United States; for Congress; for the President; for the officers of the Government; for poor sailors, tossed by stormy seas; for the oppressed millions --------------------------------------------------------- -61- groaning under the heel of European monarchies and Oriental despotisms; for such as have the light and the good tidings, and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear withal; for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and closed with a supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace and favor, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good. Amen. There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it -- if he even did that much. He was restive all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously -- for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman's regular route over it -- and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom's hands --------------------------------------------------------- -62- itched to grab for it they did not dare -- he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was going on. But with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and


abrupt."     "True; no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am so accustomed to his manner, I never think of it; and then, if he has peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made."     "Why?"     "Partly because it is his nature and we can none of us help our nature; and, partly, he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him, and make his spirits unequal."     "What about?"     "Family troubles, for one thing."     "But he has no family."     "Not now, but he has had or, at least, relatives. He lost his elder brother a few years since."     "Hiselder brother?"     "Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession of the property; only about nine years."     "Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother as to be still inconsolable for his loss?"     "Why, no perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings between them. Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr. Edward; and, perhaps, he prejudiced his father against him. The old gentleman was fond of money, and anxious to keep the family estate together. He did not like to diminish the property by division, and yet he was anxious that Mr. Edward should have wealth too, to keep up the consequence of the name; and, soon after he was of age, some steps were taken that were not quite fair and made a great deal of mischief. Old Mr. Rochester and Mr. Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into what he considered a painful position for the sake of making his fortune; what the precise nature of that position was I never clearly knew, but his spirit could not brook what he had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he broke with his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled kind of life. I don't think he has ever been resident at Thornfield for a fortnight together since the death of his brother, without a will, left him master of the estate; and, indeed, no wonder he shuns the old place."     "Why should he shun it?"     "Pehaps he thinks it gloomy."     The answer was evasive I should have liked something clearer; but Mrs. Fairfax either could not, or would not, give me more explicit information of the origin and nature of Mr. Rochester's trials. She averred they were a mystery to herself, and that what she knew was chiefly from conjecture. It was evident, indeed, that she wished me to drop the subject, which I did accordingly.       |Go to Contents |               Chapter XIV


day a group of elders from all the nine villages of Umuofia came to Okonkwo's house early in the morning, and before they began to speak in low tones Nwoye and Ikemefuna were sent out. They did not stay very long, but when they went away Okonkwo sat still for a very long time supporting his chin in his palms. Later in the day he called Ikemefuna and told him that he was to be taken home the next day. Nwoye overheard it and burst into tears, whereupon his father beat him heavily. As for Ikemefuna, he was at a loss. His own home had gradually become very faint and distant. He still missed his mother and his sister and would be very glad to see them. But somehow he knew he was not going to see them. He remembered once when men had talked in low tones with his father, and it seemed now as if it was happening all over again. Later, Nwoye went to his mother's hut and told her that Ikemefuna was going home. She immediately dropped her pestle with which she was grinding pepper, folded her arms across her breast and sighed, "Poor child." The next day, the men returned with a pot of wine. They were all fully dressed as if they were going to a big clan meeting or to pay a visit to a neighbouring village. They passed their cloths under the right arm-pit, and hung their goatskin bags and sheathed machetes over their left shoulders. Okonkwo got ready quickly and the party set out with Ikemefuna carrying the pot of wine. A deathly silence descended on Okonkwo's compound. Even the very little children seemed to know. Throughout that day Nwoye sat in his mother's hut and tears stood in his eyes. At the beginning of their journey the men of Umuofia talked and laughed about the locusts, about their women, and about some effeminate men who had refused to come with them. But as they drew near to the outskirts of Umuofia silence fell upon them too. The sun rose slowly to the centre of the sky, and the dry, sandy footway began to throw up the heat that lay buried in it. Some birds chirruped in the forests around. The men trod dry leaves on the sand. All else was silent. Then from the distance came the faint beating of the ekwe. It rose and faded with the wind--a peaceful dance from a distant clan. "It is an ozo dance," the men said among themselves. But no one was sure where it was coming from. Some said Ezimili, others Abame or Aninta. They argued for a short while and fell into silence again, and the elusive dance rose and fell with the wind. Somewhere a man was taking one of the titles of his clan, with music and dancing and a great feast. The footway had now become a narrow line in the heart of the forest. The short trees and sparse undergrowth which surrounded the men's village began to give way


And you owe me for all the magical stuff.” “I don’t want you to get hurt.” “Because you’d feel guilty.” “Because I like you!” Alex shouted. She forced herself to lower her voice. “And yes, I’d feel guilty. I rescue you, you rescue me. That’s what you said, remember?” “So if something goes wrong, that’s what you do.” Dawes cleared her throat. “We do need someone.” Mercy stuck her hand out. “Mercy Zhao, roommate and bodyguard.” Dawes shook it. “I … Pamela Dawes. Doctoral candidate and…” Alex sighed. “Just say it.” “Oculus.” “That’s a really good code name,” said Mercy. “It’s my office,” Dawes said with as much dignity as she could muster. “We’re not spies.” “No,” said Alex. “Espionage would be too easy for Lethe.” “Actually,” Mercy said, “there’s speculation that the term spooks for CIA operatives originated from so many recruits coming from Skull and Bones.” Alex laid her head down on the table. “You’re going to fit right in.” “Just tell me where to start.” “Don’t get excited,” Alex warned. “We haven’t even figured out how the Gauntlet works or if we’ve got this whole thing wrong.” Dawes gestured to the blueprint of Sterling. “There’s supposed to be a circuit, a circle for us to complete, but…” Mercy studied the blueprint. “It looks like you’re headed around the courtyard.” “That’s right,” said Dawes. “But there’s no way to complete the circuit. The path dead-ends at Manuscripts and Archives.” “No, it doesn’t,” said Mercy. “Just go through the University Librarian’s office.” “I’ve been in that office.” Dawes gave the blueprints a firm tap. “There’s a door to Manuscripts and Archives and a door out to the courtyard. The sundial door. That’s it.” “No,” Mercy insisted. Alex felt like she was watching a boxing match where the fighters threw citations instead of punches. “I don’t know why it isn’t on the plan, but there’s a door behind the librarian’s desk, right beside the fireplace, the one with that funny quote in Latin.” “Funny quote?” Alex asked. Mercy tugged on one of the rosettes at her neckline. “I can’t remember what it’s from, but it basically amounts to ‘Shut up and go away, I’m busy.’ The door is easy to miss because of the paneling, but my friend Camila showed it to me. We walked right through. It takes you to the Linonia and Brothers reading room.” Dawes looked like she was going to jump out of her chair. “To Linonia. Directly around the courtyard.” Alex hadn’t followed much of their debate, but that she understood. A hidden door. A way to circle the courtyard that wasn’t on the blueprints. “We can complete the circuit. We can finish the Gauntlet.” “See?” said Mercy with a grin. “I’m helpful.” Dawes leaned back in her chair and met Alex’s gaze. “You’re Virgil now. It’s your call.” Alex threw up her hands. “Fuck it. Mercy Zhao, welcome to Lethe.” What must be understood is that demons are creatures of appetite. So though their powers are virtually without limit, their understanding is decidedly more constrained. This


He knew he must be gaining fast. Loaded as she was the Citron could hardly better eighty even on this road. On an impulse he slowed down to seventy, turned on his fog-lights, and dowsed the twin Marchals. Sure enough, without the blinding curtain of his own lights, he could see the glow of another car a mile or two down the coasts He felt under the dashboard and from a concealed holster took out a long-barrelled Colt Army Special .45, and laid it on the seat beside him. With this, if he was lucky with the surface of the road, he could hope to get their tyres or their petrol tank at anything up to a hundred yards. Then he switched on the big lights again and screamed off in pursuit. He felt calm and at ease. The problem of Vesper's life was a problem no longer. His face in the blue light from the dashboard was grim but serene. * Ahead in the Citron there were three men and the girl. Le Chiffre was driving, his big fluid body hunched forward, his hands light and delicate on the wheel. Beside him sat the squat man who had carried the stick in the Casino. In his left hand he grasped a thick lever which protruded beside him almost level with the floor. It might have been a lever to adjust the driving seat. In the back seat was the tall thin gunman. He lay back relaxed, gazing at the ceiling, apparently uninterested in the wild speed of the car. His right hand lay caressingly on Vesper's left thigh which stretched out naked beside him. Apart from her legs, which were naked to the hips, Vesper was only a parcel. Her long black velvet skirt had been lifted over her arms and head and tied above her head with a piece of rope. Where her face was, a small gap had been torn in the velvet so that she could breathe. She was not bound in any other way and she lay quiet, her body moving sluggishly with the swaying of the car. Le Chiffre was concentrating half on the road ahead and half on the onrushing glare of Bond's headlights in the driving-mirror. He seemed undisturbed when not more than a mile separated the hare from the hounds and he even brought the car down from eighty to sixty miles an hour. Now, as he swept round a bend he slowed down still further. A few hundred yards ahead a Michelin post showed where a small parochial road crossed with the highway. 'Attention,' he said sharply to the man beside him. The man's hand tightened on the lever. A hundred yards from the cross-roads he slowed to thirty. In the mirror Bond's great headlights were lighting up the bend. Le Chiffre seemed to make up his mind. 'Allez.' The man beside him pulled the lever sharply upwards. The boot at the back of the car yawned open like a whale's mouth. There was a tinkling clatter on the road and then