her through those black-rimmed eyes. Something she couldn’t control, and Louise knew she was all alone in her room with something truly dangerous. Pupkin’s face writhed and folded from within, and then it made a terrible hollow, crumpling sound and his little mouth stretched open wider than she’d ever seen. Louise had pulled her hands up to her chin to keep them away from Pupkin, and now he leaned forward and gripped the fingers of her right hand with his blunt arms and lowered his gaping mouth over the end of one of her fingers. The inside of his mouth felt so cold. Louise tried to pull her finger away but Pupkin bit down. Hard. The edge of his mouth applied a continuous, ever-increasing pressure to her fingertip, past the point of anything Louise thought she could stand, but she knew it would be so much worse if she made a sound. She felt her bone compress like Pupkin was going to snap off its tip, then he stopped. Louise sucked air into her empty lungs and sobbed with relief. Pupkin raised his head, letting her finger slip from his mouth, and it pulsed in agony. You’re going to do what Pupkin says, he told her, or Pupkin will hurt you. Louise was already in kindergarten. She knew that grown-ups only expected one answer when they talked to you in that voice. “Yes, Pupkin,” she whispered. Pupkin squirmed with pleasure and dragged himself over her throbbing hand, swallowing it up inside the hungry hole in his body, and she felt him flexing and rippling around her forearm, gripping her, holding on tight. Then he lodged himself underneath her chin, nuzzling himself against her neck. Pupkin’s going to have so much fun, he cooed. — At first Louise was scared of what he wanted her to do, but soon she realized that the things Pupkin told her to do were funny. She would nudge Mark from behind while he toddled to the car and he’d go over on his face in the grass and she’d have to help him up. Her mom and dad liked when she did that. They said she was a good helper, and a sweet big sister. One day, Pupkin told her to put her mom’s car keys in Mark’s diaper. Another day, he got her to pour salt on the plastic tablecloth in the dining room and tell Mark it was sugar. He licked it up, then opened his mouth and thick yellow throwup poured down his chin and over his coveralls. To her surprise, the more she did funny things to Mark, the closer Mark wanted to be. He followed her everywhere. He brought her his toys. He watched her play without talking. He glued himself to her side. She may have belonged to Pupkin, but Mark belonged to her. — Christmas used to be Louise’s favorite time of the year. Her dad made his stollen, and even though it never got cold enough to snow, fireplaces burned twenty-four hours a day, and people raked their leaves


the post.-- What was to be done?--One thing only.--I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.-- I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.--I felt that it would be of a different sort.--Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?--No; do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.--I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her alone.--I was not disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment's uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself, Your obliged and affectionate Son, F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL. CHAPTER XV This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again,


joked and went on till the people began to come in. Then he took a seat and made talk and laughter with the rest until closing time. When everyone else had left he said, “Ah reckon Ah done over-layed mah leavin’ time, but Ah fig- gured you needed somebody tuh help yuh shut up de place. Since nobody else ain’t round heah, maybe Ah kin git de job.” “Thankyuh, Mr. Tea Cake. It is kinda strainin’ fuh me.” “Who ever heard of uh teacake bein’ called Mister! If you wanta be real hightoned and call me Mr. Woods, dat’s de way you feel about it. If yuh wants tuh be uh lil friendly and call me Tea Cake, dat would be real nice.” He was closing and bolting windows all the time he talked. “All right, then. Thank yuh, Tea Cake. How’s dat?” “Jes lak uh lil girl wid her Easter dress on. Even nice!” He locked the door and shook it to be sure and handed her the key. “Come on now, Ah’ll see yuh inside yo’ door and git on down de Dixie.” Janie was halfway down the palm-lined walk before she *A beating with the fist 118 Zora Neale Hurston had a thought for her safety. Maybe this strange man was up to something! But it was no place to show her fear there in the darkness between the house and the store. He had hold of her arm too. Then in a moment it was gone. Tea Cake wasn’t strange. Seemed as if she had known him all her life. Look how she had been able to talk with him right off! He tipped his hat at the door and was off with the briefest good night. So she sat on the porch and watched the moon rise. Soon its amber fluid was drenching the earth, and quenching the thirst of the day. 11 Janie wanted to ask Hezekiah about Tea Cake, but she was afraid he might misunderstand her and think she was inter- ested. In the first place he looked too young for her. Must be around twenty-five and here she was around forty. Then again he didn’t look like he had too much. Maybe he was hanging around to get in with her and strip her of all that she had. Just as well if she never saw him again. He was proba- bly the kind of man who lived with various women but never married. Fact is, she decided to treat him so cold if he ever did foot the place that he’d be sure not to come hanging around there again. He waited a week exactly to come back for Janie’s snub. It was early in the afternoon and she and Hezekiah were alone. She heard somebody humming like they were feeling for pitch and looked towards the door. Tea Cake stood there mimicking the tuning of a guitar. He frowned and struggled with the pegs of his imaginary instrument watching her out of the corner of his eye with that secret joke


All you can do is point yourself in a direction and hope the wind will let you get there. Another maritime metaphor. I am truly a local’s worst nightmare. But the point stands: change happens. Two of my best friends are having a baby. A near-painful joy flares through me. “Oh my god.” Cleo looks up. “Hm?” “I just realized,” I say, “I’m going to be an aunt.” She snorts a laugh. “Harry,” she says. “You’re going to be a co- godmother.” 34 REAL LIFE Saturday “SHE’S GOING TO be upset that I told you first,” Cleo says. “I can pretend not to know,” I offer. She gives me a look. “Or,” I say, “we can be up-front about it and talk it out.” She gives me another hug. “You sure you don’t want a ride back?” She checks the time on her phone. She called Kimmy for a ride a couple of minutes ago. She’ll be down to the Warm Cup any second. “I’ll meet you in a bit,” I say. First I need to find something for Sabrina. We won’t be leaving this trip with matching tattoos—as it turns out, most artists won’t tattoo a pregnant person, thus Cleo’s true resistance to the idea—but that doesn’t mean we can’t find something to hold on to from this place. After Kimmy picks Cleo up, I grab a second caramel latte, iced this time, and wander past shop windows. I have no idea where to begin. I’m hoping I’ll know it when I see it. So far, the best option seems to be matching T- shirts that say GOT LOBSTAH on them, or matching T-shirts that say MAINEIAC over a lobster wearing aviators. I follow a window display filled with lamps and cutesy tea towels around the corner, right to a window display filled with colorful buoys that have been turned into all manner of yard ornaments. I pause to let a grimy Subaru breeze through a stop sign at the next cross street, and that’s when I realize where I am. Easy Lane. The backdrop to our fight last night. Up ahead, I spot the tattoo shop on the left. My first inclination is to get away from the scene of the crime. Then I notice the glossy gold shop number over the door on my right: 125. Number 125, on Easy Lane. It takes me a second to figure out what’s so familiar about that. When I do, I backtrack and check the number of the buoy store. 127. Wrong direction. I’m looking for 123. I wait for another car to pass through the intersection, and then jog across. 123 Easy Lane. The site of my personalized surprise. On the door, a decal reads EARTHEN, along with some hours of operation, but in the glare of bright sunlight, I can’t make out much through the windows. I check the time on my phone: 9:16 a.m. If I remember correctly, the itinerary said Sabrina’s “personalized surprise” for me would start at nine. I waffle for a moment about going in, then


legal. i don’t trust you. you have to. i’m paying for your kids’ college. The bubbles percolated once more and then disappeared for good. I opened my contacts list and scrolled to Karl’s name, my thumb hovering over the call button. I pressed it. He picked up on the second ring. “You always text,” he said. “You never call.” “I felt like calling.” He made a soft, shapeless noise that sounded like purring. “What’s wrong, Ez?” “Nothing’s wrong.” “Okay, well, there’s something in your voice that’s telling me otherwise.” I cleared my throat. “You don’t have to pretend to be unfeeling and macho,” he said. “You’re the least macho person I know.” There were still tears dripping into my ears. I wondered if he could tell over the phone. “I’m in Urmau,” I managed, stupidly. “And I’m bored.” “Bored in Urmau?” “They worship Orson down here.” “I’m sure they do.” I sighed. I wanted to be desired again, and to be desired I’d have to lie. “I miss you.” There was a pause, a consideration. “Say it again,” he said. “I miss you.” “Do you really?” “Yes.” “What do you want? Do you want me to turn my phone camera on?” “I don’t know.” He laughed, not unkindly. “Should I fly down from New York?” I hesitated, then remembered how Orson had battered me. “Yeah.” “When?” “As soon as you can,” I said. “We can get a hotel.” Another pause for consideration. “I have a meeting with a major investor in two days. But I could push it back.” I waited for him to say something else, and when he didn’t, I said: “You can do anything you want.” “To you?” “Yeah.” I could hear him smiling. “Good,” he said. “That’s what I like to hear.” * * * Karl was strange in shorts and a floral button-down, looking entirely out of place and pale among the massive succulents that lined the streets of Rezopol. He met me at the steps of the hotel, watching me behind his sunglasses as I squinted to see him through the midday brightness. The blind pinpricks at the corners of my vision throbbed as though electricity were attempting and failing to pass through them, exposed spots in my eyesight’s drywall where loose wires had burned themselves dim. He carried his leather suitcase past me and into the lobby. “Are you checked in?” he asked. I nodded. “Let’s go upstairs.” On the bed, he massaged my shoulders, his voice in my ear. “I know what you’re doing here,” he said. “Do you?” “I know it’s bad.” “Then why did you come?” He nestled his chin in the pocket between my neck and collarbone. “Because you’re a sweet little twink with big eyes and soft hands and you look even cuter when I mess up your hair.” I tilted my head forward, sighed with pleasure in spite of myself. “You run a criminal operation,” he said. “You falsify documents and hide money and cheat people out of their investments.” “I don’t do any of that.” “Yes, you do.”


voice, called out to the Emperor: "Majesty, is there a Harkonnen among you?" Royal disdain revealed itself in the way the Emperor turned to look at Paul. "I believe my entourage has been placed under the protection of your ducal word," he said. "My question was for information only," Paul said. "I wish to know if a Harkonnen is officially a part of your entourage or if a Harkonnen is merely hiding behind a technicality out of cowardice." The Emperor's smile was calculating. "Anyone accepted into the Imperial company is a member of my entourage." "You have the word of a Duke," Paul said, "but Muad'Dib is another matter. He may not recognize your definition of what constitutes an entourage. My friend Gurney Halleck wishes to kill a Harkonnen. If he --" "Kanly!" Feyd-Rautha shouted. He pressed against the barrier lance. "Your father named this vendetta, Atreides. You call me coward while you hide among your women and offer to send a lackey against me!" The old Truthsayer whispered something fiercely into the Emperor's ear, but he pushed her aside, said: "Kanly, is it? There are strict rules for kanly." "Paul, put a stop to this," Jessica said. "M'Lord," Gurney said, "You promised me my day against the Harkonnens." "You've had your day against them," Paul said and he felt a harlequin abandon take over his emotions. He slipped his robe and hood from his shoulders, handed them to his mother with his belt and crysknife, began unstrapping his stillsuit. He sensed now that the universe focused on this moment. "There's no need for this," Jessica said. "There are easier ways, Paul." Paul stepped out of his stillsuit, slipped the crysknife from its sheath in his mother's hand. "I know," he said. "Poison, an assassin, all the old familiar ways." "You promised me a Harkonnen!" Gurney hissed, and Paul marked the rage in the man's face, the way the inkvine scar stood out dark and ridged. "You owe it to me, m'Lord!" "Have you suffered more from them than I?" Paul asked. "My sister," Gurney rasped. "My years in the slave pits --" "My father," Paul said. "My good friends and companions, Thufir Hawat and Duncan Idaho, my years as a fugitive without rank or succor . . . and one more thing: it is now kanly and you know as well as I the rules that must prevail." Halleck's shoulders sagged. "M'Lord, if that swine . . . he's no more than a beast you'd spurn with your foot and discard the shoe because it'd been contaminated. Call in an executioner, if you must, or let me do it, but don't offer yourself to --" "Muad'Dib need not do this thing," Chani said. He glanced at her, saw the fear for him in her eyes. "But the Duke Paul must," he said. "This is a Harkonnen animal!" Gurney rasped. Paul hesitated on the point of revealing his own Harkonnen ancestry, stopped at a sharp look from his mother, said merely: "But this being has human shape, Gurney, and deserves human doubt."


the dress. Fussing and adjusting, they pushed her arms into the sleeves and pulled the dress down until its short train swept the floor. “You’ve lost weight,” Yèyé said, circling Wúràọlá’s wrist with a thumb and an index finger. “Does Kúnlé like that?” Wúràọlá ignored the question. She walked a few paces with the dress’s hem bunched up in her hands. “Should I take in the waist?” Aunty Caro asked. “No, don’t worry ma. It’s okay.” “Wúràọlá, let them adjust it now, so it can fit perfectly.” Wúràọlá shook out the dress and noted how it floated down to the floor. Would it be better if it were fitted? She didn’t care. It was too difficult and bizarre, this attempt to manufacture interest in a dress when her friend was dead. “No,” she said, standing before Aunty Caro and pointing at her zipper. “This is all right, thanks.” When they were in the back seat of Yèyé’s car, her mother reached across the bag of clothes between them to squeeze Wúràọlá’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your friend.” The firm squeeze brought her close to tears for the first time since the burial. Perhaps because the tenderness was so unexpected. In her last year of primary school, her class teacher was a grandmother who kept a jar of Eclairs on her desk and gave sweets and hugs to students who got perfect scores in their class work. Before their second term was over, she suffered a heart attack while she was teaching and died before she could be taken to the hospital. It was the closest Wúràọlá had ever come to death. For days she would weep when she was asked to come have dinner. Her mother became impatient with her tears after a couple of days and spent the better part of an hour warning Wúràọlá about being too soft. If she was crying over someone she saw only in school, what would she do when someone she loved died? Yèyé’s phrasing of a possibility as certainty had only upset Wúràọlá more. She bawled until her father, who was already done with dinner, came back into the room to see what was wrong. It was her father who held her while her sobs subsided into occasional hiccups. Then he told her about àkúdàáyà. How people who had died in one city could show up in another to continue their time on earth. Not everyone got to be one, but what if her class teacher did? He invited her to imagine that her teacher was still somewhere on earth, settling into a new life, having an adventure. She had fallen asleep while her father was still speaking, weary from all her wailing. “Wúràọlá, you must wipe your tears and think about the things you have to do before Saturday,” Yèyé said now as the car came to a stop in the hospital car park. “Life doesn’t stop because you are sad.” “Thanks for the ride,” Wúràọlá said, glad she had insisted on going back to her place to spend the night. “I’ll see


from temptation"--curiously using religious language, instead of the language of luck, for the first time. As Godfrey looks hopefully toward his future with Nancy, one of the most important elements of his domestic visions is their children. This leads him naturally to think of his other child. He doesn't envision her clearly--she seems just a sexless "it." But he calms his conscience by promising himself to provide money for her--that's his duty. Eliot stresses this comment with a touch of irony. What should a "father's duty" be, according to Eliot? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 16 This chapter opens in autumn, a time for reaping harvests. Most of Part One was set in winter--a cold, dead season that suited Silas' exile. In contrast, Silas' first years with Eppie were described as springtime--when new life grows. NOTE: In Shakespeare's play The Winter's Tale, sixteen years elapse between Act III and Act IV. The mood changes from winter to spring. During the elapsed time, King Leontes has changed. His teenage daughter, Perdita, who's associated with flowers and nature, is finally restored to him in Act V. Eliot, as an ardent Shakespeare reader, probably intended a similar change between the "acts" in Silas Marner. In sixteen years, Raveloe hasn't changed much--the church bells ring cheerfully after Sunday services, and the congregation files out in order of social rank. But individuals have changed. Godfrey is a handsome, middle-aged man. His wife Nancy has lost her youthful glow, but in its place there is a mature beauty. Eliot hints that Nancy's experience has sobered her. What do you imagine her experience has been? Silas, who now looks old, makes a picturesque contrast next to Eppie, the embodiment of youth and high spirits. Her curly auburn hair suggests an inner nature that isn't docile. Nevertheless, Eliot shows you, Eppie has neat, tidy habits--a virtue Eliot praised before in Nancy. Eppie has a good-looking admirer, at first introduced merely as a village lad. The fact that she has an admirer underscores her beauty and signals that a shift in generations has taken place. Soon, however, as the young man joins them, you learn that he is Aaron Winthrop. In the conversation that follows, Eliot establishes the characters' lives. Silas still works hard and dotes on Eppie. Aaron earns his living as a skilled gardener. Dolly and Aaron are as close as family to Silas and Eppie. Godfrey has given Silas and Eppie a lot of financial help, which they accept innocently, with respect. NOTE: GARDENS Eppie's wish for a garden fits in with a cluster of plant imagery here. Eppie, a child of nature, has a mystical relation to flowers--she thinks they can hear people. Nourishing souls, like Dolly, are identified with gardens. Aaron's talent for gardening gives him great value in the eyes of the gentry, who cannot grow their own gardens. Flowers also signify domestic happiness. Aaron is going to plant lavender for Eppie, which traditionally was planted by a man for his new bride. (Notice that there's a big bed of lavender at the Red House. What


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

APRIL 6, LATER. Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world. APRIL 10. Faintly, under the heavy night, through the silence of the city which has turned from dreams to dreamless sleep as a weary lover whom no caresses move, the sound of hoofs upon the road. Not so faintly now as they come near the bridge; and in a moment, as they pass the darkened windows, the silence is cloven by alarm as by an arrow. They are heard now far away, hoofs that shine amid the heavy night as gems, hurrying beyond the sleeping fields to what journey's end--what heart? --bearing what tidings? APRIL 11. Read what I wrote last night. Vague words for a vague emotion. Would she like it? I think so. Then I should have to like it also. APRIL 13. That tundish has been on my mind for a long time. I looked it up and find it English and good old blunt English too. Damn the dean of studies and his funnel! What did he come here for to teach us his own language or to learn it from us. Damn him one way or the other! APRIL 14. John Alphonsus Mulrennan has just returned from the west of Ireland. European and Asiatic papers please copy. He told us he met an old man there in a mountain cabin. Old man had red eyes and short pipe. Old man spoke Irish. Mulrennan spoke Irish. Then old man and Mulrennan spoke English. Mulrennan spoke to him about universe and stars. Old man sat, listened, smoked, spat. Then said: --Ah, there must be terrible queer creatures at the latter end of the world. I fear him. I fear his red-rimmed horny eyes. It is with him I must struggle all through this night till day come, till he or I lie dead, gripping him by the sinewy throat till... Till what? Till he yield to me? No. I mean no harm. APRIL 15. Met her today point blank in Grafton Street. The crowd brought us together. We both stopped. She asked me why I never came, said she had heard all sorts of stories about me. This was only to gain time. Asked me was I writing poems? About whom? I asked her. This confused her more and I felt sorry and mean. Turned off that valve at once and opened the spiritual-heroic refrigerating apparatus, invented and patented in all countries by Dante Alighieri. Talked rapidly of myself and my plans. In the midst of it unluckily I made a sudden gesture of a revolutionary nature. I must have looked like a fellow throwing a handful of peas into the air. People began to look at us. She shook hands a moment after and, in going away, said she hoped I would do what I said. Now


date yet? Google: How long do guys wait before asking a girl out on a date? I don’t really have a time frame I abide by, but I like to befriend a girl before I ask her out. Sometimes finding out if you have a connection with someone takes a while, but it’s worth waiting to find out, I think. So about two or three weeks? I spent four months getting to know my now-girlfriend before I asked her out on a date. One hour. * * * The Orange Tree Publishing interview is in their Farringdon offices. There are books everywhere and the nonfiction department’s layout is open-plan, spacious but small enough so you can stand, call out a name, and have that person hear you loud and clear. Again, not a pair of jeans in sight, but I spot stripy tops and casual trousers. I’m the only Black person in the room when I walk in but I don’t know for sure that there are no other Black staff members. Someone could be off sick or on annual leave. Should I ask? No, of course you can’t ask. How would that sound? Do you have any questions for me, Maddie? Yes, would I be the only Black person you’ve hired? And if so, why is that? No, I need this job and, to be honest, it looks likely I’ll get it. They need me. They need me here to appear at least semi-decent to the outside world. It’s easier to talk to others about how important diversity and inclusion is if you can wave a hand vaguely around the office and have me sat in the middle of it. No, don’t think like that—you’ll get the job because you’re qualified. * * * Penny Reaser is in her midforties, tanned, with brown eyes enhanced by blue eye shadow. Her blond hair is cropped short and appears to be in no particular style. She offers me a seat, and I think of Katherine’s office at CGT, its clutter-free space and neat stacks of paper. Penny’s bookcases are heaving and each smooth surface is covered in colorful books. Her desk is piled high with book catalogs, stationery bits, and loose sheets of paper despite there being a tall filing cabinet in the corner. I think the cabinet is probably full. Katherine had a shredder under her desk. I might suggest Penny get a shredder. We talk about OTP’s list (a variety of nonfiction, but my main focus will be on food and drink) and my experience, before going on to my role here. “The role will start off admin-heavy with my diary, minute-taking, meeting prep, online orders—very much things you’ll have already done and are proficient at,” Penny says. When she reaches for a sip of her tea, I notice her plain wedding band and that her nails are painted Barbie pink by someone who has difficulty coloring within lines. I wonder if she has any children. “You’ll be trained in our database MDX where all our data is stored,” she continues,


again. Although he was reanimated, the next death will be final because it will be so violent that it will put him beyond all possibility of resurrection. His enemies will see to that. He is the Singularity, but the merging of man and machine does not provide immortality; a machine reduced to radioactive melt and scattered scraps of metal cannot be repaired. From his previous invasion of ISA’s computer system, Michael has imprinted in memory everything in Durand Calaphas’s agency file, including his iPhone number. As he leaves the library, navigates the living room, and takes the stairs to the top floor, he also goes online, into a bottomless sea of microwaves carrying data. Because he already knows the number and GPS signal of Calaphas’s phone, he instantly finds the agent in a Beverly Hills restaurant. He quickly enters that phone, speeds through the list of contacts, and locates the number for Grantworth. By the time he reaches the foyer, he is in the deputy director’s phone, where he accesses CONTACTS and grabs the number for the ISA director, Katherine Ormond-Wattley. Crossing the foyer into the hall that leads to the garage, he mentally enters Ormond-Wattley’s phone as she’s in the middle of an encrypted discussion with the president’s national security adviser, Pierce Leyton. Michael hears what Katherine Ormond-Wattley says and also hears what she hears after Leyton’s encrypted transmissions are translated into normal English, or into English that’s as normal as Leyton is able to speak it. They’re talking about a cable-network prime-time host whom they would like to destroy professionally if they could do so without seeming to be behind whatever lie about him they might concoct and document with manufactured evidence. As Michael enters the garage and turns on the lights, he drops through the contacts on Director Kathy’s phone and finds Carter Woodbine’s number. He slides into the agency’s audio archives and listens to the attorney’s initial conversation with the director. He had taken the half million from Woodbine shortly after three o’clock in the morning, but the attorney hadn’t placed his call to Ormond-Wattley until 1:35 in the afternoon, approximately ten hours later. Strange. On the phone call, Woodbine seeks the assistance of the ISA, not only to recover the money but also to find Michael and determine how the five-story fortress that houses the law offices of Woodbine, Kravitz, Benedetto, and Spackman was penetrated. Stranger still, during the conversation, he never mentions that his Bentley has been stolen, which he must have known hours earlier. The attorney wants them to find Michael and the money, wants them to grill the thief until all secrets are spilled, but he doesn’t want them looking for the Bentley. Michael walks around to the back of the sedan. The name of the Bentley dealership and the city in which it’s located are on the complimentary license-plate frame. He settles in the front passenger seat and pulls the door shut. He pops open the glove box, sorts through the contents, and extracts an envelope containing the validated registration card issued by


grab dinner.” Bunny blew Marion a kiss and disappeared. After she was gone, Mrs. Fleming picked up a clipboard and a pen. “Congratulations on becoming a Rockette. Now, what’s your full name?” “Marion Brooks.” “Is that your stage name or your real name?” “Real name.” “Lucky you. I’ve heard some of the worst real names in my time, let me tell you. Edna Quattlebaum, for example, who changed her name to Angela Cadbury, which I didn’t think was much of an improvement.” She gave Marion a sly grin. “My full name is Mitzi Fleming, which you have to agree is a sublime stage name. My mother wanted me to be in pictures, but I’m much happier behind the scenes. Marion was unsure how to reply, so she stayed silent. “I insist on telling prospective boarders a little history of the place, so they appreciate what we have here. Back when actresses were considered no better than streetwalkers and often found it impossible to rent a room, two women—Daisy Greer and Jane Harriss Hall—decided to create a boardinghouse where girls like you and Bunny could stay and pursue creative careers. Have you seen the film Stage Door with Kate Hepburn?” Marion nodded. “Our locale was the inspiration for the movie, and countless stars-in-the-making have passed through our doors. Perhaps you’ll be the next one. However, we have several rules in place.” She checked off each one on her fingers as she spoke. “No smoking, no alcohol, no boys beyond the parlor. You must be in by midnight, the doors are locked after that. You must be between eighteen and twenty-five, neither married nor divorced.” “I’m nineteen and not married.” And certainly not getting married anytime soon, after her last conversation with Nathaniel. “Excellent. Room and board includes two home-cooked meals a day. On weekends, you’re on your own. Anyone living here has to be pursuing a career on the stage, whether taking classes, looking for an agent, or auditioning. You already have a job, so that’s covered. The cost is eighteen dollars a week. Let me show you around.” The tour took them to the practice room, where one girl was banging away on a scuffed upright piano while another belted out a song in a strong alto. Down in the basement was the dining room, with a dozen Formica tables crammed into the small space. They took the creaky stairs up to the second floor, where the wallpaper curled away from the ceiling in the corners. The place could do with a serious sprucing-up, but then Marion had grown up in a beautifully appointed house that Mrs. Hornsby had kept in impeccable order. She was quite spoiled in that way, she had to admit. “This is where Bunny sleeps,” said Mrs. Fleming, opening a door. The room was large, with two beds, each with a bedside table, and two dressers with mirrors. A metal wardrobe loomed in a corner and a pair of hideous orange floral curtains framed a large window that looked onto the street. To the right, Marion spied a


speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part, indeed, without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield. Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear. ``I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement, and when your sister is recovered, you shall if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill.'' Lydia declared herself satisfied. ``Oh! yes -- it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,'' she added, ``I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.'' Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine_ _eyes_. __ CHAPTER X (10) THE day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up some needlework, and


What am I going to do with this controlling man? Learn to be controlled? I don’t think so . . . “I never what?” I ask “Do as you’re told. You changed your mind; you didn’t tell me where you were. Ana, I was in New York, powerless and livid. If I’d been in Seattle I’d have brought you home.” “So you are punishing me?” He swallows, then closes his eyes. He doesn’t have to answer, and I know that punishing me was his exact intention. “You have to stop doing this,” I murmur. His brow furrows. “For a start, you only end up feeling shittier about yourself.” He snorts. “That’s true,” he mutters. “I don’t like to see you like this.” “And I don’t like feeling like this. You said on the Fair Lady that you hadn’t married a submissive.” “I know. I know.” His voice is soft and raw. 242/551 “Well stop treating me like one. I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I won’t be so selfish again. I know you worry about me.” He gazes at me, scrutinizing me closely, his eyes bleak and anxious. “Okay. Good,” he says eventually. He leans down, but pauses before his lips touch mine, silently asking if it’s allowed. I raise my face to his, and he kisses me tenderly. “Your lips are always so soft when you’ve been crying,” he murmurs. “I never promised to obey you, Christian,” I whisper. “I know.” “Deal with it, please. For both our sakes. And I will try and be more consid- erate of your . . . controlling tendencies.” He looks lost and vulnerable, completely at sea. “I’ll try,” he murmurs, his voice burning with sincerity. I sigh, a long shuddering sigh. “Please do. Besides, if I had been here . . .” “I know,” he says and blanches. Lying back, he puts his free arm over his face. I curl around him and lay my head on his chest. We both lie silent for a few moments. His hand moves to the end of my braid. He pulls the tie from it, freeing my hair, and gently, rhythmically combs his fingers through it. This is what this is really about—his fear . . . his irrational fear for my safety. An image of Jack Hyde slumped on the floor in my apartment with a Glock comes to mind . . . well, maybe not so irrational, which reminds me . . . “What did you mean earlier, when you said or?” I ask. “Or?” “Something about Jack.” He peers down at me. “You don’t give up, do you?” I rest my chin on his sternum, enjoying the soothing caress of his fingers in my hair. “Give up? Never. Tell me. I don’t like being kept in the dark. You seem to have some overblown idea that I need protecting. You don’t even know how to shoot—I do. Do you think I can’t handle whatever it is you won’t tell me, Christi- an? I’ve had your stalker ex-sub pull a gun on me, your pedophile


answer is that I feel vile in every sense of the word and I bet I will for a long, long time. So what’s the point of mincing words? You know what trying to keep people comfortable gets you? Heartbreak. “I feel terrible. I didn’t finish the expedition, I won’t get the scholarship, and—” I can’t say anything about Celine. I won’t. I swallow it down like jagged glass. “My ribs hurt, and my head hurts and I skinned my hip really bad and it feels gross and I’m—” About to say something I maybe shouldn’t but desperately want to because why the hell not? “I’m not going to study law.” There is a long pause. Then Dad says, “Come again?” I suck in a shallow breath and look up from the sheets. At his face. At Mum’s confusion. Back to Dad. “I’m not studying law. In October. I did something.” There’s another pause. Then my brother snickers. “Oh my God. What did you do?” I lift my chin and say firmly, “I applied to study something else.” Dad appears to be frozen. Mum asks carefully, “Applied to study what, sweetheart?” “Um. English.” Dad is still frozen. I am slightly (massively) concerned. Mason is laughing so hard he’s clutching his stomach like a cartoon, my jelly abandoned. “What? Why?” “You…you don’t even study English at school now,” Mum says. “I know but my grades are good, and my personal statement is incredible.” That’s what Celine called it. Incredible. Ouch. No thinking about Celine. “What?” That’s Dad, finally, his voice thready with disbelief. “But…when…you told me you had— Why would you do this?” He leans forward, puts a hand on my forehead as if to check my temperature. “Are you okay?” He’s scanning my body like he might discover a badge that says TEMPORARILY ADDLED, DON’T LISTEN TO A WORD THIS PERSON SAYS. Maybe he finds it because he starts to laugh nervously. “Of course. You’ve bumped your head, son. That’s o—” “I’m not delusional, Dad.” I try to roll my eyes and discover the hard way that that is not a good idea. “Ow.” “CAN WE GET SOME MORE PAINKILLERS FOR MY SON, PLEASE?” Dad gets louder when he is panicking. A nurse with a pink hijab and a steely gaze sticks her head between the curtains and practically pins him to a wall. “Sir. There are children sleeping.” Dad clears his throat. “Right. Sorry.” The nurse softens. “I’ll see what we can do.” She disappears. “Why would you want to study…anything else?” Dad demands as soon as she’s gone. “Is this…Are you feeling too much pressure? I was worried you might. You shouldn’t. You can do anything, Brad, anything at all—” I know I can because that’s how he raised me. “Like English?” I suggest. Dad is baffled. “You love law! You were so excited—” “No, he wasn’t, Dad,” Mason says, boredom dripping from each word. “You were excited. Brad didn’t care.” I blink at my little brother, astonished. He tuts and shifts in his chair self-consciously. “What? You’re not subtle.”


the public road. Mr. Link Deas eventually received the impression that Helen was coming to work each morning from the wrong direction, and dragged the reason out of her. "Just let it be, Mr. Link, please suh," Helen begged. "The hell I will," said Mr. Link. He told her to come by his store that afternoon before she left. She did, and Mr. Link closed his store, put his hat firmly on his head, and walked Helen home. He walked her the short way, by the Ewells'. On his way back, Mr. Link stopped at the crazy gate. "Ewell?" he called. "I say Ewell!" The windows, normally packed with children, were empty. "I know every last one of you's in there a-layin' on the floor! Now hear me, Bob Ewell: if I hear one more peep outa my girl Helen about not bein' able to walk this road I'll have you in jail before sundown!" Mr. Link spat in the dust and walked home. Helen went to work next morning and used the public road. Nobody chunked at her, but when she was a few yards beyond the Ewell house, she looked around and saw Mr. Ewell walking behind her. She turned and walked on, and Mr. Ewell kept the same distance behind her until she reached Mr. Link Deas's house. All the way to the house, Helen said, she heard a soft voice behind her, crooning foul words. Thoroughly frightened, she telephoned Mr. Link at his store, which was not too far from his house. As Mr. Link came out of his store he saw Mr. Ewell leaning on the fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Don't you look at me, Link Deas, like I was dirt. I ain't jumped your-" "First thing you can do, Ewell, is get your stinkin' carcass off my property. You're leanin' on it an' I can't afford fresh paint for it. Second thing you can do is stay away from my cook or I'll have you up for assault-" "I ain't touched her, Link Deas, and ain't about to go with no nigger!" "You don't have to touch her, all you have to do is make her afraid, an' if assault ain't enough to keep you locked up awhile, I'll get you in on the Ladies' Law, so get outa my sight! If you don't think I mean it, just bother that girl again!" Mr. Ewell evidently thought he meant it, for Helen reported no further trouble. "I don't like it, Atticus, I don't like it at all," was Aunt Alexandra's assessment of these events. "That man seems to have a permanent running grudge against everybody connected with that case. I know how that kind are about paying off grudges, but I don't understand why he should harbor one- he had his way in court, didn't he?" "I think I understand," said Atticus. "It might be because he knows in his heart that very few people in Maycomb really believed his and Mayella's yarns. He thought he'd be a hero, but all he got for his pain


me there. Now.” They reached the field by evening. Forest had been right; Dacre’s forces now ruled Avalon Bluff. Iris crouched in the grass, staring at the town. Fires were lit and music was pouring like a stream. Smoke still rose from the ashes, but Dacre was celebrating. His white flag with the red eithral eye was raised, flapping in the wind. The gas was long gone by now. As if it had never been. “We’ll have to crawl through the grass,” Forest said, his words clipped with tension. “It looks like Dacre isn’t expecting any retaliation from Enva’s forces. I don’t see any sentries, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t stationed as snipers. So move very slowly, and stay down. Do you hear me?” She nodded. She didn’t spare her brother a glance. She was too focused on the sway of the grass as the wind raked over it. On the place she believed Roman to be. She and Forest crawled side by side through the field. She moved gentle but swift, as he instructed. She didn’t wince when the stalks cut her hands, and it felt like a year passed before she reached the place where she had fought her brother, hours ago. She recognized it easily. The grass was broken here, trampled by their boots. She swallowed the temptation to call for Roman. She remained low, crawling on her belly. The stars were beginning to wink overhead. The music from Avalon Bluff continued to echo, a fierce beating of drums. The light was almost gone. Iris strained her eyes, looking for him amongst the flax. Roman! Her breaths were shallow and painful. Perspiration dripped from her brow, even as the temperature dropped. She searched for him, knowing this had been the spot. She searched, but there was no trace of him. Only his blood, staining the grass. “We need to go, Iris,” Forest whispered. “Wait,” she pleaded. “I know he has to be here.” “He’s not. Look.” Her brother pointed at something. She frowned, studying it. There was a ring drawn in the dirt. It encircled them both as they paused, still lying low. “What is this, Forest?” she asked, finding more of Roman’s blood on the ground. It looked like spilled ink in the dusky light. “We need to go. Now,” he hissed, grabbing her wrist. She didn’t want him touching her, and she lurched away. Her hand still ached, as did her neck. All due to him. “Just a minute longer, Forest,” she begged. “Please.” “He’s not here, Iris. You have to trust me. I know more than you.” “What do you mean?” But she had a terrible inkling. Her heart was beating, hummingbird swift in her throat. “Do you think he’s in Avalon Bluff?” Guns fired in the distance. Iris startled, pressing deeper into the earth. Another round of shots, and then came peals of laughter. “No, he’s not there,” Forest said, his eyes sweeping their surroundings. “I promise. But it’s time for us to go, as you agreed, sister.” She glanced around the grass one


nothing in sight; so Jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep the things dry. Jim made a floor for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or more above the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. Right in the middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from being seen. We made an extra steering-oar, too, because one of the others might get broke on a snag or something. We fixed up a short forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because we must always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats unless we see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always run the channel, but hunted easy water. This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current that was making over four mile an hour. We catched fish and talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, lay- ing on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed -- only a little kind of a low chuckle. We had mighty good weather as a general thing, and noth- ing ever happened to us at all -- that night, nor the next, nor the next. Every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you see. The fifth night we passed St. Louis, and it was like the whole world lit up. In St. Petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty thousand people in St. Louis, but I never believed it till I see that wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still night. There warn't a sound there; everybody was asleep. Every night now I used to slip ashore towards ten o'clock at some little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or bacon or other stuff to eat; and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn't roosting comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said, take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him yourself you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot. I never see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but that is what he used


again. He stared at the robot and tried to entangle some dartoid muscles. "Zaphod Beeblebrox ...?" he said weakly. "Sorry, did I say something wrong?" said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless. "Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don't know why I bother to say it, oh God I'm so depressed. Here's another of those self-satisfied door. Life! Don't talk to me about life." "No one ever mentioned it," muttered Arthur irritably. "Ford, are you alright?" Ford stared at him. "Did that robot say Zaphod Beeblebrox?" he said. ================================================================= Chapter 12 A loud clatter of gunk music flooded through the Heart of Gold cabin as Zaphod searched the sub-etha radio wavebands for news of himself. The machine was rather difficult to operate. For years radios had been operated by means of pressing buttons and turning dials; then as the technology became more sophisticated the controls were made touch-sensitive - you merely had to brush the panels with your fingers; now all you had to do was wave your hand in the general direction of the components and hope. It saved a lot of muscular expenditure of course, but meant that you had to sit infuriatingly still if you wanted to keep listening to the same programme. Zaphod waved a hand and the channel switched again. More gunk music, but this time it was a background to a news announcement. The news was always heavily edited to fit the rhythms of the music. "... and news brought to you here on the sub-etha wave band, broadcasting around the galaxy around the clock," squawked a voice, "and we'll be saying a big hello to all intelligent life forms everywhere ... and to everyone else out there, the secret is to bang the rocks together, guys. And of course, the big news story tonight is the sensational theft of the new Improbability Drive prototype ship by none other than Galactic President Zaphod Beeblebrox. And the question everyone's asking is ... has the big Z finally flipped? Beeblebrox, the man who invented the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, ex-confidence trickster, once described by Eccentrica Gallumbits as the Best Bang since the Big One, and recently voted the Wort Dressed Sentinent Being in the Known Universe for the seventh time ... has he got an answer this time? We asked his private brain care specialist Gag Halfrunt ..." The music swirled and dived for a moment. Another voice broke in, presumably Halfrunt. He said: "Vell, Zaphod's jist zis guy you know?" but got no further because an electric pencil flew across the cabin and through the radio's on/off sensitive airspace. Zaphod turned and glared at Trillian - she had thrown the pencil. "Hey," he said, what do you do that for?" Trillian was tapping her fingers on a screenful of figures. "I've just thought of something," she said. "Yeah? Worth interrupting a news bulletin about me for?" "You hear enough about yourself as it is." "I'm very insecure. We know that." "Can we drop your ego for a moment? This is important." "If there's


of his trips are in the old case files. The detectives did a fairly thorough job mapping out his movements to try to connect him to the other murders.” “Not the ‘other’ murders, just the murders. I’m an almost,” I said with a curl of a smile, no humor in it. “There is something else we need to consider,” Ethan said, with the kind of care that suggested he wasn’t sure how I was going to react. “If Jessi isn’t one of Stahl’s victims, it might be a good idea to be careful who we talk to.” I frowned. “Why?” “Because it’s possible—maybe even probable—that her death was an accident. But if it wasn’t an accident, and it wasn’t Stahl, someone else killed her. And they might not be happy about us digging around.” I pressed my knuckles against my lips. “Liv found her, and now she’s dead. If it wasn’t suicide…” “Someone might have killed her to keep her from revealing what she’d learned. And that means that you and I need to be careful,” Ethan said grimly. I didn’t know which answer I needed more. If Stahl had killed Jessi, we’d been right, and it had been him out there that day. But that meant there was no reason for anyone to want to hurt Liv, except Liv herself. If Stahl hadn’t killed Jessi, maybe whoever did had gone after Liv to silence her. She hadn’t hurt herself after all. Or I was wrong about everything. Stahl had nothing to do with me. Jessi’s death was a random accident. And Liv’s death was exactly what it looked like. No matter what the answer was, I had failed her. I hadn’t been able to save her. We pulled in to the motel. Ethan got out of the car and stretched, his shirt riding up to bare a strip of skin. “Is there anyone else from that crowd who’s still around? Someone else who might have known Jessi?” he asked. “Oscar mostly hung around with Russell Burke,” I said. “Where’s he?” “Dead.” “He probably won’t be able to help us, then. Who else?” Ethan asked, squinting in the sunlight. “Cody Benham,” I said reluctantly. “The guy who saved you?” Ethan’s eyebrows raised. “More than once,” I said, half to myself. “He and Oscar used to be friends.” “But not anymore?” “Not anymore,” I confirmed. I could pinpoint the end of that friendship to the minute. The smell of gasoline and asphalt in the air, fingertips bruising my ribs. “Do you have his number?” Ethan asked. “Would he talk to you?” “Yes. To both,” I said. Cody had his job. A pregnant wife. He’d gotten out of Chester in a way few of us ever managed, and I didn’t want to drag him back into this. “You don’t have to do this,” Ethan said, seeing my expression. “You could walk away. Or tell the police what you know, and let them handle it.” I shook my head. I had to finish the work Liv had started. “I’m not going to stop now,” I


, grandson and heir to Sir Frederic Granby. I had the intelligence from her father yesterday."     His sisters looked at each other, and at me; we all three looked at him. He was serene as glass.     "The match must have been got up hastily," said Diana; "they cannot have known each other long."     "But two months: they met in October at the county ball at S . But where there are no obstacles to a union, as in the present case, where the connection is in every point desirable, delays are unnecessary; they will be married as soon as S Place, which Sir Frederic gives up to them, can be refitted for their reception."     The first time I found St. John alone after this communication, I felt tempted to inquire if the event distressed him; but he seemed so little to need sympathy that, so far from venturing to offer him more, I experienced some shame at the recollection of what I had already hazarded. Besides, I was out of practice in talking to him; his reserve was again frozen over, and my frankness was congealed beneath it. He had not kept his promise of treating me like his sisters; he continually made little chilling differences between us, which did not at all tend to the development of cordiality: in short, now that I was acknowledged his kinswoman, and lived under the same roof with him, I felt the distance between us to be far greater than when he had known me only as the village school-mistress. When I remembered at the same time how far I had once been admitted to his confidence, I could hardly comprehend his present frigidity.     Such being the case, I felt not a little surprised when he raised his head suddenly from the desk over which he was stooping, and said, "You see. Jane, the battle is fought and the victory won."     Startled at being thus addressed, I did not immediately reply; after a moment's hesitation, I answered, "But are you sure you are not in the position of those conquerors whose triumphs have cost them too dear. Would not such another ruin you?"     "I think not; and if I were, it does not much signify; I shall never be called upon to contend for such another. The event of the conflict is decisive: my way is now clear; I thank God for it!" So saying, he returned to his papers and his silence.     As our mutual happiness (i. e.Diana's, Mary's and mine) settled into a quieter character, and we resumed our usual habits and regular studies, St. John stayed more at home; he sat with us in the same room, sometimes for hours together. While Mary drew, Diana pursued a course of encyclopdic reading she had (to my awe and amazement) undertaken, and I fagged away at German, he pondered a mystic lore


healthy and normal, right? “Which is more important to you? Love or pride?” He studied her face. “You answer first.” Was it crazy to be having this deep conversation in the middle of a loud bar? Probably. For some reason it didn’t feel strange, though. There were no formalities with this man. Just jumping in with both feet and being pulled along in the current. “I guess . . . pride is more important to me. Pride is something that can be kept. Love is too often squandered when you give it away. People might be careless with your love, but they can’t touch your pride. Or put it on their shelf like a trophy. It’s yours.” Something about his demeanor changed. Sort of a swelling of his shoulders and lifting of his chest, as if he was preparing for a fight. On her behalf? “Your ex was careless with you.” Not a question, a statement. Flustered by her willingness to share so recklessly with this man, she reached for her drink and stared into its depths. She took a sip, cooling her throat, feeling his rapt attention on her the whole time. “Your turn. Love or pride?” “Love,” he answered without hesitation. Why did something inside her bloom like a rose over his answer? “Really?” Her voice was more uneven than a middle schooler’s. “You just told me that whole story about Honda Accords and your family valuing pride.” “I know.” He appeared thoughtful. “But love seems more important now.” Don’t ask why. “Why?” “Because I can tell you don’t believe in it. And I want you to.” She definitely shouldn’t ask why to that question. Or try to read between the lines for something that wasn’t there. “That’s very generous of you,” she said quickly, feeling a rare ramble coming on and too flustered to avoid it. “I mean, the two are very closely related at the end of the day, right? Love means letting go of your pride, after all.” He looked at her as if she’d just said something really smart. “Holy shit. Does it?” “I don’t know, August. I’m not an expert.” He continued to stare at her. For so long that she started to fidget. “What?” “I want to know exactly what happened in New York.” Natalie shook her head. “No.” “Who is up for some axe throwing?” Hallie sang, coming along beside them, face flushed, a very cocky looking Julian sauntering up behind her. “We can do teams. Couple versus couple.” “Screw that.” Natalie set down her drink and hauled Hallie against her side. “Men versus women.” A smile threatened the corners of August’s mouth. “Who am I to object?” “Battle of the sexes.” Hallie flexed a biceps. “Let’s do this.” Julian and Hallie left to secure their foursome a lane, leaving August and Natalie sizing each other up in the middle of the growing crowd. “Care to make it interesting?” he asked. “Not that I haven’t already won just getting to watch you throw an axe in that short-ass dress.” “I’m going to get


take care of himself, and that nothing will occur to upset him. It is two o'clock, and the doctor will be here soon now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's journal unless he asks me. I am so glad I have typewritten out my own journal, so that, in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand it to him. It will save much questioning. Later.--He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it all makes my head whirl round. I feel like one in a dream. Can it be all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan's journal first, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear Jonathan! How he must have suffered. Please the good God, all this may not upset him again. I shall try to save him from it. But it may be even a consolation and a help to him, terrible though it be and awful in its consequences, to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt which haunts him, that when the doubt is removed, no matter which, waking or dreaming, may prove the truth, he will be more satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur's friend and Dr. Seward's, and if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he is good and kind and of a noble nature. When he comes tomorrow I shall ask him about Jonathan. And then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good end. I used to think I would like to practice interviewing. Jonathan's friend on "The Exeter News" told him that memory is everything in such work, that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare interview. I shall try to record it verbatim. It was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. I took my courage a deux mains and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and announced "Dr. Van Helsing". I rose and bowed, and he came towards me, a man of medium weight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise of the head strikes me at once as indicative of thought and power. The head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. The face, clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large resolute, mobile mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big bushy brows come down and the mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost straight


Viv took several deep breaths as her anxiety mounted. She wished she had a paper bag to breathe into. “Well, will you look at that?” Selleck said, sounding like she was smiling. Viv looked over Selleck’s shoulder through the Deux Arrow’s canopy. It was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. Chapter 20 Viv hadn’t known what to expect. Now, seeing USS Lincoln through the canopy, her sleek SpaceWing design, her in-flight appearance of swift movement, while, of course, she was perfectly still. She thought how strange it was that ocean-going and deep spaceships were typically thought of in the feminine genre. No … this ship was all masculine. With those three aft, oversized drive engines, the vessel oozed power, screamed raw testosterone. It begged the question: how had such a stalwart-looking vessel been so effectively defeated? “We’re making our approach,” Selleck said. “It’s a little unnerving not getting clearance prior to final approach.” “We already know the Hub Gunther and a few Arrows managed …” “I’m not saying I’m incapable of doing my job,” Selleck spat back. Viv cringed. The young pilot had just lost her boyfriend; she was a mess and doubting every aspect of her life about now. She certainly doesn’t need me pushing her buttons. “You got this, girl. I wouldn’t want any other pilot.” “Oh, so now you resort to patronizing?” She bit her lip. Fuck. “Maybe I’ll just shut up for a while.” “Roger that,” Selleck said. Selleck’s sudden mood change was taking Viv by surprise—still mourning her loss or not, Viv was a superior officer, a major at that; there was only so much leeway she was willing to give here. She couldn’t see the pilot’s face, see what was going on with her. They slowed to a near crawl, the egress into Lincoln’s port-side flight bay getting larger by the moment. The blue-hued energy barrier shimmered and pulsed as if it was cognizant of their arrival—in a sense, perhaps it was. They breached the barrier, Selleck quickly bringing the hovering Arrow to a standstill. Viv blinked, the bright overheads making her squint, cones and rods quickly trying to adjust. Peering down at the deck, Viv said, “Didn’t expect such a full house … Not a lot of parking options, huh?” Selleck didn’t reply. She goosed the throttle, taking them further, deeper, into the bay. “Over to the left. There’s the Gunther!” Viv said, pointing a finger that Selleck, undoubtedly, couldn’t see. “How about we put a pause on all the backseat driving for a while?” All the backseat driving? Viv, stymied and slack-jawed, glowered at the back of Selleck’s head. The Arrow pivoted in place, then descended ever-so-slowly. She too had seen there was only one open slot between the countless parked Arrows. How Selleck was managing to jockey this craft into such a small space, with literally inches to spare, only increased Viv’s appreciation for the pilot’s abilities. Then again, didn’t she herself exhibit similar near-superhuman abilities with a Zap-Blade? Even before the Arrow came to rest upon the flight deck, Selleck had


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

I fought. It was over something stupid—I think he cheated at cards. But I was incensed, the way only a ten-year-old child can be. We fought, and I beat the shit out of him.” A wry smile twisted his mouth. “It wasn’t much worse than what we usually did to each other, but for whatever reason, that was the only time he went to his father about it. Ivanna had just died the year before. I think Bastian had exhausted every other way of trying to make August care about him. This was a last resort.” Gabe shrugged. “Didn’t work for getting August’s attention, but it got me banished back to Balgia for the rest of the season, sent there with all the attendants who were supposed to be my surrogate parents. The week after I arrived, my father surrendered to Jax.” His hand rose, rubbed at his eye patch. “My presence wasn’t enough to change his plans.” Lore knotted her hands in her skirt. “Gabe… I’m…” But he cut her off, like he was afraid of hearing anything that might be pity. “I’m not stupid enough to think what happened to me is Bastian’s fault. We were children. But I’ll admit that I’m jealous.” He huffed a rueful laugh. “I’m jealous that his actions never seem to have consequences, when I’m carrying the consequences of an entire family. I’m jealous that it would take a miracle for him to be left all alone and with nothing, when everything was taken from me in an instant.” She’d seen it, all the things he listed, though she’d classify it differently. Bastian’s carelessness was artificial, a façade built to keep anyone from knowing just how much he cared. She still remembered the lightning-quick way he’d changed that night in the alley, how the lazy air of entitlement had fallen away like a discarded cloak. So many layers, so much crafted, careful nonchalance. Bastian was drowning in it, but he didn’t fool her, though the weak points she’d seen were only hairline cracks in the armor he’d forged over years. It reminded her of herself. How she’d been Night-Sister-Lore and then poison-runner-Lore and now spy-Lore, each a persona she’d eased into, a different shell to wear. When she thought about what might be left when all that artifice was stripped away, she came up blank. Like all the things that made her were window dressings on an empty house. And though Bastian had never had to run, had been born into his cage instead of molting into different ones over and over, she thought he’d feel the same. That all his careful personas might hide an emptiness the same shape as hers. He’d weathered Gabe’s anger with what she’d thought was grace, let the other man’s barely leashed rage roll off his back. But maybe it wasn’t grace. Maybe Bastian held this memory just as closely as Gabe did, and maybe he felt like he deserved that anger. Lore didn’t know how to articulate any of that, though. Not in a way Gabriel would understand.


uproariously, and he felt ashamed, he knew not why, for it was his first snow. Chapter II The Law of Club and Fang Buck's first day on the Dyea beach was like a nightmare. Every hour was filled with shock and surprise. He had been suddenly jerked from the heart of civilization and flung into the heart of things primordial. No lazy, sun-kissed life was this, with nothing to do but loaf and be bored. Here was neither peace, nor rest, nor a moment's safety. All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang. He had never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures fought, and his first experience taught him an unforgetable lesson. It is true, it was a vicarious experience, else he would not have lived to profit by it. Curly was the victim. They were camped near the log store, where she, in her friendly way, made advances to a husky dog the size of a full-grown wolf, though not half so large as she. There was no warning, only a leap in like a flash, a metallic clip of teeth, a leap out equally swift, and Curly's face was ripped open from eye to jaw. It was the wolf manner of fighting, to strike and leap away; but there was more to it than this. Thirty or forty huskies ran to the spot and surrounded the combatants in an intent and silent circle. Buck did not comprehend that silent intentness, nor the eager way with which they were licking their chops. Curly rushed her antagonist, who struck again and leaped aside. He met her next rush with his chest, in a peculiar fashion that tumbled her off her feet. She never regained them, This was what the onlooking huskies had waited for. They closed in upon her, snarling and yelping, and she was buried, screaming with agony, beneath the bristling mass of bodies. So sudden was it, and so unexpected, that Buck was taken aback. He saw Spitz run out his scarlet tongue in a way he had of laughing; and he saw Francois, swinging an axe, spring into the mess of dogs. Three men with clubs were helping him to scatter them. It did not take long. Two minutes from the time Curly went down, the last of her assailants were clubbed off. But she lay there limp and lifeless in the bloody, trampled snow, almost literally torn to pieces, the swart half-breed standing over her and cursing horribly. The scene often came back to Buck to trouble him in his sleep. So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you. Well, he would see to it that he never went down. Spitz ran out his tongue and laughed again, and from that moment Buck hated him with a


with them, a protest against the wind that ripped their faces and tore at their lips, making their noses bleed. Montag watched the great dust settle and the great silence move down upon their world. And lying there it seemed that he saw every single grain of dust and every blade of grass and that he heard every cry and shout and whisper going up in the world now. Silence fell down in the sifting dust, and all the leisure they might need to look around, to gather the reality of this day into their senses. Montag looked at the river. We'll go on the river. He looked at the old railroad tracks. Or we'll go that way. Or we'll walk on the highways now, and we'll have time to put things into ourselves. And some day, after it sets in us a long time, it'll come out of our hands and our mouths. And a lot of it will be wrong, but just enough of it will be right. We'll just start walking today and see the world and the way the world walks around and talks, the way it really looks. I want to see everything now. And while none of it will be me when it goes in, after a while it'll all gather together inside and it'll be me. Look at the world out there, my God, my God, look at it out there, outside me, out there beyond my face and the only way to really touch it is to put it where it's finally me, where it's in the blood, where it pumps around a thousand times ten thousand a day. I get hold of it so it'll never run off. I'll hold on to the world tight some day. I've got one finger on it now; that's a beginning. The wind died. The other men lay a while, on the dawn edge of sleep, not yet ready to rise up and begin the day's obligations, its fires and foods, its thousand details of putting foot after foot and hand after hand. They lay blinking their dusty eyelids. You could hear them breathing fast, then slower, then slow .... Montag sat up. He did not move any further, however. The other men did likewise. The sun was touching the black horizon with a faint red tip. The air was cold and smelled of a coming rain. Silently, Granger arose, felt his arms, and legs, swearing, swearing incessantly under his breath, tears dripping from his face. He shuffled down to the river to look upstream. "It's flat," he said, a long time later. "City looks like a heap of baking-powder. It's gone." And a long time after that. "I wonder how many knew it was coming? I wonder how many were surprised?" And across the world, thought Montag, how many other cities dead? And here in our country, how many? A hundred, a thousand? Someone struck a match and touched it to a piece of dry paper taken from their pocket, and shoved this under a bit


as outraged as I am, which is unnerving, to say the least. We really shouldn’t agree on anything, ever. “But first—only those of you whose applications are unique and compelling enough will make it into the BEP at all. We’ll begin with a twenty-person cohort.” Twenty people? There’s at least ten times that in this room. The general hum of excitement turns into a low buzz of apprehension, of competition, as everyone eyes their neighbors. For some reason, I find myself eyeing Celine. Not that we’re in competition for this. It’s just habit. She glares back. “What are you looking at?” “Not my competition,” I say, “that’s for sure.” Her mouth forms a perfect little O. “Bradley! Have you finally accepted that I’m fundamentally superior to you in every way? Bravo. I knew this day would come.” “Oh, Celine,” I say, flashing the sweetest smile in my arsenal. “Some might say it’s cruel to let you live in this fantasy world you’ve created. But if it keeps you from sinking into the depths of despair, I’ll let you dream.” She scowls. I bet she’d scowl even harder if I got into her precious BEP and won the whole thing (surely someone gets to win? I would definitely win.), but that would be beyond petty and probably a waste of time. I’m not trying to take over the world like Celine. I do want to work in law—I’d get to help people, and I’d be good at it, and I wouldn’t completely die of boredom—but I don’t sit around daydreaming about elite employers. I don’t daydream about the future at all. (Unless you count the one where I’m a bestselling sci-fi author, but obviously that’s not going to happen because I can’t even finish a bloody short story, so—) “…fifty percent of the cohort,” Katharine is saying, and I blink back to the room around me in time to see her latest slide. My jaw drops. On average, around 50 percent of the cohort—Breakspeare Explorers, she calls them—usually quit or are thrown out before finishing the program? What the hell does she have people doing out there, ice bathing and making blood sacrifices to the gods? It’s just two expeditions. I mean, scrubbing about in the dirt and wilderness isn’t my idea of fun—when I was sixteen, the football team camped in Bavaria for a tournament and I spent the whole trip peeing in bushes so I wouldn’t have to use a public bathroom—but even I could complete two expeditions if I had the right motivation. Then again, I’m kind of a badass. I could do anything with the right motivation. “But those who succeed will attend the Explorers’ Ball to receive their coveted Explorer Awards and mingle with our sponsors, who’ll be searching for students to offer internships. Oh,” Katharine says, like a parent “finding” one last surprise present for their kid under the tree. “And of course, the three Explorers who score the highest on our achievement matrix—who become our Ultimate Explorers—will win the grand prize: a full scholarship to study


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

rugs from under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!" Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the caretaker, Argus Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get on the wrong side of him on their very first morning. Filch found them trying to force their way through a door that unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor. He wouldn't believe they were lost, was sure they were trying to break into it on purpose, and was threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they were rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing. Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature with bulging, lamp like eyes just like Filch's. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she'd whisk off for Filch, who'd appear, wheezing, two seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of the school better than anyone (except perhaps the Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a good kick. And then, once you had managed to find them, there were the classes themselves. There was a lot more to magic, as Harry quickly found out, than waving your wand and saying a few funny words. They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the movements of the planets. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout, where they learned how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi, and found out what they were used for. Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on and on while they scribbled down names and dates, and got Emetic the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up. Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class he took the roll call, and when he reached Harry's name he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight. Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had been quite right to think she wasn't a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class. "Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back.


He was breathless, sitting on a bed with a dark hotel window behind him. He must have filmed this last night, after we talked. “I have exclusive sources, so you’ll have to trust me here. This is why, listen, this is why you have to travel, this is why you have to be on the ground. I’m gonna phrase this carefully, but I have reason now to believe that we’ve been overlooking something huge. As I’ve mentioned a few times, there was a music teacher at Granby by the name of Dennis Bloch. Born April of 1962 in Olivette, Missouri. Most recently teaching in Providence, Rhode Island, but seems to have left that job a couple years back. I’ll be posting some relevant links in the comments, and I know you all love to dig. “All I’m saying for now is Dennis Bloch might know something significant about this case, something he should have revealed twenty-seven years ago. This is a guy who’s stayed in education, he’s gone on and worked with other kids. Some of them out there, they might know something. And look—” He leaned closer to the camera, shook his head slightly, clenched his jaw, gathered himself, continued. “He might be having relationships with young girls, he might’ve been doing this unchecked for decades. Here’s what we want: employment records, any complaints filed against him, current contact information. In particular, we want anything any Granby student knows. Not rumors, okay, not hearsay, but did you witness something, did you see something, do you know something.” I realized I’d been standing numb, just inside the coffee shop door, without approaching the counter. I joined the short line, kept staring at my phone as Dane cautioned his followers not to approach you themselves, not to take matters into their own hands, to stay within the bounds of the law, to keep records. “It’s for your safety,” he said, “as well as the integrity of the investigation.” Behind him, jumbled heaps of clothes on the hotel bed. The alarm clock blinked 12:00. 16 Fran picked up both me and Geoff that night to ferry us to campus for the party. Geoff cracked himself up playing “Radio Ga Ga” on his phone; it was the song we used to put on repeat in Fran’s mom’s car when Fran would sneak us off campus midday to Frogurt Bar. Over the past four years, it would hit me hard as I headed to a dinner, stepped out for a run, boarded an airplane, that I was doing these things and Omar was locked in a cell. During lockdown, friends complained about having nothing but their jigsaw puzzles and sourdough starters, and I would bite my tongue—or not. But riding to a party so close to the happenings at court felt particularly egregious, even if the Omar I had known would’ve hoped it was a rager. When the song ended Geoff said, “I’m not allowed to tell Bodie what happened in court.” He was talking over his shoulder, to where I sat in the back. “But


the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were an institution, and the girls called them `muffs',for they had no others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold mornings. Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she might be, for the walk was long and bleak. The poor things got no other lunch and were seldom home before two. "Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee. We are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll come home regular angels. Now then, Meg!" And Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims were not setting out as they ought to do. They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was always at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them. Somehow it seemed as if they couldn't have got through the day without that, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine. "If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never seen," cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and bitter wind. "Don't use such dreadful expressions," replied Meg from the depths of the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world. "I like good strong words that mean something," replied Jo, catching her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away altogether. "Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a wretch and I don't choose to be called so." "You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can't sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with." "How ridiculous you are, Jo!" But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt better in spite of herself. "Lucky for you I am, for if I put on crushed airs and tried to be dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can always find something funny to keep me up. Don't croak any more, but come home jolly, there's a dear." Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted for the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm turnover, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather, hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth. When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate friend,the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something toward their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good will which in spite


"Halloa!" said he, "young fellow!" Halloa being a general observation which I had usually observed to be best answered by itself, I said, "Halloa!" politely omitting young fellow. "Who let you in?" said he. "Miss Estella." "Who gave you leave to prowl about?" "Miss Estella." "Come and fight," said the pale young gentleman. What could I do but follow him? I have often asked myself the question since: but, what else could I do? His manner was so final and I was so astonished, that I followed where he led, as if I had been under a spell. "Stop a minute, though," he said, wheeling round before we had gone many paces. "I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it is!" In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands against one another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled my hair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my stomach. The bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was unquestionably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was particularly disagreeable just after bread and meat. I therefore hit out at him and was going to hit out again, when he said, "Aha! Would you?" and began dancing backwards and forwards in a manner quite unparalleled within my limited experience. "Laws of the game!" said he. Here, he skipped from his left leg on to his right. "Regular rules!" Here, he skipped from his right leg on to his left. "Come to the ground, and go through the preliminaries!" Here, he dodged backwards and forwards, and did all sorts of things while I looked helplessly at him. I was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but, I felt morally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have had no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to consider it irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I followed him without a word, to a retired nook of the garden, formed by the junction of two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking me if I was satisfied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he begged my leave to absent himself for a moment, and quickly returned with a bottle of water and a sponge dipped in vinegar. "Available for both," he said, placing these against the wall. And then fell to pulling off, not only his jacket and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a manner at once light-hearted, businesslike, and bloodthirsty. Although he did not look very healthy - having pimples on his face, and a breaking out at his mouth - these dreadful preparations quite appalled me. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and he had a way of spinning himself about that was full of appearance. For the rest, he was a young gentleman in a grey suit (when not denuded for battle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and


dancing. Clytemnestra catches sight of Helen smiling at her; the dance is her sister’s favorite moment. The drums start beating and the girls begin. Bare feet thud on the sand, pulsing through the sunlit air, and the dancers’ hair moves, like tongues of flame. Clytemnestra dances with her eyes closed, her strong legs following the rhythm. Helen’s movements mirror her sister’s but are more composed and graceful, as if she were afraid of losing herself. Her feet light and precise, her arms like wings, she looks ready to take flight and soar high, away from the others’ eyes. But she can’t rise, so she keeps dancing, relentless. Clytemnestra dances for herself; Helen dances for others. * * * The water of the bath is cold and pleasant on the skin. Only Helen, Clytemnestra, and the Spartiates are allowed to share the small room in one corner of the courtyard. Most of the other athletes, commoners and girls who can’t claim to be native Spartans, are washing away the sweat in the river. Clytemnestra rests her head against the stony wall, watching Helen as she rises out of the pool, golden hair plastered to her shoulders. At sixteen, their bodies are changing, their faces growing leaner, firmer. It scares Clytemnestra to witness it, though she doesn’t speak of it. It reminds her that at their age, their mother had already married their father and left her homeland. Leda had come to Sparta from Aetolia, the arid land of mountains in the north of Greece famous for its wild beasts, nature gods, and spirits. Like every Aetolian princess before her, Leda was a huntress, skilled with the ax and bow, and she worshipped the mountain goddess Rhea. King Tyndareus loved her for her fierceness and married her, even though the Greeks called the tribes of Aetolia “primitive” and spread rumors that they ate raw meat, like animals. When Leda, a strong woman with raven hair and olive skin, gave birth to Helen—a light-skinned girl with hair the color of honey—everyone in Sparta believed that Zeus was Leda’s lover. The god was famously fond of beautiful young women and enjoyed taking different shapes to ravish them. He had been a bull to abduct the Phoenician princess Europa, a shower of golden rain to touch the lovely Danaë, a dark cloud to seduce the priestess Io. So he did with Leda. Disguising himself as a swan, he found her sitting alone on the bank of the Eurotas, her hair black and shiny as a raven’s feathers, her eyes lost and sad. He flew into her arms, and when she caressed his wings, he raped her. Rumors indulge in details, so the Spartans talked of how Leda fought as he seized her, his beak wounding her, his wings keeping her still. Others spoke differently: the union was so pleasurable, they said, that she was left flushed and breathless. “Of course, she must have liked it,” Clytemnestra heard a boy say in the gymnasium once. “The queen is different . . . Her people are more barbaric.” Clytemnestra


and comes over to ask if he will share his joint with her. Hallelujah, indeed. 3. “Little Thing” (Live at Luther College two-disc set) most romantic lyric, to me: “Weighted by the memory of / The memory of a love that never got born” </3 Okay, so this is my favorite record, a live recording that’s just Tim Reynolds and Dave and a couple of acoustic guitars playing a bunch of hits in front of a friendly college audience that doesn’t scream out any rude stuff. Dave starts by telling this story about how he saw a hot, very small—but not a child—adult human woman on the street and he asked her for directions, and she gave them to him and left. After she’d gone he was like “DAMN, THAT GIRL WAS FINE,” but it was too late. He couldn’t ask her name or suggest they get a cup of coffee, his chance for romance with this woman he met on some grimy New York City street was dead, and now her voice was going to echo in his ear, tormenting him until he dies or until he sees another hot young elf on a different street. I love this song because Dave spends a lot of it singing in his gorgeous falsetto, and also because I, too, like to project a complicated fantasy onto a person I saw on the street for approximately nineteen seconds. * * * — I once had to wrestle my original 1994 CD of Under the Table and Dreaming from the greedy clutches of a dude who had broken into my room to try to steal my shit at the boardinghouse where we both lived. The only other thing of value I had at that time was a used, scorched-up Rowenta iron. The album meant that much to me, and also my car had broken down. And I didn’t want to take the bus all the way to Best Buy to replace it, and if we’re being honest—I would absolutely fistfight him again today. My love for “Typical Situation” knows no bounds. So here’s the thing, women of a certain age (forty-three years old, to be precise), who no longer get their period and can’t eat dairy anymore, need romantic music to vibe to. Of course, when I was a wee lass of twenty-two freezing my face off waiting for the L at Granville at seven thirty in the morning, I did so while listening to Trina rapping about grinding on a dick. But listen, I use a retinoid before bed every night now. I am officially in my smooth-jazz adult contemporary years! And yeah, I listen to a lot of metal or whatever in the daytime. But I like to sit in my chair with my eyes closed, swaying to gentle songs and imagining Dave is singing to me when it’s the middle of the night and I’m spiraling. 4. “Here On Out” most romantic lyric, to me: “When you laugh, it’s like a light / That fills me up” This song has a lot


move them to act,” I had said. “Oh, they will almost certainly see through the ploy.” Arin had deftly buttoned his coat, observing the servants rushing between the fountain and my burning room. “But none of them will be willing to risk that another might take the bait and succeed in catching you first.” The trip to Nizahl passed in a blur of arguments and cold cabin rooms. Sefa hummed every time I tried to talk sense into her. Marek would dip his hands in mud and chase me around the cabin. Idiots, both of them. We were due in Nizahl today. To distract from my churning dread, I plucked one of Arin’s maps and smoothed it open on my legs. I studied the map for long moments, trying to decipher the unintelligible markings. “Have you started doodling in your spare time?” I asked, squinting at the downward V shapes and scribbled names. I traced a bridge that might have been Sirauk. Arin didn’t ask to see the map. “The mountains.” My forehead furrowed. The carriage’s motion jostled me into the window. “Which ones?” Hundreds of mountains bordered the kingdoms, theoretically overlooking seas and deserted lands. Theoretically, because fewer than five had completed the journey to and from the mountains. Vast as they were, the most attention the mountains were given on maps was a quick scribble of their general locations. “All of them,” Arin said. He crossed his ankle over his knee and separated the papers over his triangled lap. Met with my silence, he glanced up. “You have a map of the mountains?” I asked faintly. “A detailed map?” Arin’s expression strongly suggested he thought I had knocked my head against the carriage door one too many times. “I have several, but they’re far from finished.” The fist around my heart squeezed. Acknowledging the Heir’s brilliance came naturally, but at some unidentifiable point, I had grown to admire it. Forgetting his peerless mind was in service to a pitiless kingdom. “We never stood a chance against you, did we? Rawain’s siege never really ended, because he has you to see it through to the very last Jasadi. Given a thousand fortresses, Jasad would still be doomed.” Arin’s gaze shuttered. A chilly guardedness that had been gone long enough to make its return startling descended over the Heir. “I can circumvent much,” Arin said. “But even I might falter at a thousand fortresses.” A few miles from the Citadel, Ren steered Sefa and Marek’s carriage south. Only the Champions and the royal guests were permitted to enter the Citadel grounds, and of that exclusive few, none could spend the night inside the Citadel. The royals would lodge in the upper towns for the night, and the trial would be held in the morning. At the conclusion of the Victor’s Ball the following evening, everyone would be required to show a purpose for remaining in the kingdom. Hospitality did not rank among Nizahl’s limited virtues. Sefa and Marek would begin their portion of the plan tonight. After donning their disguises, the pair