it, Mr. Gray?" Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless, and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggerations of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord Henry, with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colorless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become ignoble, hideous, and uncouth. [19] As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck like a knife across him, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and a mist of tears came across them. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. "Don't you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad's silence, and not understanding what it meant. "Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn't like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it." "It is not my property, Harry." "Whose property is it?" "Dorian's, of course." "He is a very lucky fellow." "How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gray, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrid, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June. . . . If it was only the other way! If it was I who were to be always young, and the picture that were to grow old! For this--for this--I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!" "You would hardly care for that arrangement, Basil," cried Lord Henry, laughing. "It would be rather hard lines on you." "I should object very strongly, Harry." Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly


this moment, whilst writing, had a wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6:25 tonight from Launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that I shall have no fear tonight. Will you, therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come to breakfast at eight o'clock, if this be not too early for you? You can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10:30 train, which will bring you to Paddington by 2:35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do not hear, you will come to breakfast. "Believe me, "Your faithful and grateful friend, "Mina Harker." JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL 26 September.--I thought never to write in this diary again, but the time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing's visit, and of her having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she has been about me. She showed me in the doctor's letter that all I wrote down was true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I know, I am not afraid, even of the Count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting to London, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what Mina says. We sat late, and talked it over. Mina is dressing, and I shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over. He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room whee he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned my face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny, "But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock." It was so funny to hear my wife called `Madam Mina' by this kindly, strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said, "I was ill, I have had a shock, but you have cured me already." "And how?" "By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know what to do, and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted myself. Doctor, you don't know what it is to doubt everything, even yourself. No, you don't, you couldn't with eyebrows like yours." He seemed pleased, and laughed as he said, "So! You are a physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with so much pleasure coming


the young man who was dissecting with Philip. "All right, I'll be here then." He had bought the day before the case of instruments which was needful, and now he was given a locker. He looked at the boy who had accompanied him into the dissecting-room and saw that he was white. "Make you feel rotten?" Philip asked him. "I've never seen anyone dead before." They walked along the corridor till they came to the entrance of the school. Philip remembered Fanny Price. She was the first dead person he had ever seen, and he remembered how strangely it had affected him. There was an immeasurable distance between the quick and the dead: they did not seem to belong to the same species; and it was strange to think that but a little while before they had spoken and moved and eaten and laughed. There was something horrible about the dead, and you could imagine that they might cast an evil influence on the living. "What d'you say to having something to eat?" said his new friend to Philip. They went down into the basement, where there was a dark room fitted up as a restaurant, and here the students were able to get the same sort of fare as they might have at an aerated bread shop. While they ate (Philip had a scone and butter and a cup of chocolate), he discovered that his companion was called Dunsford. He was a fresh-complexioned lad, with pleasant blue eyes and curly, dark hair, large-limbed, slow of speech and movement. He had just come from Clifton. "Are you taking the Conjoint?" he asked Philip. "Yes, I want to get qualified as soon as I can." "I'm taking it too, but I shall take the F. R. C. S. afterwards. I'm going in for surgery." Most of the students took the curriculum of the Conjoint Board of the College of Surgeons and the College of Physicians; but the more ambitious or the more industrious added to this the longer studies which led to a degree from the University of London. When Philip went to St. Luke's changes had recently been made in the regulations, and the course took five years instead of four as it had done for those who registered before the autumn of 1892. Dunsford was well up in his plans and told Philip the usual course of events. The "first conjoint" examination consisted of biology, anatomy, and chemistry; but it could be taken in sections, and most fellows took their biology three months after entering the school. This science had been recently added to the list of subjects upon which the student was obliged to inform himself, but the amount of knowledge required was very small. When Philip went back to the dissecting-room, he was a few minutes late, since he had forgotten to buy the loose sleeves which they wore to protect their shirts, and he found a number of men already working. His partner had started on the minute and was busy dissecting out cutaneous nerves. Two others were


said Mr. Peggotty, by which he meant snail, and this was in allusion to his being slow to go, for he had attempted to go after every sentence, and had somehow or other come back again; 'but I wish you both well, and I wish you happy!' Ham echoed this sentiment, and we parted with them in the heartiest manner. I was almost tempted that evening to tell Steerforth about pretty little Em'ly, but I was too timid of mentioning her name, and too much afraid of his laughing at me. I remember that I thought a good deal, and in an uneasy sort of way, about Mr. Peggotty having said that she was getting on to be a woman; but I decided that was nonsense. We transported the shellfish, or the 'relish' as Mr. Peggotty had modestly called it, up into our room unobserved, and made a great supper that evening. But Traddles couldn't get happily out of it. He was too unfortunate even to come through a supper like anybody else. He was taken ill in the night - quite prostrate he was - in consequence of Crab; and after being drugged with black draughts and blue pills, to an extent which Demple (whose father was a doctor) said was enough to undermine a horse's constitution, received a caning and six chapters of Greek Testament for refusing to confess. The rest of the half-year is a jumble in my recollection of the daily strife and struggle of our lives; of the waning summer and the changing season; of the frosty mornings when we were rung out of bed, and the cold, cold smell of the dark nights when we were rung into bed again; of the evening schoolroom dimly lighted and indifferently warmed, and the morning schoolroom which was nothing but a great shivering-machine; of the alternation of boiled beef with roast beef, and boiled mutton with roast mutton; of clods of bread-and-butter, dog's-eared lesson-books, cracked slates, tear-blotted copy-books, canings, rulerings, hair-cuttings, rainy Sundays, suet-puddings, and a dirty atmosphere of ink, surrounding all. I well remember though, how the distant idea of the holidays, after seeming for an immense time to be a stationary speck, began to come towards us, and to grow and grow. How from counting months, we came to weeks, and then to days; and how I then began to be afraid that I should not be sent for and when I learnt from Steerforth that I had been sent for, and was certainly to go home, had dim forebodings that I might break my leg first. How the breaking-up day changed its place fast, at last, from the week after next to next week, this week, the day after tomorrow, tomorrow, today, tonight - when I was inside the Yarmouth mail, and going home. I had many a broken sleep inside the Yarmouth mail, and many an incoherent dream of all these things. But when I awoke at intervals, the ground outside the window was not the playground of Salem House, and the sound in my


rub the backs of my arms, but it’s not a chill. Jesse has wormed his way back into my mind, a pleasant touch of memory: his handsome face, his kindness, the chemistry between us… Will he come to the diner tonight, or is that too soon? I don’t want to play games, don’t want him to wait until tomorrow or the next day so he doesn’t appear too keen. If he doesn’t come until Thursday, I’ll have the day off. The possibility that I might miss his visit, that he might not come at all fills me with panic. It is stupid to be so enamored with a man I just met, but this morning, having tea and a muffin in his warm apartment, the way he’d kissed my forehead in his car… it’s the happiest I have felt in months. It is then that I spot her. Hazel is picking her way across an out-cropping of rocks farther down the beach. There must be another access point farther south. She hasn’t noticed me and seems lost in thought. I stand and wave. “Hazel!” I call, the wind grasping my voice, pulling it away, but she turns. A small smile chases away her haunted expression, but not before I clock it. She continues across the rocks toward me. Her greeting is a hug. “I was worried about you,” she says, holding me at arm’s length. “Are you feeling better?” “Yeah.” My chest warms with her concern. “That’s why I came back. I didn’t want you to worry.” We settle onto the driftwood log. “Where were you last night?” Hazel asks. “I stayed at a friend’s.” It comes out giddy and girlish. “Oh?” She arches an eyebrow at me. “Who’s the friend?” “His name’s Jesse.” I tell her about the orange, how Jesse found me at the diner, how we’d gone for a drink. “I was too groggy to drive, so he took me home. But nothing happened. He slept on the sofa.” “You like this guy.” It’s a statement, not a question. “We’ve just met, but he’s really nice. And thoughtful. And so sexy.” “What’s his last name? Have you googled him?” Without a smartphone or a computer, that simple universal background check has become a hassle for me. And I never thought to ask his last name. “Not yet,” I say. “You need to be careful, Lee.” Hazel’s pretty face is dark. “Sometimes people aren’t who they say they are. I should know.” This isn’t about me. And this isn’t about Jesse. “What happened with you and Benjamin?” I ask. Her head is lowered, eyes fixed on the rocky beach. “Do you know what Total Power Exchange is?” “No.” “Neither did I.” She looks at me then, her dark eyes shiny. “It’s a type of dominant/submissive relationship. Normally, couples have scenes, you know, moments where they play those roles. With TPE, it’s twenty-four seven.” “God…” “It’s usually consensual. If it works for both partners, then great. But it stopped working for me a long time ago. And Benjamin stopped caring what


missed. For months now, we’ve gotten nothing but terrible news, but at least until the pandemic we were able to see each other. I thought we would get more visits, more time together—the time I didn’t get with Dad. I thought I’d be beside her when she died. Now I don’t know if I will ever see her again. 19 Things I send to my mother while she is dying Letters and cards Flowers Watercolor artwork and comics drawn by my kids A small Christmas tree in a ceramic pot, with decorations All the good Jane Austen film adaptations I can find on DVD that she doesn’t already own The complete Slings & Arrows The complete Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries The complete Poirot All the Harriet Vane/Peter Wimsey novels Most of Helen Mirren’s film oeuvre A new tablet to replace her old one, with Skype preinstalled An Oregon sunstone necklace Warm socks Nice hand lotion Good coffee Chicken soup and rolls Pears Chocolate babka Chocolate-chip cookies Mother’s Day tulips A new knee brace 20 I know, on days when she gets angry, that she is not really angry with me. She is grieving for her mother. She is grieving for herself. Despite her faith in God’s mercy, the existence of heaven, the promise of seeing my father again, she wants to live. She still has some good days, but she has more and more hard ones. One night, she has a fall that leaves her with a bruise on her forehead, and when I call her, she sounds confused and furious. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why this is happening. Soon, she can’t text or write emails anymore. The very last text she sends me, in mid-April, is about her plan to visit my grandmother’s grave. The last email is a couple of lines asking what the kids might want for Easter, because she’s determined to keep sending them gifts and treats. From then on, we have only phone calls or video calls. But they’re not always easy to coordinate, and sometimes she cannot easily follow the conversation; it’s the brain tumor, her nurse tells me, as well as the pain medication. I want her to have something tangible, something she can hold on to, so I write her a letter—on lighthouse stationery, because it makes me think of all the weekends we spent together on the Oregon coast. Beach trips with my grandmother were always busy, packed with crabbing and clamming, shopping and bike rides, fishing in the bay, card games all evening. Trips with my mom were quiet and slow, consisting of long walks by the ocean and greasy diner meals and a visit to our favorite lighthouse, where a hundred-mile-long river flowed into the bay. The lighthouse gift shop was her favorite, which is why I have T-shirts, salt and pepper shakers, place mats, pencils, and refrigerator magnets all adorned with lighthouses. She is probably the one who sent me the stationery. I fill several sheets of paper, telling her how much we miss


Too bad so many locals were within earshot, setting up tables inside the tent, caterers arranging champagne flutes and place settings. “You look very nice in your tuxedo, as well.” The lie detector test determines . . . that is not a lie. August Cates was fine. Rugged. Totally at ease with his enormous body and thick muscles, which were accentuated to perfection in the starched black jacket and pants. She could tell he’d shaved, but growth was already apparent on his cut jaw and upper lip, somehow making the bow tie look softer. Like it could be whipped off at any moment. He’d tried to tame his hair, but the wind in his truck must have gotten hold of it, because some pieces were refusing to stay in line. Honestly, though, who cared about hair when his shoulders could seat a party of four? He sauntered closer, his right hand stroking the cat’s back absently. “Yeah, I can see you like me in a tux, princess.” She smirked at him, hoping the heat in her cheeks wasn’t turning them red. “Nice of you to show up.” “Aw,” he drawled. “Were you getting worried?” “That you slipped in a puddle of your own caveman drool and hit your head? Yes. I was.” His smile showed off a row of strong, white teeth. “Were you able to get a dress made of Dalmatian fur on short notice?” “Had one in my closet already, as a matter of fact. I just had to find a good man.” The corners of her mouth lifted. “And by good, I mean standing upright, with a pulse.” “Gosh, Natalie. You sure know how to make an Adonis feel special.” “It is our wedding day, after all.” Now that she’d made sure they were on even footing, in that safe bickering space where they tended to live, Natalie was comfortable enough to draw an object from her robe pocket and hold it out to him. “You mentioned wedding gifts and I just picked up a small thing. It’s really just a very small thing. Like you said, this was short notice and . . .” Stop rambling. “I found your Facebook profile, which you haven’t posted anything on in like, seven years, but there was a picture of Sam, and . . .” She couldn’t seem to stop moving as he turned the laminated picture over in his hand, reading the words that were printed there. Then back. Right side up again. He said nothing, just looked down at the small card with his brow puckered. “This is the U.S. Navy hymn,” he said quietly, finally looking up at her. “Yes.” She tucked a strand of loose hair back into her low chignon. “I had to google it obviously. I don’t just know hymns off the top of my head.” “Natalie . . .” “Sam can’t be here, but you can put that in your pocket and . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’ll feel a tiny bit like he is. Like I said, it’s just a small


the Capitol. During the rebellion, the Capitol bred a series of genetically altered animals as weapons. The common term for them was muttations, or sometimes mutts for short. One was a special bird called a jabberjay that had the ability to memorize and repeat whole human conversations. They were homing birds, exclusively male, that were released into regions where the Capitol’s enemies were known to be hiding. After the birds gathered words, they’d fly back to centers to be recorded. It took people awhile to realize what was going on in the dis- 43 tricts, how private conversations were being transmitted. Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol endless lies, and the joke was on it. So the centers were shut down and the birds were abandoned to die off in the wild. Only they didn’t die off. Instead, the jabberjays mated with female mockingbirds creating a whole new species that could replicate both bird whistles and human melodies. They had lost the ability to enunciate words but could still mimic a range of human vocal sounds, from a child’s high-pitched warble to a man’s deep tones. And they could re-create songs. Not just a few notes, but whole songs with multiple verses, if you had the patience to sing them and if they liked your voice. My father was particularly fond of mockingjays. When we went hunting, he would whistle or sing complicated songs to them and, after a polite pause, they’d always sing back. Not everyone is treated with such respect. But whenever my fa- ther sang, all the birds in the area would fall silent and listen. His voice was that beautiful, high and clear and so filled with life it made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. I could never bring myself to continue the practice after he was gone. Still, there’s something comforting about the little bird. It’s like having a piece of my father with me, protecting me. I fas- ten the pin onto my shirt, and with the dark green fabric as a background, I can almost imagine the mockingjay flying through the trees. Effie Trinket comes to collect me for supper. I follow her through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with polished paneled walls. There’s a table where all the dishes 44 are highly breakable. Peeta Mellark sits waiting for us, the chair next to him empty. “Where’s Haymitch?” asks Effie Trinket brightly. “Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap,” says Peeta. “Well, it’s been an exhausting day,” says Effie Trinket. I think she’s relieved by Haymitch’s absence, and who can blame her? The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Effie Trinket keeps re- minding us to save space because there’s more to come. But I’m stuffing myself because I’ve never had food like this, so good and so much, and because probably the best thing I can do between now


was so blue and pink and pearly and white and flooded with springtime light that she felt as if she must flute and sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robins and skylarks could not possibly help it. She ran around the shrubs and paths towards the secret garden. "It is all different already," she said. "The grass is greener and things are sticking up every- where and things are uncurling and green buds of leaves are showing. This afternoon I am sure Dickon will come." The long warm rain had done strange things to the herbaceous beds which bordered the walk by the lower wall. There were things sprouting and pushing out from the roots of clumps of plants and there were actually here and there glimpses of royal purple and yellow unfurling among the stems of crocuses. Six months before Mistress Mary would not have seen how the world was waking up, but now she missed nothing. When she had reached the place where the door hid itself under the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound. It was the caw--caw of a crow and it came from the top of the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a big glossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her very wisely indeed. She had never seen a crow so close before and he made her a little nervous, but the next moment he spread his wings and flapped away across the garden. She hoped he was not going to stay inside and she pushed the door open wondering if he would. When she got fairly into the garden she saw that he probably did intend to stay because he had alighted on a dwarf apple-tree and under the apple-tree was lying a little reddish animal with a Bushy tail, and both of them were watching the stooping body and rust-red head of Dickon, who was kneeling on the grass working hard. Mary flew across the grass to him. "Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she cried out. "How could you get here so early! How could you! The sun has only just got up!" He got up himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled; his eyes like a bit of the sky. "Eh!" he said. "I was up long before him. How could I have stayed abed! Th' world's all fair begun again this mornin', it has. An' it's workin' an' hummin' an' scratchin' an' pipin' an' nest-buildin' an' breathin' out scents, till you've got to be out on it 'stead o' lyin' on your back. When th' sun did jump up, th' moor went mad for joy, an' I was in the midst of th' heather, an' I run like mad myself, shoutin' an' singin'. An' I come straight here. I couldn't have stayed away. Why, th' garden was lyin' here waitin'!" Mary put her hands on her chest, panting, as if she had been running herself. "Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she said. "I'm so happy I can scarcely breathe!" Seeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailed animal rose


still in the carriage, upon which are written just two words: THE END. Sitting next to the typewriter is a stack of pages nearly a foot tall. Athena materializes by my side, a glass in either hand. “Oh, that’s the World War One project. It’s finally done.” Athena is famously cagey about her projects until they’re finished. No beta readers. No interviews, no sharing snippets on social media. Even her agents and editors don’t get to see so much as an outline until she’s finished the whole thing. “It has to gestate inside me until it’s viable,” she told me once. “If I expose it to the world before it’s fully formed, it dies.” (I’m shocked no one has called her out for this grotesque metaphor, but I guess anything’s okay if Athena says it.) The only things she’s revealed over the past two years are that this novel has something to do with twentieth-century military history, and that it’s a “big artistic challenge” for her. “Shit,” I say. “Congrats.” “Typed up the last page this morning,” she chirps. “No one’s read it yet.” “Not even your agent?” She snorts. “Jared pushes paper and signs checks.” “It’s so long.” I wander closer to the desk, reach for the first page, then immediately withdraw my hand. Stupid, drunk—I can’t just go around touching things. But instead of snapping at me, Athena nods her permission. “What do you think?” “You want me to read it?” “Well, I guess, not all of it, right now.” She laughs. “It’s very long. I’m just—I’m just so glad it’s finished. Doesn’t this stack look pretty? It’s hefty. It . . . carries significance.” She’s rambling; she’s as drunk as I am, but I know exactly what she means. This book is huge, in more ways than one. It’s the sort of book that leaves a mark. My fingers hover over the stack. “Can I . . . ?” “Sure, sure . . .” She nods enthusiastically. “I have to get used to it being out there. I have to give birth.” What a bizarre, persistent metaphor. I know reading the pages will only fuel my jealousy, but I can’t help myself. I pick a stack of ten or fifteen pages off the top and skim through them. Holy God, they’re good. I’m not great at reading when I’m tipsy, and my eyes keep sliding to the end of every paragraph, but even from a sloppy once-over, I can tell this book is going to dazzle. The writing is tight, assured. There are none of the juvenile slipups of her debut work. Her voice has matured and sharpened. Every description, every turn of phrase—it all sings. It’s better than anything I could write, perhaps in this lifetime. “You like it?” she asks. She’s nervous. Her eyes are wide, almost scared; she’s fiddling with her necklace as she watches me. How often does she put on this act? How forcefully do people shower her with praise when she does? It’s petty, but I don’t want to give that validation to


note, apparently before Allen can decide whether or not that was an insult. (It was.) She has to stand between us—between Allen and me—to get the piece of paper. I stare at him over her head and wonder suddenly if she thinks we’re the same. He reminds me of Donno, which is a thought I do not enjoy. Celine reads the note quickly and says, “Shit.” I glance over her shoulder, but Allen takes the paper almost immediately. Doesn’t matter; I saw enough to get the gist. “Shit,” I repeat. Allen’s voice rings with disbelief. “ ‘Step by step and line by line, places that hide each book, you’ll find. From every clue, take letter and number—to start, what’s small and strange and sweet, and in one bite appeases hunger?’ ” His voice rises at the end as if no one has ever fucked with him like this. A little silence falls. Then Raj laughs. “We have to find nine more books.” CHAPTER FIVE CELINE There’s a very interesting vein pulsing in Allen’s forehead. I catch Aurora’s eye and she bites her lip on a smile. “All right, change of plans!” Sophie says, patting her ponytail as it slowly frizzes into a curly puff. “First things first: what’s the riddle mean? Is anyone good at that sort of thing?” Aurora sidles over to me, leans in, and murmurs, “Petit fours.” Uh…is she hungry? “Pardonnez moi?” Unfortunately, Allen finally regains his voice. “This can’t be right,” he announces, and strides over to our supervisor Holly. “Excuse me,” he says all politely, which—it’s a bit late for that, pal, she’s already heard you mouthing off to everyone else, but okay. “Was there a misunderstanding earlier?” Holly tilts her beautiful head to one side and says calmly, “No.” Allen waits for more information. Apparently, none is forthcoming. “It’s just that we were told the books would all be together,” he tries again. Holly presses her fluttery fake eyelashes together and apart, very, very slowly. Her glossy mouth remains closed. Allen is turning a lovely shade of pink. “So are you saying we now have to find ten books individually? Clue by clue?” “No.” Allen starts to exhale in relief. “You’ve already found one,” she continues. “There are only nine left.” So Raj was right. I should be annoyed that we have even more hiking to do, but I’m busy enjoying the barely restrained outrage on Allen’s face. I bite back a smile, and by some unexplainable accident, my eyes meet Bradley’s. He’s smirking. I’m smirking. For one impossible second, we’re both smirking—at each other, but, like, not in the usual way. Then his smirk is replaced by a grimace of horrified realization, and he snatches his gaze away like I might give him fleas. God forbid someone like him make eye contact with someone like me, I suppose. My jaw aches and I realize I’m grinding my teeth. “But then…that’s not…” Allen might be in the midst of a cardiac arrest. “Well,” he manages, pulling himself together. “We’ve found one of the books. Shouldn’t one


disaster ends and she is promoted. “Your kids, your husband, they are your ship now,” Nicole says. “They’re your priority. Even though it’s the hardest thing, and it’s so unfair, because your mother is dying and there’s a fucking pandemic and none of this should be happening. You do what you need to do to save the ship.” * * * My kids, I find, are what I cannot risk. Mom is aware that I’m wrestling with the decision of whether to travel. She’s torn, because of course she wants us to visit. But she’s also been following the news, if not as obsessively as I have. She says she’ll understand no matter what I decide. I’m grateful to know she doesn’t blame me for wanting to protect her and my children. But I already know what it is to blame myself for distance, for time missed. For months now, we’ve gotten nothing but terrible news, but at least until the pandemic we were able to see each other. I thought we would get more visits, more time together—the time I didn’t get with Dad. I thought I’d be beside her when she died. Now I don’t know if I will ever see her again. 19 Things I send to my mother while she is dying Letters and cards Flowers Watercolor artwork and comics drawn by my kids A small Christmas tree in a ceramic pot, with decorations All the good Jane Austen film adaptations I can find on DVD that she doesn’t already own The complete Slings & Arrows The complete Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries The complete Poirot All the Harriet Vane/Peter Wimsey novels Most of Helen Mirren’s film oeuvre A new tablet to replace her old one, with Skype preinstalled An Oregon sunstone necklace Warm socks Nice hand lotion Good coffee Chicken soup and rolls Pears Chocolate babka Chocolate-chip cookies Mother’s Day tulips A new knee brace 20 I know, on days when she gets angry, that she is not really angry with me. She is grieving for her mother. She is grieving for herself. Despite her faith in God’s mercy, the existence of heaven, the promise of seeing my father again, she wants to live. She still has some good days, but she has more and more hard ones. One night, she has a fall that leaves her with a bruise on her forehead, and when I call her, she sounds confused and furious. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why this is happening. Soon, she can’t text or write emails anymore. The very last text she sends me, in mid-April, is about her plan to visit my grandmother’s grave. The last email is a couple of lines asking what the kids might want for Easter, because she’s determined to keep sending them gifts and treats. From then on, we have only phone calls or video calls. But they’re not always easy to coordinate, and sometimes she cannot easily follow the conversation; it’s the brain tumor, her nurse tells me, as well as the pain


tower of the two the jackdaws circled round them with loud cries of "Chack, chack, chack!" Tim leapt into the air as if he thought he could get them, but they only called mockingly to him. "This is the centre of the castle," said George, as they entered through a ruined doorway into what looked like a great yard, whose stone floor was now overgrown with grass and other weeds. "Here is where the people used to live. You can see where the rooms were- look, there's one almost whole there. Go through that little door and you'll see it." They trooped through a doorway and found themselves in a dark, stone-walled, stone-roofed room, with a space at one end where a fire-place must have been. Two slit-like windows lighted the room. It felt very queer and mysterious. "What a pity it's all broken down," said Julian, wandering out again. "That room seems to be the only one quite whole. There are some others here- but all of them seem to have either no roof, or one or other of the walls gone. That room is the only liveable one. Was there an upstairs to the castle, George?" "Of course," said George. "But the steps that led up are gone, Look! You can see part of an upstairs room there, by the jackdaw tower. You can't get up to it, though, because I've tried. I nearly broke my neck trying to get up. The stones crumble away so." "Were there any dungeons?" asked Dick. "I don't know," said George. "I expect so. But nobody could find them now- everywhere is so overgrown." It was indeed overgrown. Big blackberry bushes grew here and there, and a few gorse bushes forced their way into gaps and corners. The coarse green grass sprang everywhere, and pink thrift grew its cushions in holes and crannies. "Well, I think it's a perfectly lovely place," said Anne. "Perfectly and absolutely lovely!" "Do you really?" said George, pleased. "I'm so glad. Look! We're right on the other side of the island now, facing the sea. Do you see those rocks, with those queer big birds sitting there?" The children looked. They saw some rocks sticking up, with great black shining birds sitting on them in queer positions. "They are cormorants," said George. "They've caught plenty of fish for their dinner, and they're sitting there digesting it. Hallo- they're all flying away. I wonder why!" She soon knew- for, from the southwest there suddenly came an ominous rumble. "Thunder!" said George. "That's the storm. It's coming sooner than I thought!" Chapter Six WHAT THE STORM DID Contents- Prev/Next THE four children stared out to sea. They had all been so interested in exploring the exciting old castle that not one of them had noticed the sudden change in the weather. Another rumble came. It sounded like a big dog growling in the sky. Tim heard it and growled back, sounding like a small roll of thunder himself. "My goodness, we're in for it now," said George, half-alarmed. "We can't get


I now reflected that, long as I had been shut up here, no message had been sent to ask how I was, or to invite me to come down; not even little Adle had tapped at the door; not even Mrs. Fairfax had sought me. "Friends always forget those whom Fortune forsakes," I murmured, as I undrew the bolt and passed out. I stumbled over an obstacle. My head was still dizzy, my sight was dim, and my limbs were feeble. I could not soon recover myself. I fell, but not on the ground; an outstretched arm caught me. I looked up. I was supported by Mr. Rochester, who sat in a chair across my chamber threshold.     "You come out at last," he said." Well, I have been waiting for you long, and listening; yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob. Five minutes more of that death-like hush, and I should have forced the lock like a burglar. So you shun me? you shut yourself up and grieve alone! I would rather you had come and upbraided me with vehemence. You are passionate. I expected a scene of some kind. I was prepared for the hot rain of tears; only I wanted them to be shed on my breast. Now a senseless floor has received them, or your drenched handkerchief. But I err you have not wept at all. I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood?     "Well, Jane, not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter nothing poignant? nothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit quietly where I have placed you, and regard me with a weary, passive look.     "Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. If the man who had but one little ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of his bread and drank of his cup, and lay in his bosom, had by some mistake slaughtered it at the shambles, he would not have rued his bloody blunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgive me?"     Reader! I forgave him at the moment, and on the spot. There was such deep remorse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, such manly energy in his manner; and, besides, there was such unchanged love in his whole look and mien, I forgave him all; yet not in words not outwardly; only at my heart's core.     "You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?" ere long he inquired wistfully wondering, I suppose, at my continued silence and tameness: the result rather of weakness than of will.     "Yes, sir."     "Then tell me so roundly and sharply don't spare me."     "I cannot: I am tired and sick. I want some water." He heaved a sort of shuddering sigh, and taking


you imagine when you have a kid? I hid my smile, not wanting Daphne to ask what it was about. Huff was the one thing we didn’t discuss. So maybe that’s why I asked, “How are things going with Walt?” Walt was a guy Daphne had met a few weeks ago and been on four or five dates with. She said she liked him, and I took that as a good sign. I think, secretly, I always hoped Daphne would find “the one” despite her proclamations she’d never marry, and then I would be off the hook for ruining her chance at happiness with my brother. Daphne shrugged. “He’s a nice guy. I like him. But I’m not going to see him anymore.” “Daphne!” I scolded. “You literally always do this.” Except with Huff. I felt a pang of guilt. “Why would you break up with him?” “Because I know he ultimately wants to get married, and I’m not going to marry him, so what’s the point? It wouldn’t be fair.” I rolled my eyes. “Daphne, you have to date someone before you can decide if you want to marry them. That’s the whole point.” “No, the whole point is that I already know I’m not going to. Besides, it’s hard enough to have the ‘Hey, by the way, I’m sober’ conversation on the first or second date when they inevitably want to order drinks. How do you think it feels to have the ‘Oh, by the way, my mother died of an overdose and my dad and I literally haven’t spoken in years’ conversation?” “Yeah, but that isn’t your fault,” I interjected. “Maybe not. But it also doesn’t exactly scream, ‘Yay! Perfect to bring home to Mom!’ ” My heart broke for Daphne. I never even considered this might be an insecurity of hers. “Daph, they’d be lucky to take you home to their mom. You just don’t ever give them the opportunity.” “Maybe not. But, unless I’m really into them, it’s easier to just move on than to have the hard conversations.” She shrugged, and I realized she was finished talking about this for the day. “Okay. Bachelorette,” I said, changing the subject. “Look, I don’t want something big.” After her history with her mother—and a scare of her own seven years ago—Daphne didn’t drink, so I didn’t want her to feel pressured to plan a big, splashy weekend. “Let’s just do a girls’ night here.” Daphne shook her head. “I have another idea. What if we went back—just you, me, and Mary Stuart—and spent a long weekend at camp?” I gasped, clasping my hands together. My favorite memories were from Camp Holly Springs, but I hadn’t been back in almost ten years. Gosh. It was hard to believe we were thirty. I had been a counselor there for the last time the summer before my junior year of college. I’d planned to work there for two more summers, like Daphne and Mary Stuart had, but I’d begged off, saying I’d been offered an internship I couldn’t refuse. In reality,


close-ups with their bright smiles pressed side to side, skin clear and freckles radiant; black-and-white shots taken at coffee shops, captioned with things like writer at work; and full body pics of them hiking up and down the East Coast, their tall, lithe forms dripping with sweat. There was a time it seemed that they would join the ranks of famous literary couples like Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller, and F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald if Zelda had published more. But Geoff . . . How does one put this kindly? Geoff simply isn’t that talented. We might even compare Geoff’s publication history to mine. He started out strong with dozens of award-winning publications in prestigious short-story magazines. But his first novel, a self-proclaimed “genre-bending thriller” about “race-hopping” androids in a near-future society, failed to make the expected splash. A reviewer at Locus called it “a confused and ultimately misguided, possibly malicious, exploration of postraciality and racial fluidity.” My debut novel didn’t sell very well, but at least no reviewers ever said that I should “keep the ill-considered and shallow philosophizing to undergraduate bars and off the page where grown adults can see.” Geoff was very miffed by this particular review, and he wrote up some long and embarrassing blog post about how he’d been misread, and how the Locus reviewer didn’t have the “intellectual range” to appreciate the complexity and radicalness of his racial critique. Twitter, predictably, dunked hard on this. Athena broke up with him shortly after (this we plebeians inferred from the fact that all of her “working from home” Instagram posts were suddenly shot from a new location). The breakup might sound sudden, but we all saw it coming. One should also mention that before his debut flopped, Geoff published a series of short stories about an android girl named Xiao Li who puts up with a number of abuses from lecherous human clients before self-destructing in a blast that destroys over half of New Beijing. The stories, Geoff argued, were a scorching interrogation of colonial misogyny, AI rights, and Chinese patriarchy. Someone on Twitter asked him how he had researched all the Chinese phrases he’d littered through the text; Geoff blithely responded that he was dating a “long-haired dictionary.” (That made the Twitter rounds for days.) There were also allegations of drunk groping at bars and an account that looks suspiciously like Geoff’s on a well-known porn site with “got that yellow FEVER!” in the bio, but we’re all too polite to bring that up in company. So Geoff’s book flopped. Athena did what everyone expected and distanced herself from that mess, and publishing’s most attractive young couple was reduced to publishing’s most attractive young author and a white boy whose career was over before it started. At that point, Geoff should have licked his wounds and moved on. He still had a powerhouse literary agent, a second book under contract, and a chance to salvage his career. But then his Twitter presence took a savage turn. He started positing


then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat and resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture, but I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse which I detested yet could not disobey. Yet when she died! Nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there is my last victim!" I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was rekindled within me. "Wretch!" I said. "It is well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are consumed, you sit among the ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! If he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from your power." "Oh, it is not thus--not thus," interrupted the being. "Yet such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone while my sufferings shall endure; when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil.


was a servant and not a master. Luck had to be accepted with a shrug or taken advantage of up to the hilt. But it had to be understood and recognized for what it was and not confused with a faulty appreciation of the odds, for, at gambling, the deadly sin is to mistake bad play for bad luck. And luck in all its moods had to be loved and not feared Bond saw luck as a woman, to be softly wooed or brutally ravaged, never pandered to or pursued. But he was honest enough to admit that he had never yet been made to suffer by cards or by women. One day, and he accepted the fact he would be brought to his knees by love or by luck. When that happened he knew that he too would be branded with the deadly question-mark he recognized so often in others, the promise to pay before you have lost: the acceptance of fallibility. But on this June evening when Bond walked through the 'kitchen' into the salle prive, it was with a sensation of confidence and cheerful anticipation that he changed a million francs into plaques of fifty mille and took a seat next to the chef de partie at Roulette Table Number 1. Bond borrowed the chef's card and studied the run of the ball since the session had started at three o'clock that afternoon. He always did this although he knew that each turn of the wheel, each fall of the ball into a numbered slot has absolutely no connexion with its predecessor. He accepted that the game begins afresh each time the croupier picks up the ivory ball with his right hand, gives one of the four spokes of the wheel a controlled twist clockwise with the same hand, and with a third motion, also with the right hand, flicks the ball round the outer rim of the wheel anti-clockwise, against the spin. It was obvious that all this ritual and all the mechanical minutiae of the wheel, of the numbered slots and the cylinder, had been devised and perfected over the years so that neither the skill of the croupier nor any bias in the wheel could affect the fall of the ball. And yet it is a convention among roulette players, and Bond rigidly adhered to it, to take careful note of the past history of each session and to be guided by any peculiarities in the run of the wheel. To note, for instance, and consider significant, sequences of more than two on a single number or of more than four at the other chances down to evens. Bond didn't defend the practice. He simply maintained that the more effort and ingenuity you put into gambling, the more you took out. On the record of that particular table, after about three hours' play, Bond could see little of interest except that the last dozen had been out of favour. It was his practice to play always with the wheel, and only to turn against its previous


admiration of the scientific community—and while she might not be who I am, she’s who I want to be. Too bad that her existence is antithetical to this other guy’s. “Jonathan Smith-Turner.” Dr. L.’s mouth is a thin line. His eyes, hurt. “A disgrace.” I nod. “The likes of him taint physics and academia.” I nod again. “It is apparent what needs to be done.” More nodding, in full agreement. “Clearly, you must withdraw your application.” Hang on. Maybe not full agreement. “Withdraw . . . my application?” “I cannot allow you to work in the same department as that animal.” “But I . . .” I squirm and lean forward in the chair. So much for elegance and poise. “I need the job.” “You have a job.” “I cannot adjunct for one more year.” “But you are an adjunct professor. You should be proud of your current employment.” Throughout my Ph.D., I expected to graduate and then move on to a research-only position. Those tend to come with better pay than adjuncts, health insurance, and a blessedly low number of student emails claiming the sixth grandparent’s death of the semester. As someone with . . . whatever the opposite of a calling for teaching is, it seemed like a no-brainer. My passion, my joy, my talent—they all fit into three simple words: two-dimensional liquid crystals. Laurendeau was against it, saying that research-only positions are not prestigious enough. I initially disagreed (who cares about prestige if I can do what I love and purchase pancreatic hormones?) and for a while worried that he wouldn’t help me find the kind of job I wanted. Professorships aside, most academic postings are not advertised online, but obtained through professional networks of peers and advisors. In the end, it didn’t turn out to be an issue: Dr. L. said that he respected my wishes and reached out widely to all his colleagues to let it be known that I was looking for a research position. Not one person was interested in hiring me. And when no tenure-track professorship was available, either . . . “I used my connections to find you your current jobs, Elise,” he tells me, eyes full of concern. “Are you having issues with them?” I’m instantly swimming in guilt. Dr. L. pulled strings. He called up old colleagues—reached out to people who turned their backs to him after the Smith-Turner censure. Swallowed his pride for me. “No! The commute between different campuses is time consuming, but . . .” I start biting into my cuticles, then remember that I stopped three years ago. With the help of Cece and a spray bottle. “But nice. The variety.” I smile. He smiles back, pleased, and I feel a heady sense of relief and affection. Dr. L. is my one ally in the Red Riding Hood forest of academia. If it weren’t for him, I’d never have gotten into grad school to begin with. My heart squeezes as I remember senior year of college. My low grades. My mediocre GRE scores blinking on the screen,


perfectly adapted for the cold. But you can’t have children of your own.’ The temperature of the room dropped sharply, their breath turning to mist, glass tubes cracking, the steel instruments icing over, crystals spreading up the walls, and it was obvious to Tetu that Echo was drawing in all the heat from her surroundings, whether she realized it or not, and if he didn’t stop her, she would kill them all. He managed to reach her in time, touching her arm. She looked at him, remembering where she was, controlling her reaction. The temperature returned to normal, but her eyes seemed different. She was sad in the way that ordinary people were sad. Liza asked: ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ ‘We’ve kept it a secret because we weren’t sure how people would react. You cannot solve our population crisis. This is why the experiments continue. This is why we keep making genetic adjustments. It is this, or to accept our extinction. Maybe we should’ve accepted that our time was over.’ Echo returned the stillborn boy to the table, closing his eyes, folding his arms, as though putting him to sleep. No one knew what she might say next. She looked up. A voice was calling to her, a telepathic communication sent only to her. ‘He’s talking to me.’ ‘Who?’ ‘The man I met on the ice.’ Yotam asked: ‘What is he saying?’ She listened for a time, oblivious to the fact that the guards had once again raised their weapons, pointing them at her. Without turning around she said: ‘He says that your city is on fire.’ NAVAL QUARTER USS KENNEDY FLIGHT DECK SAME DAY THEY GATHERED ON THE FLIGHT deck, crowded together, helpless spectators as fire swept through their city – a yellow horizon underneath a solid blue sky. Some of the flames were tinged turquoise as they melted plastics manufactured from a bygone age. Scattered explosions punctuated the fire as barrels of bioethanol caught alight. Coils of smoke rose into the unusually calm air as if even the weather was paralyzed by this never-before-seen sight – the entire ice shelf ablaze. Fire had always been one of the Senate’s gravest fears, since there was never any rain and the structures were tinder dry. In the past, even small fires in Antarctica had brought an end to operations, British Hope Bay Station in 1948 and Argentinian Almirante Brown Base in 1984, both of which could only be remedied by rescue and evacuation. Since there was no chance of rescue and nowhere to be evacuated to, mitigation measures had been extensive, fire breaks and fire marshals. But no one could have predicted that the first great fire of Antarctica would be deliberately started by the cold creatures intended to save them, an act of wilful sabotage, a scorched-earth annihilation of resources that could never be replaced. As the fire’s edge reached the original base buildings, some of the oldest human structures on the continent caught ablaze, the historic canteen, Ex-Presidents bar, the Chapel of the Snows, the Museum of Life on


high-heeled sandals with these little shorties on and thinking to myself, “There is no fucking way.” This scene also reminds me of another huge nostalgia point for me while watching this show: life was so much more tricky and interesting before we all had cell phones. If I was writing that scene today, Carrie would run for half a block before coming to her senses and pulling out her phone to call someone with a car to scoop her up, but before we all had pocket computers, she was forced to run through New York City in short pants and high heels for hours in the rain. A nightmare, but she looked adorable as hell. 8. REMEMBER THAT TIME SHE WORE A RAGGEDY ROLLING STONES T-SHIRT? PLUS AN HONORABLE MENTION TO THOSE KNEE-HIGH RAINBOW GOSSIPING SOCKS As a Fat and a Poor, the clothing on this show was not aspirational to me, which is a very freeing margin in which to exist while watching something like Sex and the City. I didn’t ever have to worry about fitting into or being able to afford anything anyone wore at any time, so I could just let the beauty wash over me and soak into my eyeballs without feeling bad that I had no idea Barneys was the name of a store. I’m not even a purse guy, because I have always had the kind of life and needs that require a sturdy tote bag; I’m not saving up for a vintage Fendi baguette! Where would I put my Stephen King novel and super absorbent Always overnights? I need half a dozen lipsticks and an economy-sized bottle of extra-strength Advil on my person at all times! If I leave my house with only a teeny little purse, who’s gonna hold my charging brick and lightweight cardigan for when it might get cold?! That said, anytime Carrie was shown wearing something a normal person with no money could wear, I would be filled with delight, and no, I do not believe that Carrie Bradshaw has ever even heard any music let alone been so into the Stones (of all bands!!!!) that she would have, say, gotten some merch at one of their shows. That’s absurd. But I do believe that she either took it as a parting gift after a one-night stand with a fifty-year-old “cool” dad, or she thought the lips logo looked interesting and grabbed it off the endcap at her local Duane Reade. In a scene where the girls are sitting around Carrie’s apartment discussing Samantha’s pee-hole surgery and Charlotte’s trying to turn Mister Pussy into an actual relationship candidate, Carrie is drinking wine and wearing a very ’90s slip dress that she’s paired with knee-high rainbow socks that were eerily similar to a pair I’d ordered from the Delia*s catalog a couple of years before, and while I’m sure hers were designer, seeing her in them made me feel hip for half a second, and that was nice. SEASON SIX Episode 1: “To Market, to Market” This might be too spicy


Of course he’d try to convince you to take the job. I’m reasonably sure that ninety percent of his spank bank is fantasies of driving you to work and buying you a latte on the way.” “I’m sure he doesn’t—” “What are your thoughts?” I swallow. Then I glance around the hallway, as though George’s niece’s macaroni art might hold the key to my academic future. It does not. “I . . .” I take a deep breath. “I would love to say yes.” George blinks. Then smiles. Then repeats, “Yes?” “But”—I force myself to continue past her face-splitting grin—“I can’t formally accept until I talk with my advisor. Don’t worry, though,” I add quickly, because her smile is fading fast. “I’m sure I’ll get his approval next week! I’ll explain how much I want to take the job, and he’ll agree that it’s the best choice.” George stares for a second, looking considerably less excited. “Okay.” She nods. And when I’m about to leave, she adds, “For the record, I’d love to continue being your friend. Even if you end up not accepting.” Her smile is a little strained. “Now peace out. I gotta pee, and no, you can’t listen, you weirdo.” I’m making my way back to the living room, wondering why it feels like George just resigned herself to me not taking the job, when I overhear it. “. . . slumming it with the theorists now?” It’s Andrea’s voice from the kitchen, and I stop in the hallway. I can see only about half of Jack: broad back, light hair curling on his neck, large hands storing dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I should go in and help clean up, but something tells me to skulk around like I’m corporate-espionaging in a Bond movie. “Excuse me?” he says, confused. “So, does she know?” “Who?” “Elsie.” A quarter of Andrea appears in my field of view. Just her smile, small and private, pointed up at Jack. “Does she know that you despise people like her?” “Andy, are you drunk?” “A bit.” She laughs nervously. “Aren’t you? Elsie must be rubbing off. She must be a great lay, if you fucked over Pereira and Crowley for her. I guess she’s hot, in a bland way—” “They fucked over themselves. And you should go back to the others,” Jack says firmly. “You’re more than a bit drunk if you think telling someone that their girlfriend is bland is a good idea.” “She’s not your girlfriend.” “She is if she wants to be. She can be my damn wife if she wants to be.” Jack’s losing his usual cool. For all his commanding presence, he’s rarely truly irritated, and Andrea knows this, too. There’s a fracture on her face, masked by another weak laugh that hurts my ears. “A theorist, Jack? You having a slow year?” “Are you serious—” “You lost to her at Go,” she says, petulant even as she tries to keep her tone light. I should be offended by what she’s saying, but something’s stopping me. Something heartbreaking. “You


and hunger, but I heaved myself up to the attic window and looked down on to the street. There was a motorbike and standing in front of my shop was Josef Wolffe, the German soldier, with what looked like a large pine branch and packages under his arms. He was stamping his feet, trying to stave off the cold. He couldn’t see me inside, for all was dark, but I could see him clearly. The light stubble on his jawline, his eyes scanning the street. I hesitated for a moment, then walked wearily down to the door and opened it. ‘You should not be alone. Es ist Heiligabend. Christmas Eve.’ He stepped inside and left the packages and the giant tree branch in the middle of the floor, then went back outside. All I could do was watch, as he returned with a box and closed the door after him. He squatted down and, opening the box, took out candles and lit them. He looked for somewhere to place them and I gestured towards the stairs. I was too tired and hungry to argue. Then he opened another package which had food – bread, cheese, meat. I went and grabbed the bread out of his hand and began ripping pieces with my fingers and shoving it in my mouth. I was like a wild animal, my eyes wide, my jaws chewing rapidly. I sat on the last step, still wrapped in my blanket, and watched as he unwrapped more items. A bottle of wine. Apples. Neither of us spoke a word. He wandered around the shop and found an empty crate, which he turned upside down and used as a seat beside the stove. He snapped the branch into small twigs against his knee and used the old paper to start a fire. The wood was too new to burn well, but the flames instantly made me feel warmer and the smell of pine was sweet and comforting. He ate also, but sparingly. He peeled the skin off the apple and gave the carved flesh to me. He opened the bottle and handed it to me. I’m not sure how long it was before I spoke. ‘Why are you here?’ He looked up from under his blonde hair. ‘I am a prisoner of war,’ he said with a flourish, as though he were announcing that he had royal blood. ‘The Irish government are very kindly detaining us at one of their camps in Kildare.’ ‘But, if you’re a prisoner …’ ‘Why am I not in prison? Because we are permitted to leave during the day. I am completing my studies at Trinity University.’ ‘You can’t be serious?’ I tried to laugh but the muscle was stiff from lack of use. ‘Ireland is a neutral country. We are something of a nuisance for them.’ I ate some more cheese and helped myself to another cup of wine. He seemed pleased that I was accepting his charity. ‘I didn’t know it was Christmas Eve,’ I said. He was sitting quietly, carving something out of


sent it down into the rock, down to where the roots of trampled grasses strove toward the sun, planting his death in the earth instead of in his body. And he’d sat up. There’d been a terrible sound when he did—nothing within him was where it was supposed to be, and all of it squished—but he’d sat up, then turned to look at her. His eyes weren’t brown anymore. They were black, without iris or pupil. It was clear he wasn’t going to do anything until she told him to; he was an automaton that needed winding up, needed direction. So she’d taken the ball of string they used for cat’s cradle from her pocket. “Play with me.” That was how Val found them. A girl and a dead boy with thread woven through their fingers, acting as though nothing was amiss. It was honestly astonishing that Val hadn’t killed her then. After seeing what she was. What she could do. And it was with that memory flashing through her head that Lore watched Horse rise from the ground, clearly dead and yet moving. Animals were different from people, apparently. She hadn’t had to tell Horse what to do. “Shit.” It came out of her mouth thin and breathy; Lore’s legs felt like limp pieces of string, the death she’d channeled manifesting in numb limbs and a straw-thin throat. She fell to her knees, the cold tip of the bloodcoat’s bayonet slipping away from her neck with a slight scratch, not deep enough to draw blood. “Shit on the Citadel Wall.” For a second, Lore thought her dear-bought distraction was pointless—the bloodcoats still held her and Jean-Paul, not sparing so much as a glance for the horse rising from the dead in the center of the market square. She’d given in, succumbed to the call of Mortem, and for what? A broken, furious sound wrenched from her mouth. The bloodcoat holding her arms tried to haul her back up, but then he caught a look at her eyes, still death-white and opaque. Lore watched him take in her blackened veins and corpse-like fingers, watched the color slowly drain from his face as he put together what it all meant. The guard retreated until his spine met brick, his hands springing open to release her. “Bleeding God save us,” he muttered in a tone of quick-rising panic. “Bleeding God save us!” That was more like it. The other bloodcoats finally noticed the undead livestock situation. Curly Mustache slashed at the animal’s now-fully-risen corpse, but Horse didn’t mind, being already dead. If anything, he seemed curious, nuzzling at his gore-caked shoulder with a bloody nose, neck hanging open like a second mouth. The long lashes around his opaque eyes fluttered, dislodging a fly that had landed there. “Sorry, Horse,” Lore mumbled, then heaved up her coffee on the cobblestones. When she looked up, Curly Mustache was staring at her, at all the ways channeling Mortem had made her monstrous, his face gone nearly as pale as her own. “Heresy,” he said, voice hoarse from


I don’t know if you’ve changed your mind, but—” “I haven’t changed my mind!” He laughed and took my hand. “I admit that I was hurt by the Bryce thing. But I get it. I know you were still figuring things out. And I’ve loved you for so many years; I’ve always wondered what might have been between us. I mean, I know real life isn’t summer camp but—” “It is for you.” I paused then said quietly, “It’s the best life ever got for me.” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s ridiculously too soon to say this, but it’s the overarching issue: Do you think you could do this life? Not now, obviously, but one day?” I looked around me at the gorgeous setting, my heart welling up with memories and pride. “I think whatever life you’re doing is the life I want to do.” He pulled me close. “What about your store?” “It’s just logistics. Huff and Daphne figured out how to make their lives work, and his job as a surgeon is almost as complicated and stressful as mine as a bookstore owner.” We both laughed. “Let’s just see who we are. Take it from there.” Rich nodded. Maybe it took us a long time to get here, but I truly believed it was all for the best. And I knew that, no matter what it took, I’d never let him go again. I inhaled the scent of him—salt water and Irish Spring—that I knew so well, and completely relaxed into him. As he leaned down to kiss me, every cell in my body reverberated with relief. “Ah! Get away from the sailing hut!” I heard from somewhere behind me. But I didn’t even turn around. I laughed and kissed Rich again. “I’m sorry for all the ways I’ve hurt you,” I said. “I want to start over. I want to build back that trust we once had. I want to prove I can be the person you deserve.” He smiled down at me. “That sounds really nice. But I will never, have never, needed you to prove anything to me. I just need you to be honest with me. I need you to be you.” I nodded. “I think I can do that.” “Hey, Lanie?” Lanie. I was back in his good graces. “Want to wear my swim band?” I put my hand over my heart and gasped. “Oh, Rich, I thought you’d never ask.” As he removed the red piece of elastic from his neck and stretched it to go over my head, time and space merged, my past and my future converging into one seamless present. You never knew where life might lead, how the universe was conspiring to set you on your path. I certainly never would have imagined that, after all these years, I’d find myself on the bank of the same river, kissing that same boy I’d loved a lifetime ago. But sometimes life is like that. Sometimes your summer love becomes something more. Maybe it was that the first day of camp was


at his door, and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he was there. The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late an hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but, considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him, she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly to the closet. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at a small table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading with deep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbed aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father was ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness. She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence, concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him assume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, that partook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silently for a considerable time. When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she stopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence a miniature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother. St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily could scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now that he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much less that he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but having looked repeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was designed for that of some other person. At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily, recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly withdrew from the chamber. CHAPTER III O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even; All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of heaven; O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven! . . . . . These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart. THE


at your house thing is a nonnegotiable, I will concede that point.” He tries to laugh as he says, “If you want our future kids to call him Daddy Number Two then fine.” I lean into him and wrap him up so tight I think I must be cutting off his circulation. “I love you, Huff. I swear I do. But my life is too complicated now. I can’t complicate yours, too.” He pushes me back, gently, and looks me in the eyes. “Where is this coming from? Why would you do this to me? To you? To us? Things have been going so well.” He pauses, searching my eyes for answers. “Is this about Henry? Because I will coach his basketball team and throw the baseball in the yard with him. I will take him camping and fishing. I will be the best stepdad in the world. No one else could love him like I will because no one else could love you like I do.” Tears are streaming down my face because I know this. And I want to scream, Because your stupid sister doesn’t think I’m good enough for you, and if she doesn’t believe it, how can I? It was the exact same thought that ran through my mind that day seven years ago when I came back to the apartment and Huff was waiting for me. It had taken me an hour of walking around downtown Baltimore to come to terms with the fact that Lanier was right. And I had known she was right for a long time. I had felt myself sinking. But I’d been too afraid to face it. “Where have you been?” Huff had asked. He tried to come to me, to comfort me, but I walked by him, straight into the bathroom. I opened my Adderall and dumped it in the toilet. “You actually shouldn’t flush prescriptions,” Huff said. “They stay in the water system.” I turned to him as I flushed. “Seriously?” “Well, I mean, I’m just saying.” He paused. “What’s going on with you?” I flushed the Ambien and a few hydrocodone left over from a sprained ankle prescription that I kept refilling. Then I went to the kitchen and opened the freezer, removed the vodka, and poured it down the sink. As I truly digested the scope of what I had been doing to myself, I realized I had to leave. And who would miss me? Huff was the only friend I had here. And I could finish the two prerequisite classes I was taking online. Right now, none of that mattered. Lanier was right. I was hurting her brother by staying with him; I was being selfish. I was drowning. If I didn’t let him go, Huff would drown too. The idea that I could ruin his life was the only thing that gave me the courage to say, “Huff, I love you, but I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving to go to law school. You have another year of medical school and then internship and residency


I represented myself as being surely worthy of some little confidence from him, in return for the confidence I had just now imparted. I said that I did not blame him, or suspect him, or mistrust him, but I wanted assurance of the truth from him. And if he asked me why I wanted it and why I thought I had any right to it, I would tell him, little as he cared for such poor dreams, that I had loved Estella dearly and long, and that, although I had lost her and must live a bereaved life, whatever concerned her was still nearer and dearer to me than anything else in the world. And seeing that Mr. Jaggers stood quite still and silent, and apparently quite obdurate, under this appeal, I turned to Wemmick, and said, "Wemmick, I know you to be a man with a gentle heart. I have seen your pleasant home, and your old father, and all the innocent cheerful playful ways with which you refresh your business life. And I entreat you to say a word for me to Mr. Jaggers, and to represent to him that, all circumstances considered, he ought to be more open with me!" I have never seen two men look more oddly at one another than Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick did after this apostrophe. At first, a misgiving crossed me that Wemmick would be instantly dismissed from his employment; but, it melted as I saw Mr. Jaggers relax into something like a smile, and Wemmick become bolder. "What's all this?" said Mr. Jaggers. "You with an old father, and you with pleasant and playful ways?" "Well!" returned Wemmick. "If I don't bring 'em here, what does it matter?" "Pip," said Mr. Jaggers, laying his hand upon my arm, and smiling openly, "this man must be the most cunning impostor in all London." "Not a bit of it," returned Wemmick, growing bolder and bolder. "I think you're another." Again they exchanged their former odd looks, each apparently still distrustful that the other was taking him in. "You with a pleasant home?" said Mr. Jaggers. "Since it don't interfere with business," returned Wemmick, "let it be so. Now, I look at you, sir, I shouldn't wonder if you might be planning and contriving to have a pleasant home of your own, one of these days, when you're tired of all this work." Mr. Jaggers nodded his head retrospectively two or three times, and actually drew a sigh. "Pip," said he, "we won't talk about 'poor dreams;' you know more about such things than I, having much fresher experience of that kind. But now, about this other matter. I'll put a case to you. Mind! I admit nothing." He waited for me to declare that I quite understood that he expressly said that he admitted nothing. "Now, Pip," said Mr. Jaggers, "put this case. Put the case that a woman, under such circumstances as you have mentioned, held her child concealed, and was obliged to communicate the fact to her legal adviser, on his representing


her daughter. The child crossed to a cushion beside her mother, sank to it and clasped her mother's hand. The contact of flesh restored that mutual awareness they had shared since before Alia's birth. It wasn't a matter of shared thoughts -- although there were bursts of that if they touched while Jessica was changing the spice poison for a ceremony. It was something larger, an immediate awareness of another living spark, a sharp and poignant thing, a nerve-sympatico that made them emotionally one. In the formal manner that befitted a member of her son's household, Jessica said: "Subakh ul kuhar, Harah. This night finds you well?" With the same traditional formality, she said: "Subakh un nar. I am well." The words were almost toneless. Again, she sighed. Jessica sensed amusement from Alia. "My brother's ghanima is annoyed with me," Alia said in her half-lisp. Jessica marked the term Alia used to refer to Harah -- ghanima. In the subtleties of the Fremen tongue, the word meant "something acquired in battle" and with the added overtone that the something no longer was used for its original purpose. An ornament, a spearhead used as a curtain weight. Harah scowled at the child. "Don't try to insult me, child. I know my place." "What have you done this time, Alia?" Jessica asked. Harah answered; "Not only has she refused to play with the other children today, but she intruded where . . . " "I hid behind the hangings and watched Subiay's child being born," Alia said. "It's a boy. He cried and cried. What a set of lungs! When he'd cried long enough --" "She came out and touched him," Harah said, "and he stopped crying. Everyone knows a Fremen baby must get his crying done at birth, if he's in sietch because he can never cry again lest he betray us on hajr." "He'd cried enough," Alia said. "I just wanted to feel his spark, his life. That's all. And when he felt me he didn't want to cry anymore." "It's just made more talk among the people," Harah said. "Subiay's boy is healthy?" Jessica asked. She saw that something was troubling Harah deeply and wondered at it. "Healthy as any mother could ask," Harah said. "They know Alia didn't hurt him. They didn't so much mind her touching him. He settled down right away and was happy. It was . . . " Harah shrugged. "It's the strangeness of my daughter, is that it?" Jessica asked. "It's the way she speaks of things beyond her years and of things no child her age could know -- things of the past." "How could she know what a child looked like on Bela Tegeuse?" Harah demanded. "But he does!" Alia said, "Subiay's boy looks just like the son of Mitha born before the parting." "Alia!" Jessica said. "I warned you." "But, Mother, I saw it and it was true and . . . " Jessica shook her head, seeing the signs of disturbance in Harah's face. What have I borne? Jessica asked herself.


and much money flowed into Umuofia. And even in the matter of religion there was a growing feeling that there might be something in it after all, something vaguely akin to method in the overwhelming madness. This growing feeling was due to Mr. Brown, the white missionary, who was very firm in restraining his flock from provoking the wrath of the clan. One member in particular was very difficult to restrain. His name was Enoch and his father was the priest of the snake cult. The story went around that Enoch had killed and eaten the sacred python, and that his father had cursed him. Mr. Brown preached against such excess of zeal. Everything was possible, he told his energetic flock, but everything was not expedient. And so Mr. Brown came to be respected even by the clan, because he trod softly on its faith. He made friends with some of the great men of the clan and on one of his frequent visits to the neighbouring villages he had been presented with a carved elephant tusk, which was a sign of dignity and rank. One of the great men in that village was called Akunna and he had given one of his sons to be taught the white man's knowledge in Mr. Brown's school. Whenever Mr. Brown went to that village he spent long hours with Akunna in his obi talking through an interpreter about religion. Neither of them succeeded in converting the other but they learned more about their different beliefs. "You say that there is one supreme God who made heaven and earth," said Akunna on one of Mr. Brown's visits. "We also believe in Him and call Him Chukwu. He made all the world and the other gods." "There are no other gods," said Mr. Brown. "Chukwu is the only God and all others are false. You carve a piece of wood--like that one" (he pointed at the rafters from which Akunna's carved Ikenga hung), "and you call it a god. But it is still a piece of wood." "Yes," said Akunna. "It is indeed a piece of wood. The tree from which it came was made by Chukwu, as indeed all minor gods were. But He made them for His messengers so that we could approach Him through them. It is like yourself. You are the head of your church." "No," protested Mr. Brown. "The head of my church is God Himself." "I know," said Akunna, "but there must be a head in this world among men. Somebody like yourself must be the head here." "The head of my church in that sense is in England." "That is exactly what I am saying. The head of your church is in your country. He has sent you here as his messenger. And you have also appointed your own messengers and servants. Or let me take another example, the District Commissioner. He is sent by your king." "They have a queen," said the interpreter on his own account. "Your queen sends her messenger, the District Commissioner. He finds that


eager to meet you, Miss . . . ?” Simon frowned. They didn’t know her name? But he held his breath, waiting to see which name Lucy chose to give. Staley or Hayes? He had almost forgotten the confusion between the two. “Lucy,” Lucy said, grasping the woman’s hand as Simon’s disappointment left him feeling empty. “It is so lovely to meet you, Mrs. Hughsley.” “But where’s William?” Mason asked, as if he only just realized the party was missing someone. “I mean, Mr. Calloway.” Simon suppressed a groan. Honestly, why had William employed a man so inexperienced? He looked no older than the two footmen who lined up with two maids and the cook, completing the whole of the Penworth staff. Simon had tried to tell his brother that he needed a proper butler who had worked in a household for longer than a decade, but Will had ignored him. “I am afraid Mr. Calloway caught fever on the journey here,” Lucy said, and she seemed pleased by the concern of the staff. “From what I saw this morning, though, he seems nearly recovered.” That would explain why she had been thinking about the future of her relationship with Simon. If William was to wake soon, things would change. The marriage would take place—when, Simon feared he would not know until the day arrived, despite the absurdity of that happening—and Lucy would leave. And Simon would be alone with his fears again, with no one to explain why he needed to purchase supplies for tradesmen who could not afford such purchases themselves. No one to give him reasons to smile when he could find none himself. “Lord Calloway, you’re looking awfully pale,” Mrs. Hughsley said with some alarm, clearly worried about the state of his health. “Shall I have Cook bring up some tea? Oh, forgive me, miss. I suppose that’s a question I should be asking you now, isn’t it? It has just been so long that William—Mr. Calloway—was on his own. You’ve no idea how excited we were when he told us he was getting himself a wife! I’ve never seen the boy more giddy, and he left before he even told us your name. I suppose that’s what happens when a man falls in love in a matter of days, isn’t it?” Simon had mostly given up his conjectures about Lucy’s engagement to William, choosing instead to trust what Lucy told him. But now he couldn’t even fall back on his suspicions. Everything she had told him and his family from the beginning was true, apart from her name, and from the sound of things, the engagement had come on so suddenly that it had caught her by surprise as well. No wonder she had a difficult time explaining how things had come about. “Perhaps we will take tea later,” Lucy said quietly. “I don’t want to be away from William for too long, but I would like to look around the house, if it isn’t too much trouble.” This would be hers. She and William would live


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

and priests sell the aspirations of their country in 1829 in return for catholic emancipation? Didn't they denounce the fenian movement from the pulpit and in the confession box? And didn't they dishonour the ashes of Terence Bellew MacManus? His face was glowing with anger and Stephen felt the glow rise to his own cheek as the spoken words thrilled him. Mr Dedalus uttered a guffaw of coarse scorn. --O, by God, he cried, I forgot little old Paul Cullen! Another apple of God's eye! Dante bent across the table and cried to Mr Casey: --Right! Right! They were always right! God and morality and religion come first. Mrs Dedalus, seeing her excitement, said to her: --Mrs Riordan, don't excite yourself answering them. --God and religion before everything! Dante cried. God and religion before the world. Mr Casey raised his clenched fist and brought it down on the table with a crash. --Very well then, he shouted hoarsely, if it comes to that, no God for Ireland! --John! John! cried Mr Dedalus, seizing his guest by the coat sleeve. Dante stared across the table, her cheeks shaking. Mr Casey struggled up from his chair and bent across the table towards her, scraping the air from before his eyes with one hand as though he were tearing aside a cobweb. --No God for Ireland! he cried. We have had too much God In Ireland. Away with God! --Blasphemer! Devil! screamed Dante, starting to her feet and almost spitting in his face. Uncle Charles and Mr Dedalus pulled Mr Casey back into his chair again, talking to him from both sides reasonably. He stared before him out of his dark flaming eyes, repeating: --Away with God, I say! Dante shoved her chair violently aside and left the table, upsetting her napkin-ring which rolled slowly along the carpet and came to rest against the foot of an easy-chair. Mrs Dedalus rose quickly and followed her towards the door. At the door Dante turned round violently and shouted down the room, her cheeks flushed and quivering with rage: --Devil out of hell! We won! We crushed him to death! Fiend! The door slammed behind her. Mr Casey, freeing his arms from his holders, suddenly bowed his head on his hands with a sob of pain. --Poor Parnell! he cried loudly. My dead king! He sobbed loudly and bitterly. Stephen, raising his terror-stricken face, saw that his father's eyes were full of tears. * * * * * The fellows talked together in little groups. One fellow said: --They were caught near the Hill of Lyons. --Who caught them? --Mr Gleeson and the minister. They were on a car. The same fellow added: --A fellow in the higher line told me. Fleming asked: --But why did they run away, tell us? --I know why, Cecil Thunder said. Because they had fecked cash out of the rector's room. --Who fecked it? --Kickham's brother. And they all went shares in it. --But that was stealing. How could they have done that? --A fat lot you know about it, Thunder!


over to him and gently shake his arm. “Dad?” He blinks and finally looks at me. He looks at the wall and then to me again. He closes his eyes and a tear runs down his cheek. I hold his hand. “Sorry, Dad,” I say quietly. “I … I’m sorry.” I dab his cheek with my coat sleeve and then kiss his forehead. I sit there, cradling his shaking right hand with both of mine until he falls asleep. I leave the room and pull my phone from my pocket. My hands are shaking as I call Dr. Appong’s direct line. I tell him about the hallucination, and he assures me it isn’t rare for the medication Dad’s on, but for my peace of mind, he’ll come by tomorrow to check on him. “Not today?” “I’m not in the office today, I’m afraid.” “Right! Sorry, it’s Sunday. I forgot again. I’m sorry. It’s just…” I pinch the bridge of my nose to block the fresh tears. “Will tomorrow be too late?” “Maddie, everything is fine.” His tone is reassuring, with confidence bolstered by decades of medical practice, and patient. Or it could be pity. I still remember the frown on his face the day he came to see Dad and asked where Mum was. I told him it was just me at the moment and that’s when he gave me his direct line. When he left I swore I could see him shaking his head as he walked away. “You say he’s not displaying any other symptoms?” “No, he’s a bit tired though.” “That’s normal. You don’t need to worry. You can call me again if something else happens, but he should be okay, all right?” I nod, then remember to say, “Yes, thank you.” * * * Dr. Appong was right. When Dad wakes up, he doesn’t seem to remember anything, and he’s as fine as he was the day before. The memory clings to me however, through the afternoon, through dinner and up until the night. I called James, but he didn’t pick up, then I sent a WhatsApp to Mum, but she hasn’t replied. I lay awake in bed thinking about before Dad was ill. It’s been eight years, so it takes me a while to remember. To remember I used to leave Dad to his weekends because that’s how he preferred it, and I would spend Saturdays and Sundays with school friends I don’t see anymore. Dad and I never spent that much time together, nowhere near as much as we do now. With Mum in Ghana every other year and James adopting himself into other families, I grew up alone. Dad left me to it because he knew he could. I was the well-behaved one. But if I’d realized how much that pressure would build inside me, the slow descent into a dull existence, days blemished with concern for my dad and whether I’m looking after him properly—well, I would have stayed out late some nights, lost my virginity at sixteen instead of still having it, developed


She’d been nervously playing with it. The skin there was still pink, looking slightly inflamed. Nerves getting to her, like the rest of us. Adding to the tat artwork down both arms, and her short and always disheveled hair, the look worked for her. Akari seemed to go out of her way to look and act irreverent—silently screaming to be both noticed and unconventional. An ace Arrow pilot in her own right, she’d settled into her post at Tactical just fine. The truth was, at least as of late, she was my most trusted bridge officer. Leaving the bridge, she hurried to keep up with me. “We’re low on … well, just about everything. Mainly spikes.” I nodded, knowing she was referring to Adams’ rail gun ammunition, rail spikes. “Add to that, our stock of smart missiles is getting dangerously low, and three of our plasma cannons are down; their barrels literally melted from prolonged overuse during that last battle.” I nodded but didn’t comment. “Well?” she said. “If we’re attacked again …” “You’re the tactical officer, Akari … I can’t do your job for you. What do you suggest, Lieutenant?” She shrugged. “It’s not as if we can jump to the closest star base, get resupplied with munitions, or have a maintenance team re-outfit our ship guns.” I looked about, then glanced up, taking in Adams’ beautifully appointed interior. Years earlier, the USS Hamilton class dreadnought had been ready for the scrapyard. Then it was purchased by an investment group. Rechristened Britannica, she was to be the most elegant, luxurious passenger starliner in the quadrant. High above us were thirty-six oval colonnade domes, each handcrafted stained glass … Nineteenth-century reproductions utilizing the age-old process of heating mixed potash and sand to over one thousand six hundred and fifty degrees Celsius and then infusing it with various metallic oxide powders to create the vibrant colors above us. The hanging chandeliers were all Waterford … Each crystal had a 40 percent lead content, and there were seventy-five individual vintage incandescent lights per fixture. The vessel’s interior, with her paneled mahogany bulkheads, vintage oil portraits, and gilded age opulence, was like none other, especially since she’d been reappropriated, then recommissioned, by Empress Shawlee due to ever-increasing war demands—those brought about by strategic advances coming from both the Varapin and Grish. Now this would-be starliner was also a fierce military warship. We’d reached the bank of GravLifts. The left set of doors slid open. We both entered the lift. As with the rest of the ship, the car’s interior consisted of polished brass hardware, rich mahogany paneling, and crystal wall sconces. But it was the assigned, dedicated liftman that always made me uneasy upon entering any of the lifts. The legless hover-bot was fitted with a formal tux-with-tails attire. The bot greeted us both by name as it stood vigil over the lift’s virtual touchscreen controls like a guard at Buckingham Palace. I said, “HealthBay.” “Very good, sir … leaving Deck 13 for Deck 12.” Akari and I exchanged a look. She continued where she’d


should treat yourself.” “And I should call myself Princess Do-As-I-Please, but I can’t always have my way, now, can I?” Mrs. King raised an eyebrow and unbuckled her Gladstone bag. She pulled out a copy of the Illustrated News, held up the photograph of the old master. The image flashed and winked at them. That famous spotted neckerchief. His teeth bared and gleaming. Black scrolls at the top of the page: “Wilhelm de Vries. Born 1850. Died 1905.” “Yes, yes, I heard,” said Mrs. Bone, voice tight. Mrs. King tilted her head. “And?” “I’m a Christian lady. I don’t gloat about nobody’s passing.” Her eyes darkened. “They’re calling him that name in the papers.” “You still don’t care for ‘de Vries’?” Mrs. Bone began shredding receipts. “He was Danny O’Flynn when he was born. He was Danny O’Flynn when he died.” She sniffed. “If he died. If it’s not a great prank. If it’s not an almighty tease.” Mrs. Bone’s personal feelings about Danny O’Flynn, the man who transformed himself into Wilhelm de Vries, were well-known to Mrs. King. They were among the category of sensitive things, topics avoided. “No, he’s gone, Mrs. Bone.” “And what’s he left behind?” Mrs. King glanced down at the paper. They’d printed a photograph of Madam, too. “A fair flower in bloom, Miss de Vries in her winter garden...” She appeared in a cloud of chiffon, blurry, hard to pin down. Innocent looking. Mrs. King had been present when they’d taken that photograph. They did it in the winter garden, the conservatory overlooking the park. They made the photographer stay all day, long after the light had faded. Madam faced the window, eyes flat and unreadable, telegraphing a silent order through the air. Get it right. Make it perfect. “The daughter.” Mrs. Bone’s gaze tightened. “And?” “And nothing.” “Were his affairs in order? That’s what I want to know.” Mrs. King sighed. “I’ve no notion, Mrs. Bone.” “Then what are you here for?” Mrs. Bone replied, snapping her fingers. “I’m a busy lady. I don’t have time for nonsense conversations.” She’s rattled today, thought Mrs. King. Combing the newspapers, picking over old ground. “Perhaps I just came to say hello,” said Mrs. King calmly. Mrs. Bone’s eyes flew upward. “You’re up to something.” “Am I?” “You’ve got something cooking up here.” Mrs. Bone tapped the side of her head. “Not a nice thing. It never is.” “Heavens,” said Mrs. King. “You taught me everything I know.” Mrs. Bone’s mouth thinned. Evidently, she didn’t like that: she saw it as an aspersion on her character. And Mrs. Bone took good care of appearances. Gave generously to the church collection, kept an entirely dull front parlor, still wore mourning clothes for her long-departed Mr. Bone, erstwhile husband and ironmonger. Her jet ornaments clanked every time she moved. “They gave you the shove,” she said, “didn’t they?” Mrs. King inclined her head. “For a minor indiscretion.” “What did you do?” Mrs. King told her. Mrs. Bone raised an eyebrow. “You were visiting your fancy man?” she asked. “It was