weak. Tarzan had to lift him that he might drink from the gourd. The fever had not been the result of infection, as D'Arnot had thought, but one of those that commonly attack whites in the jungles of Africa, and either kill or leave them as suddenly as D'Arnot's had left him. Two days later, D'Arnot was tottering about the amphitheater, Tarzan's strong arm about him to keep him from falling. They sat beneath the shade of a great tree, and Tarzan found some smooth bark that they might converse. D'Arnot wrote the first message: What can I do to repay you for all that you have done for me? And Tarzan, in reply: Teach me to speak the language of men. And so D'Arnot commenced at once, pointing out familiar objects and repeating their names in French, for he thought that it would be easier to teach this man his own language, since he understood it himself best of all. It meant nothing to Tarzan, of course, for he could not tell one language from another, so when he pointed to the word man which he had printed upon a piece of bark he learned from D'Arnot that it was pronounced HOMME, and in the same way he was taught to pronounce ape, SINGE and tree, ARBRE. He was a most eager student, and in two more days had mastered so much French that he could speak little sentences such as: "That is a tree," "this is grass," "I am hungry," and the like, but D'Arnot found that it was difficult to teach him the French construction upon a foundation of English. The Frenchman wrote little lessons for him in English and had Tarzan repeat them in French, but as a literal translation was usually very poor French Tarzan was often confused. D'Arnot realized now that he had made a mistake, but it seemed too late to go back and do it all over again and force Tarzan to unlearn all that he had learned, especially as they were rapidly approaching a point where they would be able to converse. Chapter 23 130 On the third day after the fever broke Tarzan wrote a message asking D'Arnot if he felt strong enough to be carried back to the cabin. Tarzan was as anxious to go as D'Arnot, for he longed to see Jane again. It had been hard for him to remain with the Frenchman all these days for that very reason, and that he had unselfishly done so spoke more glowingly of his nobility of character than even did his rescuing the French officer from Mbonga's clutches. D'Arnot, only too willing to attempt the journey, wrote: But you cannot carry me all the distance through this tangled forest. Tarzan laughed. "MAIS OUI," he said, and D'Arnot laughed aloud to hear the phrase that he used so often glide from Tarzan's tongue. So they set out, D'Arnot marveling as had Clayton and Jane at the wondrous strength and agility of the apeman. Mid-afternoon brought them to the clearing, and as Tarzan


a laugh. This version of myself—I don’t hate her. She’s carefree and laid-back, two adjectives I’ve never associated with myself. She’s fun. He glances down. “It’s probably been that way for hours, huh?” “I’ll fix it for you.” I lean in as he gamely holds out his arms, and now my knee is pressed against his, too. “Do you want them both up or both down?” I ask the question hoping for a specific answer. Up would give me more reasons to touch him. “Up, please,” he says, blushing again. His skin is warm, his breath even. I take my time, making sure his sleeves are the same length, each roll of fabric revealing more freckles. When my thumb grazes the underside of his forearm, he twitches but doesn’t move away. The next time I do it, it isn’t an accident, and his eyes lock on mine with a steady intensity. I didn’t think rolling up the sleeves of a man’s shirt could be erotic, but here we are. My heart is hammering against my rib cage and this close, I can see how long his lashes are. Those lines around his eyes, the graying of his hair. I wonder how he feels about it, if he’s fighting it or if he’s made his peace, or if it’s something that’s never bothered him at all. His scent, something woodsy that might be leftover cologne he wore to his sales conference or something purely him. He’s really lovely, this man, and suddenly it seems unfair that I have only one night with him. The mysterious Drew. “Thank you,” he says in a new kind of voice. Rougher. Richer. My throat has gone dry, and when I reach into my bag for my entrepreneurial water bottle, my fingers skim the top of Maddy’s book. I fight back a laugh as I pull it out. “I—I accidentally stole this,” I say. “I was supposed to pay for it after I got it signed, but then I went to the bar and forgot. We have to go back.” “All this time, I’ve been cavorting about with a common criminal?” he says, but the look on his face is sheer amusement. “I could just as easily blame you!” I pat the book gently against his chest, and he clutches his heart, pretending I’ve wounded him. “If you hadn’t been so charming, maybe I wouldn’t have been cavorting about with you and forgotten to pay.” As though summoned, a dimple appears in one cheek. “You think I’m charming?” “I think you’re an accessory to petty theft,” I say as we get to our feet. “And I also think I’ve never heard someone use the word ‘cavorting’ in casual conversation before. I kind of love it?” “Ah, you see, that’s what makes me so charming.” We haven’t ventured too far from the bookstore, only about five blocks. Except now when we walk, I’m more aware of Drew’s body than I have been all night. The way he makes his steps smaller to keep pace with me, his arm brushing


It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were on even a more spacious scale than at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants' cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller's boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon. And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were other dogs, There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they did not count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, or lived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless,--strange creatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the other hand, there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who yelped fearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them and protected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops. But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm was his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge's sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge's daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge's feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge's grandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterly ignored, for he was king,--king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller's place, humans included. His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge's inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was not so large,--he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds,--for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of good living and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was even a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights


a thing at the office.” That sounds awful. “That sounds great.” “It won’t be. It’ll be lavish and overstated and he’s denied two pay rise requests this month alone.” He pulls me close. “I’ve got you a plus-one, but I won’t be offended if you decide not to use it. If you don’t, maybe I’ll start coughing two days before and suddenly be too ill to attend.” “No, I’d like to come.” I wouldn’t, but attending work events is a relationship thing, isn’t it? And this is a relationship now, right? “It’ll be fun.” Ben smiles. “On your own head be it. I was just leaving for a run but wanted to give you something before.” He hands me a pink rectangular box wrapped in a black ribbon. I suddenly wish I was wearing something other than his T-shirt. “What is it?” I ask. “Open it.” Inside the box, nestled spaciously on pink tissue paper are three macarons—one pale pink, one violet and one green. “Macarons?” “These are London’s best macarons,” he says. “I saw them and thought of you.” He pulls my thighs apart and stands between them. “Try one?” “What? Now?” “I did intend to give it to you last night, but we got distracted.” He leans in to bite my bottom lip. He smells different today and I wonder if it’s me he smells of. “Have one,” he says. I look up at him. “Ben, it’s eight in the morning.” “So?” He kisses me. If this were all happening on-screen, I’d ask if the macarons were poisoned. Ben stares at me and I can’t decide if his eyes have darkened or if I’m seeing things. “Okay then.” I really don’t want one but it doesn’t feel like enough of a big deal. Ben begins stroking my thighs and says, “The pink one.” I move my fingers away from the violet and lift the pink macaron from its place. I take a bite. The shell is crisp and crunches noisily between my teeth. Its sweetness stings. Ben taps my thighs, and I look at him. He smiles, then watches me chew. “What do you think?” he asks. I’m hearing a tone that isn’t there. Ben’s voice is, as always, gentle and conversational. I nod and swallow. I only briefly consider placing the other half of the macaron back into the box before Ben’s thigh tapping begins again. My chest feels weak and I want to cry. What is wrong with you? I eat the other half. This half is dry and I have difficulty swallowing it. His tapping doesn’t stop until I look at him again. I almost whisper, “Sorry.” “Decadent breakfast,” I say. He kisses my shoulder through his shirt, and I quickly close the box. Chapter Seventeen Nia I’m baaaaccckkkkk Maddie YAAAY! When can I see you? Nia Any time next week Maddie After I see my dad? Nia Sounds good. Let him know I said happy birthday I’m thinking tonight might be the night for a bath when in the kitchen Jo says, “I’m meeting some friends


he went on ahead. This adventure frightened me so, that, afterwards, when I saw any of these people coming, I turned back until I could find a hiding-place, where I remained until they had gone out of sight; which happened so often, that I was very seriously delayed. But under this difficulty, as under all the other difficulties of my journey, I seemed to be sustained and led on by my fanciful picture of my mother in her youth, before I came into the world. It always kept me company. It was there, among the hops, when I lay down to sleep; it was with me on my waking in the morning; it went before me all day. I have associated it, ever since, with the sunny street of Canterbury, dozing as it were in the hot light; and with the sight of its old houses and gateways, and the stately, grey Cathedral, with the rooks sailing round the towers. When I came, at last, upon the bare, wide downs near Dover, it relieved the solitary aspect of the scene with hope; and not until I reached that first great aim of my journey, and actually set foot in the town itself, on the sixth day of my flight, did it desert me. But then, strange to say, when I stood with my ragged shoes, and my dusty, sunburnt, half-clothed figure, in the place so long desired, it seemed to vanish like a dream, and to leave me helpless and dispirited. I inquired about my aunt among the boatmen first, and received various answers. One said she lived in the South Foreland Light, and had singed her whiskers by doing so; another, that she was made fast to the great buoy outside the harbour, and could only be visited at half-tide; a third, that she was locked up in Maidstone jail for child-stealing; a fourth, that she was seen to mount a broom in the last high wind, and make direct for Calais. The fly-drivers, among whom I inquired next, were equally jocose and equally disrespectful; and the shopkeepers, not liking my appearance, generally replied, without hearing what I had to say, that they had got nothing for me. I felt more miserable and destitute than I had done at any period of my running away. My money was all gone, I had nothing left to dispose of; I was hungry, thirsty, and worn out; and seemed as distant from my end as if I had remained in London. The morning had worn away in these inquiries, and I was sitting on the step of an empty shop at a street corner, near the market-place, deliberating upon wandering towards those other places which had been mentioned, when a fly-driver, coming by with his carriage, dropped a horsecloth. Something good-natured in the man's face, as I handed it up, encouraged me to ask him if he could tell me where Miss Trotwood lived; though I had asked the question so often, that it almost died upon my lips. 'Trotwood,' said he. 'Let me


fact that Sick Nun isn’t doing well, and Sick Nun takes her face in her hands and kisses her in a way that would be hot if I wasn’t wondering what disease Sick Nun supposedly has. Is “deathbed porn” a genre? These two do a solid minute of kissing, and I love that. Ten out of ten. A+. No notes. I will watch any video of people kissing, it doesn’t matter who. I love being kissed. Kissing is the best. Wait, this is actually three minutes of fully clothed kissing only, and somehow this movie is better than I originally gave it credit for? Yes, we are 12:39 into it, but also why was I skipping past this loving, sensual part? At 12:49 we get our first boob after a shockingly realistic struggle for Mean Nun to wrestle her way out of a top with absolutely zero stretch and a cheap quarter zip at the back of her neck. There’s no easy way out of a top like that! Especially when you have a huge rack and aren’t wearing a bra!! Okay, now they’re doing some topless kissing—although Sick Nun still has her flimsy nightgown on—and hugging, which is funny to me because if I hug you with my shirt off that means I’m about to go to sleep. If the momentum slows for even a second, I will fall off a cliff into the deepest slumber possible because I am a cat. They’re clutching each other, now they’re rocking back and forth, and maybe this is why the video was tagged “mommy.” It’s giving very much “I skinned my knee, please make it better,” and also like…………is Sick Nun okay? She really is leaning on Mean Nun like she’s about to die of consumption. Have I accidentally stumbled across a movie from 1883? Finally Mean Nun’s scowl cracks, and she starts smiling! Then laughing! Sick Nun kissed her meanness away, and now she’s happy enough to have sex!!!!!!! Sick Nun pulls her nightgown over her head and goes in for another gentle embrace, and now I’m wondering how wet her fitted sheet is because this is an awful lot of foreplay with very little digital insertion. Sick Nun commands Mean Nun to stand, and she yanks her black nun dress down and: OH SHIT, this is the first time I have ever seen my preferred style of underpants in a porn??? Mean Nun is wearing high-waisted white full briefs, and I have never felt more recognized by a piece of cinema. Well, okay, now the video is kind of glitching. I’ve had to reload the browser a couple of times when the video refused to play and the sidebar ads keep popping up all over the screen. I tried to skip ahead to see if that would fix it, to the part at 17:10 when it starts to get good, when Sick Nun finally slips her moisturized hand into Mean Nun’s Hanes Cool Comfort breathable cotton briefs and starts fiddling around, but all I’m getting is the spinning wheel of death


most of the children, feeling too late the smart of sunburn, had put their clothes on. The choir, less of a group, had discarded their cloaks. Ralph sat on a fallen trunk, his left side to the sun. On his right were most of the choir; on his left the larger boys who had not known each other before the evacuation; before him small children squatted in the grass. Silence now. Ralph lifted the cream and pink shell to his knees and a sudden breeze scattered light over the platform. He was uncertain whether to stand up or remain sitting. He looked sideways to his left, toward the bathing pool. Piggy was sitting near but giving no help. Ralph cleared his throat. "Well then." All at once he found he could talk fluently and explain what he had to say. He passed a hand through his fair hair and spoke. "We're on an island. We've been on the mountain top and seen water all round. We saw no houses, no smoke, no footprints, no boats, no people. We're on an uninhabited island with no other people on it." Jack broke in. "All the same you need an army--for hunting. Hunting pigs--" "Yes. There are pigs on the island." All three of them tried to convey the sense of the pink live thing struggling in the creepers. "We saw--" "Squealing--" "It broke away--" "Before I could kill it--but--next time!" Jack slammed his knife into a trunk and looked round challengingly. The meeting settled down again. "So you see," said Ralph, "We need hunters to get us meat. And another thing." He lifted the shell on his knees and looked round the sun-slashed faces. "There aren't any grownups. We shall have to look after ourselves." The meeting hummed and was silent. "And another thing. We can't have everybody talking at once. We'll have to have 'Hands up' like at school." He held the conch before his face and glanced round the mouth. "Then I'll give him the conch." "Conch?" "That's what this shell's called. I'll give the conch to the next person to speak. He can hold it when he's speaking." "But--" "Look--" "And he won't be interrupted: Except by me." Jack was on his feet. "We'll have rules!" he cried excitedly. "Lots of rules! Then when anyone breaks 'em--" "Whee--oh!" "Wacco!" "Bong!" "Doink!" Ralph felt the conch lifted from his lap. Then Piggy was standing cradling the great cream shell and the shouting died down. Jack, left on his feet, looked uncertainly at Ralph who smiled and patted the log. Jack sat down. Piggy took off his glasses and blinked at the assembly while he wiped them on his shirt. "You're hindering Ralph. You're not letting him get to the most important thing." He paused effectively. "Who knows we're here? Eh?" "They knew at the airport." "The man with a trumpet-thing--" "My dad." Piggy put on his glasses. "Nobody knows where we are," said Piggy. He was paler than before and breathless. "Perhaps they knew where we was going to; and perhaps not.


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

lying in neat lines on the ground. Harry had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about the school brooms, saying that some of them started to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly to the left. Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk. "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up." Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles. "Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'Up!' " "UP!" everyone shouted. Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. Hermione Granger's had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell when you were afraid, thought Harry; there was a quaver in Neville's voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground. Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips. Harry and Ron were delighted when she told Malfoy he'd been doing it wrong for years. "Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle -- three -- two -- " But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips. "Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle -- twelve feet -- twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and -- WHAM -- a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight. Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his. "Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter. "Come on, boy -- it's all right, up you get.". She turned to the rest of the class. "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear." Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him. No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter. "Did you see his face, the great lump?" The other Slytherins joined in. "Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil. "Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. "Never thought you'd like fat


them to Menegroth. Then Thingol received Trin, and took him even to his own fostering, in honour of Hrin the Steadfast; for Thingol's mood was changed towards the houses of the Elf-friends. Thereafter messengers went north to Hithlum, bidding Morwen leave Dor-lmin and return with them to Doriath; but still she would not leave the house in which she had dwelt with Hrin. And when the Elves departed she sent with them the Dragon-helm of Dor-lmin, greatest of the heirlooms of the house of Hador. Trin grew fair and strong in Doriath, but he was marked with sorrow. For nine years he dwelt in Thingol's halls, and during that time his grief grew less; for messengers went at times to Hithlum, and returning they brought better tidings of Morwen and Nienor. But there came a day when the messengers did not return out of die north, and Thingol would send no more. Then Trin was filled with fear for his mother and his sister, and in grimness of heart he went before the King and asked for mail and sword; and he put on the Dragon-helm of Dor-lmin and went out to battle on the marches of Doriath, and became the companion in arms of Beleg Cthalion. And when three years had passed, Trin returned again to Menegroth; but he came from the wild, and was unkempt, and his gear and garments were way-worn. Now one there was in Doriath, of the people of the Nandor, high in the counsels of the King; Saeros was his name. He had long begrudged to Trin the honour he received as Thingol's fosterson; and seated opposite to him at the board he taunted him, saying: 'If the Men of Hithlum are so wild and fell, of what sort are the women of that land? Do they run like deer clad only in their hair?' Then Trin in great anger took up a drinking-vessel, and cast it at Saeros; and he was grievously hurt. On the next day Saeros waylaid Trin as he set out from Menegroth to return to the marches; but Trin overcame him, and set him to run naked as a hunted beast through the woods. Then Saeros fleeing in terror before him fell into the chasm of a stream, and his body was broken on a great rock in the water. But others coming saw what was done, and Mablung was among them; and he bade Trin return with him to Menegroth and abide the judgement of the King, seeking his pardon. But Trin, deeming himself now an outlaw and fearing to be held captive, refused Mablung's bidding, and turned swiftly away; and passing through the Girdle of Melian he came into the woods west of Sirion. There he joined himself to a band of such houseless and desperate men as could be found in those evil days lurking in the wild; and their hands were turned against all who came in their path Elves and Men and Orcs. But when all that had befallen was told and searched out before Thingol,


let alone her bare hands. Still, he couldn’t walk away from Natalie if she needed him. Not when she’d sucked it up and asked for assistance when it clearly had been very difficult to set aside her pride. No, he’d dwell on it forever. So he crossed the stupid street in his hot, restrictive suit with his molars grinding together, scanning the crowd for the black-haired goddess he would never get to sleep with but would apparently be marrying, because he’d lost his fucking mind. It was so hot under the tent that he immediately started to sweat. Why did these people insist on gathering to celebrate fermented grape juice? Had none of them heard of baseball? Now that was a reason to gather outside in the sun— Natalie. Up ahead. Hot. Damn. As usual, when August laid eyes on the woman, he had to squeeze his thumbs hard in the palms of his hands. She had these incredibly smart eyes and a soft mouth. He’d never felt the need to categorize another woman’s features before. He sort of stopped at registering the color of someone’s eyes and hair. Brown. Blue. Blond. Green. Easy. There was nothing easy about looking at Natalie. All sorts of shit was happening on her features at once and for some reason, he wanted to keep up with all of it. Sometimes she might look bored, but she’d rub her lips together over and over, letting him know she was actually anxious and hiding it. Other times, two little lines formed between her eyebrows like she might be concerned about something, but she’d hoist her chin up in the air like she didn’t have a care in the world. Bottom line, Natalie wasn’t a simple combination of colors, she was an ever-changing kaleidoscope he couldn’t seem to stop peering into. Although today the color purple was front and center, because in a sea of muted colors, her short lilac dress stood out. Cut high around her throat with a low back and a soft, fluttery skirt. Those long, lithe legs had his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down against the starched collar of his shirt. He could see them all tangled up in his sheets. Could see them bending, locking, being pressed open onto the mattress by his hands. Those images would never become a reality, and yet he’d love someone to try to stop him from fake marrying this kaleidoscopic woman. On his way across the tent, he finally noticed Natalie was standing with her mother, her brother, Julian, and the blonde whom August assumed was Julian’s girlfriend. They were speaking in low tones over glasses of wine, seemingly unaware that, as the legendary Vos family, they were of interest to every guest in the tent. Classy, sophisticated. A quiet dynasty that had perhaps seen better days but remained legendary. Maybe it would be fun to mess that image up for a while. Fun or not, this was happening. Because if Natalie was desperate enough to ask August to marry her, then she would eventually find


think the rational side is losing, if not having already lost. “For a party that’s all sensitive about the Left canceling them, they do a pretty good job of canceling their own,” he added. “That’s why the hammer came down so hard on Liz Cheney—to send a message of fear. No one wants to be targeted the way she’s been targeted, which makes this period we are in perhaps the most dangerous.” Observing what has happened to the party of Lincoln, we can make one conclusion with confidence: we’ve only seen the beginning of Trumpism. The rational faction of the GOP has been put down by the radical one and is no longer a check on the system. The conditions are right for the Next Trump to emerge. Worse still for our democracy, when he or she enters the White House, the rest of the guardrails will be weaker than ever. Chapter 2 THE DEPUTY Once an efficient national government is established, the best men in the country will not only consent to serve, but also will generally be appointed to manage it. —JOHN JAY, FEDERALIST NO. 3, 1787 PART I Today the Department of Homeland Security sits on a hill just outside of the nation’s capital, a behemoth visible from the Potomac River. But the original Homeland Security headquarters was nestled in the sleepy D.C. neighborhood of Tenleytown, largely unnoticed by pedestrians. The network of interconnected brick office buildings had previously been a secret National Security Agency hub and, later, a naval research facility. After 9/11, it became the home of DHS and almost blended in with nearby American University, were it not for two layers of barbed-wire fence and a fleet of armored SUVs that regularly transited the premises, flashing red and blue lights. I was awed to work there during the Bush administration, proudly swiping my badge each day to enter the compound. HQ was responsible for overseeing the department’s nearly 250,000 employees—helping them do their jobs and protecting the American people by responding to everything from natural disasters to cyberattacks. When I returned years later during the Trump administration, little had changed at the compound, except that now the government’s third-largest department was more worried about one person than the many thousands in its ranks. DHS was in a constant battle with the president of the United States. I soon found out why. “The ‘adults’ are winning.” The DHS Visitor Center was backed up when a group of anxious bureaucrats arrived on March 22, 2017. They cut to the front of the line at the magnetometers—shuffling past framed photos on the wall of President Donald Trump and the newly confirmed DHS secretary, John Kelly—and discreetly flashed blue badges at the guards. In my mind, the matching tote bags gave these spy community employees away. CIA, maybe NSA. They were clutching otherwise unremarkable nylon pouches with thick zippers and pick-proof locks, the kind used to deliver classified material to decision-makers. Was it good news or bad news in the bags? The visitors’ impatience suggested the latter. They vanished into


now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit.' `Perhaps it hasn't one,' Alice ventured to remark. `Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. `Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it.' And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. `The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. `'Tis so,' said the Duchess: `and the moral of that is--"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!"' `Somebody said,' Alice whispered, `that it's done by everybody minding their own business!' `Ah, well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, `and the moral of THAT is--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves."' `How fond she is of finding morals in things!' Alice thought to herself. `I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist,' the Duchess said after a pause: `the reason is, that I'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?' `HE might bite,' Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. `Very true,' said the Duchess: `flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--"Birds of a feather flock together."' `Only mustard isn't a bird,' Alice remarked. `Right, as usual,' said the Duchess: `what a clear way you have of putting things!' `It's a mineral, I THINK,' said Alice. `Of course it is,' said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; `there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--"The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours."' `Oh, I know!' exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, `it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is.' `I quite agree with you,' said the Duchess; `and the moral of that is--"Be what you would seem to be"--or if you'd like it put more simply--"Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise."' `I think I should understand that better,' Alice said very politely, `if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it.' `That's nothing to what I could say if I chose,' the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. `Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that,' said Alice. `Oh, don't talk about trouble!' said the Duchess. `I make you


even know." Paul turned away to watch the Habbanya Ridge climb out of the desert. The maker beneath them still felt strong and willing. It could carry them almost twice the distance of any other in Fremen experience. He knew it. There was nothing outside the stories told to children that could match this old man of the desert. It was the stuff of a new legend, Paul realized. A hand gripped his shoulder. Paul looked at it, followed the arm to the face beyond it -- the dark eyes of Stilgar exposed between filter mask and stillsuit hood. "The one who led Tabr sietch before me," Stilgar said, "he was my friend. We shared dangers. He owed me his life many a time . . . and I owed him mine." "I am your friend, Stilgar," Paul said. "No man doubts it," Stilgar said. He removed his hand, shrugged. "It's the way." Paul saw that Stilgar was too immersed in the Fremen way to consider the possibility of any other. Here a leader took the reins from the dead hands of his predecessor, or slew among the strongest of his tribe if a leader died in the desert. Stilgar had risen to be a naib in that way. "We should leave this maker in deep sand," Paul said. "Yes," Stilgar agreed. "We could walk to the cave from here." "We've ridden him far enough that he'll bury himself and sulk for a day or so," Paul said. "You're the mudir of the sandride," Stilgar said. "Say when we . . ." He broke off, stared at the eastern sky. Paul whirled. The spice-blue overcast on his eyes made the sky appear dark, a richly filtered azure against which a distant rhythmic flashing stood out in sharp contrast. Ornithopter! "One small 'thopter," Stilgar said. "Could be a scout," Paul said. "Do you think they've seen us." "At this distance we're just a worm on the surface," Stilgar said. He motioned with his left hand. "Off. Scatter on the sand." The troop began working down the worm's sides, dropping off, blending with the sand beneath their cloaks. Paul marked where Chani dropped. Presently, only he and Stilgar remained. "First up, last off," Paul said. Stilgar nodded, dropped down the side on his hooks, leaped onto the sand. Paul waited until the maker was safely clear of the scatter area, then released his hooks. This was the tricky moment with a worm not completely exhausted. Freed of its goads and hooks, the big worm began burrowing into the sand. Paul ran lightly back along its broad surface, judged his moment carefully and leaped off. He landed running, lunged against the slipface of a dune the way he had been taught, and hid himself beneath the cascade of sand over his robe. Now, the waiting . . . Paul turned, gently, exposed a crack of sky beneath a crease in his robe. He imagined the others back along their path doing the same. He heard the beat of the 'thopter's wings before he saw it.


began by producing from under his arm a great letter, nearly as large as himself, and this he handed over to the other, saying, in a solemn tone, `For the Duchess. An invitation from the Queen to play croquet.' The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn tone, only changing the order of the words a little, `From the Queen. An invitation for the Duchess to play croquet.' Then they both bowed low, and their curls got entangled together. Alice laughed so much at this, that she had to run back into the wood for fear of their hearing her; and when she next peeped out the Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the ground near the door, staring stupidly up into the sky. Alice went timidly up to the door, and knocked. `There's no sort of use in knocking,' said the Footman, `and that for two reasons. First, because I'm on the same side of the door as you are; secondly, because they're making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you.' And certainly there was a most extraordinary noise going on within--a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces. `Please, then,' said Alice, `how am I to get in?' `There might be some sense in your knocking,' the Footman went on without attending to her, `if we had the door between us. For instance, if you were INSIDE, you might knock, and I could let you out, you know.' He was looking up into the sky all the time he was speaking, and this Alice thought decidedly uncivil. `But perhaps he can't help it,' she said to herself; `his eyes are so VERY nearly at the top of his head. But at any rate he might answer questions.--How am I to get in?' she repeated, aloud. `I shall sit here,' the Footman remarked, `till tomorrow--' At this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came skimming out, straight at the Footman's head: it just grazed his nose, and broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him. `--or next day, maybe,' the Footman continued in the same tone, exactly as if nothing had happened. `How am I to get in?' asked Alice again, in a louder tone. `ARE you to get in at all?' said the Footman. `That's the first question, you know.' It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so. `It's really dreadful,' she muttered to herself, `the way all the creatures argue. It's enough to drive one crazy!' The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating his remark, with variations. `I shall sit here,' he said, `on and off, for days and days.' `But what am I to do?' said Alice. `Anything you like,' said the Footman, and began whistling. `Oh, there's no use in talking to him,' said Alice desperately: `he's perfectly idiotic!' And she opened the door and went in. The door led


“I would.” “As what?” Jane-two considered it. “Helen of Troy.” Jane-one snorted. “Oh, very good. Here’s your wooden horse.” She rolled the next box, filled to the brim with treasures, along the tracks they’d laid down the corridor, and ran a quick hand through her hair. Don’t stop, she told herself. Not even for a minute. She didn’t need to look at the clock. She knew what it would say. Midnight was fast approaching. “We need to speed up,” she muttered. * * * Alice had recognized the man in the mews lane the second she saw him. He had come without his usual companion. For some reason this made her more afraid, not less. One man, alone, without constraints, with his shirt collar loosened. Even debt collectors felt the heat, she thought, smothering a desperate bubble of laughter. Usually he showed perfect courtesy, and tipped his hat. But tonight he wasn’t wearing a hat at all. He looked bigger than before, and the lamp shone on his bald head. She searched for his hands, but they were shoved into his pockets. He let out a breath when he saw her. This, too, made her feel weak. It was a tiny gesture, a little huff of...what? Anger? He was impatient to get this job done, sorted, over with. She could see he had something concealed in his pocket. A lead pipe or a rope or a knife: her imagination unraveled all the possibilities, fear rattling through her chest. “You’re late on your payment,” he said. Alice ran her eyes down the lane. She looked over her shoulder, back into the yard. No one there. No one who could help. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t think. She turned and ran, straight back to the mews house. Run, said her body, run and hide. She scurried through the lower offices, dodging the waiters and footmen. Think, she urged herself. Think, think, think. “Alice?” A face looked around the corner of the kitchen passage. It sent a jolt through her skin: she gasped. It was one of the under-footmen. He gave Alice a quizzical expression. “Steady on. Madam just asked for you. She’s gone and torn her gown. Run upstairs and fix it for her, will you?” Madam. Alice’s mind was whirring. Yes: Madam. Someone fierce, someone in charge, someone who could offer immediate protection... Alice could feel her chest tightening, worse than being laced. The under-footman’s frown deepened. “What are you waiting for? Go!” 29 Mr. Lockwood kept Mrs. King waiting for the best part of an hour. She didn’t let this rile her. She held herself upright and calm, in one of the vast wing-backed chairs in the corner of the library. It was such a good place for a private conversation. The walls were muffled by the bookcases, layers of vellum and gold-stamped leather. Mrs. King could hear the guests as if through water, a distant roar. Mr. Lockwood sat opposite, ignoring her, writing a letter. His patience equaled hers. Mrs. King’s women didn’t know she’d come up here. This conversation formed


man-made tunnel to the floor of the basin. Stilgar crossed to Paul. "What was so important that they couldn't send a cielago with the message?" Paul asked. "They're saving their birds for the battle," Stilgar said. He glanced at the communications equipment, back to Paul. "Even with a tight beam, it is wrong to use those things, Muad'Dib. They can find you by taking a bearing on its emission." "They'll soon be too busy to find me," Paul said. "What did the men report?" "Our pet Sardaukar have been released near Old Gap low on the rim and are on their way to their master. The rocket launchers and other projectile weapons are in place. The people are deployed as you ordered. It was all routine." Paul glanced across the shallow bowl, studying his men in the filtered light admitted by the camouflage cover. He felt time creeping like an insect working its way across an exposed rock. "It'll take our Sardaukar a little time afoot before they can signal a troop carrier," Paul said. "They are being watched?" "They are being watched," Stilgar said. Beside Paul, Gurney Halleck cleared his throat. "Hadn't we best be getting to a place of safety?" "There is no such place," Paul said. "Is the weather report still favorable?" "A great grandmother of a storm coming," Stilgar said. "Can you not feel it, Muad'Dib?" "The air does feel chancy," Paul agreed. "But I like the certainty of poling the weather." "The storm'll be here in the hour," Stilgar said. He nodded toward the gap that looked out on the Emperor's hutment and the Harkonnen frigates. "They know it there, too. Not a 'thopter in the sky. Everything pulled in and tied down. They've had a report on the weather from their friends in space." "Any more probing sorties?" Paul asked. "Nothing since the landing last night," Stilgar said. "They know we're here. I think now they wait to choose their own time." "We choose the time," Paul said. Gurney glanced upward, growled: "If they let us." "That fleet'll stay in space," Paul said. Gurney shook his head. "They have no choice," Paul said. "We can destroy the spice. The Guild dares not risk that." "Desperate people are the most dangerous," Gurney said. "Are we not desperate?" Stilgar asked. Gurney scowled at him. "You haven't lived with the Fremen dream," Paul cautioned. "Stil is thinking of all the water we've spent on bribes, the years of waiting we've added before Arrakis can bloom. He's not --" "Arrrgh," Gurney scowled. "Why's he so gloomy?" Stilgar asked. "He's always gloomy before a battle," Paul said. "It's the only form of good humor Gurney allows himself." A slow, wolfish grin spread across Gurney's face, the teeth showing white above the chip cup of his stillsuit. "It glooms me much to think on all the poor Harkonnen souls we'll dispatch unshriven," he said. Stilgar chuckled. "He talks like a Fedaykin." "Gurney was born a death commando," Paul said. And he thought: Yes, let them occupy their minds with small talk be


just as he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into the snow, and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle, your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in the struggle and was endeavoring to straighten it when you appeared upon the scene." "Is it possible?" gasped the banker. "You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain the true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her secret." "And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet," cried Mr. Holder. "Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle. How cruelly I have misjudged him!' "When I arrived at the house," continued Holmes, "I at once went very carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve impressions. I passed along the tradesmen's path, but found it all trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a man, whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden leg. I could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman had run back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had gone away. I thought at the time that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I passed round the garden without seeing anything more than random tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in front of me. "There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but


hate of Morgoth and malice crueller than teeth of steel; and the rocks were rent by their clamour and fell from on high and choked the falls of Esgalduin. There they fought to the death; but Thingol gave no heed, for he knelt by Beren, seeing that he was sorely hurt. Huan in that hour slew Carcharoth; but there in the woven woods of Doriath his own doom long spoken was fulfilled, and he was wounded mortally, and the venom of Morgoth entered into him. Then he came, and falling beside Beren spoke for the third time with words; and he bade Beren farewell before he died. Beren spoke not, but laid his hand upon the head of the hound, and so they parted. Mablung and Beleg came hastening to the King's aid, but when they looked upon what was done they cast aside their spears and wept. Then Mablung took a knife and ripped up the belly of the Wolf; and within he was well nigh all consumed as with a fire, but the hand of Beren that held the jewel was yet incorrupt. But when Mablung reached forth to touch it, the hand was no more, and the Silmaril lay there unveiled, and the light of it filled the shadows of the forest all about hem. Then quickly and in fear Mablung took it and set it in Beren's living hand; and Beren was aroused by the touch of the Silmaril, and held it aloft, and bade Thingol receive it. 'Now is the Quest achieved,' he said, 'and my doom full-wrought'; and he spoke no more. They bore back Beren Camlost son of Barahir upon a bier of branches with Huan the wolfhound at his side; and night fell ere they returned to Menegroth. At the feet of Hrilorn the great beech Lthien met them walking slow, and some bore torches beside the bier. There she set her arms about Beren, and kissed him bidding him await her beyond the Western Sea; and he looked upon her eyes ere the spirit left him. But the starlight was quenched and darkness had fallen even upon Lthien Tinviel. Thus ended the Quest of the Silmaril; but the Lay of Leithian, Release form Bondage does not end. For the spirit of Beren at her bidding tarried in the halls of Mandos, unwilling to leave the world, until Lthien came to say her last farewell upon the dim shores of the Outer Sea, whence Men that die set out never to return. But the spirit of Lthien fell down into darkness, and at the last it fled, and her body lay like a flower that is suddenly cut off and lies for a while unwithered on the grass. Then a winter, as it were the hoar age of mortal Men, fell upon Thingol. But Lthien came to the halls of Mandos, where are the appointed places of the Eldali, beyond the mansions of the West upon the confines of the world. There those that wait sit in the shadow of their thought. But her


spent with him, but she assumed he was just as conditioned to report everything to Anton as Gabe was. “Gabe thought Bastian might be here, but it appears he’s spending his leisure hours elsewhere.” Like in the stables, trying to feed apples to a dead horse. Malcolm looked down from the second story, leaning over the gilded railing just long enough to see the cover of Lore’s book. His dark eyes widened as he snorted a laugh. “Taking get close to Bastian very seriously, I see.” “I always follow orders,” Lore replied. Gabe grimaced, but was too preoccupied with what Malcolm was doing to make a snide comment. “Is Anton moving more books out of the Church library?” “Not quite.” Malcolm set his book pile down on the floor, then hefted one of them into an empty space in the shelf. The thing was thick, and Malcolm’s muscles strained as he pushed it into place. Truly, it was a waste how goodlooking all the Presque Mort were. “He asked for these to be brought to him for study. Newer editions of the Compendium, some translated from other languages and then back into Auverrani.” Another over-thick book was pushed into its space. “No idea why, since there are literally hundreds of Compendiums in the Church library, including the original. Especially since from what I’ve seen, he’s only looking at the Book of Holy Law. But what do I know! I’m just the librarian.” He shoved the last book into the shelf and turned to face them, bracing his hands on the railing. “Compendiums are easy to find, at least. A couple of months ago, he made me look for a book on dreamwalking. I had to write to a university all the way in Farramark, and it took ages to get here, even by sea. Of course he just had to have it when the Ourish Pass was frozen over.” “He must be looking for something specific in the translations,” Gabe murmured. “Any Tract in particular?” “When he left them all open yesterday,” Malcolm said, making his way down the stairs, “it was to the Law of Opposites.” He shrugged. “Who knows. I certainly couldn’t tell a difference.” “Are differences common?” Lore asked. “Not really.” Malcolm pushed the door open for them, this time, waving them gracefully into the hall. “The Compendiums are the least interesting thing in the Church’s catalog, to be honest. The firsthand accounts of the Godsfall and the notes on experiments with elemental magic are much more entertaining.” “I’d bet,” Lore said softly. He caught the gleam of interest in her eye, smiled to see it. “You’re welcome to come look at them sometime. Just let me know beforehand, so I can make sure Anton isn’t going to be around. He’s picky about the Church library.” A scowl flickered at the corner of Gabe’s mouth, but he didn’t say anything. “I’ll take you up on that.” Lore turned in the direction she thought would take them toward the southeast turret. “Assuming I can find the time to unsew myself


call him Tortoise--' `Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?' Alice asked. `We called him Tortoise because he taught us,' said the Mock Turtle angrily: `really you are very dull!' `You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question,' added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, `Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!' and he went on in these words: `Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--' `I never said I didn't!' interrupted Alice. `You did,' said the Mock Turtle. `Hold your tongue!' added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. `We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--' `I'VE been to a day-school, too,' said Alice; `you needn't be so proud as all that.' `With extras?' asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. `Yes,' said Alice, `we learned French and music.' `And washing?' said the Mock Turtle. `Certainly not!' said Alice indignantly. `Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school,' said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. `Now at OURS they had at the end of the bill, "French, music, AND WASHING--extra."' `You couldn't have wanted it much,' said Alice; `living at the bottom of the sea.' `I couldn't afford to learn it.' said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. `I only took the regular course.' `What was that?' inquired Alice. `Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,' the Mock Turtle replied; `and then the different branches of Arithmetic-- Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.' `I never heard of "Uglification,"' Alice ventured to say. `What is it?' The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. `What! Never heard of uglifying!' it exclaimed. `You know what to beautify is, I suppose?' `Yes,' said Alice doubtfully: `it means--to--make--anything-- prettier.' `Well, then,' the Gryphon went on, `if you don't know what to uglify is, you ARE a simpleton.' Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said `What else had you to learn?' `Well, there was Mystery,' the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, `--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: HE taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils.' `What was THAT like?' said Alice. `Well, I can't show it you myself,' the Mock Turtle said: `I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it.' `Hadn't time,' said the Gryphon: `I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, HE was.' `I never went to him,' the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: `he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say.' `So he did, so he did,' said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. `And how many


sleeping with Rachel—even after he told her it would never happen again—that he knew he had to come clean. He had never been so scared in his life. Until now. He opens a new window and searches the King County Assessor website for the address. The fifteen-thousand-square-foot home was purchased for twenty-six million dollars four months ago by Pacific Estate Management, LLC. Ethan leaves the assessor website and runs an Internet search for the company. His heart drops in his chest when he reads the headline at the top of the search. BRODY CARR’S MYSTERIOUS NEW COMPANY: PACIFIC ESTATE MANAGEMENT, LLC Sloane’s words on the phone replay in his mind. Thanks, Brody. I’ll let you know how it goes. Ethan skims the first sentence beneath the headline. Pacific Estate Management oversees many of Brody and Chelsea Carr’s personal matters, including the power couple’s real estate holdings. Their names sound familiar, and he drums his fingers against his desk before typing Brody Carr into his Internet search bar. A headshot of a guy around Ethan’s age tops the search. Beside the photo, in bold letters: Brody Carr, entrepreneur and founder of The One. His net worth is listed as 1.4 billion dollars. Ethan has never used the dating app, which had been around for over a decade, but everyone knew what it was. He recalls Sloane mentioning once that the app’s founder had been her chemistry lab partner in college. Beneath Brody’s headshot are several photos of him and a stunning blonde. Ethan’s eyes travel to his biography on the right side of the screen. Brody Carr married Australian model Chelsea Nesbitt in 2016. He sits back in his chair. He wouldn’t have thought it would matter who his wife was having an affair with. But learning he was a billionaire dating app founder somehow made it sting worse. How could this be happening? Ethan examines the photo of Brody, smiling with his arm around his wife. Behind him, his partner’s phone rings as Ethan runs a new search for Chelsea Carr. A headline from last week appears at the top. EX-MODEL CHELSEA CARR STEPS OUT WITHOUT WEDDING RING AT NY FILM FESTIVAL, SPARKING SEPARATION RUMORS “We’re on our way,” he hears Jonah say. Ethan clicks on the article as Jonah slaps him on the shoulder. “Hey, we’re up. That was McKinnon. Patrol just called in a man found stabbed to death in his apartment in the U district. They already have his neighbor in custody. According to another apartment resident, she came out of the victim’s apartment covered in blood screaming that she killed him.” After standing, Jonah leans forward to see what Ethan is looking at. “Unless you need to stay here and catch up on celebrity gossip.” Ethan closes his laptop and turns to see Jonah grinning at his own joke. Despite the churning in his stomach, he cracks a smile as he pulls on his suit jacket. “That’s all right. I think I’ve had enough for today.” Chapter 10 Her house is depressingly quiet when Sloane steps inside. Exhausted,


as the news of their engagement swept through the house. “They’re offering us their congratulations,” she said in Lord Ashley’s ear as he hurtled her backward into the center of the room. Up close, she could see his curls were slick with grease, darker than his usual white blond. The waltz was the fastest of the night, the orchestra red-faced and exhausted. “Get your skirts out of the way,” he huffed, wrenching her waist. He wants to show off to the crowd, she thought. The room was spinning around them, all roaring salmon-painted pillars and the tang of sweat. But Miss de Vries made out two figures moving ponderously in her direction. Shepherd and Lockwood, making a beeline for her. She smiled, radiant, laughing, for the crowd. “May we stop,” she said, catching her breath, “my lord?” His hands came away so fast he nearly dropped her. He turned, arms aloft, hair askew, and the best families in London cheered for him. She tried not to stumble. Shepherd was on her, Lockwood right behind. “Her Royal Highness is here, Madam.” “What? Where?” “Her motor just pulled up at the front door.” Lockwood still looked pale. “Excellent news, Miss de Vries.” “Where’s Lady Montagu?” she asked. Shepherd frowned. “Indisposed, Madam. We took her to the Boiserie to—” “Ah, there she is,” said Miss de Vries. She saw a familiar gleam of pink satin, hoop skirts lurching through the crowd. A powdered wig bobbed furiously in the air. “Come.” They all followed the duchess, who was half running down the grand escalier. * * * Hephzibah thanked God for her hoop skirts. They kept people at arm’s length. Everyone caught up with her at the foot of the stairs, a perfect traffic jam. There was Miss de Vries, descending behind her, butler and lawyer at her side. In the opposite direction, she saw the Princess Victoria’s people, clustered at the front porch, waiting for someone to come and receive them. Oh, Lord, she thought. “Lady Montagu?” Miss de Vries was moving toward her at double speed. Hephzibah turned. I refuse to be rushed, she said to herself, trying to blink her dizziness away. Men stood under the portico. Real policemen, she realized, feeling sick. “Miss de Vries!” she said. “Splendid, you’re here.” Guests on the right, guests on the left. No way out. Could you be arrested for fraud? Naturally. But on the spot, without clear charges? Hephzibah’s mind spun like a loose wheel about to fall off. She wished, in this moment, that she had someone solid beside her, someone to reassure her. Winnie would help her, if she were here. Buck up, Hephzibah, she told herself. Buck up, do. Miss de Vries frowned. “Aren’t you going to meet the princess, Your Grace?” Hephzibah summoned all the severity she could muster. “You are the lady of this house, Miss de Vries,” she said. “Her Royal Highness is waiting for you.” She threw her arm wide, as if to say, Do hurry up. Hephzibah had never been trained to be a lady. She’d never


draw it out for you.' And in her practical way she scraped together a small square of dust, and with a twig from a pigeon's nest began drawing a map on the floor. Chapter 4 Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr Charrington's shop. Beside the window the enormous bed was made up, with ragged blankets and a coverless bolster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face was file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (75 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt ticking away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gateleg table, the glass paperweight which he had bought on his last visit gleamed softly out of the half-darkness. In the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and two cups, provided by Mr Charrington. Winston lit the burner and set a pan of water to boil. He had brought an envelope full of Victory Coffee and some saccharine tablets. The clock's hands said seventeen-twenty: it was nineteen-twenty really. She was coming at nineteen-thirty. Folly, folly, his heart kept saying: conscious, gratuitous, suicidal folly. Of all the crimes that a Party member could commit, this one was the least possible to conceal. Actually the idea had first floated into his head in the form of a vision, of the glass paperweight mirrored by the surface of the gateleg table. As he had foreseen, Mr Charrington had made no difficulty about letting the room. He was obviously glad of the few dollars that it would bring him. Nor did he seem shocked or become offensively knowing when it was made clear that Winston wanted the room for the purpose of a love-affair. Instead he looked into the middle distance and spoke in generalities, with so delicate an air as to give the impression that he had become partly invisible. Privacy, he said, was a very valuable thing. Everyone wanted a place where they could be alone occasionally. And when they had such a place, it was only common courtesy in anyone else who knew of it to keep his knowledge to himself. He even, seeming almost to fade out of existence as he did so, added that there were two entries to the house, one of them through the back yard, which gave on an alley. Under the window somebody was singing. Winston peeped out, secure in the protection of the muslin curtain. The June sun was still high in the sky, and in the sun-filled court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pillar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped about her middle, was stumping to and fro between a washtub and a clothes line, pegging out a series of square white things which Winston recognized as babies' diapers. Whenever her mouth was not corked with clothes pegs she was singing in a powerful contralto: It was only an 'opeless fancy. It passed like an Ipril dye, But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred! They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye! The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of countless similar


class="s1">Stress position.

Two minutes.

Ten minutes.

My shoulders started to seize.

I couldn’t breathe.

A woman entered. She was wearing a shemagh over her face. She went

on and on about something, I didn’t understand. I couldn’t keep up.

Then I realized. Mummy. She was talking about my mother.

Your mother was pregnant when she died, eh? With your sibling? A

Muslim baby!

I fought to turn my head, to look at her. I said nothing but I screamed at

her with my eyes. You doing this for my benefit now—or yours? Is this the

exercise? Or you getting a cheap thrill?

She stormed out. One of the captors spat in my face.

We heard the sound of gunshots.

And a helicopter.

We were dragged into a different room and someone called out, OK,

thats it. End exercise!

There was a debrief, during which one of the instructors offered a half-

arsed apology about the stuff to do with my mother.

Hard for us to find something about you that you'd be shocked we knew.

I didn’t answer.

We felt you needed to be tested.

I didn’t answer.

But that took it a bit too far.

Fair enough.

Later I learned that two other soldiers in the exercise had gone mad.

209

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

46.

I 9 D BARELY RECOVERED from Bodmin Moor when word came down from

Granny. She wanted me to go to the Caribbean. A two-week tour to

commemorate her sixtieth year on the throne, my first official royal tour

representing her.

It was strange to be called away so suddenly, with a finger snap, from my

Army duties, especially so close to deployment.

<span


reluctantly lets go. * * * Nick is constitutionally incapable of sleeping past seven in the morning. He has some kind of godforsaken alarm clock in his brain that shakes him awake at about half past six every goddamn day, including weekends, including holidays, including days he’s profoundly and regrettably hungover. He levers himself out of bed, promptly stubs his toe on his dresser, and, swearing under his breath, gets some aspirin from the medicine cabinet. He swallows it down with a mouthful of water that makes his insides rebel. Andy, of course, isn’t awake yet. If Nick kept quiet, Andy could probably sleep all day. Even when Andy gets out of bed, he’s still mostly asleep. Nick dumps some coffee grounds in the top of the coffee press and then, thinking better of it, doubles the amount and puts it on the stove. Skeptically, he eyes the contents of his refrigerator. The idea of food makes his stomach turn, so he shuts the door. He tries to remember exactly how much he had to drink last night, but it’s a blur after leaving O’Connell’s. Which makes sense, come to think, because there’s no way he would have agreed to go to a gay bar with Andy if he’d been within a stone’s throw of sobriety. He might have thought that the long walk to Emily’s apartment would have burned off some of the alcohol, but evidently not. His head is filled with sawdust and nausea. When the coffee is ready, he dumps some into a cup with a bit of milk and pours it directly down his throat, which—motherfucker. It’s too hot. Too hot, by about ten thousand degrees. He drops his mug into the sink and it lands with a clatter. He fans his mouth, like an utter fool, as if that will even do anything. “Shit fuck damn,” he grumbles. “Wow,” says Andy from behind him. “Drank boiling coffee,” Nick explains, turning around. The sight of Andy, sleep-rumpled, wearing Nick’s pajamas, his hair sticking up on one side, hits Nick like a sucker punch. “I did that once,” Andy says mildly. “Not a great experience.” Nick starts to laugh, because of course Andy’s done that. “Only once?” “The second time was hot cocoa.” “That’s a different thing entirely.” “Exactly.” Andy grins and stretches. Nick’s eyes are drawn to that sliver of pale skin exposed on his stomach. This happens every morning—Andy stretches and Nick gawks. He feels like a pervert, and even more so after last night’s series of disasters. “Are you hungry?” Andy asks, looking in the icebox. “Andy, if you even talk about food, I’m calling the police.” “That bad?” “Worse. I visited Emily and I think she gave me the equivalent of a fifth of gin, dressed up with just enough tonic that I didn’t know how dire things were.” “Emily?” Andy’s back is to him, so Nick can’t read his expression. “I needed someone to screw my head on straight.” Nick decides not to mention that he walked all the way there. “Do you mind


planned for you at Delmonico's next Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lot of jolly people." She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer. "Ah--that does tempt me! Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers's I've not met a single artist since I've been here." "What kind of artists? I know one or two painters, very good fellows, that I could bring to see you if you'd allow me," said Archer boldly. "Painters? Are there painters in New York?" asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile: "That would be charming. But I was really thinking of dramatic artists, singers, actors, musicians. My husband's house was always full of them." She said the words "my husband" as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah," Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold: "I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm


harshness of death as little rude as might be. "We thought her dying whilst she slept, And sleeping when she died." I stood beside Van Helsing, and said, "Ah well, poor girl, there is peace for her at last. It is the end!" He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity, "Not so, alas! Not so. It is only the beginning!" When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered, "We can do nothing as yet. Wait and see." CHAPTER 13 DR. SEWARD'S DIARY--cont. The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and her mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff was afflicted, or blessed, with something of his own obsequious suavity. Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out from the death chamber, "She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It's quite a privilege to attend on her. It's not too much to say that she will do credit to our establishment!" I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from the disordered state of things in the household. There were no relatives at hand, and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his father's funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy's papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me, "I know, I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the coroner. I have more than him to avoid. There may be papers more, such as this." As he spoke he took from his pocket book the memorandum which had been in Lucy's breast, and which she had torn in her sleep. "When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs. Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him tonight. For me, I watch here in the room and in Miss Lucy's old room all night, and I myself search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into the hands of strangers." I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found the name and address of Mrs. Westenra's solicitor and had written to him. All the poor lady's papers were in order. Explicit directions regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room, saying, "Can I help you friend John? I am free, and if I may, my


bigger one. “If Bastian knows who I am,” Lore said, “then why not just tell me? Or kill me? Isn’t that what he’d do if he was really a Kirythean informant?” Gabe rubbed at his eye patch. “Bastian gets spied on quite a lot. Just because he knows you’re spying doesn’t mean he knows why.” “His big show of revealing the dead horse makes it seems like he has an idea,” Lore said. “Surely he’s smart enough to make the connection that his father bringing in a necromancer has something to do with the villages. And if it’s Kirythea that’s responsible, it’s not a leap to deduce that said necromancer is likely to expose him.” “Maybe he’s just really excited about his pet dead horse and hasn’t made all the connections yet.” “Or maybe he’s not working for Kirythea, no matter how much August and Anton think he is. They have no real reason to suspect him; at least, not one they’ve told us.” “Anton wouldn’t be so insistent that you investigate Bastian if he didn’t have a good reason.” Gabe propped his elbow on the arm of the couch and his forehead in his hand. “And what other reason would he have? Just because they haven’t shared all the information with us doesn’t mean they don’t have it.” Clearly, she wouldn’t get anywhere with Gabe. The man had been programmed to march to whatever tune Anton played. Her thoughts turned again to Bastian, to what he’d shared while they danced. My uncle has controlled his life for fourteen years. With a sigh, Lore pressed the heels of her palms against her brow, rested her elbows on her knees, and changed the subject back to something that didn’t have the potential to become a fight. “How did he even get the horse? I know the story he told us was bullshit.” “Maybe not,” Gabe said. “Bastian does have friends in the Citadel guard. Some lovers, too. They carted the body away from the Ward to be burned, but someone might’ve told him about it as an idle curiosity. He must’ve been intrigued enough to have them spirit it away, and the other guards just let it happen.” “Truly stupendous minds in that garrison. Just the best of the best.” She dropped her hands, looked at him. “Should we tell them?” Them: August and Anton. She didn’t have to spell it out. Silence strung bowstring-tight between her and Gabe, waiting to see who’d slice it. If she was useless to the Arceneaux brothers as a spy, she’d be kept in a cell until they needed her to raise the dead. And once that was finished, she’d get a one-way ticket to the Burnt Isle mines. “No,” Gabe said softly, as if he could read the thought in her head. “No, we don’t need to tell them. Not right now.” “Thank you,” Lore murmured. He gave one quick, firm nod. A stack of envelopes sat on the table before the couch, gleaming bright in the gloomy glow of the fire. They’d been pushed beneath


it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change color, here's a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.' "'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see. Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news. "'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he asked with his eyes open. "'Never.' "'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligibile yourself for one of the vacancies.' "'And what are they worth?' I asked. "'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one's other occupations.' "Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not been over-good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy. "'Tell me all about it,' said I. "'Well ' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that color. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.' "'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.' "'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.' "Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had


his walls and look at it as little as he looks at his dining-room table. Criticism has nothing to do with the artist. it judges objectively, but the objective doesn't concern the artist." Clutton put his hands over his eyes so that he might concentrate his mind on what he wanted to say. "The artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees, and is impelled to express it and, he doesn't know why, he can only express his feeling by lines and colours. It's like a musician; he'll read a line or two, and a certain combination of notes presents itself to him: he doesn't know why such and such words call forth in him such and such notes; they just do. And I'll tell you another reason why criticism is meaningless: a great painter forces the world to see nature as he sees it; but in the next generation another painter sees the world in another way, and then the public judges him not by himself but by his predecessor. So the Barbizon people taught our fathers to look at trees in a certain manner, and when Monet came along and painted differently, people said: But trees aren't like that. It never struck them that trees are exactly how a painter chooses to see them. We paint from within outwards--if we force our vision on the world it calls us great painters; if we don't it ignores us; but we are the same. We don't attach any meaning to greatness or to smallness. What happens to our work afterwards is unimportant; we have got all we could out of it while we were doing it." There was a pause while Clutton with voracious appetite devoured the food that was set before him. Philip, smoking a cheap cigar, observed him closely. The ruggedness of the head, which looked as though it were carved from a stone refractory to the sculptor's chisel, the rough mane of dark hair, the great nose, and the massive bones of the jaw, suggested a man of strength; and yet Philip wondered whether perhaps the mask conculed a strange weakness. Clutton's refusal to show his work might be sheer vanity: he could not bear the thought of anyone's criticism, and he would not expose himself to the chance of a refusal from the Salon; he wanted to be received as a master and would not risk comparisons with other work which might force him to diminish his own opinion of himself. During the eighteen months Philip had known him Clutton had grown more harsh and bitter; though he would not come out into the open and compete with his fellows, he was indignant with the facile success of those who did. He had no patience with Lawson, and the pair were no longer on the intimate terms upon which they had been when Philip first knew them. "Lawson's all right," he said contemptuously, "he'll go back to England, become a fashionable portrait painter, urn ten thousand a year and be an A. R. A. before he's forty.


and put her feet to the floor, and thrust back the leaves from her face. “So you don’t want to marry off decent like, do yuh? You just wants to hug and kiss and feel around with first one man and then another, huh? You wants to make me suck de same Their Eyes Were Watching God 17 sorrow yo’ mama did, eh? Mah ole head ain’t gray enough. Mah back ain’t bowed enough to suit yuh!” The vision of Logan Killicks was desecrating the pear tree, but Janie didn’t know how to tell Nanny that. She merely hunched over and pouted at the floor. “Janie.” “Yes, ma’am.” “You answer me when Ah speak. Don’t you set dere poutin’ wid me after all Ah done went through for you!” She slapped the girl’s face violently, and forced her head back so that their eyes met in struggle. With her hand uplifted for the second blow she saw the huge tear that welled up from Janie’s heart and stood in each eye. She saw the terrible agony and the lips tightened down to hold back the cry and desisted. Instead she brushed back the heavy hair from Janie’s face and stood there suffering and loving and weeping internally for both of them. “Come to yo’ Grandma, honey. Set in her lap lak yo’ use tuh. Yo’ Nanny wouldn’t harm a hair uh yo’ head. She don’t want nobody else to do it neither if she kin help it. Honey, de white man is de ruler of everything as fur as Ah been able tuh find out. Maybe it’s some place way off in de ocean where de black man is in power, but we don’t know nothin’ but what we see. So de white man throw down de load and tell de nig- ger man tuh pick it up. He pick it up because he have to, but he don’t tote it. He hand it to his womenfolks. De nigger woman is de mule uh de world so fur as Ah can see. Ah been prayin’ fuh it tuh be different wid you. Lawd, Lawd, Lawd!” 18 Zora Neale Hurston For a long time she sat rocking with the girl held tightly to her sunken breast. Janie’s long legs dangled over one arm of the chair and the long braids of her hair swung low on the other side. Nanny half sung, half sobbed a running chant- prayer over the head of the weeping girl. “Lawd have mercy! It was a long time on de way but Ah reckon it had to come. Oh Jesus! Do, Jesus! Ah done de best Ah could.” Finally, they both grew calm. “Janie, how long you been ’lowin’ Johnny Taylor to kiss you?” “Only dis one time, Nanny. Ah don’t love him at all. Whut made me do it is—oh, Ah don’t know.” “Thank yuh, Massa Jesus.” “Ah ain’t gointuh do it no mo’, Nanny. Please don’t make me marry Mr. Killicks.” “’Tain’t Logan Killicks Ah wants you to have, baby, it’s protection. Ah ain’t gittin’ ole,


philanthropy points. Maybe she’s aiming to be made a baroness in ten years, or something like— “I’m dyslexic,” Katharine says simply. “As a child, that one difference in the way my mind works convinced teachers I was incapable. So they gave up on me, and I gave up on my dreams.” I blink and sit up straighter. Since I’m here, I might as well pay attention. I mean, the woman is providing kids with this opportunity out of the goodness of her heart; of course I’ll hear her out. I’m not a monster. “My journey to the legal field was long and difficult, just because I’m different. But those differences make me damned good at my job—and I have other qualities, too, ones that I believe all trailblazers have in common, that so many examinations just can’t capture.” Katharine wanders back and forth across the stage as she speaks, gesturing at the presentation behind her. The slides keep changing, but I barely notice. “That’s why I started this enrichment program for undergraduates three years ago, and that’s why—this year—I’ve adapted it for pre-university students for the first time ever.” There’s another cheer. She grins and shakes her head at us rowdy but adorable fans. This woman is what Mum would call a “magnet,” like a team captain or a cult leader. I was determined to hate her, since Celine likes her so much, but unfortunately, I’m feeling the pull. “You’re all at a crossroads in your lives,” she tells us. “You know you want to make something of yourselves, to succeed, but so many professions have high barriers to entry—especially in this economy. You might study law or accounting or marketing at university, qualify, and find your only option is to move to London if you want to earn enough to pay off your loans.” I notice she doesn’t mention anything about being a writer. Probably because it doesn’t matter what you study or where you work—you can only write the book by writing the book. Spoiler alert: I still haven’t written the book. “You might even be hesitant to study at all—not everyone wants to start their adult life with mountains of debt,” Katharine says, and I know that’s right. Would you believe when my parents went to uni it was free? Injustice stalks my generation, I swear to God. “Maybe you dream of a certain professional future,” Katharine goes on, “but you’re well aware that you’re rarely the highest flyer in your academic cohort, and thus you might secure a degree by the skin of your teeth and struggle to find employment as a result. The BEP,” she says with relish, “is here to help you with that. This program is sponsored by a diverse range of employers within our region—why should Midlanders have to move south just to succeed?” There is a ripple of agreement across the crowd, which, yeah, okay. She didn’t lie. “Being a BEP graduate means something, both here and across the country,” she says, and the slide changes again. I’m not a numbers person, but


fuck himself. Online, you can discover that the current literary star of the moment is actually so problematic that all of her works should be canceled, forever. Reputations in publishing are built and destroyed, constantly, online. I imagine a crowd of angry voices and pointed fingers, converging on me to rip pieces of flesh from my body like the naiads did to Orpheus, until all that’s left is the prurient, whispered question, “Did you hear about Juniper Song?” and fragments of rumors growing darker and more distorted; bloody, decomposing shreds of my virtual identity; until there is nothing left but the statement, justified or not, that Juniper Song Is Canceled. Twelve ALL I WANT IS TO HIBERNATE IN MY APARTMENT FOR THE INDEFINITE future, but I have two prior commitments for the month—a library visit with students in DC, and a panel at a Virginia literary festival about writing East Asia–inspired stories. I’ve also been emailing back and forth with some woman from the French Embassy about a visit to the CLC memorial in Noyelles-sur-Mer next month to coincide with the release of the French edition of The Last Front. But she stopped answering my emails around the same time that the smear campaign went viral, which is fine with me; the last thing I want is to sit seven hours on a plane just for obnoxious French people to snub me on the other end. But neither the library nor the literary festival has sent me any updates since the news broke, which I take to mean they still want me to come. To cancel may as well be admitting guilt. The library visit goes okay. The students turn out to be third graders, instead of the high schoolers I’d expected. They won’t be old enough to tackle The Last Front for years, and they certainly have no interest in Chinese laborers in World War I. Thankfully, this means that they’re too young to care about Twitter drama as well—though they’re not especially excited to see me, they don’t greet me with revulsion, either. They sit, fidgeting but silent, in the lobby of the MLK Jr. Memorial Library while I read for twenty minutes from the first chapter, and then they ask some cute, inane questions on what it’s like to be a published author (“Do you get to see the factories where the books are made?” “Do you get paid millions of dollars?”). I tell them some bland truisms about how literacy is important because it opens doors to other worlds, and how maybe they’ll want to become storytellers as well. Then their teacher thanks me, we take a group picture, and we all part ways without fuss. The panel is a disaster. I’ve already pissed everyone off by arriving late. I misread the schedule—my panel is in the Oak Room, not the Cedar Room, which means I have to haul ass all the way across the conference center. The room is packed by the time I arrive. All the other panelists are huddled at the far end of the


Michael said. The woman seemed unable to stop speaking even after she crawled away from the door to let them in. “I’m just the house girl. Please, God bless you, good evening, God bless you.” “I said you should keep shut.” “Yes sir, I agree sir, thank you sir.” Holy Michael nodded at Rashidi. “Shut her up.” Rashidi stepped closer to the woman and pointed the gun between her eyes. He did not shoot. He just held the gun in place until she stopped talking. Ẹniọlá noticed the photos as they moved further into the sitting room. He paused to study them, peering at the middle-aged woman who had caught his eye. Yes, it was Yèyé, there was no mistaking it. She was there in almost every one of the framed family photos that adorned the walls. Yèyé surrounded by what he imagined was her family, Yèyé alone, Yèyé and the man who must be her husband. The man Honourable was going to use to teach his rival a lesson. Ẹniọlá felt dizzy. He did not want to be part of this anymore. These were not faceless people he could not care less about, this was Yèyé. She had been kind to him. What sort of person would he be if he followed through with what was required of him tonight? “Ẹniọlá?” Holy Michael had been trying to tell him something. “Sir.” “Did you come here to look at photos? I said let’s go.” He followed Holy Michael up the stairs. The first room they searched was empty. When they opened the second door, Yèyé was coming out of the bathroom, her dress still hiked halfway up her hips. She finished adjusting it before kneeling before them as Holy Michael commanded. “Where is your husband?” “Don’t worry, I will cooperate, don’t worry.” Yèyé kept her head bowed. Holy Michael nodded to Ẹniọlá. Ẹniọlá ran into the bathroom, slashing the air before him with his machete as he went. “It’s empty,” he reported to Holy Michael. “My brothers, we are all children of the same God, so you’re my brothers.” Yèyé’s words came fast and loud. “Take the gold. If you open that drawer, there is a lot of gold there, just take the gold, please.” “I said, where is your husband?” “Italian gold mà ni. It is not—” Holy Michael slapped the next word back into Yèyé’s throat. “Stand up, stand up now, or I will blow your head off.” Ẹniọlá winced, pushing away memories of Yèyé’s kindness. Thinking about that now would only get him into trouble with Holy Michael. Yèyé gripped her knee and shook her head. “You need to help me, my leg, I can’t…not by myself.” Holy Michael nodded in Ẹniọlá’s direction. “Help her.” Ẹniọlá stretched his hands out to Yèyé. Whose fingers trembled? Hers or his? Yèyé kept her head down and did not look up as they pushed her out of the room into the corridor. “Where is he?” Holy Michael twisted the doorknob of the next door they came to; it did not yield. “No


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

driven to your house to film our first sex tape. Connor: [laughs] I mean about tonight, the finale, and the revelation of our score, you muppet. Fizzy: Oh, it was the best night of my life. The surprises, the celebration with everyone onstage, the after-party. Connor: God, there are going to be some horrendous hangovers tomorrow. Fizzy: Tex was drinking beer out of his hat. Connor: I don’t think Nick ever found his shoes. Fizzy: Yes, well, some poor choices were made, but not by us. Connor: Indeed. Our night is only going to get better. Fizzy: Promise? Connor: Oh, I promise. Fizzy: In that case, I think it’s fitting that our score falls in the category of Titanium Matches. [winks at the camera] Connor: I believe that’s an erection joke and I’m going to move on. Fizzy: You always assume I’m being dirty. Maybe it was just a joke about the strength of our bond. Connor: Was it? Fizzy: No, it was an erection joke. Connor: You are ensuring that this footage never sees the light of day, aren’t you? Fizzy: When were you going to show this anyway? The finale was live! Connor: I presume there will be demand for a follow-up or reunion episode of some sort. Brenna said “trending” and “viral” about seven hundred times tonight. Fizzy: Okay, then just edit my boner joke out with bleeps and eggplant emojis; what’s so hard? Connor: Ah, note to self to add a cymbal crash there. Fizzy: See, I didn’t even mean to make that pun! You’re as bad as I am. Connor: Maybe that’s why this is true love. Fizzy: I think with a score of eighty-eight, there are a lot of reasons why this is true love. Connor: Why don’t you come over here and show me one? [Editor’s note: Minutes three to twenty-seven have been intentionally cut from footage.] Connor: Right. We’ll cut that. Fizzy: You’ve got lipstick on your… just there. Connor: Ah. Cheers. All right. Where were we? Fizzy: True love. Connor: True love. Fizzy: Our happily ever after. Connor: The one thing you promise your readers when they pick up one of your books. You know more about the importance of an HEA than most everyone watching this. Fizzy: You know, it makes me a little sad that all these people watched the show, they wanted us together, and they won’t be able to see it play out. Our future is going to be amazing. [looks at the camera] I am not volunteering for another reality show, Blaine. Connor: Well, you could tell the viewers all about it right now. Fizzy: All about our happily ever after? Connor: Sure. What’s it look like, do you reckon? Fizzy: Oh, wow. Okay, well, we wrap this up and go back to my place, where we don’t leave the bed for a full twenty-four hours. Connor: I like this future already. Fizzy: We spend next week with friends and family. Isaac enjoys his prize money, and I choose you to go with me to Fiji. Connor: Not