VI (6) THE ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit was returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on the good will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found to be intolerable and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest pleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of every body, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value, as arising in all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane united with great strength of feeling a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas. ``It may perhaps be pleasant,'' replied Charlotte, ``to be able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all _begin_ freely -- a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better shew _more_ affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.'' ``But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to discover it too.'' ``Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do.'' ``But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find it out.'' ``Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his attention. When she is


the uphill parts of the way, in order not to overload an animal of so little vigour. To cheer themselves as well as they could, they made an artificial morning with the lantern, some bread and butter, and their own conversation, the real morning being far from come. Abraham, as he more fully awoke (for he had moved in a sort of trance so far), began to talk of the strange shapes assumed by the various dark objects against the sky; of this tree that looked like a raging tiger springing from a lair; of that which resembled a giant's head. When they had passed the little town of Stourcastle, dumbly somnolent under its thick brown thatch, they reached higher ground. Still higher, on their left, the elevation called Bulbarrow or Bealbarrow, well-nigh the highest in South Wessex, swelled into the sky, engirdled by its earthen trenches. From hereabout the long road was fairly level for some distance onward. They mounted in front of the waggon, and Abraham grew reflective. "Tess!" he said in a preparatory tone, after a silence. "Yes, Abraham." "Bain't you glad that we've become gentlefolk?" "Not particular glad." "But you be glad that you 'm going to marry a gentleman?" "What?" said Tess, lifting her face. "That our great relation will help 'ee to marry a gentleman." "I? Our great relation? We have no such relation. What has put that into your head?" "I heard 'em talking about it up at Rolliver's when I went to find father. There's a rich lady of our family out at Trantridge, and mother said that if you claimed kin with the lady, she'd put 'ee in the way of marrying a gentleman." His sister became abruptly still, and lapsed into a pondering silence. Abraham talked on, rather for the pleasure of utterance than for audition, so that his sister's abstraction was of no account. He leant back against the hives, and with upturned face made observations on the stars, whose cold pulses were beating amid the black hollows above, in serene dissociation from these two wisps of human life. He asked how far away those twinklers were, and whether God was on the other side of them. But ever and anon his childish prattle recurred to what impressed his imagination even more deeply than the wonders of creation. If Tess were made rich by marrying a gentleman, would she have money enough to buy a spyglass so large that it would draw the stars as near to her as Nettlecombe-Tout? The renewed subject, which seemed to have impregnated the whole family, filled Tess with impatience. "Never mind that now!" she exclaimed. "Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?" "Yes." "All like ours?" "I don't know; but I think so. They sometimes seem to be like the apples on our stubbard-tree. Most of them splendid and sound--a few blighted." "Which do we live on--a splendid one or a blighted one?" "A blighted one." "'Tis very unlucky that we didn't pitch on a sound one, when there were so many more of


room eases inward, admitting a narrow blade of light from the corridor. No one enters. After three seconds, the door opens wider. The hallway appears deserted. Perhaps the door wasn’t tightly closed and has swung open of its own weight. No. Now it swings shut and remains closed. Durand Calaphas is not a superstitious man, the furthest thing from it, but it seems to him that a specter opened the door, peered out to be sure no one was in the corridor, and then quickly exited the makeshift morgue. As one who believes this world has no great moment or meaning, that the Earth is little more than a killing ground to be enjoyed by those who have a taste for blood sport, he is not convinced to revisit his philosophy by these ghostly occurrences. Intrigued, he replays the forty-six seconds to exhaustion, straining for an explanation—until he sees a fourth thing that he has repeatedly overlooked. Because of the poor lighting and maybe because this particular camera produces video of a lesser quality than the others, he needs to review the evidence often before he notices three moments in the sequence when faint, pale plumes manifest out of nothing and quickly dissipate. For a few minutes, they mystify him, but just as he is prepared to attribute these manifestations to glitches in the stream of digital video, he remembers that the morgue is chilled to between thirty-four and thirty-six degrees. The plumes must be exhalations of the resurrectee, who somehow remains unseen by the camera. Ghosts do not respire. Neither can there be such a thing as an invisible man. Calaphas’s phone rings. The call is from Hugo Schummer, one of the agents securing research files and overseeing the pathologists who are performing the autopsies. All fifty-four cadavers have been identified. The one project-staff member on the duty roster not yet accounted for is the head of security, Michael Mace. TAKING A BREATHER The clouds thicken into a gray plain that in places folds into narrow tectonic valleys where gathered blackness gradually acquires a power that will crack the sky and loose a deluge. In Michael’s current mood, as his thoughts circle around Shelby Shrewsberry and the untimely end that befell that good man, he wonders if the current signs of Armageddon will soon bring the world to the real thing. He also wonders if he can delay the descent of that ultimate darkness with his gift. Perhaps, instead, he might unwittingly be the agent of the final great war and the subsequent Apocalypse. In Carter Woodbine’s Bentley, he is southbound on Pacific Coast Highway. The elegant car isn’t yet on the National Crime Information Center’s list of stolen vehicles. Michael has planted a data trigger in the NCIC computer system; he will be alerted when the Bentley’s license-plate number appears in that registry, and he’ll immediately remove it from there, and then trace backward to delete it from the files of any city, county, or state law-enforcement agency that provided it to the NCIC. No beat cop or highway patrolman


that at all. You remember how dweeby he was.” I heard myself, heard how ridiculous that sounded. But it was true that I couldn’t wrap my head around the possibility. The idea of you sleeping with Thalia was already more than I’d wanted to consider. Fran said, “I know you were attached to him. I don’t mean in an inappropriate way. But he showed you a lot of attention. That’s what he was good at, right? He recognized people’s talents. And not big, obvious things like skiing.” My feet were too hot now in their double socks and snow boots. My Sangiovese, which the waiter had poured into a glass as big as my head, was already rendering my limbs both leaden and weightless. I said, “I don’t see what that has—” “Look, I didn’t want to put you through stuff, bringing you back. You’ve seemed so solid, and like—I’m sorry, I don’t want you to spiral.” “Who said I was spiraling?” “Bodie, you look like you haven’t slept since you got here. You’re still gorgeous, but you look like hell.” I was saved by our food arriving—steak for Fran, an oily vegetable terrine for me. I had a moment to collect myself, to remember that while I’d led twenty-three years of competent adult life since Granby, Fran had seen only a few weeks of me, total, in that time. She didn’t understand how far I was from the disaster I’d been senior year. I said, “I’ve had several things on my mind. I’m in an emotional swamp.” I wasn’t ready to talk about Jasmine Wilde’s video, so I opted to tell her instead about Yahav, at length. One of Fran’s best traits is that she genuinely wants to hear the whole mess of things. Her eyes light up like she’s rewatching her favorite movie. “The problem is,” I said, “it’s like I have no sexuality anymore except for Yahav, like other men might as well be old women. Look at me, excelling at monogamy when it’s least appropriate.” She asked if she could meet him on Saturday, at least arrange to cross paths with us on campus. Dana Ramos had left her table and her increasingly raucous group and was swaying toward us, a glass of yellow wine glowing in her hand. She said, too loudly, “You two catching up? What’s the latest?” Dana’s hair had become frizzier since she’d entered the restaurant. I could see Fran mentally rewinding to the last nonprivate thing we’d mentioned. She said, “We were talking about Denny Bloch. You remember him? He taught music?” “Sure, he was only here a year or two.” “Three years,” Fran said. “I remember because he came when we were sophomores, and he got some going-away prize at Senior Day.” I said, “They gave him a prize for leaving?” “Oh,” Dana said, “he was off to teach in Russia. No, Bulgaria. I’m sure they gave him a Granby scarf or something. That poor wife.” “Why?” “Oh, just—well, who wants to move to Bulgaria?” I’d somehow forgotten that you’d moved to


not to know how the season was advancing; that the days had lengthened, that Lady-Day was at hand, and would soon be followed by Old Lady-Day, the end of her term here. But before the quarter-day had quite come something happened which made Tess think of far different matters. She was at her lodging as usual one evening, sitting in the downstairs room with the rest of the family, when somebody knocked at the door and inquired for Tess. Through the doorway she saw against the declining light a figure with the height of a woman and the breadth of a child, a tall, thin, girlish creature whom she did not recognize in the twilight till the girl said "Tess!" "What--is it 'Liza-Lu?" asked Tess, in startled accents. Her sister, whom a little over a year ago she had left at home as a child, had sprung up by a sudden shoot to a form of this presentation, of which as yet Lu seemed herself scarce able to understand the meaning. Her thin legs, visible below her once long frock now short by her growing, and her uncomfortable hands and arms, revealed her youth and inexperience. "Yes, I have been traipsing about all day, Tess," said Lu, with unemotional gravity, "a-trying to find 'ee; and I'm very tired." "What is the matter at home?" "Mother is took very bad, and the doctor says she's dying, and as father is not very well neither, and says 'tis wrong for a man of such a high family as his to slave and drave at common labouring work, we don't know what to do." Tess stood in reverie a long time before she thought of asking 'Liza-Lu to come in and sit down. When she had done so, and 'Liza-Lu was having some tea, she came to a decision. It was imperative that she should go home. Her agreement did not end till Old Lady-Day, the sixth of April, but as the interval thereto was not a long one she resolved to run the risk of starting at once. To go that night would be a gain of twelve-hours; but her sister was too tired to undertake such a distance till the morrow. Tess ran down to where Marian and Izz lived, informed them of what had happened, and begged them to make the best of her case to the farmer. Returning, she got Lu a supper, and after that, having tucked the younger into her own bed, packed up as many of her belongings as would go into a withy basket, and started, directing Lu to follow her next morning. L She plunged into the chilly equinoctial darkness as the clock struck ten, for her fifteen miles' walk under the steely stars. In lone districts night is a protection rather than a danger to a noiseless pedestrian, and knowing this Tess pursued the nearest course along by-lanes that she would almost have feared in the day-time; but marauders were wanting now, and spectral fears were driven out of her mind by thoughts of her


the commendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet's being obliged to say a word. This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant, having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece. "Oh! yes--Mr. Elton, I understand--certainly as to dancing-- Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was-- Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, `I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time for writing;' and when I immediately said, `But indeed we have, we had a letter this very morning,' I do not know that I ever saw any body more surprized. `Have you, upon your honour?' said she; `well, that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.'" Emma's politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest-- "Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I hope she is well?" "Thank you. You are so kind!" replied the happily deceived aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter.--"Oh! here it is. I was sure it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to her-- a letter from Jane--that she can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is, only just under my huswife--and since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says;--but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter--only two pages you see-- hardly two--and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often says, when the letter is first opened, `Well, Hetty, now I think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work'-- don't you, ma'am?--And then I tell her, I am sure she


SpongeBob, a flapper, and a variety of Disney princesses. Her favorite was a toddler bumble bee who was more preoccupied with her wings than the candy. As she finally turned off the light for the night, she smiled and patted her abdomen. Not this year, and probably not next, but in two years, watch out. There would be a new trick-or-treater in town. Baby McKnight would be ready for a candy grab! Her phone buzzed with a text from Bella asking about coffee. Want to meet for coffee? Please? My treat. Then several emojis of cups of java and ending with a happy face blowing hearts as kisses. Kristi and Bella had already had a short conversation about what Kristi had been through and Bella apologized again for setting her up with Hamilton Cooke and Reggie. “It’s just awful about them. Thank God you’re okay!” Was she? Would she ever be? Time would tell, she figured, and texted back: You got it. How about Magnolia’s? Saturday at 10:00? Maybe Sarah and Jess can join? It was time to mend some fences over a hot latte and the latest gossip. And Kristi would let her friends in on her little secret, that she would soon be a mother. She felt it was time. She was ready. Later that night, she curled in her bed and Dave whined to join her. “Sure, why not?” she said, “but let’s take this off.” She unhooked his collar so that she wouldn’t hear his ID tags rattle as he shifted around during the night. As she did, she felt a bulge in the leather collar. “Don’t tell me this is ruined already.” She gave the dog a glance of reproval as she turned the collar over and saw that it was marred. It had been sliced to create a small pocket and within the tiny space a minute thumb drive had been wedged. “What the—?” She had trouble retrieving the drive, it was wedged in so tight. “Who put this here?” And then she remembered Cruz Montoya’s final words to her: “Pet him for me.” And again, “for me,” as he’d stared at her with some unspoken message she hadn’t understood. Now, she thought, she might. She threw back the covers and quickly padded barefoot up the stairs. Dave was right on her heels, toenails clicking behind her. Once in her office, she switched on a light and fired up her laptop. “Now, what is this?” she asked the empty room, and when the computer was up and running, Kristi slipped the thumb drive into a port and hit play. For a second she didn’t understand what she was seeing, then she realized it was a night scape, near a river, a woman running along a river’s edge and someone, a big man, chasing after her before tackling her and dragging her deeper into the water. The woman fought, flailing and kicking up water, splashing and hitting, but the man just dragged her deeper into the river and held her head down until she was unmoving. Then


remember, Huck, 'bout me saying that?" "Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the --------------------------------------------------------- -166- day after I lost a white alley. No, 'twas the day before." "There -- I told you so," said Tom. "Huck recollects it." "I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe. "I don't feel sick." "Neither do I," said Tom. " I could smoke it all day. But I bet you Jeff Thatcher couldn't." "Jeff Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with two draws. Just let him try it once. He'd see!" "I bet he would. And Johnny Miller -- I wish could see Johnny Miller tackle it once." "Oh, don't I!" said Joe. "Why, I bet you Johnny Miller couldn't any more do this than nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch him ." "'Deed it would, Joe. Say -- I wish the boys could see us now." "So do I." "Say -- boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're around, I'll come up to you and say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.' And you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll say, 'Yes, I got my old pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't very good.' And I'll say, 'Oh, that's all right, if it's strong enough.' And then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as ca'm, and then just see 'em look!" "By jings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was now!" --------------------------------------------------------- -167- "So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating, won't they wish they'd been along?" "Oh, I reckon not! I'll just bet they will!" So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvellously increased. Every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting fountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues fast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their throats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings followed every time. Both boys were looking very pale and miserable, now. Joe's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers. Tom's followed. Both fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with might and main. Joe said feebly: "I've lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it." Tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance: "I'll help you. You go over that way and I'll hunt around by the spring. No, you needn't come, Huck -- we can find it." So Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then he found it lonesome, and went to find his comrades. They were wide apart in the woods, both very pale, both fast asleep. But something informed him that if they had had any trouble they had got rid of it. They were not talkative at supper that night. --------------------------------------------------------- -168- They had a humble look, and when Huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare theirs, they said


to the helmsman. For during the violence of the gale, he had only steered according to its vicissitudes. But as he was now bringing the ship as near her course as possible, watching the compass meanwhile, lo! a good sign! the wind seemed coming round astern; aye! the foul breeze became fair! Instantly the yards were squared, to the lively song of Ho! the fair wind! oh-he-yo, cheerly, men! the crew singing for joy, that so promising an event should so soon have falsified the evil portents preceding it. In compliance with the standing order of his commander -- to report immediately, and at any one of the twenty-four hours, any decided change in the affairs of the deck, --Starbuck had no sooner trimmed the yards to the breeze --however reluctantly and gloomily, --than he mechanically went below to apprise Captain Ahab of the circumstance. Ere knocking at his state-room, he involuntarily paused before it a moment. The cabin lamp --taking long swings this way and that --was burning fitfully, and casting fitful shadows upon the old man's bolted door, --a thin one, with fixed blinds inserted, in place of upper panels. The isolated subterraneousness of the cabin made a certain humming silence to reign there, though it was hooped round by all the roar of the elements. The loaded muskets in the rack were shiningly revealed, as they stood upright against the forward bulkhead. Starbuck was an honest, upright man; but out of Starbuck's heart, at that instant when he saw the muskets, there strangely evolved an evil thought; but so blent with its neutral or good accompaniments that for the instant he hardly knew it for itself. He would have shot me once, he murmured, yes, there's the very musket that he pointed at me; --that one with the studded stock; let me touch it --lift it. Strange, that I, who have .. <p 507 > handled so many deadly lances, strange, that I should shake so now. Loaded? I must see. Aye, aye; and powder in the pan; -- that's not good. Best spill it? --wait. I'll cure myself of this. I'll hold the musket boldly while I think. --I come to report a fair wind to him. But how fair? Fair for death and doom, -- that's fair for Moby Dick. It's a fair wind that's only fair for that accursed fish. --The very tube he pointed at me! --the very one; this one --I hold it here; he would have killed me with the very thing I handle now. --Aye and he would fain kill all his crew. Does he not say he will not strike his spars to any gale? Has he not dashed his heavenly quadrant? and in these same perilous seas, gropes he not his way by mere dead reckoning of the error-abounding log? and in this very Typhoon, did he not swear that he would have no lightning-rods? But shall this crazed old man be tamely suffered to drag a whole ship's company down to doom with him? --Yes, it would make him


believe that Helen wasn’t his child. He saw nothing of himself in her as she grew to become passionate about music and dancing and cried when she saw a wounded soldier. But Clytemnestra knows Helen is her sister. She knows that even though as a child Helen seemed frail and gentle, her will is as strong as Clytemnestra’s. When they were little, Helen would stand next to her and compare every tiny part of their bodies until she found a similarity and was satisfied. After all, as Helen used to say, their eyelashes were thick, their fingers skinny, their necks long. And when Clytemnestra replied that her own hair was darker, the color of dirt, Helen would scoff. “The boys will be here soon.” Clytemnestra looks up. The other girls have left, and Helen is gazing at her, her head tilted like that of a curious doe. Clytemnestra wants to ask her if she too is scared of the future, but somehow the words don’t come, so instead she stands. “Let’s go then.” * * * Tonight there are no men in the dining hall. The room is lively with the women’s laughter and the smell of roasted meat. When Clytemnestra and Helen walk in, their mother is seated at the head of the table, speaking to a few servants, while Timandra, Phoebe, and Philonoe, Clytemnestra’s younger sisters, fill their plates with flatbreads and olives. They smile as they chew, their hands and cheeks greasy with fat from the meat. Helen and Clytemnestra take the two empty seats at their mother’s sides. The hall is large and bare, its tall windows opening onto the plain. There are only a few old weapons hanging on the walls and a long table, dark wood scratched and faded, where men and women usually eat together. “Make sure no one has stolen from the grain stores,” Leda is telling the servants, “and leave some wine for the king when he comes back from his journey.” She dismisses them with a wave of the hand, and they slip out of the room, as silent as fish moving through water. Phoebe wipes her hands on her brown tunic and leans toward her mother. “When will Father be back?” she asks. She and Philonoe are still little, with their mother’s deep-green eyes and olive skin. “Your father and your brothers will return from the games tonight,” Leda says, savoring her cheese. Clytemnestra’s uncle has been hosting races in Acarnania, and young men have gathered from every Greek city to participate. “It will be as boring as an elders’ meeting, Sister,” Castor had told Clytemnestra before he left. “You will have more fun here, hunting and helping Mother to run the palace.” He had brushed his lips against her forehead and Clytemnestra had smiled at his lie. He knew how much she wanted to come. “Do you think Castor and Polydeuces have won anything?” Philonoe asks. “Of course they have,” Timandra says, her teeth sinking into the juicy pork flesh. She is thirteen, with stark, uninteresting features—she looks much like


thinly veiled disgust, as if to say this thing couldn’t be the future of mankind. In contrast, Yotam had remarked with admiration: ‘It’s looking at us. It knows we’re here.’ It was born with four jointed legs arranged two on each side of the thorax, from which a clearly human torso rose, perfect in form. Nimbly the infant had left the birthing chamber, its clawed feet clicking like stiletto heels on the steel deck, climbing the vertical walls with no difficulty, settling on the refrigerator unit, absorbing the cold where it seemed to purr, contented. On the other side of the glass, a geneticist had declared: ‘Invaded by aliens, we have created aliens of our own.’ Adding: ‘We should kill it now. While we still can.’ MCMURDO CITY FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS ONE HUNDRED METRES BELOW THE ROSS ICE SHELF SAME DAY YOTAM DESCENDED THE STEEL LADDER, reaching the bottom of the enclosure. Rather than remain protected inside the observation cage, he opened the door, crossing a threshold into a chamber entirely devoid of furniture. There was no bed, no chairs, no table, not as an act of cruelty or deprivation; this species had been created so that it wouldn’t mimic human dependency on comfort or require the usual clutter of items manufactured with metals, plastics and fabrics. There were no more forests to be felled, no more steel to be mined or cotton to be picked. Although there were vast resources miles below the snow and ice, humankind was so diminished it didn’t have the capacity to reach them. There was only ice, snow and stone. The hope was that these new species would learn to exploit the elements of this continent and, sure enough, chunks of ice had been elegantly carved from the walls, shaved into tall tubular forms, complex sculptures which appeared abstract and baffling, more like an art gallery exhibit than anything of any practical use. Yotam shut the cage behind him and walked into the middle of the enclosure as helpless as a sacrificial offering, waiting to see what happened, the first ordinary-born person ever to share this creature’s space. Precisely engineering himself down from the ceiling, his four legs moving with pinpoint accuracy, demonstrating such supreme control even when suspended upside down that he gave off the impression of having been built rather than born, manufactured by masterful Swiss clock craftsmen with intricate cogs and springs, a creature incapable of even the slightest act of clumsiness. Arriving at the base of the cave he stood in front of Yotam, nearly twice his height, three metres tall with his legs at rest. His silhouette was largely unchanged since birth, a centaur figure from Greek mythology rendered into flesh and bone, with a human’s upper body supported by four legs rather than two. With each year of growth his appearance had become more formidable – a warrior species with a chest like the armour of a gladiator, cast from ivory rather than bronze. Combining a selection of the advantages of an exoskeleton with a selection of the advantages of


mind.” “You’d be amazed how often it does.” Bill leads the way down another little avenue of trees: Autumn Higan cherry, but I’m at least a week too late for the blossom. The bark is slick and black on either side of the path. “You should have seen them in October, Cal.” “I’m sure it was lovely.” And then, at last: “I gather I’m short a professor tomorrow.” “Yes, you are. You know him?” “Not well.” “Tell me. Off the top of your head.” “Absurdly tall, of course. Young, talented, shy to the point of rude. Marine biologist by training, synthetic biologist by career. Something something freshwater algae something. Very annoying, very fussy, but he publishes occasionally, teaches adequately, and doesn’t seduce the seniors. Or the staff. I do like the absence of emotional drama from my common rooms. Should I be concerned?” “You’re already concerned. That’s why we’re walking around with bats overhead rather than having coffee in your office tomorrow. I don’t have anything for you, Bill.” “But it’s nothing torrid? It’s just him dead, not him and a call girl, say?” “Was that his thing?” “Christ, I hope not. Not that I know of. And not that I’d know.” “No call girl. Although there is a woman in the picture. Two, actually, but one says it was over and I buy her denials for now.” “Good god. He hardly seems the type.” “What type did he seem?” “Brilliant, anti-social asshole. The boring kind.” “How’d he come to work here?” “Direct from the University of Burfleet. Achingly well credentialed, but to be honest he was foisted on us by the board—family connections, I suspected at the time. No doubt there’s a library somewhere that I wouldn’t have without him. And as I say, so long as I don’t actually have to deal with him, he’s a perfectly acceptable addition. A good one, even. And now I’ll have a hell of a time replacing him, I suppose.” “I’m going to need to see his office. All his correspondence. I need to know what he was working on and with whom. I’ll have to talk to anyone he was close to. There’s a student, a group of them, who visited his place. I need them as well.” Bill shakes his head. “I can get you into his room, of course. You’ll be discreet about any confidential research?” “Sure. Figure the black market for synthetic algae patents is a little slow this winter anyway.” “You’d be surprised. Slime sells. As for the students…that’s a red line, as far as the university is concerned. They are the fragile minds of tomorrow’s great possibility blah blah blah. So unless you’re looking for something very specific—no, actually, especially if you’re looking for something very specific—” He stops because I’ve stopped walking, and when he turns around he has to squint because I’m standing between him and one of the lamps. I wait for him to look uncomfortable and lift a hand to shade his eyes. “Bill, I’m sorry, I’m sure you’ve got a terrific speech about


say seventy-five, knowing I could be off by at least ten years in either direction. A pair of cat’s-eye glasses hangs from a chain around the woman’s neck. She brings them to her eyes and peers at me for a breath of a second—an instant appraisal. “Miss McDeere,” she finally says. “Welcome.” “Thank you,” I say, even though there’s literally nothing welcoming about the woman’s tone. It’s clear she’s the same person I talked to over the intercom. The disinterested voice is unmistakable. “I’m Mrs. Baker, the housekeeper.” The woman pauses to take in what I’m wearing, seemingly finding my coat lacking. It’s blue wool and pilled in too many places to count. I’ve had it for so long I can’t remember when or where I bought it. Or maybe Mrs. Baker’s apparent distaste is reserved for what’s under the coat. White blouse. Gray skirt. Black flats last worn at my mother’s funeral. If so, I can’t help it. These are the nicest clothes I own. After a moment of clear hesitation, Mrs. Baker adds, “Do come in.” I hesitate as well, hovering just outside. It’s the doorway that gives me pause. Almost as wide as it is tall and surrounded by more of that ubiquitous marble detailing, it sort of resembles an open mouth. Looking at it reminds me of something Carter said. This place can bite. I suddenly long for home. A complete surprise, considering how that house hasn’t felt like home since my mother died. But it had once been a happy place, full of equally happy memories. Snowy Christmases and birthday cakes and my mother in her silly floral apron making French toast on Sunday mornings. Does Hope’s End have any happy memories? Or did they all vanish that one horrible night? Is sorrow the only thing that remains? “Coming, dear?” Mrs. Baker says after an impatient clearing of her throat. Part of me doesn’t want to. The entire place—its size, its ostentatiousness, and especially its reputation—makes me want to turn around and head right back home. But then I think about my father, my bedroom, the dregs of cash in my savings account. None of that will change if I don’t do something about it. If I leave—which I desperately want to do—I’ll be stuck in the same limbo I’ve inhabited for the past six months. But working here, even for just a few weeks, could change everything. With that in mind, I take a deep breath, pass through the door, and allow Hope’s End to swallow me whole. FOUR The inside of Hope’s End is nicer than the outside, but only slightly. Just beyond the door is a grand foyer with marble tile, velvet drapes at the windows, and tapestries on the walls. The furnishings range from potted palms to fancy wooden chairs with dusty cushions under brocade pillows. Overhead, an oil-painted sky full of puffy-pink clouds adorns the arched ceiling. It all looks simultaneously fancy and shabby and stopped in time. Like the lobby of a four-star hotel that had been suddenly abandoned decades ago.


He smiled. "Not your first visit to Rosslyn, I see." 292 The code, Langdon thought. He had forgotten that little bit of lore. Among Rosslyn's numerous mysteries was a vaulted archway from which hundreds of stone blocks protruded, jutting down to form a bizarre multifaceted surface. Each block was carved with a symbol, seemingly at random, creating a cipher of unfathomable proportion. Some people believed the code revealed the entrance to the vault beneath the chapel. Others believed it told the true Grail legend. Not that it mattered-cryptographers had been trying for centuries to decipher its meaning. To this day the Rosslyn Trust offered a generous reward to anyone who could unveil the secret meaning, but the code remained a mystery. "I'd be happy to show..." The docent's voice trailed off. My first code, Sophie thought, moving alone, in a trance, toward the encoded archway. Having handed the rosewood box to Langdon, she could feel herself momentarily forgetting all about the Holy Grail, the Priory of Sion, and all the mysteries of the past day. When she arrived beneath the encoded ceiling and saw the symbols above her, the memories came flooding back. She was recalling her first visit here, and strangely, the memories conjured an unexpected sadness. She was a little girl... a year or so after her family's death. Her grandfather had brought her to Scotland on a short vacation. They had come to see Rosslyn Chapel before going back to Paris. It was late evening, and the chapel was closed. But they were still inside. "Can we go home, Grand-pre?" Sophie begged, feeling tired. "Soon, dear, very soon." His voice was melancholy. "I have one last thing I need to do here. How about if you wait in the car?" "You're doing another big person thing?" He nodded. "I'll be fast. I promise." "Can I do the archway code again? That was fun." "I don't know. I have to step outside. You won't be frightened in here alone?" "Of course not!" she said with a huff. "It's not even dark yet!" He smiled. "Very well then." He led her over to the elaborate archway he had shown her earlier. Sophie immediately plopped down on the stone floor, lying on her back and staring up at the collage of puzzle pieces overhead. "I'm going to break this code before you get back!" "It's a race then." He bent over, kissed her forehead, and walked to the nearby side door. "I'll be right outside. I'll leave the door open. If you need me, just call." He exited into the soft evening light. Sophie lay there on the floor, gazing up at the code. Her eyes felt sleepy. After a few minutes, the symbols got fuzzy. And then they disappeared. When Sophie awoke, the floor felt cold. "Grand-pre?" There was no answer. Standing up, she brushed herself off. The side door was still open. The evening was getting darker. She walked outside and could see her grandfather standing on the porch of a nearby stone house directly behind the church. Her grandfather


asking my mother for money. I asked her to release my trust fund and I was denied.” His brows knit together as he processed that. “Trust fund. Shouldn’t that be released when you become a legal adult?” “In most cases, yes, but my father made certain . . . requirements.” “Such as?” Was she really going to tell him this? Yeah. Why not? Nothing could make today any worse. Not even his ridicule. “Not only am I obligated to be gainfully employed, I am required to be married in order for the trustee to release the assets. Julian, too.” A full five seconds ticked by. “You’re lying.” It wasn’t an accusation. He was . . . satisfyingly shocked. “Nope,” she said slowly, hoping she was reading him right. “My father lives in Italy now. Basically, he’s inflicting his will on me all the way from the motherland and his rules are circa 1930 old-school. Both my mother and I would rather stick our feet in a lake full of piranhas than reach out and ask him for a favor after a four-year silence. Imagine if he said no and we sacrificed that final shred of pride for nothing?” She shrugged. “Also, I think there is a part of my mother that enjoys Napa being my only option for a while longer.” “Your only option for what?” He reared back a little. “You’re not . . . broke.” “Not broke broke. But not flush enough to . . .” She paused to wet her dry lips. “I’m starting my own hedge fund in New York along with a colleague of mine, and we need capital to appear appealing to investors.” “That’s what you were doing before. Wall Street shit?” She rolled her eyes. “Yes. You know, the shit that powers the economy.” He snorted, waved that off. “You’d rather be in an overcrowded city than your family’s vineyard in Napa?” “It’s complicated.” “Sounds like you’re complicated.” “I’ll take complicated over simple.” She held her hands out for the keys, wiggling her fingers, but he ignored the gesture. “August.” “One second.” He folded his arms over his powerful chest, cleared his throat. “You don’t have any marriage prospects, right? You wouldn’t marry just to get that money, would you?” “I might,” she said, even though it wasn’t really an option she’d considered. Her prospects were nil. What was the point? Was it her imagination or did lightning strike in the depths of his eyes? “I don’t like it.” “I want the firm. I . . . need the firm. Otherwise I’m going to be known forever as a disappointment. A screw-up. A story they tell at cocktail hour.” She was saying too much now. That last part didn’t need to be aired. It was hers. But she couldn’t deny that the pressure in her chest eased on the tail end of the confession. “Can I please have my keys?” she said quietly. “I need to go.” August seemed to shake himself, but his attention never strayed from her face. “Sure. Yeah.” He handed them


its claims; the children tried to pay attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was grown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction, was at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to invite death and shorten its pursuit. At last Becky's frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat down. Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there, and the comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky cried, and Tom tried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements were grown threadbare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue bore so heavily upon Becky that she drowsed --------------------------------------------------------- -289- off to sleep. Tom was grateful. He sat looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural under the influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a smile dawned and rested there. The peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing into his own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and dreamy memories. While he was deep in his musings, Becky woke up with a breezy little laugh -- but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan followed it. "Oh, how could I sleep! I wish I never, never had waked! No! No, I don't, Tom! Don't look so! I won't say it again." "I'm glad you've slept, Becky; you'll feel rested, now, and we'll find the way out." "We can try, Tom; but I've seen such a beautiful country in my dream. I reckon we are going there." "Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let's go on trying." They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They tried to estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was that it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not be, for their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this -- they could not tell how long -- Tom said they must go softly and listen for dripping water -- they must find a spring. They found one presently, and Tom said it was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky said --------------------------------------------------------- -290- she thought she could go a little farther. She was surprised to hear Tom dissent. She could not understand it. They sat down, and Tom fastened his candle to the wall in front of them with some clay. Thought was soon busy; nothing was said for some time. Then Becky broke the silence: "Tom, I am so hungry!" Tom took something out of his pocket. "Do you remember this?" said he. Becky almost smiled. "It's our wedding-cake, Tom." "Yes -- I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all we've got." "I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, Tom, the way grown-up people do with wedding-cake -- but it'll be our -- " She dropped the sentence where it


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

where the air tasted stale and mineral, where there was nothing soft. Lore knew she was dreaming—or something like it—but it didn’t stop the kick of fear against her ribs when she saw the tomb. It looked larger than she remembered, a block of obsidian gleaming night-sky dark. Looming like a slice of the earth itself, prepared to bury her beneath it, to crush her into itself and make her part of whatever waited inside. She moved with the thick slowness of dreams, the float that didn’t acknowledge arms or legs, made her a mass of thought and weightless matter. Lore tried to back away from Nyxara’s tomb, thinking that she crawled crablike, but she felt no bite of shale into her palms, no rasp of fabric over floor. No matter how far she moved, though, the tomb stayed the same distance from her, as if it were a dog and she the leash. As if they were shackled together, her and the tomb, her and the goddess buried inside it. Surfacing, just for a moment, her mouth breaking through black water long enough to breathe. “She’s alive.” A voice she knew in her bones, one that made her think inexplicably of fire, of incense, of rage held tight and trees burning. “She’s alive, but she isn’t waking up.” “She will.” The other voice she didn’t know, not like she knew the first. Low, muffled, speaking from far distance while the first had been chime-clear. “Give her time.” “It’s been three days—” “You saw what she did.” There was no real accusation in the tone, but the words still hung ax-bladed. “Something like that takes time to recover from.” Silence from the other voice, the one she knew. Lore went back under. Time passed. She didn’t know how much. She was suspended in inky darkness and saw nothing, felt nothing. Then, sand. Ocean. Sun and blue sky. She knew this dream, at least. The same figure sat next to her as always. Lore turned her head, wondering if this time she’d be able to see them clearly. For a brief moment, there was a spark of recognition, the smoky effluence solidifying into a shape she should know. But then it was gone, only shadows again. Something tugged at her chest. Lore didn’t like it, so she crossed her arms, hiding her heart away. The tug hurt, felt like it wanted to pluck the organ from her chest, but Lore kept it all to herself, something wholly her own. No smoke spilled into the sky. It was nothing but clear, shining blue. The figure seemed startled; at least, as startled as something essentially noncorporeal could be. “Curious,” murmured the empty voice, void of any emotion or texture. “It seems more power begets more control. But we have time. We’ll try again.” Lore wasn’t listening. She was drifting again. Surfacing. A sheen against her eyes, unbearably bright after so much darkness, the vague impression of a room that should be familiar. The sensation of her limbs, heavy and limp but present. This was the


other. Bill answered. "We don't want to go in the jungle." Ralph grimaced. "He--you know--goes." "He's a hunter. They're all hunters. That's different." No one spoke for a moment, then Piggy muttered to the sand. "Meat--" The littluns sat, solemnly thinking of meat, and dribbling. Overhead the cannon boomed again and the dry palm fronds clattered in a sudden gust of hot wind. "You are a silly little boy," said the Lord of the Flies, "just an ignorant, silly little boy." Simon moved his swollen tongue but said nothing. "Don't you agree?" said the Lord of the Flies. "Aren't you just a silly little boy?" Simon answered him in the same silent voice. "Well then," said the Lord of the Flies, "you'd better run off and play with the others. They think you're batty. You don't want Ralph to think you're batty, do you? You like Ralph a lot, don't you? And Piggy, and Jack?" Simon's head was tilted slightly up. His eyes could not break away and the Lord of the Flies hung in space before him. "What are you doing out here all alone? Aren't you afraid of me?" Simon shook. "There isn't anyone to help you. Only me. And I'm the Beast." Simon's mouth labored, brought forth audible words. "Pig's head on a stick." "Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!" said the head. For a moment or two the forest and all the other dimly appreciated places echoed with the parody of laughter. "You knew, didn't you? I'm part of you? Close, close, close! I'm the reason why it's no go? Why things are what they are?" The laughter shivered again. "Come now," said the Lord of the Flies. "Get back to the others and we'll forget the whole thing." Simon's head wobbled. His eyes were half closed as though he were imitating the obscene thing on the stick. He knew that one of his times was coming on. The Lord of the Flies was expanding like a balloon. "This is ridiculous. You know perfectly well you'll only meet me down there--so don't try to escape!" Simon's body was arched and stiff. The Lord of the Flies spoke in the voice of a schoolmaster. "This has gone quite far enough. My poor, misguided child, do you think you know better than I do?" There was a pause. "I'm warning you. I'm going to get angry. D'you see? You're not wanted. Understand? We are going to have fun on this island. Understand? We are going to have fun on this island! So don't try it on, my poor misguided boy, or else--" Simon found he was looking into a vast mouth. There was blackness within, a blackness that spread. "--Or else," said the Lord of the Flies, "we shall do you? See? Jack and Roger and Maurice and Robert and Bill and Piggy and Ralph. Do you. See?" Simon was inside the mouth. He fell down and lost consciousness. CHAPTER NINE A View to a Death Over the island the build-up of clouds continued. A


not certain whether his sister had been born then. Finally they had emerged into a noisy, crowded place which he had realized to be a Tube station. There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor, and other people, packed tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks, one above the other. Winston and his mother and father found themselves a place on the floor, and near them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by side on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap pushed back from very white hair: his face was scarlet and his eyes were blue and full of tears. He reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his skin in place of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he was also suffering under some grief that was genuine and unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old man loved--a little granddaughter, perhaps--had been killed. Every few minutes the old man kept repeating: 'We didn't ought to 'ave trusted 'em. I said so, Ma, didn't I? That's what comes of trusting 'em. I said so all along. We didn't ought to 'ave trusted the buggers.' But which buggers they didn't ought to have trusted Winston could not now remember. Since about that time, war had been literally continuous, though strictly speaking it had not always been the same war. For several months during his childhood there had been confused street fighting in London itself, some of which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any given moment, would have been utterly impossible, since no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention of any other alignment than the existing one. At this moment, for example, in 1984 (if it was 1984), Oceania was at war with Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia. In no public or private utterance was it ever admitted that the three powers had at any time been grouped along different lines. Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four years since Oceania had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge which he happened to possess because his memory was not satisfactorily under control. Officially the change of partners had never happened. Oceania was at war with Eurasia: therefore Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and it followed that any past or future agreement with him was impossible. The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were gyrating their bodies from the waist, an exercise