faerie you may encounter, as I know you can handle yourself in that regard, but of the harshness of the climate. Though I must confess a secondary motive in writing—a fascination with the legends you’ve uncovered about these Hidden Ones. I urge you to write to me with your findings—although, if certain plans I’ve set in motion come to fruition, this may prove redundant. I sat frozen in my chair. Good God! Surely he was not thinking of joining me here? Yet what else could he have meant by such a remark? My fear ebbed somewhat, though, as I sat back and imagined Bambleby actually venturing to such a place as this. Oh, Bambleby has done extensive work in the field, to be sure, most recently organizing an expedition to investigate reports of a miniature species of Folk in the Caucasus, but Bambleby’s method of fieldwork is one of delegation more than anything else; he settles himself at the nearest thing that passes for a hotel and from there provides directives to the small army of graduate students constantly trailing in his wake. He is much praised at Cambridge for deigning to provide co-author credit to his students in his many publications, but I know what those students put up with, and the truth is that it would be monstrous if he did not. I was unable to convince even one of my students to accompany me to Hrafnsvik, and I very much doubt that Bambleby, despite his charms, would have much better luck. And so, he will not come. The remainder of the letter consisted of assurances of his intention to provide the foreword to my book. I felt a little ill at this—a combination of relief and resentment—for though I do not want his assistance, particularly after he scooped me on the gean-cannah changeling discovery, I cannot deny its value. Wendell Bambleby is one of the foremost dryadologists at Cambridge, which is to say that he is one of the foremost dryadologists in the world. The one paper we co-authored, a straightforward but comprehensive meta-analysis of the diet of Baltic river fae, earned me invitations to two national conferences and remains my most cited work. I tossed the letter into the fire, determined to think no more of Bambleby until the arrival of his next letter, which would no doubt be swift if I did not reply with a haste sufficient to his self-regard. I turned to Shadow, curled at my feet. The beast had been watching me with solemn dark eyes, concerned for my well-being in the wake of my panic. I discovered another chilblain upon his paw and fetched the salve I had purchased specially for him. I also took the time to comb through his long fur until his eyes drooped with pleasure. I removed my manuscript from my suitcase, carefully unfolding the protective wrapping, then laid it upon the table. I flicked through the pages, savouring the crisp sound of the heavily inked paper, ensuring they were still in order. It is a heavy thing, presently


proper as well as the pleasant and friendly thing would be therefore that on the arrival of the public conveyance I should be in waiting for him with his little sister; an idea in which Mrs. Grose concurred so heartily that I somehow took her manner as a kind of comforting pledge--never falsified, thank heaven!--that we should on every question be quite at one. Oh, she was glad I was there! What I felt the next day was, I suppose, nothing that could be fairly called a reaction from the cheer of my arrival; it was probably at the most only a slight oppression produced by a fuller measure of the scale, as I walked round them, gazed up at them, took them in, of my new circumstances. They had, as it were, an extent and mass for which I had not been prepared and in the presence of which I found myself, freshly, a little scared as well as a little proud. Lessons, in this agitation, certainly suffered some delay; I reflected that my first duty was, by the gentlest arts I could contrive, to win the child into the sense of knowing me. I spent the day with her out-of-doors; I arranged with her, to her great satisfaction, that it should be she, she only, who might show me the place. She showed it step by step and room by room and secret by secret, with droll, delightful, childish talk about it and with the result, in half an hour, of our becoming immense friends. Young as she was, I was struck, throughout our little tour, with her confidence and courage with the way, in empty chambers and dull corridors, on crooked staircases that made me pause and even on the summit of an old machicolated square tower that made me dizzy, her morning music, her disposition to tell me so many more things than she asked, rang out and led me on. I have not seen Bly since the day I left it, and I daresay that to my older and more informed eyes it would now appear sufficiently contracted. But as my little conductress, with her hair of gold and her frock of blue, danced before me round corners and pattered down passages, I had the view of a castle of romance inhabited by a rosy sprite, such a place as would somehow, for diversion of the young idea, take all color out of storybooks and fairytales. Wasn't it just a storybook over which I had fallen adoze and adream? No; it was a big, ugly, antique, but convenient house, embodying a few features of a building still older, half-replaced and half-utilized, in which I had the fancy of our being almost as lost as a handful of passengers in a great drifting ship. Well, I was, strangely, at the helm! II This came home to me when, two days later, I drove over with Flora to meet, as Mrs. Grose said, the little gentleman; and all the more for an incident that, presenting itself the second evening,


me, taking my hand and turning it upward. “Naomi, you’re bleeding,” he said. I stared. The cut on my thumb was deeper than I’d thought, and everything—the bottle, the glass, the corkscrew, the counter—was smeared with blood. I wrenched my hand free of Mitch and stuck my thumb in my mouth. The coppery taste washed across my tongue, and instantly I was back in the forest, the loamy scent of the woods overlaid with the metallic smell of my blood, the birds in the trees flitting and calling without a care for the girl dying below. When I remembered it, I pictured myself from above, crawling over the ground, dragging myself up onto that log. I didn’t remember the pain. The mind is not constructed to hold on to the sense of such agony. “Look at me. Naomi, come on. Look at my face,” Mitch said, touching the underside of my chin delicately, like he was afraid I would bruise. I met his eyes with difficulty. “There you are. What’s going on? If you didn’t talk to Liv—” “I know why she was calling,” I said. I swallowed. It was mine until I said it out loud. Then it belonged to Mitch, too, and all the people he told, and the people they told. But of course the story already belonged to countless others—Cassidy and Liv and Cody Benham and whatever journalist found out about it first, and surely there would be some footnote article in the papers tomorrow, “QUINAULT KILLER” DIES IN PRISON. “Naomi. You’re drifting again,” Mitch said. This was why I liked him. I remembered now. “Alan Stahl is dead,” I said. “Cancer. He died in prison. He’s gone.” If I could say it in just the right way, it would make sense. Everything would fall into its proper order, and I would know how I was supposed to feel. “Oh my God. That’s great news!” Mitch seized my shoulders, grinning. “Naomi, that’s good. I mean, I’d rather he be tortured every day for another twenty years, but dead is the next best thing. You should be celebrating.” “I know. It’s just complicated,” I said, sliding past him. I grabbed a kitchen towel and pressed it to my thumb. The bleeding wasn’t too bad. It would stop soon. “It must be bringing up a lot of trauma,” he said with a wise nod. And that was why I didn’t like him. “Can you stop talking like you know what I’m going through better than I do?” I stalked to the hall closet, pawing through it one-handed for a bandage. “You’ve never really processed what happened to you. You shy away from it in your work. You need to confront it head-on. This is a perfect opportunity. Turn it into the catalyst you need to really dig in. You could do a series of self-portraits, or—” “Oh, for the love of God, Mitch, will you let it go?” I said. I found the package of Band-Aids and held it under my arm while I fished one out. Mitch moved in


to fight this battle. She did not have to stand here and try to outwit the River Lord. She did not have to become like him – and she had come so close, some days. This court had made her reckless, untrusting and hard; it had almost made her cruel. Now she remembered the godsinger of Mount Ipyeda, who had wished for nothing more than the life she already had. That godsinger had needed no throne to serve Kwiriki, or to help the people of Seiiki. After all, she had known Kwiriki before she ever set eyes on his throne. You are a kite, a rainbow, a rider. The realisation tilted the corners of her lips. Where have you ever belonged but the sky? Before she could think better of it, she walked towards the throne and knelt, taking Suzumai by the hand. ‘Your Majesty,’ she said, ‘I love and respect you, as your big sister. I will not ask for the Rainbow Throne. You have every right to sit on it, too.’ She touched her cheek. ‘I must leave again, for a little while, but I will always come back.’ Suzumai swallowed, eyes shimmering. ‘You promised you wouldn’t go away again.’ ‘I know.’ Dumai tightened her hold on her hand. ‘I’m sorry. Will you keep me safe?’ ‘Yes,’ Suzumai whispered. Dumai looked at the River Lord, whose face betrayed his curiosity. He was trying to predict her next move. ‘I do not wish to fight you when an enemy threatens our island. I would not seek to divide it from within,’ Dumai said, rising to face him. ‘My mother was once a . . . provincial, as you say. She worked the barley fields of Afa. Her father was its governor, long ago.’ At last, understanding barbed his gaze. She wondered if he had ever guessed who Unora was, or if she had disappeared from his notice as soon as she was stripped of her nobility. ‘As a godsinger, as a rider, and as a princess, I serve them,’ Dumai told him. ‘It is they who will suffer most in this time of fire. I have the means to defend them. I must use it.’ Beside her, Nikeya released a breath. The River Lord watched Dumai without speaking. She could see him preparing to reshape her words, the busy work behind his eyes. ‘I will go into exile, but not to Muysima.’ Dumai faced the nobles. ‘Emperor Jorodu wished for power to reside in two places. The Grand Empress will attest to this, as will my mother, the Maiden Officiant.’ Hundreds of eyes stared at her. ‘I will honour his wishes. I will go beyond this court and establish my own, in the provinces – to protect our island, to give hope to the people, until the coming of the comet that will end this.’ Before the River Lord could steal the final word, she strode from the hall to immediate shouts of indignation, taking the path the nobles cleared for her, blocking out their voices as best she could. Nikeya


sprawled next to her, looking at their phones. Then Malia said, ‘My dad keeps asking me all sorts of questions about Devlin. He thinks I’m going out with him.’ Natalie laughed. ‘My mum did the same about Finn and us all being out together, saying the Toomeys were a bad lot, then my grandad got cross and said that he’d been friends with Finn’s dad since primary school and they were a great family.’ ‘And are you – going out with Devlin and Finn?’ Florence asked, only half-interested. Her mind was elsewhere nowadays. ‘We just hang out and have fun.’ Malia shrugged. ‘I’ll be off to London after Christmas – I’m not in the market for a proper relationship.’ ‘Nor me, not after Brandon.’ Natalie rolled her eyes. ‘I’m so glad I saw the light.’ ‘You were so wrapped up in him,’ Malia said gently. Natalie agreed. ‘I was – but I think I was more wrapped up in the idea of the beautiful dress and the big wedding. I’d have woken up the next day and wondered what I was going to do with the rest of my life.’ ‘What made you change your mind?’ Malia asked. ‘It was his attitude to you two that put the nail in the coffin,’ Natalie scoffed. ‘He didn’t like it when I spent time with my friends. It was always like, “You’re my girlfriend, you should be at my side.” At first, I thought it was because he couldn’t bear to be away from me – I thought it was cute. But no, he just wanted to control who I spoke to. When we were with his friends, they’d all laugh and joke and I’d just be sitting there like a spare part, but he hated it when I was with you two and not him.’ ‘You’ll find someone who deserves you. You’re worth so much more.’ Florence massaged her belly where the baby had thrust out a foot. She smiled. ‘It’s not far off now.’ ‘Do you want us to be there with you?’ Malia asked. ‘Have you made your mind up about who you’re going to have as your birth partner?’ ‘Adam keeps asking me that.’ Florence gazed into the distance. ‘Dad too. I said I’ll know when the time comes.’ Natalie shook her head. ‘Aren’t you scared of the pain?’ ‘Not now.’ Florence smiled. ‘I’ve done everything right through the pregnancy and I’m ready to meet this little one. I even have a name…’ ‘I bet you won’t tell us…’ Malia pouted. ‘You’ll have to wait until the baby’s born.’ Florence smiled. Malia and Natalie took her hands. ‘We’re there for you, Florence.’ Florence sighed. ‘I know. You’re just like sisters.’ She picked a daisy from the nearby grass and held it to her nose ‘You’ll be Auntie Malia and Auntie Nat… It doesn’t matter that my own mother has no idea she’s about to be a grandma. I’ve got Dad and you two and Adam looking out for me. And Bobby keeps bringing gorgeous baby clothes from his girlfriend. I’m


more like fear than pain. A curious emotion stirred in Winston's heart. In front of him was an enemy who was trying to kill him: in front of him, also, was a human creature, in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had instinctively file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (58 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt started forward to help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on the bandaged arm, it had been as though he felt the pain in his own body. 'You're hurt?' he said. 'It's nothing. My arm. It'll be all right in a second.' She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had certainly turned very pale. 'You haven't broken anything?' 'No, I'm all right. It hurt for a moment, that's all.' She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had regained some of her colour, and appeared very much better. 'It's nothing,' she repeated shortly. 'I only gave my wrist a bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!' And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been going, as briskly as though it had really been nothing. The whole incident could not have taken as much as half a minute. Not to let one's feelings appear in one's face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct, and in any case they had been standing straight in front of a telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise, for in the two or three seconds while he was helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was something small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square. While he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little more fingering, to get it unfolded. Obviously there must be a message of some kind written on it. For a moment he was tempted to take it into one of the water-closets and read it at once. But that would be shocking folly, as he well knew. There was no place where you could be more certain that the telescreens were watched continuously. He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the fragment of paper casually among the other papers on the desk, put on his spectacles and hitched the speakwrite towards him. 'Five minutes,' he told himself, 'five minutes at the very least!' His heart bumped in his breast with frightening loudness. Fortunately the piece of work he was engaged on was mere routine, the rectification of a long list of figures, not needing close attention. Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political meaning. So far as he could see there were two possibilities. One, much the more likely, was that the girl was an agent


it should not be through lack of energy or persever- ance that I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my way. The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and gray shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was no sound and no movement. One great gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living things between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I saw it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my foot was on the threshold of his hiding place -- his secret was within my grasp. As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do when with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a habita- tion. A vague pathway among the boulders led to the dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent within. The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. The place was empty. But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon which neolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this stood a small cloth bundle -- the same, no doubt, which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay


said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance? "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. `"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"' `Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,' said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: `and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!' `Oh, as to the whiting,' said the Mock Turtle, `they--you've seen them, of course?' `Yes,' said Alice, `I've often seen them at dinn--' she checked herself hastily. `I don't know where Dinn may be,' said the Mock Turtle, `but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like.' `I believe so,' Alice replied thoughtfully. `They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs.' `You're wrong about the crumbs,' said the Mock Turtle: `crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they HAVE their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--' here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--`Tell her about the reason and all that,' he said to the Gryphon. `The reason is,' said the Gryphon, `that they WOULD go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all.' `Thank you,' said Alice, `it's very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before.' `I can tell you more than that, if you like,' said the Gryphon. `Do you know why it's called a whiting?' `I never thought about it,' said Alice. `Why?' `IT DOES THE BOOTS AND SHOES.' the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. `Does the boots and shoes!' she repeated in a wondering tone. `Why, what are YOUR shoes done with?' said the Gryphon. `I mean, what makes them so shiny?' Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her


always something ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him. "I am going," he said at last, in his calm, clear voice. "I don't wish to be unkind, but I can't see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer to him. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel, and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to, he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly-lit streets with gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by cursing, and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and had heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. When the dawn was just breaking he found himself at Covent Garden. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market, and watched the men unloading their wagons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge jade- green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its gray sun- bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. After some time he hailed a hansom and drove home. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. As he was passing through the library towards the door of his bedroom, his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back in surprise, and then went over to it and examined it. In the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-colored silk blinds, the face seemed to him to be a little changed. The expression looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly curious. He turned round, and, walking to the window, drew the blinds up. The bright dawn flooded the room, and swept the fantastic shadows [42] into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even. The quivering, ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.


again. The labor dragged a little, but still they made progress. They pegged away in silence for some time. Finally Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops from his brow with his sleeve, and said: "Where you going to dig next, after we get this one?" "I reckon maybe we'll tackle the old tree that's over yonder on Cardiff Hill back of the widow's." "I reckon that'll be a good one. But won't the widow take it away from us, Tom? It's on her land." "She take it away! Maybe she'd like to try it once. Whoever finds one of these hid treasures, it belongs to him. It don't make any difference whose land it's on." That was satisfactory. The work went on. By and by Huck said: "Blame it, we must be in the wrong place again. What do you think?" "It is mighty curious, Huck. I don't understand it. Sometimes witches interfere. I reckon maybe that's what's the trouble now." "Shucks! Witches ain't got no power in the daytime." --------------------------------------------------------- -233- "Well, that's so. I didn't think of that. Oh, I know what the matter is! What a blamed lot of fools we are! You got to find out where the shadow of the limb falls at midnight, and that's where you dig!" "Then consound it, we've fooled away all this work for nothing. Now hang it all, we got to come back in the night. It's an awful long way. Can you get out?" "I bet I will. We've got to do it to-night, too, because if somebody sees these holes they'll know in a minute what's here and they'll go for it." "Well, I'll come around and maow to-night." "All right. Let's hide the tools in the bushes." The boys were there that night, about the appointed time. They sat in the shadow waiting. It was a lonely place, and an hour made solemn by old traditions. Spirits whispered in the rustling leaves, ghosts lurked in the murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated up out of the distance, an owl answered with his sepulchral note. The boys were subdued by these solemnities, and talked little. By and by they judged that twelve had come; they marked where the shadow fell, and began to dig. Their hopes commenced to rise. Their interest grew stronger, and their industry kept pace with it. The hole deepened and still deepened, but every time their hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon something, they only suffered a new disappointment. It was only a stone or a chunk. At last Tom said: --------------------------------------------------------- -234- "It ain't any use, Huck, we're wrong again." "Well, but we can't be wrong. We spotted the shadder to a dot." "I know it, but then there's another thing." "What's that?". "Why, we only guessed at the time. Like enough it was too late or too early." Huck dropped his shovel. "That's it," said he. "That's the very trouble. We got to give this one up. We can't ever tell the right time, and


“So you’re listening to Ivy League assholes now?” He cocked his head at me. “I thought we weren’t about that anymore.” “I mean, no—” “Then let’s not be about that.” He smiled and shook my shoulder. Then he stole a look upstairs, a look at the kitchen, and leaned forward to kiss me. It was brief but soft, and I couldn’t help but close my eyes for it. “I’m going to turn in soon,” he said, breaking away to stand up. “If you want something to drink, whatever, the staff you hired is pretty damn attentive.” He took the stairs two at a time and I watched him go, aching for him, resisting the urge to follow him. Things were not the way I wanted them to be but they wouldn’t be that way forever. They couldn’t be that way forever. What had I done, after all? I’d given him the Farm, and his farmhouse, and the opportunity to hobnob with these semifamous people who loved him. His life would be less lush without me, less resplendent. There was no doubting that. Something buzzed on the couch: his phone. It must have fallen out of his pocket. I picked it up, saw that he’d just received an email from Delpy, and put it in my own pocket. He’d want his phone by his bedside, I knew. He always looked at it first thing in the morning. I climbed the stairs, whisper-shouting his name, careful not to disturb the sleeping guests. He didn’t call back to me. I began checking in empty offices, and when I didn’t find him in those I climbed to the next floor. All the doors were closed except for one at the end of the hall, which announced its openness by projecting a sliver of orange-ish light into the hallway. I could hear Orson’s voice in conversation with a woman’s. I got closer and recognized Emily’s faux-innocent lilt. I stood at the edge of the doorframe to find her sitting in a chair in a tank top and a pair of Spandex shorts so small they could have been underwear. Orson stood behind her, fingers at her temples. Both their eyes were closed. He was Synthesizing her, and I watched her shoulders tense and relax as he instructed her to reconstruct this or that thing about her past, to merge the good with the bad. He was different Synthesizing her than he had been with anyone else: he moved slower, spoke more deliberately, laughed gently as she jumped at his touch. There was something very wrong about it, something that made me want to stop it, but I couldn’t, because it was clear that would make him unhappy. So I wordlessly set his phone down on the carpet in the doorway and left them alone in the room, locked in a Synthesis so intense and magnetic neither of them noticed I was there. EIGHT REAL ESTATE DEVELOPER CHUCK ENNER, the father of delinquent youth Jeremy Enner, wrote an essay about watching his adolescent son set fire to the


immense and homely, and seem so close I can almost imagine running right into them if we could cross the neighboring field. When I lived here, I used to walk to another field near our old house to watch the sky darken above gold-limned hills. Sometimes, driving home in the evening, I’d pull over to admire the view—the riotous colors of sunset, the slow-deepening blue of the mountains as the light receded. I’ve relaxed at peaceful eastern lakes and walked along Atlantic beaches, but have yet to find any substitute for these mountains. There’s a reason my mother still sends me cards featuring photographs and watercolors of snow-covered peaks and foothills clustered with evergreens—she knows how much I miss the geography of home. Every time I return, it’s the Cascades that greet me first, from the window of a small plane. Without words, without answers, they offer me the same peace they always have. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. I can feel my mind ease a fraction, though my anxieties are slower to dissipate than the strands of fog clinging to the base of the hills. Other than my family, there’s little I miss, feel genuinely nostalgic for, in this sheltered valley. But the way I love these mountains, high and stark amid cloud cover and sun-shot sky, is as simple as the comfort of a dog, the promise of an Oregon rain shower. No matter my state of mind when I return, the friendly ranges encircle and welcome me, rising above green and gold fields, too vast to be outgrown; more than anything else, they make me feel that I might still have a place here. My dad loved this view. I can picture him sitting outside on my parents’ patio, wearing a baseball cap and his favorite blue Hawaiian shirt, listening to the radio and watching the hills emerge from the clouds. The day we buried him, there was a sun shower, and we gathered outside to see a rainbow arching over the peaks. Some hours later, when the overcast sky gave way to a fiery orange-and-rose sunset, one of the best I could ever remember seeing, Mom sighed and squeezed my hand. Quite a send-off. My father never feels closer or farther away than when I return to this place to find him gone. Now I’m walking a dog he never met, wondering if he knows what my mother is facing; what we are going through without him. I turn around, the mountains a reassuring wall at my back, and let Buster lead us home for lunch. 16 On the day after Christmas, I took my mother out to her favorite diner. My husband, kids, and I had flown to Oregon to spend the week with her, and my sister, Cindy, and her family made the trip down from Portland with a carful of Christmas decorations to deck the halls of our Airbnb. My mom didn’t have extra beds or space for guests, and we wanted her to be able


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically. It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener’s business to verify the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that to some sanguine temperaments it would be altogether intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet Byron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand. Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so that immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay. In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating what it was I wanted him to do—namely, to examine a small paper with me. Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving from his privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.” I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.” “Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here—take it,” and I thrust it towards him. “I would prefer not to,” said he. I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at


for a long glance and a low “Goodbye, Elsie.” After a beat, he adds, “It was a pleasure.” 8 FRICTION W HAT DO YOU MEAN , YOU THINK WE SHOULD LEAVE THEM be?” Mom’s voice is so shrill, I glance around to make sure no one overheard her through the phone. Dr. Voight waves at me before slipping inside the auditorium—the one where I’ll give my research talk in fifteen minutes—and my stomach flips, omelet-style. “It’s just . . . Lucas is very stubborn. Short of locking him in my dishwasher, I’m not sure how to stop him from acting up.” I hasten to add before Mom asks me to do just that, “And I think he’ll be okay if we give him space to sulk.” “What about Thanksgiving?” Uh? “What about Thanksgiving?” “What if he’s not done sulking by Thanksgiving? Where do I seat him? What if he doesn’t show? Your aunt will say that I don’t have my family under control. That she should host next year! She’s been trying to steal this from me for decades!” “Mom, it’s . . . January.” “And?” I spot Jack and Andrea coming my way, laughing, Michi and a gaggle of grads in tow. He’s one whole head taller than the crowd—like at every single Smith gathering—and wears a gray long-sleeved henley that manages to look simultaneously like the first thing he found in the laundry hamper and a highend piece tailored to showcase that protein is his favorite macronutrient. Haute couture by Chuck Norris. I wish he didn’t nod at me with that stupid smirk. I wish he wasn’t amused by my glare. “If by November things aren’t better, I’ll . . . look into rope restraints and cheap storage space, I promise. Gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you back tonight, okay?” I hang up to find a good luck email from Dr. L., who hasn’t quite mastered text messaging yet, and smile. At least someone cares. “I’m so, so sorry about yesterday,” Monica says, arriving in a flurry of clicking heels. Her eyes knife into Jack’s monstrous shoulders, and I do love how committed she is to despising him. Truly warms my high-risk cardiovascular system. “I left you with Jack for so long. I had no idea Sasha was late—men. So unreliable.” “Not a problem.” It’s not even a lie. Last night I managed to put in two solid hours of email answering before dinner, and I didn’t even doze off when Cece told me all about the recent breakthrough in her analysis of “The Odessa Steps” (i.e., act 4 of the 1925 silent movie Battleship Potyomkin). We’ve watched it together before—multiple times, since I made the rookie mistake of pretending to love it the first. But last night I was considerably less tired than usual, and my theory is that Jack’s the reason. Here’s the deal: things between him and me are unsalvageably bad. I’ll never conjure an Elsie able to please him, especially since he’s figured out my APE strategies. And as much as I hate knowing that there’s


she challenged him with only a look, telling him he could be more than what he’d limited himself to? Letting out another sigh, Mother lowered her own sewing and gestured to the stranger on the settee, who stood gracefully. “This is Martine. Martine Calloway. She arrived early this morning, much to our surprise.” Calloway? But they didn’t have any relatives in France. Simon opened his mouth to say so when a hand clapped on his shoulder, making him jump. “You’re blocking the door,” William said brightly. He seemed to have fully recovered overnight, and he pushed Simon deeper into the room so he could get inside as well. Then, to Simon’s consternation, William stepped right up to the mysterious Calloway woman and planted a kiss on her lips. Oh. He didn’t have the energy to deal with this new development. Simon turned right around and left the room. If William was already married to someone else, that somehow made all of this even worse, and he was desperate to find some reason to leave the county and give himself some space from the topsy-turvy world his life had become. He made it only a dozen steps down the corridor before William caught up to him, sliding to a halt in front of him and blocking his path. “Get out of my way,” Simon growled. William shook his head. “Not until you hear what I have to say.” Simon had no idea what to believe anymore, and no matter what William told him, he had no way to know if he could trust him. Even his mother and sister seemed privy to whatever nonsense was happening around him, and Simon wanted to run. To ride his horse as far as he would go and then keep running. But he couldn’t go to the stables now. Not when it would only remind him of that kiss with Lucy. An involuntary shudder ran through him at the memory. First the library, then his pond, now riding—Lucy had tainted everything he loved. “I am not in the mood, Will,” he said. Narrowing his eyes, William looked far stronger than he likely was. Simon had always been able to beat him in a wrestling match, but after this latest fever, he knew it would be perfectly easy to knock his brother down and get away. He had endured enough unrest the last several days, however, so he kept his fists at his side and clenched his jaw tight. “You were the one who said you wanted to talk when I recovered,” William pointed out, relaxing a bit as he stood there. Did he really think Simon might have hurt him? Perhaps they didn’t know each other at all. “So let’s talk.” Simon knew he would regret this. “About what?” “About Lucy.” Simon reconsidered his decision not to fight, but his mother would surely find them if he laid a finger on William. She had always had a knack for turning up at the worst moments. Groaning, he shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about Lucy.”


remember the lesson. She was the last of her kind.’ ‘Echo, you’re the first of your kind and the last. I don’t know what kind of genetic advances they’ve made in McMurdo. I don’t know what this new generation of Cold People will be like. But I do know that you’re special. More special than even the scientists realize.’ As she said goodbye, Professor Lili, a woman who’d once enjoyed promenades by the Huangpu River with her husband and her two children, felt like she was losing her family for a second time. Echo gave her mentor a hug, feeling her fragile body in her powerful arms. Her teacher was crying. Waiting for the professor to stop, she wondered how such sensitive, delicate creatures had survived for so long. THE ANTARCTIC PENINSULA HOPE TOWN WORDIE HOUSE SAME DAY WORDIE HOUSE WAS ONE OF Hope Town’s most prestigious properties, now occupied by one of the community’s most prominent families – Liza, Atto and their daughter Echo. They were a family known for their contribution to society, their kindness and willingness to help anyone who called on them for support. Their house was named after James Wordie, the chief geologist on Shackleton’s expedition. Shackleton was a revered historical figure, admired as a supreme survivor of the cold having endured four hundred and ninety-seven days on the ice with primitive equipment and, most crucially of all, losing none of his team. Built nearly a hundred years ago, the house was among the oldest manmade structures anywhere in Antarctica, evocative of ancient Icelandic fishing cottages, ducked low out of the winds, the walls made from the reclaimed timbers of abandoned whaling stations in the Antarctic tradition of repurposing everything and wasting nothing. Once located on Winter Island, several hundred miles north, the ancient structure had been dismantled and carried south, too valuable to leave behind, reconstructed as part of Hope Town as a symbol of survival and intended to inspire. Situated outside the city sprawl, at night the house had a fairy-tale feel, framed against the stars with a piglet curl of smoke from the chimney. All accommodation allocations were decided by the Housing Committee at Hope Town’s Parliament, the authority which sought to best match families and their homes. Since accommodation was in short supply, almost everyone shared, and if the combination of occupants was judged correctly, this act of sharing was found to improve the quality of people’s lives. No one was ever alone, conversation and interests were carefully balanced, and if someone fell sick, the others looked after them. If any groupings of people fell short of those standards, if there was friction or tension, they were quickly rearranged. Liza and Atto had been given the honour of living in this house as a celebration of their love story, people who’d found each other during the Exodus, a love story that had known only a single week of warmth and twenty years of cold. This historic house was assigned to them as a celebration of Liza’s achievements as a doctor in the most


have made a wonderful face. "Do I show it?" "You're as white as a sheet. You look awful." I considered; I could meet on this, without scruple, any innocence. My need to respect the bloom of Mrs. Grose's had dropped, without a rustle, from my shoulders, and if I wavered for the instant it was not with what I kept back. I put out my hand to her and she took it; I held her hard a little, liking to feel her close to me. There was a kind of support in the shy heave of her surprise. "You came for me for church, of course, but I can't go." "Has anything happened?" "Yes. You must know now. Did I look very queer?" "Through this window? Dreadful!" "Well," I said, "I've been frightened." Mrs. Grose's eyes expressed plainly that SHE had no wish to be, yet also that she knew too well her place not to be ready to share with me any marked inconvenience. Oh, it was quite settled that she MUST share! "Just what you saw from the dining room a minute ago was the effect of that. What _I_ saw--just before--was much worse." Her hand tightened. "What was it?" "An extraordinary man. Looking in." "What extraordinary man?" "I haven't the least idea." Mrs. Grose gazed round us in vain. "Then where is he gone?" "I know still less." "Have you seen him before?" "Yes--once. On the old tower." She could only look at me harder. "Do you mean he's a stranger?" "Oh, very much!" "Yet you didn't tell me?" "No--for reasons. But now that you've guessed--" Mrs. Grose's round eyes encountered this charge. "Ah, I haven't guessed!" she said very simply. "How can I if YOU don't imagine?" "I don't in the very least." "You've seen him nowhere but on the tower?" "And on this spot just now." Mrs. Grose looked round again. "What was he doing on the tower?" "Only standing there and looking down at me." She thought a minute. "Was he a gentleman?" I found I had no need to think. "No." She gazed in deeper wonder. "No." "Then nobody about the place? Nobody from the village?" "Nobody--nobody. I didn't tell you, but I made sure." She breathed a vague relief: this was, oddly, so much to the good. It only went indeed a little way. "But if he isn't a gentleman--" "What IS he? He's a horror." "A horror?" "He's--God help me if I know WHAT he is!" Mrs. Grose looked round once more; she fixed her eyes on the duskier distance, then, pulling herself together, turned to me with abrupt inconsequence. "It's time we should be at church." "Oh, I'm not fit for church!" "Won't it do you good?" "It won't do THEM--! I nodded at the house. "The children?" "I can't leave them now." "You're afraid--?" I spoke boldly. "I'm afraid of HIM." Mrs. Grose's large face showed me, at this, for the first time, the faraway faint glimmer of a consciousness more acute: I somehow made out in it the delayed dawn


to embrace with both arms. When the paper that employed Miss Marks threatened to fold, Andrew did the only sensible thing a man could do in that situation and bought the paper. Suitably wooed, Miss Marks became Mrs. Fleming, even though in the newspaper she retained her old byline. The paper succeeded; more papers were acquired; a son was produced, staid and responsible in a way that shocked the sensibilities of both of his parents. Young Andrew went off to fight a war, survived it, returned home to find that his father hadn’t, and took over the Chronicle. In the twenties, the Chronicle’s circulation exceeded half a million, which was none too shabby in a city that already had a couple dozen daily papers, not counting the weeklies, not counting the Black papers or those in other languages. The Chronicle’s success carried on through the thirties and right on through the war, not stumbling in the least when Fleming, again following in his father’s footsteps, married his star reporter. He divorced her almost immediately—but not before fathering a child. The circumstances that precipitated Andrew Fleming and Margaret Kelly’s divorce were well documented, having occurred in the newsroom of a major newspaper, surrounded by journalists with steel-trap memories and a penchant for gossip. Andy’s mother wanted to go to Germany to see what in hell was the matter over there. The Chronicle had always been progressive, and had only become more so under the stewardship of Andrew Fleming II, and while the staff might take their quarrels with one another about Stalin to the pages of the paper with unfortunate frequency, everyone agreed that Hitler was just a dirty fascist. But Andrew Fleming insisted that sloping off to fascist countries was not something that the mother of a newborn did; his wife accused him of being a fascist sympathizer. She went to Reno for a quickie divorce and then directly to the Herald Tribune, a betrayal that smarted much more than when she subsequently took up with her photographer in Berlin. This left Andrew Fleming with an infant and a paper to run. Only one of those required his personal attention and it wasn’t the baby. When Margaret Kelly returned to the States, she scooped the child up and deposited him in an apartment on the Upper East Side with a succession of housekeepers. She then went back to Berlin, and then to Prague and London and Paris. She was there for the liberation of Dachau. As a woman, she didn’t have official press credentials, so she made her own access, and in doing so made herself something of a legend. The first words Andy remembers reading were his mother’s reporting on the fall of Paris. Every few months she returned to New York with stories and presents and new scars and more gray hair, and he almost felt guilty for wondering why she wasn’t around more, because he was so proud of her. She went to Nuremberg. She went to Moscow and East Berlin, and then to Korea. She came back to


could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she must be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added, "You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!" It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health. CHAPTER XIII Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she refused him. Their affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this,


house again. It was a lurching process, steps forward followed by frantic backsliding, but Dad was still trying. The sun beat down, a rare day without a cloud in the sky. I tossed the trash bag I was carrying onto the pile by the front steps and peeled off my gloves. Dad was already outside, hands on hips, squinting at the old Chevy. “I think I could get this running again,” he said as I made my way over. “But you won’t,” I told him. “But I won’t,” he agreed. He sighed and scrubbed at his patchy scalp. “You think we could burn it all down and start over?” “We could do that,” I replied amiably. It was only about the thirtieth time we’d had this conversation and that he’d suggested that particular remedy. “But then you’d always wonder what you’d left buried.” “You really think there’s anything worth saving?” “You asking about the house, or about you?” I asked. He snorted. “I get enough of that crap from my shrink, I don’t need it from you, too.” Wheels crunched on gravel. I shaded my eyes with my hand. We didn’t have much in the way of visitors these days, and I didn’t recognize the car. “Expecting someone?” I asked. “Hell, no,” Dad said. The car parked. The door opened, and Ethan stepped out, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. “Should I get the shotgun?” Dad asked. “Dad.” I gave him a look. “Maybe the baseball bat. Just in case.” He chuckled. Ethan hadn’t moved, standing by the car with one hand on the door. I approached slowly, arms crossed. “Hey,” he said. He’d lost weight since I last saw him, the hollows of his cheeks deeper. He was holding a little stuffed hedgehog, which he held out to me. “I got you this,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “When you were in the hospital, at the gift shop, but then I never … Anyway, it made me think of you.” I stepped forward, just close enough to snag it with the tips of my fingers. The hedgehog was clutching a heart between its paws that said “Get Well Soon.” “It made you think of me,” I said. “Because I’m prickly?” “No, see, I have a subtle and insightful metaphor that proves I know you deeply,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. I raised an eyebrow. “It’s because I’m prickly.” “It’s because you’re prickly,” he confirmed, wincing. “You didn’t come. At the hospital. Or after,” I said. “You didn’t call. I never heard from you at all.” “I wasn’t sure you wanted to,” he said. “The way we left things…” “I don’t know if I would have wanted to see you, either,” I said. The question hung in the air between us—was it different now? I didn’t know the answer to that, either. When I’d thought I was dying, I’d wanted to forgive him. Now I wasn’t sure. Anger and relief and affection and betrayal fought tooth and claw for dominance. I shook my head. “I want it to


out and grab me. She notices, of course, and nods for me to hit the typewriter’s return bar. I do, quickly and abruptly, making sure there’s no contact between us. In response, Lenora types out three small but meaningful words. dont be scared Another nod from her. Another swift swipe of the return bar from me, allowing Lenora to type another line. i cant hurt you If the goal was to put me at ease, then Lenora has failed miserably. I won’t hurt you. Now that would have calmed my nerves. What Lenora ended up typing does the opposite. That insidious, apostrophe-less can’t suggests a lack of capability, not willingness. And that Lenora would hurt me if she could. SEVEN We eat dinner in silence, something I’ve become quite used to in the past six months. I sit facing Lenora, making sure our knees don’t touch. Since we left the typewriter, I’ve kept physical contact to a minimum. Our plates sit on the wooden tray I attached to Lenora’s wheelchair. Roasted chicken and glazed carrots for me, mashed acorn squash seasoned with crushed pills for Lenora. Since I don’t know who to feed first, me or her, I decide to alternate bites. One mouthful for Lenora and one for me until both plates are cleaned. After dinner is dessert. I get chocolate cake. Lenora gets pudding. After dessert, it’s time for Lenora’s evening circulation exercises. Something I’m not looking forward to because it means our limited contact must come to an end. For the rest of the evening, Lenora and I are going to be uncomfortably close. I use the Hoyer lift to get her out of the wheelchair and onto the bed. It requires sliding the sling under her, raising her out of the wheelchair, moving the whole contraption while she dangles like a kid on a swing, lowering her onto the bed, then pulling the sling out from under her. It’s easier in theory than in practice, especially because Lenora is heavier than she looks. A surprising sturdiness hides inside her birdlike frame. On the bed, I lift Lenora’s right leg before bending it, pushing the knee toward her chest. Lenora stares at the ceiling while I do it, seemingly bored. I think about how many times—with how many different nurses—she’s had to do this. Thousands, most likely. Morning and evening, day after day after day. When I move on to her left leg, Lenora lolls her head to the side, as if trying to see past me to the window. Even though it’s dark now and there’s not much to see, I understand why. It’s better than looking at the ceiling. At least there’s variety out there, even in the darkness. The full moon sits so low on the horizon it looks like it’s bobbing on the ocean’s surface. Clouds as thin as fingers drift in front of it. In the distance, a ship cruises through the night, its lights as bright as stars. I glance down at Lenora and notice longing in her eyes. I can relate. All


time. “I might like to hear you beg,” he says. Finally, finally, he takes a break only to slick the vibe with lube, and when he settles it between my legs, I let out a sigh of relief. Followed immediately by a gasp. He kicks the speed up a notch. A stream of obscenities falls from my mouth as he alternates speed, pressure, location. All of it incredible. “Don’t stop,” I say when he finds exactly the right spot. “God— please—” “No way in hell,” he’s quick to reassure me, his own breaths coming faster. Shallower. I feel it, the heat building at the base of my spine. It’s going to happen this time, with him—I’m certain of it. I bury a fist in the sheets. He seems to read my mind and ups the speed once more, until nothing exists except my body and this feeling and the way his brow furrows with determination as he adjusts his weight so he can lean into me harder. Faster. Yes. Something rips open inside me, a moan tearing from my chest. It’s an exquisite release, one that makes me shake and whimper and clutch his hair. He loosens his grip on the vibrator, riding out the aftershocks with me. I’m utterly spent. Speechless. And maybe he’s not sure what to say, either, because his mouth tips upward into this lazy smile and he reaches for my face again, just like he did before. This time, there’s almost a reverence in the way he cradles my jaw, something I’m certain I must be imagining. It’s natural to feel closer after orgasm. He may have just made a woman come for the first time—with a little help from the Memphis Erotic Boutique. “Chandler,” he says quietly. Only, I never get to hear what’s on the other side of my name. He blinks a few times and I’m close enough to see the pattern of freckles on his eyelids. After weeks of watching Oliver Huxley, I find that Finnegan Walsh still has some expressions I can’t read. He crooks a finger under my chin, bringing me closer. When our mouths meet, I’m surprised by the sudden softness in the way he kisses me. The gentleness in the way he brushes his lips against mine, so slowly before he draws away. And then, from somewhere beneath our mountain of clothes, a phone rings. Finn’s. He doesn’t make a move to answer it. “They’ll leave a message,” he says. Still, it’s jolted us apart, my lips still tingling with the memory of his. The phone stops—only for mine to start buzzing immediately afterward. “I should—” I say, and he nods his agreement. I stumble out of bed, riffling through our shirts and belts and underwear. Did I really have to wedge it into my pocket that tightly, and it’s a crime that women’s jeans are made with pockets that can feasibly fit only one-third of a cell phone and— “It’s our editor,” I say. Finn scurries to the edge of the bed, racing to tug on his boxers


go, with your skills at commanding a man’s focus like you do.” Lucy’s face burned with heat, as she was unsure what his comment might have meant. She had never commanded anything, but she liked thinking she had managed to capture attention from someone far better than Mr. Granger. Clearing her throat of a sudden swelling of fear, she tried to sound perfectly unaffected. “I haven’t been to a social function in my life, sir, and I resent the fact that you think me incapable of being just as awkward as you.” Simon opened his eyes at that and leaned up on one elbow, turning to face her fully now that he was a little farther away. “You’ve never gone out in Society?” Lucy shrugged a shoulder. “I was a governess for the last five years, and before that I was only a child, the daughter of a tailor. I’ve never had a reason to go out.” “But surely you have gone places with William.” His thick eyebrows pulled together, his expression making Lucy nervous. “He must have courted you.” Sighing, she tried to find the best way to explain. She didn’t want to lie to Simon any more than she already had, particularly in a place that was so special to him. Neither did she want to ruin this place for him by admitting the truth or speaking of Mr. Granger. “I have always lived an unconventional life, and nothing has changed.” “Ordinary lives are for ordinary people, Lucy. I may not know you well yet, but you are certainly extraordinary. Anyone can see that.” Heat filled Lucy’s face yet again when she realized he was perfectly serious. No one had ever called her extraordinary before. Not even Mr. Granger. That man was determined to marry her, and he had never even told her she was anything but pretty. How was this man, who thought she was his future sister-in-law, far more romantic than the one who planned to make her his wife in truth, whether she wanted it or not? That question reminded her that she had only two days before she would have to give Simon up. Not that he had been hers to begin with, but a part of her wished she could keep him forever. She wished she could tell him everything without him immediately using his limited time and energy to help her fix something beyond his responsibility. “You have to call me extraordinary because that is how you would treat your future sister-in-law,” she said, hoping she sounded casual and unhurt by the thought. “You need not say that out of obligation.” Clenching his jaw, Simon looked away, but not before Lucy caught the flash of anger in his eyes. “I say that because it is true.” He paused, then said, “Thank you, by the way.” “For what?” “For making me come out here. It doesn’t change the amount of work I have to do, but I can breathe again.” He was thinking about his work again, and that was the opposite of what Lucy


trailed behind them on the short walk to the front door. “He pays a steward to look after his lands and maintain his income, but that is about all this house is good for.” “Until now,” Simon offered, feeling rather useless as he followed Rebecca. Forester glanced back but didn’t acknowledge the addition. Nor did Lucy. “It doesn’t look like anyone is here, does it?” she said, peering through the nearest window. Forester shrugged. “Like you confirmed, William planned for only a few days here in Oxfordshire, and the Park is far more comfortable for such a short visit.” Thinking back on the conversation in the carriage, Simon tried to remember what Lucy had said about William’s plans. Had she said anything? The look in Forester’s eyes as he turned back to Simon didn’t ease his uncertainty, and Simon feared he was the butt of some joke he hadn’t heard. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Simon,” Forester said, “I suppose you’d better open up the house if we are to let the lovely Lucy see her future here. Then again, perhaps we—” His words stopped when the door opened, revealing William’s laughably young butler, Mason, in the entryway. “Lord Calloway!” Mason said, clearly surprised by the sight of visitors. “Mr. Forester.” But then his eyes landed on Lucy, and recognition set in. “And the future Mrs. Calloway!” He bowed low before opening the door wider to let them all inside. Whatever confusion Simon was feeling, he wasn’t the only one. For once, Forester was speechless, and even Lucy looked ready to run for half a second before she plastered on a smile and stepped into the house. Even the maid frowned at the reception, and she seemed to have far more answers than Lucy did. “Forgive our unpreparedness, miss,” Mason said once everyone was inside. “We didn’t expect you for a couple of days yet. Mrs. Hughsley!” The old housekeeper had been coming up the entry hall, but at the sight of guests she shuffled her feet faster until she arrived at the little gathering. “Lord Calloway,” she said, though slightly out of breath, and she sank into a curtsy as low as her geriatric legs would allow. Mrs. Hughsley was practically as old as the house itself. “And Mr. Forester, I didn’t expect to see you away from Town.” Forester flashed the woman a smile. “And miss coming to see you? My dear Mrs. Hughsley, you are always my favorite part of coming to see the Calloways, and you know it.” Miraculously, the housekeeper blushed a deep red at the flattery, though Simon had been sure she was no longer capable of such a thing. Then her eyes fell on Lucy, and though she wasn’t as confident as Mason had been, she still said, “And you must be William’s beloved. We’ve been so eager to meet you, Miss . . . ?” Simon frowned. They didn’t know her name? But he held his breath, waiting to see which name Lucy chose to give. Staley or Hayes? He had almost forgotten


should have introduced him properly before all the others started to make ghastly comments – they hadn’t realised he was a New Yorker. Melvyn told me afterwards that he’d tried to change the subject twice but – oh, I felt so dreadful, all that stuff about artists and playwrights. I apologised to Jensen before he left, but he didn’t mind at all. In fact, he found it quite humorous.’ ‘I bet he did,’ Minnie agreed with a smile. ‘He was very taken with you too…’ ‘Oh?’ Minnie tried to make her face appear surprised. ‘I’m not sure we had much in common…’ ‘He said he loved talking to you about theatre and literature over dessert. Minnie, he asked if you were single and if I had your phone number. Of course, I didn’t give it to him, not without asking you first.’ ‘Quite right too,’ Minnie said, a cat-with-the-cream expression on her face. If Jensen Callahan wanted to meet her again, he’d have to try harder than that. ‘But we must have another dinner party soon and, of course, you’ll be invited…’ ‘Thank you – that would be lovely.’ Minnie inclined her head graciously. ‘And now summer is coming, I might have a soirée in the garden.’ ‘Melvyn and I will be there – and we could ask Jensen.’ ‘I’ll look at my diary.’ Minnie was being deliberately enigmatic. ‘Oh, is that Melvyn waving?’ ‘It is – I must go.’ Francine kissed the air twice. ‘I just wanted to thank you for saving my dinner party – it could have gone so horribly wrong and you said all the right things. We’ll meet soon.’ ‘My pleasure,’ Minnie replied, remembering how much she’d enjoyed the Eton Mess, glancing into Jensen’s twinkling eyes and bantering with him about the arts. Minnie turned away from the heaving procession, the jangling bells and trumpeting music, and strolled along the banks of the Cherwell, the grounds of St Hilda’s to her left. As they often did, Minnie’s thoughts drifted back to her first term as an Oxford student. She’d been eighteen, skinny, all wild hair, second-hand clothes and books, a third-hand bicycle, edgily conscious of every sarcastic comment from those who were affronted by her presence at the university. But there were the others who supported her too, good friends, rebels, admirers, boyfriends, and one particular lecturer who had championed Minnie, reminding her very much of Miss Hamilton, the first person to believe that she had first class brains in her head. Minnie always marvelled at how far she’d come. As she walked past the gleaming river, ice-blue, dappled in sunlight, daffodils clustered on the banks, she felt thankful. She had won life’s lottery ticket: an education that led to independence and more. Most importantly, she had friends, books and an unshakeable confidence in her own mind. She was lucky; she was healthy, happy. She needed nothing more than this beautiful May Day in Oxford. Then from nowhere Jensen Callahan flickered into her thoughts, and she saw his bright eyes and the fascinating mind that lurked behind


not to hope. I thought she wouldn’t return for a long while. She had always been a roaming sort of soul, never prone to stay in one place too long. But she came back not a week later, and she chose to stay with me, and I knew she was the one, as silly as that might sound.” Attie was smiling, dimples flaring as she leaned on her shovel. “Not silly at all. Although I cannot even imagine you saying a cross word, Marisol. You’re like a saint.” Marisol laughed. “Oh, trust me. I have a temper.” “I can believe it,” Iris teased, to which Marisol tossed a weed at her in playful reproach. They returned to their work, Iris watching the ground soften and crumble beneath her efforts. She spoke before she could stop herself. “I hope we get to meet Keegan soon.” “As do I, Iris. She will love you both,” Marisol said, but her voice was suddenly tremulous, as if she were swallowing tears. And Iris realized Keegan must have been gone for quite some time now, if the garden had fallen into this much disarray again. Iris, full of nerves, wrote to him that night: Would you ever want to meet me? He replied, swiftly: YES. But you’re also six hundred kilometers away from me. Iris countered: If I had wings, I would fly home for a day. Since I don’t, it’ll have to be whenever I return to Oath. He asked: You’re returning? When? Do you know, or will you wait for the end of the war? P.S. You truly don’t have wings? I’m shocked. She paused, uncertain how to respond. It suddenly felt as if she had a host of butterflies within her, and she typed: I’ll return most likely when the war is over. I want to see you. I want to hear your voice. P.S. I most certainly don’t have wings. She sent that confession over the portal, and her mind added, I want to touch you. It took him a minute to answer, which had her biting her nails and fervently wishing she had kept those things to herself. Until he wrote: I want the same. Perhaps we could go irritate the librarians of Oath with our quest for missing myths, or I could take you to meet my nan over tea and biscuits. I think she would take a shine to you. You could also settle the debate about my chin being too pointy and sharp, and if I look more like a knight errant or a rogue. Or maybe we could even just walk the park together. Anything you would like, I would too. I’ll be here, waiting for whenever you’re ready to see me. She read it twice before hiding her smile in the crease of the paper. Dear Ms. Winnow, We have on record that one private Forest M. Winnow of Oath enlisted for Enva’s cause on the first day of Shiloh, nearly six months prior to your query. He was sorted into Second E Battalion, Fifth Landover Company,


her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.-- Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.-- Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could


of a prophecy was ridiculous. She scratched at the chipped paint of the windowsill. “I, um, have to tell you something.” “There’s more? Gods, girl, I left you at boring and found you at spine-tingling.” After a bit of pouting, Io said, “Edei is my fate-thread.” Plastering a mischievous smile on her lips, Rosa knocked Io’s shoulder with her own. “You sought him out at last! Good for you.” Io shushed her, dropping her voice extra low. “He doesn’t know! Bianca Rossi ordered me to investigate the wraiths with him.” “Did Bianca order you to cuddle him to sleep?” A snort escaped Io. “You’re such a meddler.” “And you’re such a chicken!” A smile was blooming on Io’s face. Small, tentative, but there. Always sharp-eyed, Rosa noticed it. “Oh, baby girl, how bad is it? His-initials-in-your-diary bad or your-chest-feels-like-it’s-about-to-explode bad?” Io would not be answering that. This was real life, not a radio drama. “You have been pining after him for years—” “Well, it’s a fate-thread! But I didn’t even know who he was.” “And now that you do?” Io shrugged. “He has a girlfriend.” “Does his girlfriend know Bianca ordered you to cuddle him to sleep?” “Will you stop? It’s not—” She paused and considered. “It’s not right to force this fate on him.” Rosa’s face scrunched up, like she was about to say something horrible. “You know, one day you’ll need to grow the hell up and let other people decide for themselves if they like you or not.” There it was. The horrible thing. Rosa had stabbed her right at the chip in her armor. The pain was twofold: first, because it reminded Io that she was a coward. It was safe to love people from afar, to dream of kisses but never seek them. We Ora sisters don’t kiss other people’s boyfriends—no matter how much Io might have wanted to. And second, because it reverberated deep into Io’s core to the numbing, inescapable fear that even if she did risk it all, if she did tell him about the fate-thread and how she felt, then the love would turn sour, soiled and corrupted, like Thais’s love had. Thais: the first, the deepest, the most important of all of Io’s unrequited love stories. They came together: the fear and the longing. Io dreaded that her love was doomed to be rejected, or tricked, or manipulated. And at the same time, she wanted desperately to be loved. She let her head drop on her friend’s shoulder. The words spilled out of her mouth before she could shape them into a more modest form: “I’m trying. I swear, Rosa, I’m trying.” “Oh, baby,” her friend said softly. Rosa’s arms came around her, enveloping Io in her best friend’s familiar scent. “I wish you wouldn’t push me away. I’ve missed you, and I know you’ve missed me.” Io glanced up. “I’m not pushing you away. We just got busy.” But that wasn’t true. Io remembered that time at the Cellar Club, where they had met up to celebrate Rosa’s new job. She


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

responsibilities. It’s bigger than me and my feelings.” “Look at this character growth. Five stars,” she says, grinning. Pushing back to stand, she says, “I’m going to order coffee. Need a refill?” “I’m good.” I’m so close to finishing this terrible document. I’ll probably never show it to another human, but it isn’t even about that. Two hours ago, my agent called to let me know she expects several of my backlist titles to hit the bestseller lists this week. Apparently new readers have been discovering my books, and posting photos and hilarious challenges, videos, and reviews. She sent me a few and I laughed through teary eyes as I watched. Writers can work for years and never know how a story will land with an audience. Being reminded that my words really affect readers made me want to get back to it immediately. Book people are just better, I swear by it. She also scolded me for avoiding her calls (valid), but said that she cares about me first, and if I never want to write another book, that’s fine. I won’t be letting her down, and she won’t take it personally. I have to do what’s best for me. Four months ago, the idea of hearing that would have been a relief, a weight lifted, but the moment Amaya said I could quit if I wanted, all I felt was a devastating bleakness. It made me realize I’m not ready to give up writing. I did the show to find myself, not for fame, and if I have to give up Connor, I want to at least hold on to what makes me me. And what I am is a writer. So even if every word in this doc is garbage, I’m not quitting. And tomorrow, I will put on my mental blinders and sit down and try to make a diamond out of a hunk of coal. Because tomorrow, I will do everything I can not to think about Connor and the show and how in just over four days I will be expected to embark on a trip with a man who isn’t the man I want. When my phone buzzes on the table, my immediate hope is that it’s him. I need to work on that. But then it buzzes again. And again. I turn it over and my heart takes off in a gallop for a very different reason. It’s a text from Alice. Fizzy. Fizzy oh my god Meet us at the hospital I’m in labor * * * Everyone says newborns are ugly, that they look like grumpy old men or tiny, unfurled leaves. They’re wrinkled and red-faced; fuzzy and grouchy. They do nothing but sleep and eat and cry and poop. That might be true for other babies, but at only six hours old, Helena Ying Kwok is already, hands down, the most beautiful and entertaining human ever to grace this planet. Baby Lena—I chose the nickname—has her mother’s tiny button nose and her father’s permafrown. She has her maternal grandmother’s full lips,


she leapt out of bed and pulled on the only clean clothes she had—Lethe sweats. “Now?” “I was making lunch when he called. I told Mercy to stay upstairs. He wants to go over preparations for the wolf run. Didn’t you email him?” “I did!” She’d sent her notes, links to her research, along with a fourhundred-word apology for being unprepared at their last meeting and a declaration of her loyalty to Lethe. Maybe she’d overdone it. “Where’s Darlington?” “He and Turner went to Tripp’s apartment.” Alex drew her fingers through her hair, trying to make it respectable. “And?” “No one answered the door, but the salt knot at the entry was still undisturbed.” “That’s good, right? Maybe he’s just hunkering down with his family or —” “If we don’t have Tripp, we won’t be able to lure his demon back to hell.” They would have to face that problem later. They were halfway down the stairs when they heard the front door open. Professor Walsh-Whiteley entered whistling. He set his cap and coat on the rack by the door. “Miss Stern!” he said. “Oculus said you might be late. Are you … in your pajamas?” “Just doing some chores,” Alex said with a bright smile. “Old houses need so much maintenance.” The step beneath her creaked mightily as if Il Bastone was joining the charade. “She’s a grand old thing,” said the Praetor, strolling into the parlor. “I was hoping to find Oculus had stocked the larder.” Oculus. Whom he hadn’t bothered to greet. No wonder his Virgil and his Dante had hated him. But they had more serious worries than a throwback professor with no manners. “Call Darlington,” Alex whispered. “I did!” “Try again. Tell him not to come back until—” The front door swung open and Darlington strode in. “Morning,” he said. “Turner—” Alex and Dawes waved frantically at him to shut up. But it was too late. “Do we have guests?” the Praetor asked, craning his neck around the corner. Darlington stood frozen with his coat in his hands. Walsh-Whiteley stared at him. “Mr. Arlington?” Darlington managed a nod. “I … Yes.” Alex could lie as easily as she could speak, but at that moment, she was at a loss for any words, let alone believable fictions. She hadn’t even thought about how they were going to explain Darlington’s reappearance. Instead she and Dawes were standing there looking like they’d just been doused with ice water. Well, if she was already playing shocked, she might as well lean into it. Alex summoned all her will and burst into tears. “Darlington!” she cried. “You’re back!” She threw her arms around him. “Yes,” Darlington said too loudly. “I am back.” “I thought you were dead!” Alex wailed at the top of her lungs. “Good God,” said the Praetor. “It’s really you? I’d been given to understand that, well, you were dead.” “No, sir,” Darlington said as he disentangled himself from Alex, his hand at the small of her back like a hot coal. “I had just slipped into a pocket


away from him, Roger bumped, fumbled with a hiss of breath, and passed onwards. He heard them whispering. "Can you see anything?" "There--" In front of them, only three or four yards away, was a rock-like hump where no rock should be. Ralph could hear a tiny chattering noise coming from somewhere-- perhaps from his own mouth. He bound himself together with his will, fused his fear and loathing into a hatred, and stood up. He took two leaden steps forward. Behind them the silver of moon had drawn clear of the horizon. Before them, something like a great ape was sitting asleep with its head between its knees. Then the wind roared in the forest, there was confusion in the darkness and the creature lifted its head, holding toward them the ruin of a face. Ralph found himself taking giant strides among the ashes, heard other creatures crying out and leaping and dared the impossible on the dark slope; presently the mountain was deserted, save for the three abandoned sticks and the thing that bowed. CHAPTER EIGHT Gift for the Darkness Piggy looked up miserably from the dawn-pale beach to the dark mountain. "Are you sure? Really sure, I mean?" I told you a dozen times now," said Ralph, "we saw it." "D'you think we're safe down here?" "How the hell should I know?" Ralph jerked away from him and walked a few paces along the beach. Jack was kneeling and drawing a circular pattern in the sand with his forefinger. Piggy's voice came to them, hushed. "Are you sure? Really?" "Go up and see," said Jack contemptuously, "and good riddance." "No fear." "The beast had teeth," said Ralph, "and big black eyes." He shuddered violently. Piggy took off his one round of glass and polished the surface. "What we going to do?" Ralph turned toward the platform. The conch glimmered among the trees, a white blob against the place where the sun would rise. He pushed back his mop. "I don't know." He remembered the panic flight down the mountainside. "I don't think we'd ever fight a thing that size, honestly, you know. We'd talk but we wouldn't fight a tiger. We'd hide. Even Jack 'ud hide." Jack still looked at the sand. "What about my hunters?" Simon came stealing out of the shadows by the shelters. Ralph ignored Jack's question. He pointed to the touch of yellow above the sea. "As long as there's light we're brave enough. But then? And now that thing squats by the fire as though it didn't want us to be rescued--" He was twisting his hands now, unconsciously. His voice rose. "So we can't have a signal fire. . . . We're beaten." A point of gold appeared above the sea and at once all the sky lightened. "What about my hunters?" "Boys armed with sticks." Jack got to his feet. His face was red as he marched away. Piggy put on his one glass and looked at Ralph. "Now you done it. You been rude about his hunters." "Oh shut up!" The


certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition, so that this persecution does not arise from him. I really think that we may eliminate him entirely from our calculations. There remain the people who will actually surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor." "Would it not be well in the first place to get rid ofl this Barrymore couple?" "By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No, no, we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions. There is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor. and there are one or two other neighbours. These are the folk who must be your very special study." "I will do my best." "You have arms, I suppose?" "Yes, I thought it as well to take them." "Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and never relax your precautions." Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were waiting for us upon the platform. "No, we have no news of any kind," said Dr. Mortimer in answer to my friend's questions. "I can swear to one thing, and that is that we have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could have escaped our notice." "You have always kept together, I presume?" "Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the College of Surgeons." "And I went to look at the folk in the park," said Baskerville. "But we had no trouble of any kind." "It was imprudent, all the same," said Holmes, shaking his head and looking very grave. "I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you get your other boot?" "No, sir, it is gone forever." "Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye," he added as the train began to glide down the platform. "Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted." I looked back at the plafform when we had left it far behind and saw the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and gazing after us. The journey was a swift and pleasant


for the following day when they should be on shore with the sailors who would have to accompany them with their belongings. Once out of Black Michael's sight any of the men might strike them down, and still leave Black Michael's conscience clear. And even should they escape that fate was it not but to be faced with far graver dangers? Alone, he might hope to survive for years; for he was a strong, athletic man. But what of Alice, and that other little life so soon to be launched amidst the hardships and grave dangers of a primeval world? The man shuddered as he meditated upon the awful gravity, the fearful helplessness, of their situation. But it was a merciful Providence which prevented him from foreseeing the hideous reality which awaited them in the grim depths of that gloomy wood. Early next morning their numerous chests and boxes were hoisted on deck and lowered to waiting small boats for transportation to shore. There was a great quantity and variety of stuff, as the Claytons had expected a possible five to eight years' residence in their new home. Thus, in addition to the many necessities they had brought, there were also many luxuries. Black Michael was determined that nothing belonging to the Claytons should be left on board. Whether out of compassion for them, or in furtherance of his own self-interests, it would be difficult to say. There was no question but that the presence of property of a missing British official upon a suspicious vessel Chapter 2 16 would have been a difficult thing to explain in any civilized port in the world. So zealous was he in his efforts to carry out his intentions that he insisted upon the return of Clayton's revolvers to him by the sailors in whose possession they were. Into the small boats were also loaded salt meats and biscuit, with a small supply of potatoes and beans, matches, and cooking vessels, a chest of tools, and the old sails which Black Michael had promised them. As though himself fearing the very thing which Clayton had suspected, Black Michael accompanied them to shore, and was the last to leave them when the small boats, having filled the ship's casks with fresh water, were pushed out toward the waiting Fuwalda. As the boats moved slowly over the smooth waters of the bay, Clayton and his wife stood silently watching their departure--in the breasts of both a feeling of impending disaster and utter hopelessness. And behind them, over the edge of a low ridge, other eyes watched--close set, wicked eyes, gleaming beneath shaggy brows. As the Fuwalda passed through the narrow entrance to the harbor and out of sight behind a projecting point, Lady Alice threw her arms about Clayton's neck and burst into uncontrolled sobs. Bravely had she faced the dangers of the mutiny; with heroic fortitude she had looked into the terrible future; but now that the horror of absolute solitude was upon them, her overwrought nerves gave way, and the reaction came. He did not


May & Pinska, the building contains over one hundred bedrooms, six dining rooms, libraries, living rooms, meeting rooms, and offices. The second, eighth, and sixteenth floors contain chapels, ornamented with mill-work and marble. The seventeenth floor is entirely residential. Men enter the building through the main doors on Lexington Avenue. Women enter through a side street and are "acoustically and visually separated" from the men at all times within the building. Earlier this evening, within the sanctuary of his penthouse apartment, Bishop Manuel Aringarosa had packed a small travel bag and dressed in a traditional black cassock. Normally, he would have wrapped a purple cincture around his waist, but tonight he would be traveling among the public, and he preferred not to draw attention to his high office. Only those with a keen eye would notice his 14-karat gold bishop's ring with purple amethyst, large diamonds, and hand-tooled mitre-crozier appliqu. Throwing the travel bag over his shoulder, he said a silent prayer and left his apartment, descending to the lobby where his driver was waiting to take him to the airport. Now, sitting aboard a commercial airliner bound for Rome, Aringarosa gazed out the window at the dark Atlantic. The sun had already set, but Aringarosa knew his own star was on the rise. Tonight the battle will be won, he thought, amazed that only months ago he had felt powerless against the hands that threatened to destroy his empire. As president-general of Opus Dei, Bishop Aringarosa had spent the last decade of his life spreading the message of "God's Work"-literally, Opus Dei. The congregation, founded in 1928 by the Spanish priest Josemara Escriv, promoted a return to conservative Catholic values and encouraged its members to make sweeping sacrifices in their own lives in order to do the Work of God. Opus Dei's traditionalist philosophy initially had taken root in Spain before Franco's regime, but with the 1934 publication of Josemara Escriv's spiritual book The Way- 999 points of meditation for doing God's Work in one's own life-Escriv's message exploded across the world. Now, with over four million copies of The Way in circulation in forty-two languages, Opus Dei was a global force. Its residence halls, teaching centers, and even universities could be found in almost every major metropolis on earth. Opus Dei was the fastest-growing and most financially secure Catholic organization in the world. Unfortunately, Aringarosa had learned, in an age of religious cynicism, cults, and televangelists, Opus Dei's escalating wealth and power was a magnet for suspicion. "Many call Opus Dei a brainwashing cult," reporters often challenged. "Others call you an ultraconservative Christian secret society. Which are you?" "Opus Dei is neither," the bishop would patiently reply. "We are a Catholic Church. We are a congregation of Catholics who have chosen as our priority to follow Catholic doctrine as rigorously as we can in our own daily lives." "Does God's Work necessarily include vows of chastity, tithing, and atonement for sins through self-flagellation and the cilice?" "You are describing only a small portion of the Opus Dei population," Aringarosa said.


asleep, as I wheel the two suitcases across the dimly lit parking lot toward my sedan. My car is at the side of the building, invisible from the main road. Even the highway is quiet at this hour. But soon it will fill with big trucks and commuters, and I will feel less alone. I lift the heavy bags into the trunk and close the lid gently, conscious of my slumbering neighbors. Opening the locks with a beep, I move to the driver’s side. My hand is on the door handle when a calm voice slithers over my shoulder. “Hello, Missy.” He has found me. Like I knew he would. I never had a chance. I turn to see my husband—handsome in a casual outfit, still perfectly pressed—smiling at me. The menace in his grin is evident as he moves toward me. I should run. I should attack. But all I do is cower away, press myself up against the car. When he stops, he is so close I can feel his breath. “I like your hair,” he says, reaching out to touch it, but I jerk my head away. There is derision in his voice, and in his cold gray eyes. He is toying with me. Enjoying my fear. The false compliment is all part of the game. “It’s a bit light for your complexion, but I’m sure you look better with makeup on.” I grit my teeth to keep from lashing out. I will not be goaded. I will not play. “You made a valiant effort to escape,” he says, taking a step back, allowing me to breathe. “But did you really think you could just walk away from me, Hazel? That I would just let you go after you planned to kill me?” “You planned to kill me,” I snap. Benjamin laughs darkly. “It’s comical, isn’t it?” “Hilarious,” I growl. And I have to ask, “How did you find me?” “You gave your new phone number to the nursing home. The nursing home I pay for. It was easy to get access to your mother’s updated records.” “She’s dead,” I tell him, my voice trembling only slightly. And though I have convinced myself my mother’s death was peaceful, natural, and on her own terms, I must be sure. “Did you take her, Benjamin? Did you hurt her?” “For God’s sake, Hazel.” He rolls his eyes. “Do you think I’m a monster?” “I do, actually.” “I had nothing to do with the crazy old lady’s demise,” he says flatly. “But it played into my hands nicely.” “How so?” “Your accusations were the rantings of a delusional woman. I’ve paid for your mother’s care for our entire marriage. Why on earth would I hurt her?” Behind him, a light flicks on in one of the motel rooms. The chunky blinds block out all but the slimmest shards, but I know someone is awake in there. They have heard us. They will intervene if things get violent. I just need to keep my husband talking. “You’d hurt my mom to hurt me.”