(adj) favorable; (n) ANTONYMS: (adv) weakly, slightly. limiting, forceful; (v) constrain. calmness, bravery, equanimity. skies: (n) heavens, firmament, exalt: (v) glorify, celebrate, animate, foretell: (v) forecast, anticipate, augur, expanse. raise, advance, promote, elevate, bode, predict, presage, announce, untimely: (adj) early, unseasonable, praise; (n, v) dignify, adore, ennoble. calculate, portend, prophesy, inopportune, inappropriate, ANTONYMS: (v) degrade, ridicule, forebode. awkward, immature, previous, ill debase, condemn, criticize, deprecate, gave: (v) deliver, allow, allot, provide, timed, inconvenient, improper, desecrate, disparage. furnish, impart, administer; (n) gives. belated. ANTONYMS: (adj) timely, foreboding: (n) apprehension, boding, mightily: (adv) powerfully, appropriate, opportune, convenient, presentiment, fear, anxiety, vigorously, strongly, greatly, overdue. Nathaniel Hawthorne 241 Now was heard again the clamour of the music, and the measured tramp of the military escort issuing from the church door. The procession was to be marshalled thence to the town hall, where a solemn banquet would complete the ceremonies of the day.% Once more, therefore, the train of venerable and majestic fathers were seen moving through a broad pathway of the people, who drew back reverently, on either side, as the Governor and magistrates, the old and wise men, the holy ministers, and all that were eminent and renowned, advanced into the midst of them. When they were fairly in the marketplace, their presence was greeted by a shout. This--though doubtless it might acquire additional force and volume from the child-like loyalty which the age awarded to its rulers--was felt to be an irrepressible outburst of enthusiasm kindled in the auditors by that high strain of eloquence which was yet reverberating in their ears. Each felt the impulse in himself, and in the same breath, caught it from his neighbour. Within the church, it had hardly been kept down; beneath the sky it pealed upward to the zenith. There were human beings enough, and enough of highly wrought and symphonious feeling to produce that more impressive sound than the organ tones of the blast, or the thunder, or the roar of the sea; even that mighty swell of many voices, blended into one great voice by the universal impulse which makes likewise one vast heart out of the many. Never, from the soil of New England had gone up such a shout! Never, on New England soil had stood the man so honoured by his mortal brethren as the preacher! How fared it with him, then? Were there not the brilliant particles of a halo in the air about his head? So etherealised by spirit as he was, and so apotheosised by worshipping admirers, did his footsteps, in the procession, really tread upon the dust of earth? As the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all eyes were turned towards the point where the minister was seen to approach among them. The shout died into a murmur, as one portion of the crowd after another obtained a glimpse of him. How feeble and pale he looked, amid all his triumph! The energy--or say, rather, the inspiration which had held him up, until he Thesaurus blended: (adj) mixed, miscellaneous, ANTONYM: (adj) orderly. worshipfully,


his client. It’s all part of the ‘Dennison mystique,’” Zera added sarcastically, and Kristi imagined the agent making air quotes around her phone. “Save me.” Kristi rolled her eyes. “That might have flown years ago, but in the age of the Internet, with Facebook—oh, excuse me, Meta—and Instagram and Twitter and book lovers’ groups and mystery blogs and podcasts and whatever, it seems impossible.” “I’m just saying,” Zera said. “And he’s not the only one who is talking about a new book on Rosary. I even heard a whisper about a movie. Made for TV.” Kristi should have been enticed. She wasn’t. “That’s already happened. They can dust off that old made-for-TV thing.” Zera snorted. “An episode of a cheesy true-crime cable show. This would be different.” “If you say so.” Zera continued, “I’m telling you, Kristi, the vultures are circling. If you don’t do this, half a dozen other authors will.” “I hear you.” “Good. So just send me something!” “I will.” It was a lie. Kristi knew it as she disconnected. Zera would be pissed at her, okay, but if Kristi figured out who was behind the attack on Jay—yes, possibly Father John—there would be a whole new story to appease her agent. A sequel to The Rosary Killer? She wasn’t certain of that, but both she and Zera knew that from her unique perspective of victim and new widow due to the attack, she would be able to get a publisher interested in the story, no matter what or who the competition. If she could put the pieces together. And if she didn’t get hurt or killed while doing it. Absently, while the kitten hopped onto the windowsill, Kristi rubbed her shoulder where her assailant had thrust his blade, just before killing Jay. “I’ll get you, you son of a bitch,” she said under her breath. “If it’s the last thing I do.” “No, Kris. Not the last thing.” Jay’s voice again, ringing in her ears. Reprimanding. “What?” she bit out angrily, mad that he wasn’t here, that he was haunting her instead. “The baby. You have to think first about the baby.” Oh, God. She let out an exasperated breath as Lenore stepped onto the top of Kristi’s messy desk. Jay was right, of course. She couldn’t put herself into any kind of danger, not now. Though reckless when it came to her own safety, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, place her unborn child in peril. Frustrated, she threw her pencil and startled the kitten, who leaped straight up and landed back on Kristi’s work space, her back arched, her needle teeth exposed as she hissed. “Oooh. Sorry.” Kristi reached for her, but Lenore scuttled behind the stack of books Kristi had pulled from the shelf and left on a corner of her desk. Copies of the same books she’d given to Montoya. Kristi paused. Studied the spines of the hardbacks. Was Montoya right? Could Jay’s killer be tucked into the pages of the books she had written over the years? What were the chances of that? Not great, but


her a strange feeling of fellowship, a delicately ridged collusion. Heads and tails flipping over and over, spinning on the gaming table... Footmen in tails, she thought, idly. Yes, she did like them. She did miss them. One in particular. She very nearly—nearly—sighed. “We need to get back,” she said briskly. 10 Mrs. Bone spent her first afternoon on Park Lane rubbing copper pans, keeping her head down, as instructed by Mrs. King. She cleaned that copper with furious energy, and with an eye on the clock, waiting for her first break. She had no intention of waiting around. She needed to disentangle herself from Cook, and the other servants, and make an immediate examination of the house. The lower offices were sufficiently warren-like that she could sneak upstairs without being observed. She entered the front hall first. It felt satisfying to start somewhere forbidden. There was a cathedral-like hush, light coming down through a glass dome above. Palms and ferns in great vases. A floor made of white marble. Gold on the door panels and crystal in the doorknobs. A lot of very disgusting and expensive things that Mrs. Bone rather liked: paintings of nude ladies, foxes stuffed till their eyes popped, stags screaming silently from their plinths. It wasn’t exactly the size of the place that caught her breath. It was the curve to it, the way it flowed upward, all glass and iron and light. It seemed frosted, iced, a lickable, kissable house. Her envy made her skin grow hot. The hall was connected to the gardens by a long, colonnaded passage and several glass-fronted doors. She remembered it from the schematics engraved on the soup tureen. Good, she thought. Easy access. But she wanted to inspect the garden exits properly. Remembering the maps Winnie had drawn up for her, she crept back downstairs. She sidled through the kitchen passage, passed the sculleries, pantries, laundry rooms, larders, still rooms, dry rooms, inched around the edge of the kitchen and into the mews, and scuttled straight for the mews door. She tested the handle. Not locked. She glanced back at the house. This was a clear run from the gardens. Helpful. Gently, keeping her eyes peeled for onlookers, she opened the mews door, and backed out into the lane. “Mrs. Bone.” Mrs. Bone’s heart jumped. “Christ alive.” Winnie Smith was hidden in the ivy. “I beg your pardon. Did I startle you?” Winnie peered at her, her cabbage-colored dress covered in detritus from the wall. “Nobody startles me,” said Mrs. Bone, catching her breath. “What d’you want?” “I come here to collect Alice’s daily report. I thought you might wish to share your first remarks.” “Oh, it’s remarks you want, is it? Heavens, let me just fetch my magnifying glass and look at my notes.” Mrs. Bone tutted. “I’ve only been here five minutes. Give me a whole day at least.” Winnie frowned, and Mrs. Bone sighed, lowering her voice. “Look, the way I see it, I’m going to be cooped up in the kitchens, shoved up the back stairs,


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley. "Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on. "No," said Harry. "Play Quidditch at all?" "No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be. "I do -- Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?" "No," said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute. "Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been -- imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" "Mmm," said Harry, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting. "I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in. "That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to know something the boy didn't. "He works at Hogwarts." "Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?" "He's the gamekeeper," said Harry. He was liking the boy less and less every second. "Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage -- lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed." "I think he's brilliant," said Harry coldly. "Do you?" said the boy, with a slight sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?" "They're dead," said Harry shortly. He didn't feel much like going into the matter with this boy. "Oh, sorry," said the other, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?" "They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean." "I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?" But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down from the footstool. "Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the drawling boy. Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts). "What's up?" said Hagrid. "Nothing," Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, "Hagrid, what's Quidditch?" "Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know -- not knowin' about Quidditch!" "Don't make me feel worse," said Harry. He told Hagrid about the pate boy in Madam Malkin's. " -- and he said people from Muggle families shouldn't even


the completely innocent cast given to the miserliness of the old weaver, his almost entire freedom from any touch of moral responsibility for the growth of this passion, and in the complete and unresisted revulsion of feeling caused by the loss of his gold and the substitution of a living interest in its place. Silas Marner's character is no common conception. -R. H. Hutton, review in The Economist, 1861 In all those of our author's books which have borne the name of the hero or heroine--Adam Bede, Silas Marner, Romola, and Felix Holt--the person so put forward has really played a subordinate part. The author may have set out with the intention of maintaining him supreme; but her material has become rebellious in her hands, and the technical hero has been eclipsed by the real one.... Godfrey Cass, with his life-long secret, is by right the hero of Silas Marner." -Henry James, Atlantic Monthly, 1866 George Eliot's concentration on the moral side of human nature is the chief source of her peculiar glory, the kernel of her precious unique contribution to our literature. Her imagination is not a distorting glass like Dickens', vitalizing her figures by accentuating their personal idiosyncrasies, nor is it, like Charlotte Bronte's, a painted window suffusing them with the color of her own live temperament; it is an X-ray, bringing them to life by the clearness with which she penetrates to the secret mainspring of their actions. -David Cecil, Victorian Novelists, 1935 (George Eliot) was more aware than her immediate predecessors of the complexity of characters and her creations cannot be labelled good or bad, nor accorded the wholesale approval or disapproval of the reader as readily as can many Victorian heroes or heroines. -Joan Bennett, George Eliot: Her Mind and Art, 1948 George Eliot can make the apparently simple mind as interesting as the sophisticated and more inventively creative mind of the artist. Nothing in the human imagination was alien to her imagination. -Barbara Hardy, Particularities: Readings in George Eliot, 1982 ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: ON THE SETTING Nothing can be more profound than this picture of the manner in which all human beings are influenced by their environment... on laying down the book we do not dwell upon Silas Marner or Godfrey Cass or Dolly Winthrop, or any particular character, but are forced to embrace them all with all their restricted country life. Nothing short of Raveloe satisfies the memory. -Unsigned review in Westminster Review, 1861 We feel that there must be a silent guest in the chimney-corner of the 'Rainbow,' so thoroughly at home with the natives as to put no stress upon their behaviour, and yet one who has travelled out of sight of the village spire, and known the thoughts and feelings which are stirring in the great world outside. -Leslie Stephen, Cornhill magazine, 1881 ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: ON THE REALISM We seem to be looking at... any of those domestic or rustic paintings of the Dutch school, where every leaf in the elm trees or the limes is painted, every gnarl of the


either in the way of This was a run of eight or nine miles. Silver, though he blame or praise. At Silver’s polite salute he somewhat flushed. was almost killed already with fatigue, was set to an oar, like “John Silver,” he said, “you’re a prodigious villain and im- the rest of us, and we were soon skimming swiftly over a smooth poster—a monstrous imposter, sir. I am told I am not to sea. Soon we passed out of the straits and doubled the south- prosecute you. Well, then, I will not. But the dead men, sir, east corner of the island, round which, four days ago, we had hang about your neck like mill-stones.” towed the HISPANIOLA. “Thank you kindly, sir,” replied Long John, again salut- As we passed the two-pointed hill, we could see the black ing. mouth of Ben Gunn’s cave and a figure standing by it, lean- “I dare you to thank me!” cried the squire. “It is a gross ing on a musket. It was the squire, and we waved a handker- dereliction of my duty. Stand back.” Contents chief and gave him three cheers, in which the voice of Silver And thereupon we all entered the cave. It was a large, airy joined as heartily as any. place, with a little spring and a pool of clear water, overhung Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 282 283 with ferns. The floor was sand. Before a big fire lay Captain Smollett; and in a far corner, only duskily flickered over by the blaze, I beheld great heaps of coin and quadrilaterals built of bars of gold. That was Flint’s treasure that we had come so far to seek and that had cost already the lives of seventeen men from the HISPANIOLA. How many it had cost in the amassing, what blood and sorrow, what good ships scuttled on the deep, what brave men walking the plank blindfold, what shot of cannon, what shame and lies and cruelty, per- haps no man alive could tell. Yet there were still three upon that island—Silver, and old Morgan, and Ben Gunn—who had each taken his share in these crimes, as each had hoped in Chapter 34. And Last. vain to share in the reward. “Come in, Jim,” said the captain. “You’re a good boy in THE next morning we fell early to work, for the trans- your line, Jim, but I don’t think you and me’ll go to sea again. You’re too much of the born favourite for me. Is that you, portation of this great mass of gold near a mile by land to the John Silver? What brings you here, man?” beach, and thence three miles by boat to the HISPANIOLA, “Come back to my dooty, sir,” returned Silver. was a considerable task for so small a number of workmen. “Ah!” said the captain, and that was all he said. The three fellows still abroad upon the island did not greatly What a supper I had of it that night, with all my friends trouble us; a single sentry


Io told herself. Patience always paid off. “I am told you are a sleuth.” Io nodded, waiting. This wasn’t why she had been escorted here at the crack of dawn. “And that you were attacked last night by an unusual assailant.” This wasn’t what she was here for, either. “Luckily, we are not as useless as the city’s officials.” At Bianca’s nod, the door behind them opened. “Look what Edei caught for you.” And there she was. The wraith. Two gang members prodded her in with long brass bars, a redheaded boy and a dark-skinned girl in a close-fitting athletic outfit. The office filled immediately with the pungency of rot. The woman smelled and looked derelict: torn clothes hanging off her shoulders, shoes soaked with mud, wet hair stuck on her pasty skin. Io’s gaze came to rest on Edei, taking him in from head to toe. He wore a different wool sweater than when she first saw him earlier, and his boots left little wet imprints on the dark wood. Was that where he disappeared to right after the attack? Had he dived after the wraith? Their eyes connected—Io flushed and dragged hers back to the woman. “What do you see, Miss Ora?” Bianca asked. Up close, in the dazzling light of daybreak, the old woman’s lips were deep purple, bags sagged under her yellowing eyes, veins inked her arms in blue, and flakes of dead skin dusted her clothes and hair. She looked like she was decomposing, a body with no life inside it, a dead woman walking. Io went into the Quilt, hoping against hope that she had been wrong. That it had been a trick of the light. But there in the old woman’s hand was the severed life-thread. Giving her a wide berth, Io circled her for a closer look. The unbound thread drooped to the white carpet, pooling by the wraith’s feet. Io checked its color against her own bundle of threads, then Bianca’s and Edei’s. It was definitely a life-thread, made of the same lustrous silver that outshone every other thread in their chests. “What is it?” asked Bianca. “Her life-thread is cut,” said Io. “Yet she is alive. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Bianca, surprisingly, didn’t doubt her as Ava had. “Do you think that’s why she killed that man? Did the loss of her life-thread drive her mad?” I don’t know. But that wasn’t the answer Bianca was looking for, nor one Io allowed herself to give. Reasons, motives, resolutions, she excelled in those. People paid good money for her rational mind, her ability to see what linked people together, both the real threads of the Quilt and those of the metaphorical sense. The facts were: a dead man, a severed life-thread, a deathless murderess. Madness was an explanation. But the woman had said, There are crimes that cannot go unpunished. That was motive, however mystifying. Io asked the old woman, “What crimes did you punish him for?” The wraith didn’t reply. Since she entered the office, she hadn’t stopped staring at


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

energy. Just the two of us, watching this thing we created together. Lanelle gives a brief recap of where we are in the show progression, and we get quick cuts of the previous, now-eliminated contestants. There’s a smooth transition to Fizzy and the remaining Heroes meeting in the industrial kitchen. Lanelle explains what the week’s activities will be, and the view closes in on Fizzy choosing which Hero will join her for which date. She’s playful and sexy and oozes charisma. “You really were made for television.” “It’s so hard not to get caught up in critiquing myself,” she says. “I can see that.” Before I can offer further reassurance, Colby appears, tying on his apron for the cooking activity. It was clear from the start that whatever chemistry he and Fizzy had during their first date didn’t translate to their second, but we do a great job of making their time together look less painful than it was in person. We cut to an ad, and Fizzy takes the bottle from me, swigging. “What do you think the reaction would be if I’d just punched Colby in his mansplainy face?” “As your producer, I would advise against it.” “And as my friend?” I take the bottle back and smile as I bring it to my lips. “I’d tell you to go at him again.” She laughs, shifting so that she’s lying on her stomach with her feet at the head of the bed. I stare down at the view of her completely bare legs. I am well and truly fucked if I have to watch her go on dates with other men on television with the perky curve of her ass cheek right in front of me, peeking out the bottom of her tiny shorts. Shifting, I lie beside her, mimicking her posture. “Bet Colby doesn’t survive the week.” “Or Jude.” She lifts her chin when he comes on-screen, walking toward her in the park where they’ll plant trees. “I’m honestly impressed with how good you are at your job.” “How so?” “This date,” she says, nodding to the television. “It looks so intimate, like we’re in this gorgeous park, completely alone. You’ve captured my expressions in a way that makes it seem like I’m swooning over him. And Jude—look at him. What is that filter? I need it in front of my face at all times. He looks so hot and not at all derpy here.” She laughs. “In reality, it was eighty-nine degrees, humid, and crowded.” She points. “Was I looking at him there or you? I swear that entire date I kept looking at you.” “We might have to work on that a little,” I say with a nudge to her shoulder. “I appreciate the boost to my ego, but audiences need to imagine you falling in love with any one of them.” Fizzy rolls her eyes at the TV. “Nobody will believe I’m into someone who unironically used the phrase legitimate vampire literature.” “Any true vampire expert would have understood your Volterra joke.” Fizzy sits up and


contradiction given to such a speech by such a speaker; I only know that the next instant I heard myself throw off with homely force: "Stuff and nonsense!" But the next after that I must have sounded stern enough. "What WERE these things?" My sternness was all for his judge, his executioner; yet it made him avert himself again, and that movement made ME, with a single bound and an irrepressible cry, spring straight upon him. For there again, against the glass, as if to blight his confession and stay his answer, was the hideous author of our woe--the white face of damnation. I felt a sick swim at the drop of my victory and all the return of my battle, so that the wildness of my veritable leap only served as a great betrayal. I saw him, from the midst of my act, meet it with a divination, and on the perception that even now he only guessed, and that the window was still to his own eyes free, I let the impulse flame up to convert the climax of his dismay into the very proof of his liberation. "No more, no more, no more!" I shrieked, as I tried to press him against me, to my visitant. "Is she HERE?" Miles panted as he caught with his sealed eyes the direction of my words. Then as his strange "she" staggered me and, with a gasp, I echoed it, "Miss Jessel, Miss Jessel!" he with a sudden fury gave me back. I seized, stupefied, his supposition--some sequel to what we had done to Flora, but this made me only want to show him that it was better still than that. "It's not Miss Jessel! But it's at the window--straight before us. It's THERE-- the coward horror, there for the last time!" At this, after a second in which his head made the movement of a baffled dog's on a scent and then gave a frantic little shake for air and light, he was at me in a white rage, bewildered, glaring vainly over the place and missing wholly, though it now, to my sense, filled the room like the taste of poison, the wide, overwhelming presence. "It's HE?" I was so determined to have all my proof that I flashed into ice to challenge him. "Whom do you mean by `he'?" "Peter Quint--you devil!" His face gave again, round the room, its convulsed supplication. "WHERE?" They are in my ears still, his supreme surrender of the name and his tribute to my devotion. "What does he matter now, my own?--what will he EVER matter? _I_ have you," I launched at the beast, "but he has lost you forever!" Then, for the demonstration of my work, "There, THERE!" I said to Miles. But he had already jerked straight round, stared, glared again, and seen but the quiet day. With the stroke of the loss I was so proud of he uttered the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss, and the grasp with which I recovered him might have been that


at the island. “I called the lab. They’re picking up the garbage container and this.” Bentz pointed to the envelope and card with its damning rose drawing and Bible verse, tape still intact, now wrapped in a plastic bag. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe he left a fingerprint on the tape or the card.” “He hasn’t before,” Montoya pointed out. “Yeah, well, maybe this time he was careless.” Bentz scowled and Kristi saw that he didn’t believe it for an instant. Neither did she. CHAPTER 35 Montoya was too wound up to end the day and for once he didn’t have to rush home. Abby and Ben had spent the day with another new mom and infant and both were exhausted. She’d called to say Ben was asleep, she was turning in early, watching a movie in the bedroom. “You’re on your own for dinner,” she’d told him. “And if I’m asleep when you get in, don’t wake me, okay? Ben, either. He was getting fussy tonight. Needs his sleep.” Which worked for Montoya because he wasn’t ready to shut down for the night. Not after coming so close to a writhing, scary cottonmouth. So who would have access to a large snake? Who would handle a water moccasin? He’d checked the Internet and had come up with an answer: Ned Zavala. As much as Montoya had dismissed the big man earlier, he kept coming back to all the reasons Zavala could be behind the attacks. Zavala lived near the bayou, was used to dealing with reptiles, so he was Montoya’s first guess. The trouble was the person in the footage he’d seen from the camera pointed at the container at Kristi’s house was much slimmer than Zavala, who was a bear of a man. Still, the man hunted alligators and creatures of the swamp. If anyone could capture a water moccasin, it would be good old Ned. Montoya decided to pay the Bayou Butcher a visit. * * * At the table in one of her favorite cafés just outside the French Quarter, Samantha Wheeler checked her watch. She was running late because her dinner with Caroline had gone longer than she’d planned, but then that was more usual than not. She and Caroline never seemed to run out of conversation. They were old friends from college, one of the few she’d kept after her first marriage had dissolved, so they kept in touch, usually meeting on the last Thursday of the month for dinner and drinks and just to catch up. Tonight had been no different. “I really need to run,” Sam said, finishing the last of her wine, taking out her phone and texting her husband to tell him she was on her way. “I hate to cut this short, but Ty’s with the boys and he’s got an early flight in the morning, so I’d better get home and take over so he can get a few hours’ sleep. He’s going to meet us at Disney in a couple of days.” “Vacation?” Caroline asked. “Yeah.” It was just


arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself `Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What WILL become of me?' Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. `It was much pleasanter at home,' thought poor Alice, `when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what CAN have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now,' she added in a sorrowful tone; `at least there's no room to grow up any more HERE.' `But then,' thought Alice, `shall I NEVER get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman- -but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like THAT!' `Oh, you foolish Alice!' she answered herself. `How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for YOU, and no room at all for any lesson-books!' And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. `Mary Ann! Mary Ann!' said the voice. `Fetch me my gloves this moment!' Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself `Then I'll go round and get in at the window.' `THAT you won't' thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--`Pat! Pat! Where are you?' And then a voice she had never heard before, `Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!' `Digging for apples,


he had a black beard, cut square at the end, and a pale face. I don't know as I could say more than that." "Colour of his eyes?" "No, I can't say that." "Nothing more that you can remember?" "No, sir; nothing." "Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There's another one waiting for you if you can bring any more information. Good-night!" "Good-night, sir, and thank you!" John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile. "Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began," said he. "The cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street, conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay my hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message. I tell you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of our steel. I've been checkmated in London. I can only wish you better luck in Devonshire. But I'm not easy in my mind about it." "About what?" "About sending you. It's an ugly business, Watson, an ugly dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more." Chapter 6 Baskerville Hall Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the appointed day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station and gave me his last parting injunctions and advice. "I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspi- cions, Watson," said he; "I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing." "What sort of facts?" I asked. "Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indi- rect upon the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbours or any fresh particulars concern- ing the death of Sir Charles. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few days, but the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to be 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


smoking, no alcohol, no boys beyond the parlor. You must be in by midnight, the doors are locked after that. You must be between eighteen and twenty-five, neither married nor divorced.” “I’m nineteen and not married.” And certainly not getting married anytime soon, after her last conversation with Nathaniel. “Excellent. Room and board includes two home-cooked meals a day. On weekends, you’re on your own. Anyone living here has to be pursuing a career on the stage, whether taking classes, looking for an agent, or auditioning. You already have a job, so that’s covered. The cost is eighteen dollars a week. Let me show you around.” The tour took them to the practice room, where one girl was banging away on a scuffed upright piano while another belted out a song in a strong alto. Down in the basement was the dining room, with a dozen Formica tables crammed into the small space. They took the creaky stairs up to the second floor, where the wallpaper curled away from the ceiling in the corners. The place could do with a serious sprucing-up, but then Marion had grown up in a beautifully appointed house that Mrs. Hornsby had kept in impeccable order. She was quite spoiled in that way, she had to admit. “This is where Bunny sleeps,” said Mrs. Fleming, opening a door. The room was large, with two beds, each with a bedside table, and two dressers with mirrors. A metal wardrobe loomed in a corner and a pair of hideous orange floral curtains framed a large window that looked onto the street. To the right, Marion spied a small bathroom, where bras and stockings hung from a clothesline that draped across the ceiling. “So, what do you think?” Marion put her suitcase down on the sloping wood floor. She realized she didn’t have much of a choice if she wanted to be able to sleep that night. “Sure. I’ll take it.” “Then you’re all set. Welcome to the Rehearsal Club.” After Mrs. Fleming left, Marion placed her clothes in the drawers of the empty bureau, hung her dresses in the wardrobe, then tucked the suitcase under the bed. As the din of street noise floated in through the open window, she considered what she’d done in the past twenty-four hours. Defied her father. Left home. Moved in with a girl she’d only recently met and barely knew. She was suddenly seized with panic at what she’d put into motion. A completely different life from the one she’d envisioned. Right now, she should be getting ready for a date with Nathaniel, varnishing her nails for when she showed off his sparkling engagement ring, accepting her father’s bear hug when they returned from their date, watching him shake the hand of the man who would become her husband. Instead, she was sitting on a lumpy bed listening to the wail of a police siren on the street below, surrounded by strangers. But underneath all the fretting and worry was something she was just starting to put a finger on, something that she


de big plantation close to Savannah, a rider come in a gallop tellin’ ’bout Sherman takin’ Atlanta. Marse Robert’s son had done been kilt at Chickamauga. So he grabbed his gun and straddled his best horse and went off wid de rest of de gray-headed men and young boys to drive de Yankees back into Tennessee. “They was all cheerin’ and cryin’ and shoutin’ for de men dat was ridin’ off. Ah couldn’t see nothin’ cause yo’ mama wasn’t but a week old, and Ah was flat uh mah back. But pretty soon he let on he forgot somethin’ and run into mah cabin and made me let down mah hair for de last time. He sorta wropped his hand in it, pulled mah big toe, lak he always done, and was gone after de rest lak lightnin’. Ah heard ’em give one last whoop for him. Then de big house and de quarters got sober and silent. “It was de cool of de evenin’ when Mistis come walkin’ in mah door. She throwed de door wide open and stood dere lookin’ at me outa her eyes and her face. Look lak she been livin’ through uh hundred years in January without one day of spring. She come stood over me in de bed. “‘Nanny, Ah come to see that baby uh yourn.’ “Ah tried not to feel de breeze off her face, but it got so Their Eyes Were Watching God 21 cold in dere dat Ah was freezin’ to death under the kivvers. So Ah couldn’t move right away lak Ah aimed to. But Ah knowed Ah had to make haste and do it. “‘You better git dat kivver offa dat youngun and dat quick!’ she clashed at me. ‘Look lak you don’t know who is Mistis on dis plantation, Madam. But Ah aims to show you.’ “By dat time I had done managed tuh unkivver mah baby enough for her to see de head and face. “‘Nigger, whut’s yo’ baby doin’ wid gray eyes and yaller hair?’ She begin tuh slap mah jaws ever which a’way. Ah never felt the fust ones ’cause Ah wuz too busy gittin’ de kivver back over mah chile. But dem last lick burnt me lak fire. Ah had too many feelin’s tuh tell which one tuh follow so Ah didn’t cry and Ah didn’t do nothin’ else. But then she kept on astin me how come mah baby look white. She asted me dat maybe twenty-five or thirty times, lak she got tuh sayin’ dat and couldn’t help herself. So Ah told her, ‘Ah don’t know nothin’ but what Ah’m told tuh do, ’cause Ah ain’t nothin’ but uh nigger and uh slave.’ “Instead of pacifyin’ her lak Ah thought, look lak she got madder. But Ah reckon she was tired and wore out ’cause she didn’t hit me no more. She went to de foot of de bed and wiped her hands on her handksher. ‘Ah wouldn’t dirty mah hands on yuh. But first thing in de mornin’ de overseer will take


not heard from you today. What are you doing? Maddie Sat in my garden with Shu Mum LONDON Who is that? Maddie Friend from uni. Meixiang-Shu. Mum LONDON Is she Asian? Maddie Yes Mum LONDON I’ve not heard of her before have I? It’s not good for you to have friends who are faceless to your mother. I need to know who they are and what their intentions are so I can pray and ask God if they’re the right friends for you. Where does she live? I need her number. Thanks. Maddie No, you don’t “Who’s that?” Shu asks, pointing at my phone. “My mum.” “She okay?” “She’s fine.” I throw my phone onto the garden table, careful not to knock over our Supermalt. “She always is.” Shu begins throwing some very questionable gang signs. “I almost forgot, I also brought what you asked for.” She takes two joints out of her pocket and passes me one. “Was kinda surprised, I’m not gonna lie. Didn’t know this was your thing.” “It’s not really,” I admit, “but I tried it once and I just remember feeling…” I think of the brownies from that night. “It was nice.” Shu lights our joints and I inhale. I cough twice, but it settles quicker than the brownies did—delivering a loosening, an ease I’ve been in desperate need of. I lean back into my chair, inhale again and show the sun my face. “Did you know compassionate leave is only one to two days long?” I tell her. “Companies aren’t obligated to give you any more time than that.” Shu pulls the sunglasses from her hair. They’re Ray-Bans. I remember she’s on a fifty-thousand annual salary. Sometimes I forget because Shu doesn’t like to spend a lot of money now that she’s saving for a mortgage. Fifty thousand a year. Shu is five months younger than me but earns more than twice as much. But she has a business degree. So? I have one in English literature. Reading and analyzing Middlemarch and Ulysses was no walk in the park. Shu works hard. I hardly recline on a beach sipping mai tais. What’s even in a mai tai? “Only two days?” Shu repeats. “I think the fuck not.” “Right? Can you imagine a mother losing a child and then going back to work on Tuesday to listen to Steve ramble on about commuter traffic?” “Fucking Steve. How much time did OTP give you?” “Two weeks,” I answer. “Then I can slowly reintroduce myself part-time and then full-time again when things start to feel normal.” “It doesn’t ever feel normal, Mads. It’s just less shit on some days.” I lower my unbranded sunglasses to look at her. “Don’t,” she warns. “You never talk about your grandmother,” I say quietly. “But I know you loved her more than anyone.” “It’s not my style,” she says. “I get that some people like to talk; my sister still won’t shut up about her and it was three years ago, but that’s not me.” I let it go. “I’m going to change


thanks her. At the corner store, he bypasses the frozen concentrate Nick usually buys and pays extra for a bottle of Tropicana. When he gets back to the apartment building, he stops at every landing and sits for a bit, drinking juice out of the bottle like a barbarian. On the third floor, a door opens. Andy looks up and sees Mrs. Martelli peering out, a frying pan clutched menacingly in one fist. “I heard someone out here,” she says, lowering the pan. “Thought you were a vagrant.” “I’m a bit under the weather.” “It’s the smoking,” she says, narrowing her eyes. Andy is too tired to argue. “Probably,” he agrees. “You smoke too much, then you turn out like me. I used to do these stairs four times a day with a baby in each arm and now look at me. I need to move in with my daughter on Long Island. Long Island!” Andy refrains from pointing out that being able to climb any stairs at all at the age of approximately a hundred and fifty is pretty good. “You’re moving?” “I’m selling the building.” Andy hadn’t even realized that Mrs. Martelli was the landlady. “Why not just move to the ground floor?” “Too loud.” She wrinkles her nose. “Also, I want the money. I’ll send my grandchildren to college.” Andy wonders about the going rate for a five-story apartment building in this part of the Village, and also how many grandchildren Mrs. Martelli plans to send to college. The other day he called a real estate agent about putting his mother’s Upper East Side co-op on the market and learned it would go for what feels like an astronomical sum. Mrs. Martelli snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Don’t die on my stairs. I’ll never get any money for this place if there are dead bodies. Do I need to walk you up myself?” Andy assures her that no, she does not, and manages to haul himself up the remaining stairs in a single go. He barely remembers to knock on Linda’s door before collapsing onto Nick’s sofa, the glass bottle of juice still clutched in his hand. * * * One floor down, there’s a dog who loses her mind when her owner comes home, running in circles and letting out little yelps of delight as soon as she hears the key turn in the lock. Lying on the sofa, Andy can hear the owner try unsuccessfully to quiet the dog. This, minus the running in circles, is how Andy feels when Nick comes home. Because, in addition to being happy to see Nick, which he always is, Nick brings the certainty of hair-stroking and cuddling. Andy can’t believe how utterly weak he is for hair-stroking and cuddling. “Shh,” Nick says into Andy’s hair, even though Andy hasn’t said anything. Nick still has on his coat and shoes, just dropped his bag by the door and immediately went to Andy on the sofa. “You feeling any better?” “Yeah.” “Really?” Nick leans back to regard him skeptically,


see the new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times than take up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel that way myself, though I've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, and spread him- self out so that he was just a kind of a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see it. Pap told me. But anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool. Well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. We couldn't handle him, of course; he would a flung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. Jim said he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. It was as big a fish as was ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn't ever seen a bigger one. He would a been worth a good deal over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that by the pound in the market- house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as snow and makes a good fry. Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get a stirring up some way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the river and find out what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he said I must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he studied it over and said, couldn't I put on some of them old things and dress up like a girl? That was a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove- pipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practiced around all day


guided by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed the current of my ideas. When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Bekive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed. Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity. On this occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science which could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics and the branches of study appertaining to that science as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration. Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life --the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution, happiness with their disregard. It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, and her


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

that all Broadway shared in my excitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary absent-mindedness. As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the knob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he indeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the door mat for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me, when accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a summoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within—”Not yet; I am occupied.” It was Bartleby. I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by a summer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon, till some one touched him, when he fell. “Not gone!” I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous ascendancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which ascendancy, for all my chafing, I could not completely escape, I slowly went down stairs and out into the street, and while walking round the block, considered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity. Turn the man out by an actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away by calling him hard names would not do; calling in the police was an unpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to enjoy his cadaverous triumph over me,—this too I could not think of. What was to be done? or, if nothing could be done, was there any thing further that I could assume in the matter? Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed that Bartleby would depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that departed he was. In the legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I might enter my office in a great hurry, and pretending not to see Bartleby at all, walk straight against him as if he were air. Such a proceeding would in a singular degree have the appearance of a home-thrust. It was hardly possible that Bartleby could withstand such an application of the doctrine of assumptions. But upon second thoughts the success of the plan seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the matter over with him again. “Bartleby,” said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe expression, “I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had thought better of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly organization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would have suffice—in short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why,” I added, unaffectedly starting, “you have not even touched that money yet,” pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening previous. He answered nothing.


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

held casually in his hand, but tilted so she could see its shine. “Let’s try again. This time, we can start with the questions about my father, since it seems you might answer those more easily.” Bastian leaned forward, close enough to kiss. The blade of his dagger scraped lightly at the silk of her dressing gown. “Why did he bring you here, other than to spy on me?” “The villages.” She could try to lie again, but what was the point? Bastian still didn’t seem like he was going to kill her, but any conversation that included a blade seemed best to meet with truth. Gabe had tried to warn her. Gabe. She hoped he had the sense not to come after her, but she wasn’t counting on it. Lore swallowed, continued. “August and Anton are trying to figure out what happened to the villages. They want me to raise the bodies and ask them.” “And do they have any suspicions?” If Bastian was shocked by the task his father had given her, he didn’t show it. “I can guess.” “They think it’s Kirythea, using some sort of elemental magic left over from the minor gods. And they think you’re working with them, somehow.” Something seemed to shutter in Bastian’s face. Not guilt, nothing that simple. Almost… hurt. It softened the lines of the predatory thing he’d become. “Of course they do,” Bastian said quietly. He huffed, the sound too weary to be the start of a laugh. His head dipped just enough for the shadows to hide his eyes. “So that’s why you’re supposed to stay near me, I take it?” She nodded, quick and truncated. Bastian held his dagger loosely, almost like he’d forgotten it was there, but she certainly hadn’t. “Look what we have here.” A new voice, coming from the mouth of the alley, high and scratchy. Bastian rolled his eyes. “Wonderful,” he muttered. Lore tore her gaze away from the Sun Prince’s gleaming dagger, focused on the figure instead. A small white man dressed in ratty clothes, bruises on his arms and scabs over the side of his face. He didn’t look very intimidating. But the huge man behind him did. Intimidating and glassy-eyed, pale face flushed. He’d been poison-dosed, and recently. “Gentlemen.” Bastian turned, the hand with the knife gesturing politely while his other palm stayed flat on the wall next to Lore’s head. “While I admire your enterprise, rest assured that neither I nor my friend has anything of value to offer you.” “For your sake, I hope that’s not true.” The smaller man spread his hands apologetically. “Or our employer will be even more upset than he already is.” “You lost.” The larger man advanced, making his face easier to see. Scarred and rough, with ears swollen from years of fistfights. Lore and Bastian both still wore their black domino masks, but these two didn’t, and it did not improve their appearances. “You lost, and you left without paying up.” “A mistake.” Bastian didn’t sound concerned, but his fingers shifted around the hilt


café with a good pianist or, even better, treat themselves to dinner and a show. Minnie clapped her hands excitedly. It might be fun to go somewhere beyond the village. Her phone buzzed and she held it against her ear. ‘Hello, Araminta Moore… oh, Francine, how are you?’ Minnie listened as an old colleague from St Hilda’s chattered, her voice rattling in the earpiece. Then Minnie said, ‘Dinner? Of course, yes, I’m free on Wednesday evening.’ She listened again before a low chuckle escaped. ‘Oh, so I’m making up numbers, am I? Well, make sure you sit me opposite a good-looking man with an interesting brain.’ Then she smiled slowly. ‘Francine – I’ll see you on Wednesday, around seven… That’s lovely, I’ll look forward to it.’ Minnie put the phone down and burst out laughing. She’d been offered a last-minute dinner invitation on Wednesday – that could only mean that another single female had just cancelled. Minnie wasn’t always the first-choice guest – she had a reputation for speaking her mind and upsetting the applecart. She’d cut conversation dead by responding curtly to people she knew were clearly wrong. Minnie didn’t suffer fools gladly. But she’d been invited to dinner and Wednesday evening was ripe with possibilities. Francine Jarvis had been a lecturer with Minnie; they knew each other well and it would be good to catch up with some old faces and talk about interesting subjects. There would always be controversy. She eased herself to her feet and stretched her arms above her head, twirling once. A dinner party with an old friend and lots of banter. Perfect. 10 On Wednesday morning, Lin was collecting breakfast dishes in the kitchen, listening to a sentimental tune on the radio, singing along with the lyrics. Outside, the lawn was illuminated green and gold in the sunlight. She peered into the back garden through the kitchen window, noticing the neat vegetable patch, clusters of primroses, daffodils swaying. Beyond, in George Ledbury’s field, a piece of farm machinery chugged along, throwing out soil. Lin picked up a tea towel and began to dry the breakfast plates. She wondered what Minnie would be doing now; she’d probably be stretched out like a happy cat on the sofa, reading a book. Josie would be doing the same thing, basking in the garden. Lin hadn’t started her own book yet; it was still in the torn wrapping paper. She compared herself to her teacher, Miss Hamilton. Cecily was much older, but she was inspirational – she hadn’t lost any of her elegance and zest for life. She’d be in her neat bungalow now in perfect lipstick, enjoying a leisurely breakfast. She might even be playing her guitar. All three women were alone, Minnie, Josie, Cecily – but Lin felt lucky, she had a gorgeous doting husband. Her blessing suddenly became an anxiety: Lin worried about losing him. What if he became bored with her? He was so outgoing; she wasn’t sure that she was very interesting nowadays. She rarely had anything new to say; she and Neil had


to twist the knife, “She really gets my vision, you know, in a way that’s wonderfully collaborative. I’ve never worked with someone so incisive before. I owe all my success to her.” He gets the hint. His expression sags. We trade some other niceties, give all the usual updates—I’m working on something new; he’s just signed an author he’s excited about—and then he makes his excuses. “Sorry to dip out, Junie, but I’d better go say hi to my UK counterpart before she leaves. She’s only in town for the weekend.” I shrug and wave. He walks off, and hopefully out of my life for good. THE FOLLOWING JANUARY, I GET MY FIRST ROYALTIES STATEMENT FOR The Last Front. I’ve earned out. This means that I’ve sold enough copies to cover my already sizable advance, and that from here on out I get to keep a percentage of all future sales. And sales, if this statement is anything to go by, are astounding. I’ve been wary of spending any of my advance money so far. I’ve read enough cautionary tales to know that advance money dries up fast, that there is no guarantee of earning out, or of securing another book deal approaching the amount of the first. But I treat myself this month. I buy a new laptop; finally, a MacBook Pro that doesn’t shriek and shut down whenever I try to open a Word file bigger than two hundred pages. I move to a nicer apartment—nothing quite as fancy as the Dupont place Athena had leased, but nice enough that anyone who visits will assume I have inherited wealth. I go to IKEA, order whatever I want without looking at the prices, and pay the extra fees to have it all delivered and assembled by two very handsome college seniors I solicited on TaskRabbit. I let them flirt with me. I tip well. I get a liquor cabinet. I am now the sort of person who has a liquor cabinet. I write a check for the entirety of my remaining student debt, lick the envelope, and send it off to the Department of Education. No more Nelnet emails for the rest of my life, thank God. I get health insurance. I go to the dentist, and when it turns out I’ll have to fork over several thousand dollars to get all these undetected cavities drilled out, I pay the bill without blinking. I see a primary care physician, even though there’s nothing wrong with me, just for a physical, just because I can. I start buying nice whisky, even though I can’t taste whisky without thinking of Athena and those stupid old-fashioneds. I start shopping at Whole Foods. I become addicted to their jalapeño corn bread. I start getting my clothes at brand-name outlets instead of the thrift store. I throw out my cheap Etsy jewelry and stop wearing anything that doesn’t feature ethically, sustainably sourced gemstones. When tax season rolls around, I ask my sister, Rory, who’s an accountant, to handle things. I send her my 1099s for this


the parlor. It appeared to the butcher that he could pretty clearly discern what seemed to be the stalwart legs, clad in black pantaloons, of a man sitting in a large oaken chair, the back of which concealed all the remainder of his figure. This contemptuous tranquillity on the part of an occupant of the house, in response to the butcher's indefatigable efforts to attract notice, so piqued the man of flesh that he determined to withdraw. "So," thought he, "there sits Old Maid Pyncheon's bloody brother, while I've been giving myself all this trouble! Why, if a hog hadn't more manners, I'd stick him! I call it demeaning a man's business to trade with such people; and from this time forth, if they want a sausage or an ounce of liver, they shall run after the cart for it!" He tossed the titbit angrily into his cart, and drove off in a pet. Not a great while afterwards there was a sound of music turning the corner and approaching down the street, with several intervals of silence, and then a renewed and nearer outbreak of brisk melody. A mob of children was seen moving onward, or stopping, in unison with the sound, which appeared to proceed from the centre of the throng; so that they were loosely bound together by slender strains of harmony, and drawn along captive; with ever and anon an accession of some little fellow in an apron and straw-hat, capering forth from door or gateway. Arriving under the shadow of the Pyncheon Elm, it proved to be the Italian boy, who, with his monkey and show of puppets, had once before played his hurdy-gurdy beneath the arched window. The pleasant face of Phoebe--and doubtless, too, the liberal recompense which she had flung him--still dwelt in his remembrance. His expressive features kindled up, as he recognized the spot where this trifling incident of his erratic life had chanced. He entered the neglected yard (now wilder than ever, with its growth of hog-weed and burdock), stationed himself on the doorstep of the main entrance, and, opening his show-box, began to play. Each individual of the automatic community forthwith set to work, according to his or her proper vocation: the monkey, taking off his Highland bonnet, bowed and scraped to the by-standers most obsequiously, with ever an observant eye to pick up a stray cent; and the young foreigner himself, as he turned the crank of his machine, glanced upward to the arched window, expectant of a presence that would make his music the livelier and sweeter. The throng of children stood near; some on the sidewalk; some within the yard; two or three establishing themselves on the very door-step; and one squatting on the threshold. Meanwhile, the locust kept singing in the great old Pyncheon Elm. "I don't hear anybody in the house," said one of the children to another. "The monkey won't pick up anything here." " There is somebody at home," affirmed the urchin on the threshold. "I heard a step!" Still the young Italian's eye turned


photo of himself in a white T-shirt, a cigarette dripping from his lips, smiling half-heartedly. I saved it. Ingrid actually did have a boyfriend, she told her friends. He was about 5'; 10" and had messy hair and was incredible in bed. Did Ashley and Sarah and Allie want to see him? LMAO of course they did. I DMed them the photo of Orson. We were at a party when I took this LOL I wrote. The responses came in: Oh my godddd he is so hot! Ingrid hun i am NOT surprised he’s such a babe he’s probably smart too. Honestly if he wasn’t yours i’d stealllll him He’s a really private person I wrote. He was kind of worried abt me posting that pic. I told him it was just my friends :p I kept “raking lawns” after school so I could slowly pay my parents the money I’d gotten from Last Chance. I found a McMansion I liked, red brick with a slate roof and a two-car garage, and took a picture of it from the street. This became Ingrid’s family’s house, and I uploaded the photo to Tumblr with the caption home sweet friggin’ home. Ingrid’s dad, Eric, was a doctor and her mom, Stephanie, was a business consultant. In 2000, when Ingrid was ten, they’d moved from their starter home in a less rich neighborhood to this one, where there was a homeowner’s association and acre-large lawns. Ingrid had spent her childhood attending painting classes and piano lessons. She’d learned to play “Moonlight Sonata” at age eleven and was composing her own music by age thirteen. I texted Orson the photo of the McMansion. these assholes I wrote. these assholes sir, colonel, sir. No response. I waited for an hour, then two hours, three, four. I concluded that he’d either died or grown sick of me. I biked to the library and checked out Mrs. Dalloway and Sula in hopes that this would somehow summon him back. I stayed up all night speed-reading both. Mrs. Dalloway was dense in ways Sula wasn’t, but he’d been right: each book was the contents of a mind poured out onto the page. Characters wanting things and getting things and losing things. In my teenage narcissism I imagined myself one of these characters, suffering for Orson, pleading for him, praying for him. Days of silence. I called and listened to his phone ring. I tried not to call too many times in a single day. My sleep grew fitful. I squinted at my phone at the dinner table. I could feel my dad watching me. “Is it time to get your prescription updated?” he asked. “I see the way you’re holding your phone.” Orson had disappeared off the face of the earth and my dad had the nerve to ask about my eyesight. “No,” I snapped. “I can see just fine.” He raised his hands as though I’d just threatened him with something sharp. “Listen, I’m on your side. I just want you to be in good shape for college.” “Yeah,”


it," said Mary. "It sounds like the sea just now." "That's the wind blowing through the bushes," Mrs. Medlock said. "It's a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that likes it--particularly when the heather's in bloom." On and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. The road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. Mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land. "I don't like it," she said to herself. "I don't like it," and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together. The horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light. Mrs. Medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief. "Eh, I am glad to see that bit o' light twinkling," she exclaimed. "It's the light in the lodge window. We shall get a good cup of tea after a bit, at all events." It was "after a bit," as she said, for when the carriage passed through the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault. They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone court. At first Mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed a dull glow. The entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. It opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them. As she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked. A neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them. "You are to take her to her room," he said in a husky voice. "He doesn't want to see her. He's going to London in the morning." "Very well, Mr. Pitcher," Mrs. Medlock answered. "So long as I know what's expected of me, I can manage." "What's expected of you, Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Pitcher said, "is that you make sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he doesn't want to see." And then Mary


It was a warrior's funeral, and from morning till night warriors came and went in their age groups. They all wore smoked raffia skirts and their bodies were painted with chalk and charcoal. Now and again an ancestral spirit or egwugwu appeared from the underworld, speaking in a tremulous, unearthly voice and completely covered in raffia. Some of them were very violent, and there had been a mad rush for shelter earlier in the day when one appeared with a sharp machete and was only prevented from doing serious harm by two men who restrained him with the help of a strong rope tied round his waist. Sometimes he turned round and chased after those men, and they ran for their lives. But they always returned to the long rope he trailed behind. He sang, in a terrifying voice, that Ekwensu, or Evil Spirit, had entered his eye. But the most dreaded of all was yet to come. He was always alone and was shaped like a coffin. A sickly odour hung in the air wherever he went, and flies went with him. Even the greatest medicine men took shelter when he was near. Many years ago another egwugwu had dared to stand his ground before him and had been transfixed to the spot for two days. This one had only one hand and it carried a basket full of water. But some of the egwugwu were quite harmless. One of them was so old and infirm that he leaned heavily on a stick. He walked unsteadily to the place where the corpse was laid, gazed at it a while and went away again--to the underworld. The land of the living was not far removed from the domain of the ancestors. There was coming and going between them, especially at festivals and also when an old man died, because an old man was very close to the ancestors. A man's life from birth to death was a series of transition rites which brought him nearer and nearer to his ancestors. Ezeudu had been the oldest man in his village, and at his death there were only three men in the whole clan who were older, and four or five others in his own age group. Whenever one of these ancient men appeared in the crowd to dance unsteadily the funeral steps of the tribe, younger men gave way and the tumult subsided. It was a great funeral, such as befitted a noble warrior. As the evening drew near, the shouting and the firing of guns, the beating of drums and the brandishing and clanging of machetes increased. Ezeudu had taken three titles in his life. It was a rare achievement. There were only four titles in the clan, and only one or two men in any generation ever achieved the fourth and highest. When they did, they became the lords of the land. Because he had taken titles, Ezeudu was to be buried after dark with only a glowing brand to light the sacred ceremony. But before this quiet and final rite,


whisper. "Scared?" Not scared so much as paralyzed; hung up there immovable on the top of a diminishing, moving mountain. Jack slid 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


been together like ten years, and they’re making it work, even while they have to be long distance. Clearly love actually can conquer all.” “Eight years,” Wyn corrects quietly. Kimmy squeezes his bicep. “Eight years, and you’re still never more than three feet apart.” By my estimation, Wyn is approximately two feet eleven and three- quarters inches from me when she says this, but at the comment, he hooks an arm around my neck and says, “Yeah, well, even after all these years, Harriet has a way of making me feel like we’ve just met.” Kimmy clutches her heart again, missing the irony he intended only for me. A whoop goes up around the room as Sabrina pops the champagne’s cork. I feel like I’m floating over my own body. Adrenaline is doing weird things to me. Normally, I’d rather roll down a mountainside covered in broken glass and sticky traps than create conflict, but the longer this goes on, the harder it’s going to be to get out of our lie. “That’s amazing.” My voice lifts two and half octaves. “But I have to tell you—” “Harriet.” And there he is again, at my side with arms coming around me from behind and his chin resting atop my head, and now, when Think of your m*****f****** happy place flashes through my mind, all I can think is, If only I were still on Sober Ray’s death trap airplane! “That’s not,” Wyn goes on, “the end of the announcement.” Again Kimmy claps her hands together on a gasp. “Still not pregnant,” Sabrina says. Kimmy sighs. Parth’s beaming with his very distinct I’ve got an amazing surprise for you smile. The one that preceded the New Orleans–themed birthday he threw for Cleo, or the moment he presented me with the stethoscope he’d gotten engraved as a med school graduation present. He and Sabrina share a knowing smirk. “Oh, come on,” Cleo says. Kimmy throws two Takis at Sabrina’s head. She swats them away. “Fine, fine! Tell them.” “We’re getting married,” Parth says. Confused looks are exchanged throughout the room. “That’s . . . usually what follows an engagement,” Cleo says. “No, I mean on Saturday,” he clarifies. “We’re getting married. Here, with the six of us. Nothing fancy. Literally a little ceremony down on the dock, with all our best friends.” My whole body goes icy cold, then blisteringly hot. My face and hands are numb. Wyn releases his hold on me again, and when my gaze slices up toward his, I see my own misery reflected on his face. We’re trapped here. My ears ring, my friends’ voices becoming a muffled warble. A blue Estelle champagne flute is forced into my tingling fingers for a toast, and my hearing clears enough to catch Parth crying, “To everlasting love!” And Sabrina adding, “And our best friends forever! There’s no other way we’d want to spend this last week at the cottage.” GO TO YOUR G.D. HAPPY PLACE, HARRIET, I think, followed by, NO, NOT THAT ONE. Too late. 4 HAPPY PLACE MATTINGLY, VERMONT


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

I pressed the coin to my hand immediately, and the pain lessened. “What?” Bambleby said. His hearing is inconveniently sharp. “Nothing. I thought you’d gone, but then I saw that you hadn’t.” “That’s it,” he said. “Shadow, go and collect your suicidal mistress.” I laughed. “Shadow only responds to me. You think—” Shadow burst from the trees and leapt upon me. I fell into a snowbank, and before I even knew what was happening, he had grabbed my cloak in his teeth and was dragging me. “Shadow!” The dog seemed not to hear my shrieks. I slid over snow and roots, and my backside barked painfully against a rock. The land sloped a little towards the river, and with one final tug, Shadow slid me the rest of the way like an ungainly sledge to land in a heap at Bambleby’s feet. I gathered myself, panting. “Shadow!” I snapped, full of fury and betrayal, and he hung his head low, that terrible doggish guilt in every line of his body. But he did not move from his position between me and the tree. “Good boy.” Bambleby seized my hand and dragged me along the riverbank. Oh, I was going to kill him. I wrenched him so hard that he stumbled but did not fall, catching himself with that infuriating grace that he often tries to conceal. I yanked him again so that we were facing each other and grabbed his other arm, the better to shove him into the river. His green eyes widened with outrage when he realized what I was intending, his golden hair falling into them—horrendously unfair that he should look beautiful even when he’s angry, instead of going blotchy and beady-eyed like a normal person. If I hadn’t been decided on sending him into the river before, I was now. That was when the land broke open, showering us in snow and dirt. Roots wormed their way out from the soil, white and smooth as bone. They twined themselves around Bambleby and yanked him onto his back, then dragged him towards the white tree in an uncanny mirror of what I had undergone. “Wendell!” I lunged forward, trying to wrench the roots away from him. They showed no interest whatsoever in me, nor Shadow, who pounced and worried at them until they fell away. But more rose to take their place. “Why does it want you?” I cried. “Why do you think, you cold-blooded lunatic of a woman?” he yelled, clawing at the ground. This was followed by a series of curses in what I assumed to be Irish. I stabbed at the roots with my pocketknife. At the same moment, though, my mind was racing through stories, texts, journals. “Can you not—can you not say it?” He gave me one of his impossibly green glares. We were nearing the base of the tree, where a hollow like a mouth had yawned open, black and writhing with roots like white worms. “No!” “Oh,” I breathed. My pocketknife was having little effect, but I kept up the stabbing nevertheless—I


all of them felt that they really had something mysterious in their possession. Was there anything inside the box- and if so, what would it be? They longed to get home and open it! They went up on deck, climbing the old iron ladder. As soon as they got there they saw that others besides themselves had discovered that the wreck had been thrown up from the bottom of the sea! "Golly! Half the fishing-smacks of the bay have discovered it!" cried Julian, looking round at the fishing-boats that had come as near as they dared to the wreck. The fishermen were looking at the wreck in wonder. When they saw the children on board they halloo-ed loudly. "Ahoy there! What's that ship?" "It's the old wreck!" yelled back Julian. "She was thrown up yesterday in the storm!" "Don't say any more," said George, frowning. "It's my wreck. I don't want sightseers on it!" So no more was said, and the four children got into their boat and rowed home as fast as they could. It was past their breakfast-time. They might get a good scolding. They might even be sent to bed by George's fierce father- but what did they care? They had explored the wreck-and had come away with a box which might contain-well, if not bars of gold, one small bar, perhaps! They did get a scolding. They had to go without half their breakfast, too, because Uncle Quentin said that children who came in so late didn't deserve hot bacon and eggs- only toast and marmalade. It was very sad. They hid the box under the bed in the boys' room. Tim had been left with the fisher-boy- or rather, had been tied up in his back yard, for Alf had gone out fishing, and was even now gazing from his father's boat at the strange wreck. "We can make a bit of money taking sightseers out to this wreck," said Alf. And before the day was out scores of interested people had seen the old wreck from the decks of motor-boats and fishing-smacks. George was furious about it. But she couldn't do anything. After all, as Julian said, anybody could have a look! Chapter Nine THE BOX FROM THE WRECK Contents- Prev/Next THE first thing that the children did after breakfast was to fetch the precious box and take it out to the tool-shed in the garden. They were simply longing to force it open. All of them secretly felt certain that it would hold treasure of some sort. Julian looked round for a tool. He found a chisel and decided that would be just the thing to force the box open. He tried, but the tool slipped and jabbed his fingers. Then he tried other things, but the box obstinately refused to open. The children stared at it crossly. "I know what to do," said Anne at last. "Let's take it to the top of the house and throw it down to the ground. It would burst open then, I expect." The others thought over the


afraid I…” “He’d love to,” came a voice from behind them, low and familiar. Bastian, thank the gods. The Sun Prince looked none the worse for wear, other than a clinging tiredness around his golden-brown eyes. His clothing was dark and unadorned, a match for Lore’s gown, his only ornament the golden circlet on his head, this one devoid of garnets. He wore a smile, but his face was pale beneath it. The smile went bladed as he clapped a hand on Gabe’s shoulder, a little too hard to be companionable. “Duke Remaut is never one to leave ladies waiting.” Something dark slithered over Gabe’s face, but he nodded. “I’d love to, Alie.” It sounded genuine, even. Lore thought it probably was, despite everything. His elbow unbent; her hand was free. Bastian took it immediately, his callused fingers closing around hers like a door against a cold night. Alie pulled Gabe toward the dance floor; he looked back over his shoulder, brows drawn low over one blue eye, one leather patch. “Careful,” he murmured. Neither Bastian nor Lore responded. Gabe melted into the crowd after Alie. The music struck, and Bastian turned her into the dance, leading as effortlessly as he had the night of his masquerade. The smile had disappeared from his face the moment he no longer had to hold it for Alie’s benefit. “We have to run.” She’d expected it. What she hadn’t expected was the swoop it put into her middle, the feeling of vertigo that the thought of running away brought her. Leaving would be as futile as trying to catch the ocean in your hands. Not just physically, but spiritually, like something anchored her here. “We can’t,” she murmured. “As much as I don’t want to trust him, Anton is our only—” “You don’t understand, Lore.” There was something desperate in Bastian’s tone, something that told her he felt the same pull to this night as she did and was desperately fighting against it. “It happened again. Another village.” Only Bastian’s hand on her waist kept her from tripping over her hem. Lore’s fingers went cold. “When?” “Last night.” He kept her close, spoke in her ear—to anyone watching, they’d look two minutes away from sneaking off to a secluded corner, but their faces were twin masks of fear. “A few of the Presque Mort went to collect the bodies—Anton put Malcolm in charge.” Another village. She thought of her uncomfortable sleep, dark dreams she could only recall fragments of. Lore shook her head, banishing the half-formed speculations. “Where is Anton, then?” “I don’t know.” Bastian led her through a spin. “Preparing to stop August, I guess. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let my uncle be the only thing that stands between you and death. I can get you money. Food. Get you on a ship —” “I can’t leave Dellaire. Mortem won’t let me.” “Damn this.” He hissed it through his teeth, his grip on her waist so tight it almost hurt. “Damn this. Fine. I can find a place for you in


me there to drown. They should have gotten you help for trying to kill me, but instead everyone acted like it didn’t happen because Louise is perfect.” Being scared made Louise angry. “What are you? The lone truth teller?” she shot back. “No one remembers anything from when they were two!” Mark stripped hard cheese off a piece of pizza. “I went on a church ski trip when I was fourteen,” Mark said, rolling the cheese into a pellet. “We went ice-skating and I stepped out on that frozen lake for the first time and had a panic attack and I. Remembered. Everything. I told Amanda Fox because I had to tell someone. She’s the only person who’s ever believed me. When I came home I asked Mom and I expected her to say ‘I’m so sorry’ and for her to get you and you’d apologize and it would all be fine, but instead she told me it didn’t happen.” “It didn’t happen,” Louise said. “Dad said it didn’t happen, too,” Mark continued. “But I know what happened. I remember all of it.” “Do you even hear yourself?” Louise asked, making her disbelief as large as possible. “You recovered your traumatic repressed memories on a ski trip and they gave you permission to act out? That’s your explanation for being such a dick: I did it first?” “You said it earlier,” Mark shouted at her across the wreckage of Pizza Chinese. “There’s true and there’s false and I know what I remember is true!” The silence lasted long after the echo of his voice stopped bouncing off the walls. Finally, Louise spoke: “And then they sent you to one of the most expensive colleges in the country and you dropped out.” She was not going to let him play the victim. Mark looked away into the living room. “I had a rough time my freshman year,” he mumbled. “Yeah, I’m sure it was tough to party so hard,” Louise said. Mark’s beer can cracked as his hand tightened around it. “You have no idea,” he said, and his voice sounded like a dog growling. “You don’t know anything about me. There’s all this stuff in our family we don’t talk about. Mom doesn’t talk about her family, Dad doesn’t talk about his family, and you and I don’t talk, period.” This is crazy, it’s crazy, he’s remembering it wrong, he’s lying, that’s what Mark does, he exaggerates, he blows things up, turns them into a drama where he’s the victim. Louise inhaled, absorbing all the heavy, cold, congealed grease, letting it fill her sinuses until her lungs felt tight, then she released it all at once. “Mom and Dad are dead, Mark,” she said. “Mom was sad all her life because her parents hated her after Uncle Freddie died. Dad’s parents hated him for marrying Mom. You and I don’t talk because we’re not the same kind of people. There are no dark secrets, no big conspiracies, no haunted house. No one tried to kill you—” there’s no puppet buried in the


been that I feared that he had again been duped; especially when he told me he had paid a thousand dollars for the letter and map. To add to my distress, I learned that he had borrowed ten thousand dollars more from Robert Canler, and had given his notes for the amount. Mr. Canler had asked for no security, and you know, dearie, what that will mean for me if papa cannot meet them. Oh, how I detest that man! We all tried to look on the bright side of things, but Mr. Philander, and Mr. Clayton--he joined us in London just for the adventure--both felt as skeptical as I. Well, to make a long story short, we found the island and the treasure--a great iron-bound oak chest, wrapped in many layers of oiled sailcloth, and as strong and firm as when it had been buried nearly two hundred years ago. It was SIMPLY FILLED with gold coin, and was so heavy that four men bent underneath its weight. The horrid thing seems to bring nothing but murder and misfortune to those who have anything to do with it, for three days after we sailed from the Cape Verde Islands our own crew mutinied and killed every one of their officers. Oh, it was the most terrifying experience one could imagine--I cannot even write of it. They were going to kill us too, but one of them, the leader, named King, would not let them, and so they sailed south along the coast to a lonely spot where they found a good harbor, and here they landed and have left us. They sailed away with the treasure to-day, but Mr. Clayton says they will meet with a fate similar to the mutineers of the ancient galleon, because King, the only man aboard who knew aught of navigation, was murdered on the beach by one of the men the day we landed. I wish you could know Mr. Clayton; he is the dearest fellow imaginable, and unless I am mistaken he has fallen very much in love with me. He is the only son of Lord Greystoke, and some day will inherit the title and estates. In addition, he is wealthy in his own right, but the fact that he is going to be an English Lord makes me very sad--you know what my sentiments have always been relative to American girls who married titled foreigners. Oh, if he were only a plain American gentleman! Chapter 18 But it isn't his fault, poor fellow, and in everything except birth he would do credit to my country, and that is the greatest compliment I know how to pay any man. We have had the most weird experiences since we were landed here. Papa and Mr. Philander lost in the jungle, and chased by a real lion. Mr. Clayton lost, and attacked twice by wild beasts. Esmeralda and I cornered in an old cabin by a perfectly awful man-eating lioness. Oh, it was simply "terrifical," as Esmeralda would say. But the strangest part of it


on the living?” Turner snapped. “Hell on earth? Yes, Tripp. That would be bad.” Alex watched the creature circling above. She was done being used by Lethe and men like Eitan. “You don’t get to prey on us,” she said to the thing in the sky, to Linus Reiter and Golgarot, and to every hungry thing that might be hunting them. “You don’t get to use me to do it.” She faced Turner. “Find Mercy. Warn her. Make sure she’s safe. Dawes, get Tripp to Il Bastone—and don’t let him eat you.” “Alex,” Dawes said warningly, worry in her voice. “What are you going to do?” “The only thing I’m good at.” Alex set off across the green, daring the monster above to follow. She drew her salt sword and called to her hellfire, letting it bloom over her body. If Reiter wanted a target, she’d give him one. Darlington had already fallen into step beside her, matching her stride, his horns glowing, a low growl rumbling in his chest. A little magic. A talent for taking a beating. A demon at her side. That was all she had, but maybe it was all she needed. “Come on, Darlington,” she said. “Let’s give them hell.” Acknowledgments Thank you for once more making the descent with me. As in Ninth House, almost all of the buildings and structures in this book are real and can be found on the New Haven map—except for Black Elm, which was inspired by some of the homes in the Westville area. Sweetwell is also imagined, but I don’t recommend cruising Old Greenwich looking for its likeness. At least not at night. Every inscription and piece of decoration described at Yale, in New Haven, and in Sterling Memorial Library is real, including the University Librarian’s secret door. I did take a small liberty with Dürer’s magic square, which is a few feet from the Daniel and the lions’ den entrance to the Selin Courtyard, rather than directly above it. (James I was referring to the Bodleian, but if I had to choose a library for a prison, Sterling would be a very fine one.) The collection of pond water in the basement of the Peabody Museum is also real (though I’m sure it has been packed safely away during the renovation). The amethyst map is not, but it should be noted that many Yale students and faculty owned enslaved people, including Jonathan Edwards—the fire-and-brimstone preacher for whom Alex’s residential college is named. For more on the relationship of the Ivy League to slavery, consider Craig Steven Wilder’s Ebony and Ivy: Race, Slavery, and the Troubled History of America’s Universities and the research of the Yale and Slavery Working Group (https://yaleandslavery.yale.edu). I would like to say a special thank you to Camila Zorrilla Tessler, whose help accessing and unraveling the mysteries of Sterling was invaluable. Thank you for answering my strangest questions and for sharing your many insights about Yale and the library. Thank you also to Tina Lu and Suzette Courtmanche of Pauli Murray College, who hosted my


at five after, a handful of girls poured through Beth Docherty’s ground floor window and scurried to their rooms. Jenny clocked that they were back, quickly checked off the rest of the names, and handed the sheet in to Miss Vogel. Jenny assumed Thalia was among them; those were her friends, so where else would she be? The fire alarm business was after all that. Miss Vogel followed protocol then and went through the dorm to make sure every room was empty—but because we were all standing together in the cold, what looked like forty of us, and no one was left inside, she didn’t take attendance, didn’t bother checking us back into our rooms at 12:30 as she was supposed to. Jenny had been racked with guilt—maybe still was. She went on to ski in the actual Olympics, the first of our classmates to do something huge. But how do you move on from a mistake like that? After Thalia’s body was discovered, Jenny was the one to go to Miss Vogel and tell her about the mattress party. Not that the others wouldn’t have, soon enough; after all, it was the alibi for everyone there. Jenny resigned as class president, resigned as prefect. I’m sure Miss Vogel faced quieter, more serious repercussions. I wasn’t about to tell Britt all this. To name poor Jenny Osaka, of all people. Britt said, “Were you in the same dorm? Singer-Baird?” “Yep, all four years.” “Oh my God!” Britt sounded like the cheerleader she might have been in some past era of Granby. “I lived there my first two! I haven’t been able to figure out what room she was in.” I was glad Thalia’s room wasn’t some haunted shrine. “I don’t remember the number,” I said, “but it’s the single at the left end of the upstairs hall, the one with the window seat.” Britt shuddered, pleased. “I know who has that room! Should I tell her?” “Probably not.” Britt looked a little dreamy, like she was planning a reason to stop by this girl’s room, to check the inside of her closet for Thalia’s initials. “But upstairs means she couldn’t have left her room in the middle of the night.” “Not unless she went out through a ground floor room. But even so, the latest time of death they gave was midnight,” I said. “And no one ever saw her back in the dorm, or outside after the fire alarm.” “But no one noticed she was missing till they found her?” “Right. And that was Saturday afternoon.” I was pleased that I had something firsthand to relate now. “I rowed crew, and we had our preseason swim test, so a few of us were walking together toward the gym. It would have been around four o’clock. Suddenly this police car and ambulance come barreling down the access road. They must’ve been the first ones.” “Did you see anything?” Britt affected calm professionalism, but her eyes glowed. I shook my head, then remembered to say “no” aloud for the podcast. I was usually