of us would be, to go out there naked, armed only with a knife and a piece of Chapter 26 147 rope," said the banterer. "Is it not so?" "No," replied Tarzan. "Only a fool performs any act without reason." "Five thousand francs is a reason," said the other. "I wager you that amount you cannot bring back a lion from the jungle under the conditions we have named--naked and armed only with a knife and a piece of rope." Tarzan glanced toward D'Arnot and nodded his head. "Make it ten thousand," said D'Arnot. "Done," replied the other. Tarzan arose. "I shall have to leave my clothes at the edge of the settlement, so that if I do not return before daylight I shall have something to wear through the streets." "You are not going now," exclaimed the wagerer--"at night?" "Why not?" asked Tarzan. "Numa walks abroad at night --it will be easier to find him." "No," said the other, "I do not want your blood upon my hands. It will be foolhardy enough if you go forth by day." "I shall go now," replied Tarzan, and went to his room for his knife and rope. The men accompanied him to the edge of the jungle, where he left his clothes in a small storehouse. But when he would have entered the blackness of the undergrowth they tried to dissuade him; and the wagerer was most insistent of all that he abandon his foolhardy venture. "I will accede that you have won," he said, "and the ten thousand francs are yours if you will but give up this foolish attempt, which can only end in your death." Tarzan laughed, and in another moment the jungle had swallowed him. The men stood silent for some moments and then slowly turned and walked back to the hotel veranda. Tarzan had no sooner entered the jungle than he took to the trees, and it was with a feeling of exultant freedom that he swung once more through the forest branches. This was life! Ah, how he loved it! Civilization held nothing like this in its narrow and circumscribed sphere, hemmed in by restrictions and conventionalities. Even clothes were a hindrance and a nuisance. At last he was free. He had not realized what a prisoner he had been. How easy it would be to circle back to the coast, and then make toward the south and his own jungle and cabin. Now he caught the scent of Numa, for he was traveling up wind. Presently his quick ears detected the familiar sound of padded feet and the brushing of a huge, fur-clad body through the undergrowth. Chapter 26 148 Tarzan came quietly above the unsuspecting beast and silently stalked him until he came into a little patch of moonlight. Then the quick noose settled and tightened about the tawny throat, and, as he had done it a hundred times in the past, Tarzan made fast the end to a strong branch and, while the beast fought and clawed for freedom, dropped to the ground behind


out in scenes, usually confined to the bedroom. As a slave, I would submit my will to him 24/7. Permanently. I’d obey or I’d forfeit the relationship. “What’s wrong with how things are?” I asked, my voice tremulous. His response was succinct. “I need more, Hazel. Total control. Total Power Exchange.” “And if I don’t want to?” “Then we won’t be getting married.” We had two hundred guests joining us for an extravagant cliff-side ceremony. Thousands of dollars had already been spent. That meant nothing to Benjamin. He would get what he wanted from me, or he would cut me loose. My face burned at the thought of explaining the breakup to my family and friends. And I felt sick when I considered leaving this luxurious life, returning to the damp basement apartment I’d shared with two roommates, stressing and struggling to make ends meet. And I couldn’t do it to my mother. Benjamin had relocated her to a private facility that specialized in her condition. My mother was housed in a bright, spacious home, surrounded by serene, landscaped gardens. They offered art, music, and canine therapy. There was a vegetable garden, a high-end chef, a small movie theater, and a crafts room. My mother no longer knew who I was, but she was happy. She was comfortable. It was all I had wanted. So, I signed Benjamin’s TPE contract. I made a few stipulations to protect myself, but I agreed to give him complete control. The prenup he later presented was even simpler because I had only one request. My husband was to look after my mother for the rest of her life. “As long as we’re married,” Benjamin negotiated, “your mom will be taken care of.” The words didn’t set off any red flags for me. Not then, anyway. A few days later, when we stood up before that crowd of well-wishers, I promised to love, honor, and obey him. 25 CONSENSUAL NONCONSENT IS NOT UNCOMMON in sexual relationships: pretending to resist and protest while prior consent has been given. Plenty of normal, loving couples play this way. For the first few years, it was all a game. But I wasn’t a good enough actress to please Benjamin. Eventually, my pain and humiliation had to be real. He had to break me. The physical abuse was sporadic, but the mental and emotional torture were constant. I was criticized and disparaged. If I displeased him, I was sent to the room. It would be hyperbole to call it a dungeon, but it was in the basement. There was no furniture, only a small rug and a rough woolen blanket. A true submissive would have reveled in the punishment, but it did not arouse me or provide me any kind of satisfaction. I used the time alone to dwell on my isolation, my alienation, my misery. And to hate myself. Since I was a girl in the suburbs, struggling at school, I had dreamed of something more. But not this. Never this. I’d sold my freedom for a life of privilege and


he done wid all her money?—Betcha he off wid some gal so young she ain’t even got no hairs—why she don’t stay in her class?—” When she got to where they were she turned her face on the bander log and spoke. They scrambled a noisy “good evenin’” and left their mouths setting open and their ears full of hope. Her speech was pleasant enough, but she kept walking straight on to her gate. The porch couldn’t talk for looking. The men noticed her firm buttocks like she had grape fruits in her hip pockets; the great rope of black hair swing- Their Eyes Were Watching God 3 ing to her waist and unraveling in the wind like a plume; then her pugnacious breasts trying to bore holes in her shirt. They, the men, were saving with the mind what they lost with the eye. The women took the faded shirt and muddy overalls and laid them away for remembrance. It was a weapon against her strength and if it turned out of no signif- icance, still it was a hope that she might fall to their level some day. But nobody moved, nobody spoke, nobody even thought to swallow spit until after her gate slammed behind her. Pearl Stone opened her mouth and laughed real hard because she didn’t know what else to do. She fell all over Mrs. Sumpkins while she laughed. Mrs. Sumpkins snorted violently and sucked her teeth. “Humph! Y’all let her worry yuh. You ain’t like me. Ah ain’t got her to study ’bout. If she ain’t got manners enough to stop and let folks know how she been makin’ out, let her g’wan!” “She ain’t even worth talkin’ after,” Lulu Moss drawled through her nose. “She sits high, but she looks low. Dat’s what Ah say ’bout dese ole women runnin’ after young boys.” Pheoby Watson hitched her rocking chair forward before she spoke. “Well, nobody don’t know if it’s anything to tell or not. Me, Ah’m her best friend, and Ah don’t know.” “Maybe us don’t know into things lak you do, but we all know how she went ’way from here and us sho seen her come back. ’Tain’t no use in your tryin’ to cloak no ole woman lak Janie Starks, Pheoby, friend or no friend.” 4 Zora Neale Hurston “At dat she ain’t so ole as some of y’all dat’s talking.” “She’s way past forty to my knowledge, Pheoby.” “No more’n forty at de outside.” “She’s ’way too old for a boy like Tea Cake.” “Tea Cake ain’t been no boy for some time. He’s round thirty his ownself.” “Don’t keer what it was, she could stop and say a few words with us. She act like we done done something to her,” Pearl Stone complained. “She de one been doin’ wrong.” “You mean, you mad ’cause she didn’t stop and tell us all her business. Anyhow, what you ever know her to do so bad as y’all make out? The worst thing Ah ever knowed her to do was taking a


But then she opened her eyes, and she realized the man still stood there, staring at her with an expression she couldn’t put a name to. Like he wished he could be anywhere else but couldn’t find the strength to move because everything he wanted was right in front of him. “Simon,” she breathed. He moved so quickly that in the space of a breath his lips collided with hers in a fierce kiss that seemed to stop her heart in her chest, leaving her senseless. Though his hands were cold at her neck, his lips were warm, and they explored hers with an urgency she’d never felt before. Kissing Simon was like bringing the sun back, and she was desperate to stay in that spot, so when he pulled away the slightest bit, she followed him, wrapping her arms around his neck and threading her fingers into his hair. “No,” he said suddenly, pushing her away and gasping for air. Shaking his head, he moved several paces away from her, as if he needed the distance to breathe again. “You lied to me. To my family. How can I ever trust you when all I’ve known are lies?” As much as she wanted to tell him that she would never lie again, she had no way of promising in a way that he would believe. And there was nothing she could do to fix that. Her heart already ached for him, and though he was only a few feet away, she knew she would miss him for the rest of her life. “You can’t,” she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. That, at least, was the truth. Though she had never been anyone but herself, he could never trust her, and that—knowing she might have had a chance if only she had told him the truth from the beginning—hurt worse than his hatred. She took one step toward him, one final hope in her heart of making things right, but he held up a hand and closed his eyes. “Go, Miss Hayes,” he said. “Leave. Please.” Then he stepped out into the rain and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Lucy heartbroken and alone. Chapter Twenty-Eight Lucy wasn’t sure why she went up to her room to pack. It wasn’t like she had anything to call hers except a crumpled little leaf—the one she had pulled out of Simon’s hair in the pond. Beyond that, everything she had was borrowed, including the family who might have accepted her if things had been different. When she’d finally stopped crying enough to go back to the house, Nick had been waiting for her at the door, and she didn’t have to say a word for him to recognize what had happened. He had pulled her into an embrace and, for once, said nothing. Even he had no idea how to repair her shattered relationship with Simon. Thankfully, he had let her go up to her room alone, though she knew it wouldn’t last. Olivia would probably try to convince her to stay, as would


no one had shaken in days. No one crossed the quad, no one scuttled from Commons with an Eggo and a coffee. I was the only thing moving, because I was late; I’d texted Alder to tell the class to start without me. I left Fran’s car in the lot behind Quincy and raced up the big wooden stairs to the second floor. I took them two at a time, something I’d last done senior year. I’d sobbed on those stairs freshman year after I failed my English midterm. I fell down them once, bruising my tailbone. And one time on the landing, Dorian Culler and the postgrad senior we called Peewee cornered me and Carlotta. I told you before that I had a story about Peewee, and this is it. Carlotta and I sat on the landing, on the top step of the bottom half of the stairs. I wonder if you can picture the way they double back, the curve and deep patina of the banister—but maybe you didn’t spend much time in Quincy. It was after classes; Carlotta was practicing “These Are Days” on her guitar, for one of the several occasions on which she’d perform it that year and make us cry. The song had been around awhile, but didn’t become our emphatic anthem till we found ourselves about to graduate. The boys had a camera, not odd since we were right by the darkroom. Dorian took a picture of us, and Carlotta stopped singing, asked what he wanted. “I’m using up my roll,” he said. And then, “Peewee, get in the picture.” Parkman Walcott bounded up the stairs to plop his huge self between us, smelling like sweat and Drakkar Noir. I wasn’t falling for Dorian’s bullshit, wasn’t about to grin for the camera, and neither was Carlotta. In the instant after the flash went off, Peewee reached around both of us and grabbed my right breast and Carlotta’s left, hard enough to leave fingertip bruises. Carlotta bucked like a horse, getting Peewee off her, off us, and—unintentionally, but conveniently—ramming her guitar head into his Adam’s apple. There was some aftermath with him swearing, her screaming that she’d get his nuts next, me not knowing what to do, Dorian doubled over laughing—but I don’t recall how we got out of there. I hadn’t thought of it more than once or twice between 1995 and that moment. It wasn’t something I’d suppressed, just something I hadn’t revisited. But in 2018, halfway up those same stairs, I did the math. Dorian Culler had shoved his dick in my face three times, had photographed his friend grabbing my breast, had humiliated me in front of my peers for four years. Things had amplified, had gone incrementally from something he could have laughed off as a joke to now, for the first time, physical force. This was fall of senior year, because yes, what Carlotta had been practicing for was the Parents’ Weekend bonfire; I remembered now for sure, because she was cold to me for a few days after the


are a necessity. A more pleasing phrase we use for a midwife is she who collects the newborn.” Her eyes glide back to Grandfather. “You do not touch blood. I do not touch blood. We consult from afar. I might attend to a woman in labor—giving her herbs to speed delivery and make the baby slippery—and after birth provide the decoctions that will rebuild her vitality, but I would never try to catch an infant—” “Confucius made clear that any profession in which blood is involved is considered to be beneath us,” Grandfather agrees. “A midwife’s contact with blood places her on the same base level as a butcher. Furthermore, midwives are disreputable. They are too much in the world.” “Perhaps.” Grandmother sighs. “But since we physicians acknowledge blood as corrupt and corrupting, then how can a woman give birth without the aid of a midwife?” “Peasant women—” “Work in the fields all day, have their babies in the corners of their shacks, and then cook dinner for their families,” Grandmother finishes for him. “So—” “So nothing!” Grandmother is starting to lose her temper. “Have you seen that with your own eyes? Maybe those women have a mother-in-law in the household who helps them. Maybe there’s a midwife who works in the village. Maybe—” Grandfather holds up a palm in an effort to make peace, but Grandmother isn’t done. “Do men die in childbirth?” she asks. “No, they do not! Even the empress is attended by a midwife. So don’t tell me that a woman can just give birth by herself! If giving birth is so easy and painless—” “I never said it was painless—” “If giving birth is so natural,” Grandmother continues, “then how is it fated that labor and delivery put life at risk? A woman is the only animal on earth who should not deliver her offspring alone, because the baby comes out facedown, making it nearly impossible for a woman to pull it out by herself. A midwife is indispensable, whether you like it or not.” “Indispensable,” Grandfather echoes. “And midwives can receive great rewards—” He nods, finally giving in. “If one is lucky enough to attend to imperial women in the Forbidden City, she is rewarded on a level even men like me can envy.” “Land, gold, titles—” Still trying to make peace, he adds, “We could also say that two families cannot be joined without the consultation of a matchmaker.” But, since he’s entitled to having the last word, he can’t stop himself from finishing with “That doesn’t make these women any less unsavory.” Grandmother gives him a quick look but remains silent. Feeling he’s won, Grandfather brightens. He once again addresses me. “Tell me about qi.” I recite in the same way I do poems, couplets, and the rules by which a girl should live. “Qi is the material basis and life-sustaining force of all existence within the body—” “A parrot can say words,” Grandmother interrupts, still irritated, it seems, by Grandfather’s views on midwives, “but does it understand their deeper meaning?” I try harder.


hand under her chin. ‘Oh,’ Siyu breathed. Lukiri waved her fists, frowning. ‘I’ve been putting her over my shoulder.’ ‘That suits some babies.’ Tunuva made sure she had a firm hold on Lukiri before she started to pat and rub her back. ‘Others prefer this way.’ ‘Tuva . . . Imin held me after I was born. He told me so. May Anyso not hold Lukiri?’ ‘Imin was an anointed member of the Priory.’ ‘So might Anyso be,’ Siyu said, appeal in her eyes. ‘Tuva, he could lead a happy life among the men. He’s so gentle and patient. His family are bakers, so he can make bread and cakes, and he helped raise his two sisters. I’m sure he could learn to sew and garden.’ ‘He also loves you.’ ‘Esbar loves you.’ ‘Our situation is different. Anyso wants to marry you and take you to his family. You must see the danger in that.’ Siyu was silent for a time. ‘I could make him understand, if I could talk to him,’ she said, shaken. ‘It’s awful to keep him here like a prisoner, Tuva. He didn’t do anything wrong.’ ‘I know.’ Tunuva gave her a regretful look. ‘This is why we try to stay hidden, sunray.’ ‘I should never have gone to the river. I should never have been seen,’ Siyu said in a disquieted whisper. ‘Tuva . . . if he can’t stay and he can’t leave, what will happen to him?’ ‘That is for the Prioress to decide, when she feels stronger.’ Lukiri broke the silence with a burp and spat up milk, startling herself. Siyu managed a snort of laughter. ‘There.’ Tunuva turned Lukiri and used a fresh cloth to wipe her mouth and chin. ‘Shall I take her to the men?’ ‘Yes, please.’ Siyu set her head on the bolster. ‘Will you ask Imin about the milk?’ ‘I will.’ Tunuva hitched Lukiri up to her shoulder. Her movement woke Lalhar, who twitched her nose and climbed on to the daybed to curl up with Siyu. Tunuva left them both to sleep. Lukiri yawned in her arms, smelling of roses and milk. Tunuva gave her scalp a gentle kiss as she descended. The pang came, as it always did, but it was softer than she had feared. She knew exactly how Saghul would want to remove the difficulty of Anyso. Siyu was supposed to have killed him. He had known too much as soon as he saw a girl in the depths of the Lasian Basin. If there was another way, Tunuva had failed to think of it. ‘Explain to me how this happened, Alanu. Explain it as if I am one of the children.’ Imsurin was holding a grey cloak, glaring at one of the older boys. ‘Brother, we were low on clothing soap,’ Alanu was saying, his tone earnest, ‘so I thought I would try—’ ‘You must forgive my ignorance, Alanu. I was under the foolish impression that you had something to do with maintaining our supplies. Are we usually graced by a soap divinity?’ ‘I


once possessed seems to have evaporated back in the eighties, when she was smoking pot and following bands around and naming her children things like Juniper Song and Aurora Whisper. She went back to work after Dad died, and since then has molded herself entirely into the American ideal of a working single mother: perfect attendance at her office job, perfect attendance at our parent-teacher meetings, just enough savings to put Rory and me through good schools with minimal student debt and to set up a retirement account for herself. The demands of such a hustle, it seems, left no room for creativity. She’s the kind of suburban white mother who buys home living magazines at the grocery checkout counter, who drinks crate upon crate of four-dollar wines from Trader Joe’s, who refers to Twilight as “those vampire books,” and who hasn’t read anything other than Costco discount paperbacks for decades. Mom always got along better with Rory. I always got the sense that she didn’t quite know what to do with me. It was Dad who could always follow me wherever my imagination went. But we don’t talk about Dad. We sit in silence for a while, chewing on egg rolls and stir-fried chicken bits so sweet they taste like candy. At last, Mom asks, “How’s your, well, book writing going?” Mom has always had the particular ability to reduce all my aspirations to trivial obsessions with a simple disinterested question. I set down my chopsticks. “It’s, uh, fine.” “Oh, that’s good.” “Well, actually, I’m sort of . . .” I want to tell her why I’ve been so miserable these past few months, but I don’t know where to begin. “I’m in a difficult place. Creatively. Like, I can’t think of anything to write about.” “You mean like writer’s block?” “Sort of like that. Only usually I have all these tricks to break out of it. Writing exercises, listening to music, going on long walks and whatnot. It’s not working this time.” Mom shoves some bits of chicken aside to snag a candied pecan. “Well, maybe it’s time to move on, then.” “Mom.” “I’m just saying. Rory’s friend can always get you into that class. You just have to fill out the application.” Mom has suggested that I do a master’s in tax and accounting at American University every time I’ve seen her in the last four years. She’s even gone so far as to print and mail me the application the summer after my debut novel flopped and I resorted to tutoring kids for the SAT to make rent. “For the last time, I don’t want to be an accountant.” “What’s so wrong with being an accountant?” “I’ve told you, I don’t want to work an office job like you and Rory—” I know what she’ll say next. We’ve been hurling these lines at each other for years. “You’re too good for office jobs? Junie the Yalie won’t put in a hard day’s work like the rest of us?” “Mom, stop.” “Rory puts food on the table. Rory has


“It’s the paycheck, mostly.” His eyes open wider and he looks at me hard, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place. “I reeeeeally shouldn’t tell you this, but . . . I know someone who has a crush on you.” He says this in a singsong, like we’re at fourth grade recess and he’s relaying a message from a friend. “Ha, ha,” I say. “Well, we don’t have many mutual friends, so—” “It’s me,” he clarifies, holding up his thumb and forefinger. “Just an itty bitty crush when we first met.” “I did, too. That’s kind of why I went back to your hotel room.” His grin deepens, and he wags that finger back and forth. “After that,” he says. “Not just that first time. A little bit in Portland, too, and maybe also Arizona.” A wrinkle of his nose. “I know we’re supposed to be professionals, but maybe . . . maybe also right now, too.” I crane my neck to look over at the desk, hoping he won’t notice the way my cheeks are heating up. “How much of that medicine did you take?” “I’m serious, Chandler Cohen.” He rolls closer to me in bed, his long lashes and freckles and mess of hair. Even with his eyes beginning to droop, he’s still stunning. “But—but you can’t,” I say, as though simply denying it will make it untrue. You can’t and we’ll rewind to thirty seconds ago, back when our relationship still made sense. Because that wasn’t how this was supposed to work. It takes every ounce of strength in me to scoot to the edge of the bed, so violently that I nearly fall off. It’s not real. It’s purely chemical, his brain convincing him that he feels something for the person he’s sleeping with. There should have been a warning on those meds: do not mix with oxytocin. Despite the fact that we’ve seen each other naked a handful of times now, his words linger, wrapping around my heart and setting down roots there, where they could grow into something even more invasive. There’s a terrifying sweetness to them, an innocence that isn’t always there when our hotel room doors are locked. Maybe also right now, too. “Can’t, schmant.” He seems to get another burst of energy, sitting up in bed. “You’re just . . . so smart. So nice. And you wear socks when you shouldn’t and take me to sex shops and read books about people killing each other with poisoned pastries.” He looks up at me with this fierce vulnerability, one that makes my heart swell in my chest. “And you’re beautiful and adorable and cute, and I guess some of those mean the same thing, but I stand by it. I have this monster crush on you, and there it is.” He flings his arms out, punctuating the whole thing with a wide, loopy grin. Then he yawns, drops back to the pillow, and immediately falls asleep. Well . . . fuck. chapter sixteen MIAMI, FL Maddy DeMarco’s face grins back at


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

the throng of the players and his eyes were weak and watery. Rody Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of the third line all the fellows said. Rody Kickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody Kickham had greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big hands. He called the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket. And one day he had asked: --What is your name? Stephen had answered: Stephen Dedalus. Then Nasty Roche had said: --What kind of a name is that? And when Stephen had not been able to answer Nasty Roche had asked: --What is your father? Stephen had answered: --A gentleman. Then Nasty Roche had asked: --Is he a magistrate? He crept about from point to point on the fringe of his line, making little runs now and then. But his hands were bluish with cold. He kept his hands in the side pockets of his belted grey suit. That was a belt round his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow a belt. One day a fellow said to Cantwell: --I'd give you such a belt in a second. Cantwell had answered: --Go and fight your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I'd like to see you. He'd give you a toe in the rump for yourself. That was not a nice expression. His mother had told him not to speak with the rough boys in the college. Nice mother! The first day in the hall of the castle when she had said goodbye she had put up her veil double to her nose to kiss him: and her nose and eyes were red. But he had pretended not to see that she was going to cry. She was a nice mother but she was not so nice when she cried. And his father had given him two five-shilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had told him if he wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow. Then at the door of the castle the rector had shaken hands with his father and mother, his soutane fluttering in the breeze, and the car had driven off with his father and mother on it. They had cried to him from the car, waving their hands: --Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye! --Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye! He was caught in the whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of the flashing eyes and muddy boots, bent down to look through the legs. The fellows were struggling and groaning and their legs were rubbing and kicking and stamping. Then Jack Lawton's yellow boots dodged out the ball and all the other boots and legs ran after. He ran after them a little way and then stopped. It was useless to run on. Soon they would be going home for the holidays. After supper in the study hall he would change the number pasted up inside his desk from seventy-seven to seventy-six. It would be better to be in the study hall than


vigil with the Valar that when the messengers declared to Manw the answers of Fanor to his heralds, Manw wept and bowed his head. But at that last word of Fanor: that at the least the Noldor should do deeds to live in song for ever, he raised his head, as one that hears a voice far off, and he said: 'So shall it be! Dear-bought those songs shall be accounted, and yet shall be well-bought. For the price could be no other. Thus even as Eru spoke to us shall beauty not before conceived be brought into E, and evil yet be good to have been.' But Mandos said: 'And yet remain evil. To me shall Fanor come soon.' But when at last the Valar learned that the Noldor had indeed passed out of Aman and were come back into Middle-earth, they arose and began to set forth in deeds those counsels which they had taken in thought for the redress of the evils of Melkor. Then Manw bade Yavanna and Nienna to put forth all their powers of growth and healing; and they put forth all their powers upon the Trees. But the tears of Nienna availed not to heal their mortal wounds; and for a long while Yavanna sang alone in the shadows. Yet even as hope failed and her song faltered, Telperion bore at last upon a leafless bough one great flower of silver, and Laurelin a single trait of gold. These Yavanna took; and then the Trees died, and their lifeless stems stand yet in Valinor, a memorial of vanished joy. But the flower and the fruit Yavanna gave to Aul, and Manw hallowed them, and Aul and his people made vessels to hold them and preserve their radiance: as is said in the Narsilion, the Song of the Sun and Moon. These vessels the Valar gave to Varda, that they might become lamps of heaven, outshining the ancient stars, being nearer to Arda; and she gave them power to traverse the lower regions of Ilmen, and set them to voyage upon appointed courses above the girdle of the Earth from the West unto the East and to return. These things the Valar did, recalling in their twilight the darkness of the lands of Arda; and they resolved now to illumine Middle-earth and with light to hinder the deeds of Melkor. For they remembered the Avari that remained by the waters of their awakening, and they did not utterly forsake the Noldor in exile; and Manw knew also that the hour of the coming of Men was drawn nigh. And it is said indeed that, even as the Valar made war upon Melkor for the sake of the Quendi, so now for that time they forbore for the sake of the Hildor, the Aftercomers, the younger Children of Ilvatar. For so grievous had been the hurts of Middle-earth in the war upon Utumno that the Valar feared lest even worse should now befall; whereas the Hildor should be mortal, and weaker than the Quendi to withstand fear


Compare the Raveloe attitude toward church-going to your community's attitude. How are they different? How are they alike? When Dolly knocks at Silas' door, Eliot describes his reaction to this visit in more detail than she did with Mr. Macey's. A need for other people is faintly stirring in Silas. Dolly offers him her homemade lard-cakes, speaking gently. Dolly is surprised that Silas can read the letters she traced on the tops of the--I.H.S.-which she copied from the pulpit-cloth at church. Though Dolly doesn't know the formal meaning of these letters (they stand for the Greek spelling of "Jesus"), she has the spirit right. Silas, on the other hand, can read, but these letters weren't part of his church's rituals so he can't understand their spirit. Similarly, he doesn't understand the meaning of church bells, which weren't rung in Lantern-Yard. His sect referred to worship as "chapel," so he doesn't even share the meaning of the word "church" with Dolly. Then Dolly expresses the spirit of her religion--a faith that comforts her through life's troubles. She trusts in God and Heaven, although her concept is almost pagan--she sees a group of divinities, "Them as are above us." This is totally different from the religion Silas knew, and he can't even imagine it. Silas has a hard time communicating with Dolly because he isn't used to talking with people. Yet he's trying. Dolly has brought her little boy Aaron with her, and Silas quietly offers him some cake. Dolly thinks it's good for Silas to have contact with a child (watch for another child to enter his life soon). But short-sighted Silas can hardly see Aaron's face--he's still withdrawn from humanity. Aaron sings a Christmas carol, but Silas' ears aren't used to music--just as his soul isn't used to kindness--and he can't enjoy it. Dolly leaves, with a last bit of advice to give up working on a Sunday. (This is partly because it's against church law, and partly because of old superstitions.) Silas is relieved to be left alone. Eliot paints a bleak picture of his lonely Christmas day. Possessed by grief, he still doesn't lock his door; he thinks of his cottage as "his robbed home." Eliot adds a sad, short paragraph contrasting him to his loving, trusting youthful self. He is now at his lowest point. In comparison, the villagers have a merry Christmas, full of traditional celebrations. In the world of the gentry, though, Squire Cass' party on New Year's Eve is the big event, and Eliot describes the eager preparations for it. (No one worries about Dunstan's absence.) Only Godfrey looks forward to the party with conflicting emotions. Eliot dramatizes this in a dialogue between hopeful Godfrey and his demon Anxiety. He seems literally split in two. Compare Silas and Godfrey at this point. Which do you feel sorrier for? Why? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 11 After hearing so much about her, at last you meet Nancy Lammeter, riding to the Casses' party. Eliot tries not to idealize Nancy. Though she's lovely, she's dressed in dowdy clothes. Clinging


a line of blood-tinged spittle hanging from her bottom lip. Her shoulder is sloped in a way that tells me it’s either broken or dislocated. She struggles to get the gun under her control. We’re out the front door and sprinting down the drive in a blink. Javier stumbles but doesn’t let himself fall as he runs ahead of us. We’re halfway down the drive when a gunshot splits the air like a bolt of lightning. I throw myself face-first into the dirt, and Bezi falls beside me. A sharp pain rockets through my knee as it strikes the ground. Another shot rings out and splinters a tree just off the driveway to our right. “She’s shooting at us!” Javier screams. “Get up! Go!” We scramble to our feet and keep running. I ignore the pain in my knee. I keep moving even though it feels like I’m trudging through quicksand. As we get to the crest in the driveway, I slide to a grinding halt. A tall figure stands at the bottom of the drive near the road. Another gunshot ricochets through the trees. The figure stalks toward us, and I panic. We can’t go back. We can’t go forward. I step toward the trees as Javier lights the figure up with his flashlight and, in a rush of relief, I realize it’s Kyle. “Come on!” he yells. “We gotta get out of here!” I’ve never been much of an athlete. I passed gym with a C-plus, but I run the entire two miles back to the rear entrance of the camp without stopping. I ignore the ache in my calves and the burning in my lungs. Each time Bezi tries to stop to catch her breath, I pull her forward. We don’t have time to be winded or tired. At the rear gate, we squeeze through the opening as quickly as we can. As soon as we’re safely inside the fence, I race toward the office. I want to call the sheriff, but a part of me feels like he won’t even care. Still, I have to get ahold of somebody. Anybody. We need help. “The office!” I say, gasping. “We gotta call—” I’m moving past the Western Lodge when something catches my eye. Some subtle movement I realize is coming from inside the lodge itself. I come to a full stop for the first time since we left Ms. Keane’s property. The lodge doors are sitting wide open. The fluorescent lights in the kitchen are on, and they’re casting a cold glow throughout the main hall. Standing in front of the unlit fireplace is a person. Bezi is panting beside me when Kyle and Javier notice the figure too. I nearly stop breathing as a sudden chill runs up my back and settles in the nape of my neck. I take a step toward the open doors, blinking, unable to fully comprehend what I’m seeing. The stooped figure is standing with their back to me. They are barefoot, shirtless, and they have their arms wrapped around their own waist


three weeks straight and he reassured her that would be fine. “My schedule’s not much better, so I’ll take whatever I can get.” As verbose as Dale was, his friend was the opposite. Peter ate his meal with a serious expression and spoke very little. Marion wondered why he’d even agreed to go out tonight and tried to not take it personally. Finally, the waiter cleared their plates and they were given coffee and a small plate of French cookies. “So, Marion,” said Dale. “How do you like the big city?” “I’m from Bronxville,” Marion answered. “So it’s not like I’m new to it. My father works here, and I took classes and taught dance on the west side.” “Well, you’re in for a treat, now that you’re living with Bunny. This one knows how to enjoy life, am I right?” Bunny smiled. “What’s there not to enjoy?” “Tell that to Peter here. That man has a tendency to look on the dark side of things.” Bunny turned to Peter. “Why’s that?” Peter considered the question a moment before he answered. “Maybe because I work with schizophrenic patients who are institutionalized and have no hope of survival in the outside world.” His response left them all speechless, then Dale laughed. “Don’t let this guy fool you. Back when we were at Harvard, he was the life of the party, until he got all serious junior year.” He turned to Peter. “You remember the time we tossed all of Scooter’s clothes in the tree outside Lowell House? He had to run out into the courtyard in his pajamas and climb up to get them, while the girls went nuts laughing. Poor sod.” Bunny leaned forward. “You really work with crazy people?” Peter nodded. “At Creedmoor State Hospital, in Queens.” “Do you ever get attacked or anything?” asked Bunny. Peter glanced toward the exit, and Marion wondered if he was planning to dash out and avoid the interrogation. Although he had opened himself up to it by his provocative answer. “I’ve been attacked,” said Peter. “Part of the job, unfortunately.” The words came out quietly, as if he was reluctant to admit as much. Their conversation was interrupted by a loud bellowing that erupted behind Marion. She turned around to see a short, stout man standing face-to-face with the maître d’, practically spitting as he shouted. Off to the side stood a young woman, her face shellacked with makeup, who looked like she wanted to disappear into the folds of her fur coat, her shoulders up near her ears. “I will not be banished to Siberia!” yelled her date. “I may be from out of town, but I was warned that I’d be stuck in the back. Put me up front, with the rest of the bigwigs. Don’t you know who I am?” “Check out that guy,” said Dale, thumbing in the man’s direction. “If the owner, Henri, were here tonight, he’d toss him out on his behind.” They turned back to their meal, but the man would not be placated. “I want the


of conversation as he approached. '"Yes," I says to 'er, "that's all very well," I says. "But if you'd of been in my place you'd of done the same as what I done. It's easy to criticize," I says, "but you ain't got the same problems as what I got."' 'Ah,' said the other, 'that's jest it. That's jest where it is.' The strident voices stopped abruptly. The women studied him in hostile silence as he went past. But it was not hostility, exactly; merely a kind of wariness, a momentary stiffening, as at the passing of some unfamiliar animal. The blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in a street like this. Indeed, it was unwise to be seen in such places, unless you had definite business there. The patrols might stop you if you happened to run into them. 'May I see your papers, comrade? What are you doing here? What time did you leave work? Is this your usual way home?'--and so on and so forth. Not that there was any rule against walking home by an unusual route: but it was enough to draw attention to you if the Thought Police heard about it. Suddenly the whole street was in commotion. There were yells of warning from all sides. People were shooting into the doorways like rabbits. A young woman leapt out of a doorway a little ahead of Winston, grabbed up a tiny child playing in a puddle, whipped her apron round it, and leapt back again, all in one movement. At the same instant a man in a concertina-like black suit, who had emerged from a side alley, ran towards Winston, pointing excitedly to the sky. 'Steamer!' he yelled. 'Look out, guv'nor! Bang over'ead! Lay down quick!' 'Steamer' was a nickname which, for some reason, the proles applied to rocket bombs. Winston promptly flung himself on his face. The proles were nearly always right when they gave you a warning of this kind. They seemed to possess some kind of instinct which told them several seconds in advance when a rocket was coming, although the rockets supposedly travelled faster than sound. Winston clasped his forearms above his head. There was a roar that seemed to make the pavement heave; a shower of light objects pattered on to his back. When he stood up he found that he was covered with fragments of glass from the nearest window. He walked on. The bomb had demolished a group of houses 200 metres up the street. A black plume of smoke hung in the sky, and below it a cloud of plaster dust in which a crowd was already forming around the ruins. There was a little pile of plaster lying on the pavement ahead of him, and in the middle of it he could see a bright red streak. When he got up to it he saw that it was a human hand severed at the wrist. Apart from the bloody stump, the hand was so completely whitened as to resemble a plaster cast.


of the business school lied on her tax return. For sure there’s weed growing in a closet somewhere because there is always weed in a closet, and I guaran-fucking-tee some of your students are engaged in blameless but illegal sex work to pay tuition. The cops will find all of it, some of your kids will have to be expelled, the news people will have a field day.” Bill sours behind the hand. “Are you putting the screws into me, Cal?” “I’m throwing you a lifeline, Bill. I can help, and what I need is what you need me to do, but if you can’t go there, then you can’t. This is why you got me up here, remember? I was going to bed.” “I figured you’d help me calm it all down, not turn my school inside out.” “That is what I’m doing.” “Sure doesn’t feel like it.” But he lowers the hand and we go back to walking. “What the hell is going on? Tebbit, for Christ’s sake? What’s he into? Was he a serial killer? A spy? A drug trafficker?” “He was a Titan, Bill. It’s on his driver’s licence, he was ninety years old and change.” Another moment for him to put that together and then he drops his head into his hands. “Fucking private limited personal health disclosure. It’s university policy, Cal. I’m not allowed to ask questions about medical status unless they are directly relevant to an acute situation. That covers his birthday, even.” I’d feel sorry for him if I didn’t know they made that rule a few years back so that Bill’s predecessor didn’t have to trace embarrassing infections transmitted through her senior staff. “Sleep on it. Let me know in the morning. I was going to swing by about nine, so call me any time before then.” “You put a strain on friendship, Cal, you surely do.” I leave him to his general sense of the sky falling and I go home, again. As I open the door the stupid part of me expects Athena to be there, the way she never is any more, asleep on the sofa or curled up in the bed. I lie down where she isn’t and listen to the sound of the wind. Up above the city there are high clouds, like a second ceiling, and the sky is orange and purple with deep spaces giving onto the endless black. Every so often a helicopter or a drone flies over. Every so often a smattering of rain comes down. When the traffic stops there’s a silence that goes on for miles. I don’t know when I fall asleep, but when I wake it hasn’t been enough, or maybe it’s too much and I can’t tell the difference. 2 “It’s officially official,” Gratton says, in his officially official office. You can imagine it like the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet with a desk against the side wall, and a guy like a skinny cook behind the desk. The precinct house is tucked hard by the border between


wealth of architectural gems with origins in the late Saxon period. We have it all here, timber frames, medieval masterpieces and the Ashmolean Museum is Oxford’s finest neoclassical…’ Minnie laughed out loud as she applied her brakes, clambered off her bike and locked it outside the Playhouse in Beaumont Street. She was already taking Jensen on a tour of the city and he hadn’t asked her out yet. To either side of the entrance doors, huge colourful posters advertised Julius Caesar, with photographs of the great Roman wearing a smart suit and red tie, and Mark Antony in a leather coat and another, in battle fatigues, snarling at a uniformed female Brutus. The red lettering was pierced with a dagger spattered with dripping blood. Minnie pushed the door and walked quietly inside. There was no one around but she knew her way into the theatre. No one noticed her sidle into the dark auditorium, past the rows of colourful seats. The stage was lit and an actor wearing a baseball cap stood in a spotlight, shouting out lines from the play towards a woman in an expensive dress. ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.’ The actor paused, put hands to his head and tried again. ‘Cowards die many times…’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t get this right. I want to explain to Calpurnia what I mean, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to be feeling right now.’ There was a silence in the darkness and Minnie watched with interest to see what would happen. Then an English female voice shouted, ‘Jensen – can you help here, please?’ ‘Oh, sure.’ Minnie heard his voice, light and confident, then she saw him clamber onto the stage. Warmth exuded from his smile as he wrapped an arm around both actors. ‘Okay, this isn’t going to be difficult. Let’s try some bravado, a bit of macho bluster from Julius.’ Jensen grinned. ‘So, what do we have happening right now? Calpurnia is fretful, she’s had premonitions that her husband Caesar’s life is in danger, but what if he thinks he knows better? She’s wise, he’s not. He thinks he’s a hero, invincible, a god. But we’re playing him as a foolish man in this interpretation. So, what he’s saying here is, “This is me, dammit, I’m Julius Caesar – I’m the main guy and no one can hurt me – I ain’t scared of nobody.”’ A light chuckle came from the darkness below where directors and actors congregated, watching. Minnie smiled too. ‘How do you suggest I say the lines?’ the actor playing Caesar asked. ‘Try it through in modern vernacular, just for fun…’ Jensen shrugged. ‘Okay, Calpurnia, what do you say to your husband in modern speak?’ The actor playing Calpurnia took a step back, put a hand to her head and was immediately in role. ‘I don’t want you going out there, Julius. Are you mad? I know what will happen – you’ll go out and you won’t ever come back and then what


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

never complained of ill health. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of pallid—how shall I call it?—of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from his long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his. Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in proportion as the forlornness of Bartleby grew and grew to my imagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into repulsion. So true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot lead to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul rid of it. What I saw that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body; but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach. I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning. Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time from church-going. I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Bartleby. Finally, I resolved upon this;—I would put certain calm questions to him the next morning, touching his history, etc., and if he declined to answer them openly and unreservedly (and I supposed he would prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and above whatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer required; but that if in any other way I could assist him, I would be happy to do so, especially if he desired to return to his native place, wherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses. Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply. The next morning came. “Bartleby,” said I, gently calling to him behind his screen. No reply. “Bartleby,” said I, in a still gentler tone, “come here; I am not going to ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do—I simply


greatest man can do for his fellow-being; you have rescued me, by your noble hospitality, from death. This benefit conferred gives you an unlimited claim on my gratitude, and a claim, to a certain extent, on my confidence. I will tell you as much of the history of the wanderer you have harbored as I can tell without compromising my own peace of mind my own security, moral and physical, and that of others.     "I am an orphan; the daughter of a clergyman. My parents died before I could know them. I was brought up a dependant; educated in a charitable institution. I will even tell you the name of the establishment, where I passed six years as a pupil, and two as a teacher Lowood Orphan Asylum,  shire: you will have heard of it, Mr. Rivers? the Rev. Robert Brocklehurst is the treasurer."     "I have heard of Mr. Brocklehurst, and I have seen the school."     "I left Lowood nearly a year since to become a private governess. I obtained a good situation, and was happy. This place I was obliged to leave four days before I came here. The reason of my departure I cannot and ought not to explain: it would be useless, dangerous, and would sound incredible. No blame attached to me: I am as free from culpability as any one of you three. Miserable I am, and must be for a time; for the catastrophe which drove me from a house had found a paradise was of a strange and direful nature. I observed but two points in planning my departure speed, secrecy; to secure these I had to leave behind me everything I possessed except a small parcel, which, in my hurry and trouble of mind, I forgot to take out of the coach that brought me to Whitcross. To this neighborhood, then, I came, quite destitute. I slept two nights in the open air, and wandered about two days without crossing a threshold; but twice in that space of time did I taste food; and it was when brought by hunger, exhaustion and despair, almost to the last gasp, that you, Mr. Rivers, forbade me to perish of want at your door, and took me under the shelter of your roof. I know all your sisters have done for me since for I have not been insensible during my seeming torpor and I owe to their spontaneous, genuine, genial compassion as large a debt as to your evangelical charity."     "Don't make her talk any more now, St. John," said Diana, as I paused; "she is evidently not yet fit for excitement. Come to the sofa, and sit down now, Miss Elliott."     I gave an involuntary half-start at hearing thealias . I had forgotten my new name. Mr. Rivers, whom nothing seemed to escape, noticed it at once.     "You said your name was Jane Elliott?" he observed.     "I


“For now, he’s behind bars.” “But I could still be in danger. Who was he conspiring with? I need to know.” “I’ll see what I can find out,” she says, brow furrowed. “Have the police arranged an officer to guard your home?” “They said they’ll have a car out front.” “Change your alarm code,” she instructs. “Do you have a gun in the house?” “No. I don’t know.” Tears spill over at the thought of my inability to defend myself. I’m like a sitting duck, in a glass mansion. “Maybe Benjamin does. But I don’t know where it is.” Rachelle gets up and moves around the desk. She gently pulls me to my feet, holds me at the elbows. “I’m on your side, Hazel,” she says, eyes penetrating mine. “I’m going to keep you safe. And I’m going to get you through this.” Now I know why the man in the gray suit was crying. Rachelle Graham’s fierce protectiveness in the face of so much hostility undoes me. Not since my friendship with Lee have I felt this sort of compassion, this type of support. Tears stream down my face. “Thank you,” I mumble, sniffling pathetically. Abruptly, Rachelle steps back, resuming her professional manner. “Let’s take care of the paperwork,” she says. “And then I’ll get to work.” 53 AND SO, I GO HOME because there is nowhere else. I have no friends—and even if I did, I wouldn’t jeopardize their safety with my presence. A hotel is an option, but with my financial limitations, I don’t want to spend the money. I need to pay Rachelle Graham. I will need to hire a divorce lawyer eventually. And I will have to start my life over—if I make it through this. If I don’t end up in jail. Or dead. The cop car stationed at the end of the driveway gives me no peace of mind as I wander through the cavernous house. I know better than anyone the many ways in and out of this place. One conspicuous squad car is not going to deter a person who is determined to get to me. There must be ways to circumvent the alarm system. Nate is gone, of course. He is on Team Benjamin. For all I know, he could be the one I am meant to fear. Surely he had knowledge of Benjamin’s plan at the very least. I am too anxious to eat, but I move to the kitchen and turn on the kettle. There are several calming tea blends and I select one, drop a fragrant tea bag into a mug. When the water boils, the whistle is like a scream, and I hurriedly remove it from the heat with a trembling hand. As the tea steeps, I grab a large knife from the block and tentatively finger the blade. Lee slept with a knife for protection every night. She was willing to plunge it into flesh, insert it deep into a man’s belly to protect herself. Jesse—Carter—was going to stab my husband to death for a life with


with his brother pirates and attend their own funerals. They had paddled over to the Missouri shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or six miles below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the town till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos of invalided benches. At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to Tom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of talk. In the course of it Aunt Polly said: "Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody suffering 'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come over on a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give me a hint some way that you warn't dead, but only run off." "Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said Mary; "and I believe you would if you had thought of it." --------------------------------------------------------- -179- "Would you, Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face lightingwistfully. "Say, now, would you, if you'd thought of it?" "I -- well, I don't know. 'Twould 'a' spoiled everything." "Tom, I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt Polly, with a grieved tone that discomforted the boy. "It would have been something if you'd cared enough to think of it, even if you didn't do it." "Now, auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's giddy way -- he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything." "More's the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come and done it, too. Tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and wish you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so little." "Now, auntie, you know I do care for you," said Tom. "I'd know it better if you acted more like it." "I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a repentant tone; "but I dreamt about you, anyway. That's something, ain't it?" "It ain't much -- a cat does that much -- but it's better than nothing. What did you dream?" "Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the bed, and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him." "Well, so we did. So we always do. I'm glad --------------------------------------------------------- -180- your dreams could take even that much trouble about us." "And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here." "Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?" "Oh, lots. But it's so dim, now." "Well, try to recollect -- can't you?" "Somehow it seems to me that the wind -- the wind blowed the -- the -- " "Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!" Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

then at her again. "I'll have them nicely dried, sir, at once," she said, and carried his clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity. "I never," she whispered. "There!" She went quite softly to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was messing about with now, when she got there. The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul's had an accident or an op'ration or something," said Mrs. Hall. "What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!" She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the traveller's coat upon this. "And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin' helmet than a human man!" She hung his muffler on a corner of the horse. "And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time. Talkin' through it!...Perhaps his mouth was hurt too--maybe." She turned round, as one who suddenly remembers. "Bless my soul alive!" she said, going off at a tangent; "ain't you done them taters yet, Millie?" When Mrs. Hall went to clear away the stranger's lunch, her idea that his mouth must also have been cut or disfigured in the accident she supposed him to have suffered, was confirmed, for he was smoking a pipe, and all the time that she was in the room he never loosened the silk muffler he had wrapped round the lower part of his face to put the mouthpiece to his lips. Yet it was not forgetfulness, for she saw he glanced at it as it smouldered out. He sat in the corner with his back to the window-blind and spoke now, having eaten and drunk and being comfortably warmed through, with less aggressive brevity than before. The reflection of the fire lent a kind of red animation to his big spectacles they had lacked hitherto. "I have some luggage," he said, "at Bramblehurst station," and he asked her how he could have it sent. He bowed his bandaged head quite politely in acknowledgment of her explanation. "To-morrow!" he said. "There is no speedier delivery?" and seemed quite disappointed when she answered "No." Was she quite sure? No man with a trap who would go over? Mrs. Hall, nothing loath, answered his questions and developed a conversation. "It's a steep road by the down, sir,"


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

tried to be liked once in a while.” “I do try,” I said, overloud. His words stung more than he could have guessed. I tried and tried—or at least, I used to, and nothing had ever come of it. “Well, either way, you’ve outdone yourself this time. How you’ve convinced almost an entire village to hate you in the space of a week is beyond me. It will not make our research here easier, given the necessity of talking to said villagers.” I gave a wordless sound of frustration, running a hand through my hair and dislodging yet more of it from its tie. He was right, and I hated it. “I did nothing to set them against me. Only somehow I offended Aud, and it seems the others are offended on her behalf.” “Tell me,” he said, using his knee to push the chair onto its back legs. Scowling, I gave him an account of my ill-fated visit to the tavern. By the time I was through, he was wincing and shaking his head. “Oh, Em,” he said. “Em. Did you do no research at all before coming here?” Now that galled me. “No research! What do you—” “I don’t mean the Hidden Ones. I’ve no doubt you scoured all of Cambridge for every passing reference to them—I can picture you terrorizing the poor librarians now. I was referring to the mortal inhabitants of this delightful winter wasteland.” He flicked open his satchel and pulled a book out, which he tossed to me. “What is this?” It appeared to be written in Ljoslander. “A novel,” he said. He pulled out another book, which I barely caught. “On the smutty side, I’m afraid—not to your tastes at all. That one’s an account of a very dull trade war. Here.” He pulled out a third book, also in Ljoslander. “A biography of their last queen. That one’s not bad—she shot one of her suitors in the foot. By accident, of course.” I folded my arms. “Thank you, but you needn’t go on. I understand.” “Do you? Can you even read Ljoslander?” “Well enough to get by,” I lied, for I had no intention of listening to him brag. Bambleby is irritatingly adept at languages. Small wonder—the Folk can speak any mortal language they encounter. As they flit through the physical barriers erected by mortals, so too do they evade those of our cultures. “Hospitality is important to these people,” he said. “You’d know that if you’d bothered to learn anything about them at all. You offended Aud by insisting on paying for your supper.” My mouth fell open. “That’s it? That’s why she hates me?” He sighed. “Perhaps if you were not so covered in prickles, she would have forgiven you by now. But if there’s anyone who could encourage others to go looking for excuses to take offence, it is you. And then you compounded the mistake by barging into her village with your questions, and without seeking her permission first.” “I cannot believe that the villagers require her permission to speak


sends him out on an errand. “Wine,” Nick says. “Three bottles of red, plus another for the chicken.” Andy makes a mental note to buy at least five bottles. Or maybe a full case of wine? Is that the sort of extravagance that might bother Nick? It isn’t as if they aren’t eventually going to drink twelve bottles of wine, right? And buying a case brings the cost down, so maybe it’s the opposite of an extravagance? “And . . .” Nick’s voice trails off as he stirs a pan of onions. “Remember when you brought me—when you got those flowers?” Nick is facing away, so Andy can’t be sure, but he thinks Nick might be blushing. He repeats Nick’s words to himself. When you brought me flowers. He remembers Nick’s expression when Andy walked through the door with all those daffodils; it had lodged in Andy’s memory because it didn’t quite make sense. At the time, he hadn’t been able to tell whether Nick was embarrassed or pleased or something else. If Nick wants flowers, then Andy will fill the apartment with every bouquet and posy and arrangement he can get his hands on. He’ll raid a florist. He’ll break into a funeral home—which, all right, maybe not that. Except, no. He imagines Emily and Jeanne and Linda walking into an apartment filled with flowers. They wouldn’t know what to think—or they would, which might be worse. All right. He needs to buy flowers. Just some. A normal, non-alarming quantity of flowers. Not all the flowers in the world. He can do that. He’s still standing at the door, his wallet in his hand, and Nick is staring at him. “Haha,” Andy says. “I’m going now. Bye!” And he flees. At the wine store, he makes life simple by buying a case of the same wine he bought the last time, because he knows Nick likes it. Then he pays extra to have it delivered within the hour, because carrying a crate of wine anywhere, let alone up four flights of stairs, is something he will happily pay somebody else to do. When he bought the daffodils, he had just seen them outside the corner store. They weren’t anything fancy. Today, in front of that same store, there are only scraggly bundles of carnations and he isn’t having any of that. There’s a flower shop near Washington Square Park, though, so when he returns to the apartment an hour later it’s with an armful of sweet peas. “You’re back,” Nick says, stirring something at the stove. “Too bad there’s no wine left in Manhattan because it’s all at our house. I tipped the kid fifty cents.” With the wooden spoon, he gestures at a crate on the floor next to him, then turns around and sees Andy. And the flowers, presumably. After looking at every flower in the shop, much to the consternation of the florist, Andy settled on sweet peas because one, they’re pretty; two, they smell good; and three, they don’t look expensive, at least to Andy’s notions of


but Tom said: "Why, it's just as easy! If I'd a knowed this was all, I'd a learnt long ago." "So would I," said Joe. "It's just nothing." "Why, many a time I've looked at people smoking, and thought well I wish I could do that; but I never thought I could," said Tom. "That's just the way with me, hain't it, Huck? You've heard me talk just that way -- haven't you, Huck? I'll leave it to Huck if I haven't." "Yes -- heaps of times," said Huck. "Well, I have too," said Tom; "oh, hundreds of times. Once down by the slaughter-house. Don't you remember, Huck? Bob Tanner was there, and Johnny Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it. Don't you remember, Huck, 'bout me saying that?" "Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the --------------------------------------------------------- -166- day after I lost a white alley. No, 'twas the day before." "There -- I told you so," said Tom. "Huck recollects it." "I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe. "I don't feel sick." "Neither do I," said Tom. " I could smoke it all day. But I bet you Jeff Thatcher couldn't." "Jeff Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with two draws. Just let him try it once. He'd see!" "I bet he would. And Johnny Miller -- I wish could see Johnny Miller tackle it once." "Oh, don't I!" said Joe. "Why, I bet you Johnny Miller couldn't any more do this than nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch him ." "'Deed it would, Joe. Say -- I wish the boys could see us now." "So do I." "Say -- boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're around, I'll come up to you and say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.' And you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll say, 'Yes, I got my old pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't very good.' And I'll say, 'Oh, that's all right, if it's strong enough.' And then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as ca'm, and then just see 'em look!" "By jings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was now!" --------------------------------------------------------- -167- "So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating, won't they wish they'd been along?" "Oh, I reckon not! I'll just bet they will!" So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvellously increased. Every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting fountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues fast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their throats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings followed every time. Both boys were looking very pale and miserable, now. Joe's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers. Tom's followed. Both fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with might and main. Joe said feebly: "I've lost my


sue, appeal, enlightening, simple, soothing blazing: (adj) flaming, afire, burning, solicit, plead. ANTONYMS: (v) give, bewilderment: (n) astonishment, ardent, aflame, glaring, bright, offer, grant, reject quandary, confusion, surprise, blatant, alight, passionate; (n) blaze. beseeching: (adj) begging, suppliant, wonder, bemusement, maze, chaos, ANTONYMS: (adj) freezing, quiet imploring, pleading, precative, jumble, mess; (adj, n) perplexity. blended: (adj) mixed, miscellaneous, supplicatory, precatory, ANTONYMS: (n) order, clarity composite, assorted, alloyed, importunate; (n) prayer; (v) plead; bidding: (n) behest, order, dictate, amalgamated, beaten, adulterate, (adv) beseechingly. ANTONYM: charge, bid, request, call, dictation, conglomerate; (n) medley; (v) (adj) imperative direction, fiat; (adj) imperative mingle besom: (n, v) broom; (n) brush; (v) bind: (adj, v) attach, fix, fasten, affix; blessed: (adj) happy, holy, cursed, sieve, screen, shovel, rake, filter, (n) band; (v) bandage, lace, fetter, sacred, damned, hallowed, blasted, mop, riddle bundle, truss, combine. fortunate, saintly, lucky, divine. bespatter: (v) vilify, besmear, splash, ANTONYMS: (v) untie, unbind, ANTONYMS: (adj) unlucky, spot, blot, spatter, dabble, fleck, free, unfasten, unravel, permit, condemned, damned, disapproved, begrime, dash, soil loosen, loose, let; (n, v) release; (n) unhappy, unholy, secular bestow: (v) give, confer, grant, pleasure blessing: (n) benediction, approval, impart, contribute, donate, apply, biographical: (adj) biographic mercy, felicity, benison, benefit, award; (adj, v) accord, allow, biography: (n) history, life story, life, luck, advantage, boon, bless, present. ANTONYMS: (v) deprive, life history, memoirs, memoir, story, godsend. ANTONYMS: (n) curse, refuse, withhold, retrieve, withdraw hagiography, animation, misfortune, disaster, condemnation, bestowed: (adj) presented, conferred, biographies, resume adversity, desecration, refusal, veto, awarded, accurate bitterness: (n) acerbity, animosity, disadvantage bestrew: (v) scatter, spread, straw, gall, malice, resentment, enmity, blight: (n, v) blast, decay, plague; (v) disperse, suffuse, cover, acridity, acidity, bitter, rancor, damage, wither, blemish, perish; (n) disseminate, overspread, besprinkle, sharpness. ANTONYMS: (n) joy, bane, pest, curse, rust. ANTONYMS: strew, sprinkle happiness, harmony, kindness, (v) aid, help, guard, protect, betake: (v) wend, apply, address, blandness, friendliness, goodwill, enhance, improve; (n) health, boon, accost, get, obtain, refer, acquire, idealism, affection bounty aim, beget, attach blacken: (v) asperse, bespatter, blighted: (v) broken, wasted, rotten, betimes: (adv) early, soon, anon, rath, malign, denigrate, cloud, darken, moldering, effete, cankered; (adj) betime, ahead of time, rathe defame, calumniate, stain, libel, spoilt, ill-fated, bleak, blasted, bad betoken: (v) augur, foreshadow, tarnish. ANTONYMS: (v) respect, bliss: (n) happiness, joy, ecstasy, prognosticate, bode, foretell, mark, compliment, glorify, honor, pleasure, paradise, blessedness, bespeak, presage, indicate, omen; (n, brighten, praise, lighten felicity, elation, beatitude, heaven, v) denote blackness: (n) black, darkness, sable, blessing. ANTONYMS: (n) misery, betokening: (adj) augural books gloom, nigritude, night, inkiness, sorrow, agony, grief, anguish, betray: (v) deceive, bewray, sell, dark, murk, murkiness, obscurity sadness, suffering, gloom, hell, grass, dupe, reveal, mislead, blacksmith: (n) farrier, horseshoer, dissatisfaction disclose, accuse, befool, bamboozle. forger, locksmith, metalworker, bloodthirstiness: (n) murderousness, ANTONYMS: (v) protect, sailmaker, wheelwright, smithy, blood lust, cruelty, bloodiness undeceive, hide, defend, withhold smith bloom: (adj, n, v) flower; (v) prosper, betraying: (adj) treacherous, blameless: (adj) irreproachable, flourish, thrive, burgeon; (adj, v) revealing, Judas perfect, faultless, unimpeachable, blow, fructify; (n) prime, blush, betwixt: (n) midst; (prep) among, pure, spotless, innocent, guiltless, flush, bud. ANTONYMS: (v) shrivel, amid;


broadly Yorkshire sounds until you have heard some one speak it. Colin began to laugh. "What are you doing?" he said. "I never heard you talk like that before. How funny it sounds." "I'm givin' thee a bit o' Yorkshire," answered Mary triumphantly. `I canna' talk as graidely as Dickon an' Martha can but tha' sees I can shape a bit. Doesn't tha' understand a bit o' Yorkshire when tha' hears it? An' tha' a Yorkshire lad thysel' bred an' born! Eh! I wonder tha'rt not ashamed o' thy face." And then she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could not stop themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and Mrs. Medlock opening the door to come in drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed. "Well, upon my word!" she said, speaking rather broad Yorkshire herself because there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished. "Whoever heard th' like! Whoever on earth would ha' thought it!" There was so much to talk about. It seemed as if Colin could never hear enough of Dickon and Captain and Soot and Nut and Shell and the pony whose name was Jump. Mary had run round into the wood with Dickon to see Jump. He was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet nose. He was rather thin with living on moor grass but he was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel springs. He had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw Dickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder and then Dickon had talked into his ear and Jump had talked back in odd little whinnies and puffs and snorts. Dickon had made him give Mary his small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle. "Does he really understand everything Dickon says?" Colin asked. "It seems as if he does," answered Mary. "Dickon says anything will understand if you're friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for sure." Colin lay quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but Mary saw he was thinking. "I wish I was friends with things," he said at last, "but I'm not. I never had anything to be friends with, and I can't bear people." "Can't you bear me?" asked Mary. "Yes, I can," he answered. "It's funny but I even like you." "Ben Weatherstaff said I was like him," said Mary. "He said he'd warrant we'd both got the same nasty tempers. I think you are like him too. We are all three alike--you and I and Ben Weatherstaff. He said we were neither of us much to look at and we were as sour as we looked. But I don't feel as sour as I used to before I knew the robin


her belly with approval, and Dany could see the shape of his manhood pressing through his horsehide trousers, below the heavy gold medallions of his belt. She went to him and helped him unlace. 434 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN Then her huge khal took her by the hips and lifted her into the air, as he might lift a child. The bells in his hair rang softly. Dany wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face against his neck as he thrust himself inside her. Three quick strokes and it was done. "The stallion who mounts the world, " Drogo whispered hoarsely. His hands still smelled of horse blood. He bit at her throat, hard, in the moment of his pleasure, and when he lifted her off, his seed filled her and trickled down the inside of her thighs. Only then was Doreah permitted to drape her in the scented sandsilk, and Irri to fit soft slippers to her feet. Khal Drogo laced himself up and spoke a command, and horses were brought to the lakeshore. Cohollo had the honor of helping the khaleesi onto her silver. Drogo spurred his stallion, and set off down the godsway beneath the moon and stars. On her silver, Dany easily kept pace. The silk tenting that roofed Khal Drogo's hall had been rolled up tonight, and the moon followed them inside. Flames leapt ten feet in the air from three huge stone-lined firepits. The air was thick with the smells of roasting meat and curdled, fermented mare's milk. The hall was crowded and noisy when they entered, the cushions packed with those whose rank and name were not sufficient to allow them at the ceremony. As Dany rode beneath the arched entry and up the center aisle, every eye was on her. The Dothraki screamed out comments on her belly and her breasts, hailing the life within her. She could not understand all they shouted, but one phrase came clear. "The stallion that mounts the world, " she heard, bellowed in a thousand voices. The sounds of drums and horns swirled up into the night. Halfclothed women spun and danced on the low tables, amid joints of meat and platters piled high with plums and dates and pomegranates. Many of the men were drunk on clotted mare's milk, yet Dany knew no arakhs would clash tonight, not here in the sacred city, where blades and bloodshed were forbidden. Khal Drogo dismounted and took his place on the high bench. Khal Jommo and Khal Ogo, who had been in Vaes Dothrak with their khalasars when they arrived, were given seats of high honor to Drogo's right and left. The bloodriders of the three khals sat below them, and farther down Khal Jommo's four wives. Dany climbed off her silver and gave the reins to one of the slaves. As Doreah and Irri arranged her cushions, she searched for her brother. Even across the length of the crowded hall, Viserys should have been conspicuous with his pale skin, silvery hair, and beggar's rags, but she did


sound of hoofbeats made him glance down the road, to where Theon and the others were coming up. "When he will wake," Robb finished. He laid his hand on the pommel of his sword then, and went on in the solemn voice of Robb the Lord. "Bran, I promise you, whatever might happen, I will not let this be forgotten." Something in his tone made Bran even more fearful. "What will you do?" he asked as Theon Greyjoy reined in beside them. "Theon thinks I should call the banners," Robb said. "Blood for blood." For once Greyjoy did not smile. His lean, dark face had a hungry look to it, and black hair fell down across his eyes. "Only the lord can call the banners," Bran said as the snow drifted down around them. "If your father dies," Theon said, "Robb will be Lord of Winterfell." "He won't die!" Bran screamed at him. Robb took his hand. "He won't die, not Father," he said calmly. 352 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN "Still ... the honor of the north is in my hands now. When our lord father took his leave of us, he told me to be strong for you and for Rickon. I'm almost a man grown, Bran." Bran shivered. "I wish Mother was back," he said miserably. He looked around for Maester Luwin; his donkey was visible in the far distance, trotting over a rise. "Does Maester Luwin say to call the banners too?" "The maester is timid as an old woman," said Theon. "Father always listened to his counsel," Bran reminded his brother. "Mother too." "I listen to him," Robb insisted. "I listen to everyone." The joy Bran had felt at the ride was gone, melted away like the snowflakes on his face. Not so long ago, the thought of Robb calling the banners and riding off to war would have filled him with excitement, but now he felt only dread. "Can we go back now?" he asked. "I'm cold." Robb glanced around. "We need to find the wolves. Can you stand to go a bit longer?" "I can go as long as you can." Maester Luwin had warned him to keep the ride short, for fear of saddle sores, but Bran would not admit to weakness in front of his brother. He was sick of the way everyone was always fussing over him and asking how he was. "Let's hunt down the hunters, then," Robb said. Side by side, they urged their mounts off the kingsroad and struck out into the wolfswood. Theon dropped back and followed well behind them, talking and joking with the guardsmen. It was nice under the trees. Bran kept Dancer to a walk, holding the reins lightly and looking all around him as they went. He knew this wood, but he had been so long confined to Winterfell that he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The smells filled his nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odor of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk


body so I won’t have to pull the car over whenever I leave this fictional place we are all at. Also is “women like to socialize in restrooms” a thing? Is anyone actually “casually chatting” in close proximity to where other people are trying to dislodge their constipated stool? Have I been talking to my friends wrong my whole adult life? If you’re in a clear standoff for some poop privacy, how do you determine who should leave first? I went on a cross-country tour a couple of books ago. Let me immediately disabuse you of the notion that this is a glamorous endeavor. I was supposed to be gone for two months; in theory, that is very exciting. In practice, how am I going to have enough clean underwear? How do I keep my outside clothes from looking like I’ve…worn them outside? Why don’t hotels have washing machines? I would kill for a vegetable served on an actual plate. Where did my charger and my extra travel charger and the charger I packed just in case I misplaced the other two chargers go? People can smell that I don’t have access to my regular toiletries, right? The thing that I was most worried about was the thing I am always the most worried about, i.e., WHERE AM I GONNA POOP? I’m not the one booking the flights, and I’m not in charge of the planes, and, sure, I’m mostly eating Gatorade and Hudson News pretzels, but that doesn’t mean my bowels are gonna cooperate or be predictable! As a matter of fact, they often choose to do the opposite! Most of the days were formatted like this: Flight in the morning; arrive at unfamiliar airport stressed and disheveled after trying to figure out the best way to get a cab in a town that doesn’t have Uber. Land in next tour stop; if it’s too early to check into hotel (call hotel to ask whether it’s too early to check in), collapse in a chair near baggage claim and watch people wrestle their suitcases out of the conveyor until it’s time to check in. Dread the awkward game the front-desk person is gonna make me play while trying to soak in [Denver/Portland/Boston] from the back seat of a speeding car. Arrive at hotel, try not to sound like an asshole while explaining that I’m “On book tour, you know? So my publisher booked the room? You should have a credit card on file from them? I know you need a card to hold for incidentals, but mine will literally catch fire if you insert it into your machine right now? Hold on, let me find the emergency number they put on my itinerary….” Lie down in dark, temperature-controlled hotel room and burn with shame. Put on least-dirty dirty outfit for event, have a lovely time at event, get back to hotel room, and try to do some intestinal math to determine whether I should attempt to eat a real meal that may or may not give me in-air diarrhea the next


fetch your money.” Bianca talked with her back to Io, but her voice rang out in the small kitchen, precise and definite. “Your services are no longer required. The Fortuna gang doesn’t get involved with leeches. Whatever you found on Saint-Yves stays between us. I will take care of the rest. Is that understood?” On that last word, she turned, nailing Io with a foreboding look. This was Edei’s warning. This was the danger Io had sensed. She was expected to agree without hesitation. Take her money and leave Saint-Yves and his cops be. But she couldn’t step away now; she was in too deep. Edei must have known. She saw the fear in his face as she opened her mouth to speak. “That’s it?” “That’s it,” Bianca repeated. “This man might have caused the death of six people and have a new wraith under his command, and we’re going to just let it go? Because you want to, what, protect your business from retaliation from the police?” “My business was built on my blood and sweat. Damn right I’m not going to let some murderous rich boy or”—she waved a hand at Io—“some self-proclaimed defender of the weak ruin it. How did you think this was going to go down, little Ora? Let’s say you get your evidence that Saint-Yves is behind the murders. What are you going to do with it? Take it to the City Council? Perhaps you thought you could go higher up to the Agora at Nanzy? Well, I’ve got news for you. These people are as one. They will cover for each other whatever the cost, because if one of them falls, the whole system falls. Who do you think invented Roosters’ Silence to begin with?” “There are other ways.” “Yeah? Like what? Sneak into his house at night, cut his life-thread, and be done with it? You would have done a good deed, but a moira-born killing Alante’s shining hero? You would be hunted to your end of days. So would be Ava and anyone else you might care about. Or maybe you’ll find what’s precious to him and blackmail him to stop. That’s a good plan, isn’t it? No bloodshed, no officials involved. Try it. Go ahead. Try to prevail over the man who believes himself the savior of Alante.” Palms flat on the kitchen island, back straight and rigid, Io thought, This is what cornered animals feel like. Why they lash out with everything they have, killing themselves in the process. Because they can see no other way out. Well, Io didn’t care anymore. She was going to go out with style. “So what you’re saying is you will do nothing,” she snapped. “All that drivel about protecting the Silts, it was just talk?” Bianca took a step closer. “This is my queendom, cutter. I take care of my own. I’ll hire a hundred men if I have to. There won’t be any more wraiths stalking my streets, no more bodies floating in the tide. But I’m not going against Saint-Yves. I’m smarter


granted, since it wasn’t granted back in ’95. And all of this was the best-case scenario, the pipe dream. We arrived, finally, at a resort much larger than I’d anticipated, a parking lot teeming with out-of-state SUVs. “God, I didn’t think this through,” I said. I’d had some vision of staking the place out all day, but it was already three p.m., and I didn’t want to make Britt retrace these mountain roads in the dark. She messed around on her phone, then put it on speaker, deftly navigating the phone menu of the resort spa until she reached a silken-voiced woman. “Yes,” Britt said, “my name is Beth Docherty. I believe my husband made an appointment for me today, but he forgot to tell me what time.” Shuffling and confusion on the other end, and the woman said, “I have you as already checked in for your 2:30 facial. Are you not—” Britt hung up on her and tossed me her phone like a hot potato, and we sat gasping with laughter. I said, “My friends and I could’ve used you at Granby. We spent so much time pranking people on the dorm phones. You never knew who’d pick up.” 29 I waited on a cushioned bench outside the second-floor spa, a place called Seasons! that emanated a soothing shea butter scent even through its marbled glass doors. Britt had sauntered into the business center like she lived there and headphoned up to work on edits. Something I wish I’d figured out earlier in life: Walk into any place like you belong, and you will. I killed time watching a video Jerome had sent of Silvie jumping rope on our driveway. Her legs were so strong, her face so jubilant with concentration and success. She jumped normally, then crossed her arms, then normal, crossed, normal, crossed. A new trick. I thought of a friend in LA who’d said recently, of her own daughter, “It feels wrong to give her all this happiness and confidence when we know what’s coming. Seventh grade’s gonna hit like a wall. It feels like fattening a pig for slaughter.” But what was the alternative? Starving the pig? Beth emerged from the spa looking down at her phone. She was makeup-less, her face raw but glowing, and she wore spa-issued green foam flip-flops, cotton between her freshly magentaed toes. She carried her shoes in her hand. I stood from the bench with enough urgency to attract her attention. She looked me fully up and down, as if the bottom half of my body might explain what I was doing here. She said, “What. The fuck.” I had considered whether I’d explain or apologize or try to pretend it was all a coincidence, but what I’d settled on was “I’m going to buy you a drink downstairs and then I’ll get out of your hair forever. But you need to come with me right now.” When you’re kidnapping someone, it’s best to be assertive. And despite muttering to herself and sending a voice message to her husband that


so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.'' Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs. Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming -- at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire. The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure. ``Let me first see how he behaves,'' said she; ``it will then be early enough for expectation.'' She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance. Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not an improbable, conjecture. Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He


tick.” I laugh, my breath a gust of white in the space between us. “Should we explain to her that I wasn’t really dating Greg?” “Nah. Millicent’s too busy launching feces wars to care about any of that.” “You . . .” I try to sound casual. “Do you always call her Millicent?” “It’s her name.” “I mean, why not Grandma, or Gram, or Granny, or Mawmaw—” “Mawmaw?” “Whatever. Babushka. Maternal Forebear.” Jack’s expression goes inscrutable. “It’s good, calling people by their names. It minimizes misunderstandings.” I think I see a split second of hesitation, like maybe he’s thinking of saying more, but it’s fleeting, swiftly gone in the glistening snow. “Come on. I’ll take you home before your roommate sends out an Amber Alert.” I nod, because I do need to sort out the mess that is my life in a Smith-free space. But then something occurs to me: the rest of my life is going to be a Smith-free space. A Jack-free space. I’ll probably never see him again. Why would I? The circles we move in are a Venn diagram with little overlap. Maybe we’ll meet at a physics conference two years down the road, when I’m still an adjunct teaching forty classes a week and he’s workshopping his Nobel lecture. But my arrangement with Greg is likely over, which means that this is it. The last time I’ll see Jack. This man, this maddening, impossible, space-taking man who seems to know me despite all that I do to not be known, will be gone from my life. I should be eager to go back to simpler times, when I used to spend zero hours a week in his company and my brain wasn’t made of guacamole, but . . . what a waste. What a surprisingly terrifying perspective. And that’s why I stop him with a tug on the sleeve of his coat. Why I open my mouth and say with no forethought, no premeditation, and a lot of reckless panic, “Youcantakemeout.” It comes out with no pauses or intonation, just a bunch of sounds smooshed together. Which Jack, judging by the knot between his brows, did not understand. I clear my throat. Take a deep breath. “If you still want to. And if it’s okay with Greg. You can take me out.” Jack just stares, motionless, reactionless, for way too long. “Take you out . . . in the mob way?” “No. No! That’s not at all what I—” I blush. I’m cold and tired and my head hurts and I have no idea what I’m doing and why won’t he understand? “I can come to your place. I can take you out.” He nods. Slowly. “In the mob way.” “No, I—” I notice it, the amused gleam in his eyes, like he knows exactly what I’m trying to say. I press my lips together, because I don’t want to encourage him, I don’t want to smile, but I’m about to. “I hate you.” “Sure you do.” “Why is everything so difficult with you?” “I like to


nice to be less alone in the dark. Silence. I don’t know what to call you. Could you tell me your name? I think it will separate us again. Let’s try. We can find our way back to one another. Dumai is my name. And yours? I am— At once, the connexion unravelled, and Dumai fell headlong from the dream, so cold her teeth chattered. She huddled closer to the stove, wishing she could speak to the Grand Empress. Her grandmother might know how to make sense of this. It took mental strength to sustain that dream, and her body was drained from swimming. This time, she let herself descend into a heavy slumber. Halfway through the night, she stirred, thinking of a smile that curved like a blade. Her hand slid to the ache between her thighs. In the loose, warm hold of sleep, she imagined that it was someone else touching her. Have you lost your senses? She sat up with a sharp intake of breath, heart dancing in her chest. This time, the voice in her head was her own: Are you so hungry for touch that you would crave it from a hunter? **** She stole to the bathhouse before dawn to wash, dressing in the garments that had been sent from the palace – a white tunic under a pale blue jacket, trousers of soft yellow silk that sat high on her waist. (The flight had creased her own clothes beyond saving.) She combed her hair, smoothing it several times, frowning uncertainly. She looked down and saw two drops of blood on the floor. A breath of pure relief escaped her. That was why she had yearned in the dark. She often felt soft ripples of desire on her first day. It was nothing to do with Kuposa pa Nikeya. One of the worshippers brought her bloodleaf. No more. Dumai rolled it into a stopper. No more. She faced her reflection. Her father had told her not to take a crown to Sepul – only a modest headpiece and his Privy Seal. She tucked it into a sleeveless overcoat, fastened with a silver belt. Queen Arkoro had been generous to send clothes appropriate for a princess. Kanifa took her to the palanquin at the top of the waterfall, where Nikeya waited on a horse, dressed in a fine pink coat. ‘I don’t recall inviting you, Lady Nikeya,’ Dumai said irritably. ‘Good morning to you, too, Princess.’ Some of her hair was unbound, while the rest was rolled and braided over her scalp. ‘Queen Arkoro has summoned all three dragonriders.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I have no idea, but let’s consider it a blessing. I understand you aren’t yet fluent in Sepuli,’ Nikeya said. ‘Fortunately, I am. I can serve as your interpreter.’ ‘Queen Arkoro will have her own.’ ‘Surely you need one as well, to ensure you don’t blunder Seiiki into a political disaster. You may have learned to swim, Princess, but a fish in a pond does not know the sea.’ ‘This fish is weary of your unsolicited advice,’