signed a lot of things. I signed whatever he asked me to.” “You need access to that account, Hazel.” She digs in a designer purse, extracts a matching wallet. From it, she presents a business card. “George Scofield is a forensic accountant. Call him.” I stare blankly at the card. “I… I don’t know what that is.” “George will find out what Benjamin earned during your marriage. I’m sure it’s hidden… in businesses, offshore accounts, creative investments. But George is great at finding out where the bodies are buried.” She realizes her mistake, pats my hand. “Not literally.” There is a weight on my chest, and I struggle to take a breath. I don’t know how to do this. To hire lawyers and accountants and to fight for what is rightfully mine. My vision blurs as tears well in my eyes. Vanessa rubs my back. “I know this is a lot to take in. But I couldn’t stand by and let Benjamin destroy you. Not like he did his first wife.” My head snaps up. “His first wife?” “He didn’t tell you about Karolina?” But it is obvious he didn’t. “Christ,” she mutters, shaking her head. “We were told not to mention her. That it was awkward and uncomfortable for Benjamin. And David said the marriage was a blip. A mistake. That Benjamin shouldn’t be haunted by a bad choice he made years ago.” Since I became Mrs. Laval, Vanessa has been the closest thing I’ve had to a real friend. But she’d still adhered to Benjamin’s wishes. She’d still kept his secrets. My voice is breathy, incredulous. “Tell me now.” “They were only together for a couple of years. She was from Poland. When she left him, he said she was homesick. He blamed cultural differences.” She rolls her eyes. “But he was horrible to her. Condescending. Controlling. Like he was with you.” I am speechless. Benjamin had another wife. Another life that I knew nothing about. When we met, he made it seem like he was a workaholic, a playboy, unable to settle down… until he met me. I’d believed I was special, the only one. But, of course, it was a ruse. And he wanted to keep his first wife a secret. Because he had tried to destroy her, too. “She went back to Poland. Benjamin was determined that she’d get nothing in their divorce. She fought back, though. David told me she filed against him from her home country.” Who was this woman who had been brave enough to walk away from Benjamin? Strong enough to fight for what she deserved? How had she not allowed him to crush her spirit, like he had mine? Unlike Karolina Laval, I am weak and small. Easily controlled by my husband. Easily manipulated by a con man like Carter Sumner. “I wasn’t close to Karolina. None of us were. So, when she left, we just… forgot about her. No one ever heard from her again.” Vanessa suddenly glances at the watch on her wrist. “I have to go. My daughter has


and swept on down-stream, struggling desperately, but unable to win back. When he heard Thornton's command repeated, he partly reared out of the water, throwing his head high, as though for a last look, then turned obediently toward the bank. He swam powerfully and was dragged ashore by Pete and Hans at the very point where swimming ceased to be possible and destruction began. They knew that the time a man could cling to a slippery rock in the face of that driving current was a matter of minutes, and they ran as fast as they could up the bank to a point far above where Thornton was hanging on. They attached the line with which they had been snubbing the boat to Buck's neck and shoulders, being careful that it should neither strangle him nor impede his swimming, and launched him into the stream. He struck out boldly, but not straight enough into the stream. He discovered the mistake too late, when Thornton was abreast of him and a bare half-dozen strokes away while he was being carried helplessly past. Hans promptly snubbed with the rope, as though Buck were a boat. The rope thus tightening on him in the sweep of the current, he was jerked under the surface, and under the surface he remained till his body struck against the bank and he was hauled out. He was half drowned, and Hans and Pete threw themselves upon him, pounding the breath into him and the water out of him. He staggered to his feet and fell down. The faint sound of Thornton's voice came to them, and though they could not make out the words of it, they knew that he was in his extremity. His master's voice acted on Buck like an electric shock, He sprang to his feet and ran up the bank ahead of the men to the point of his previous departure. Again the rope was attached and he was launched, and again he struck out, but this time straight into the stream. He had miscalculated once, but he would not be guilty of it a second time. Hans paid out the rope, permitting no slack, while Pete kept it clear of coils. Buck held on till he was on a line straight above Thornton; then he turned, and with the speed of an express train headed down upon him. Thornton saw him coming, and, as Buck struck him like a battering ram, with the whole force of the current behind him, he reached up and closed with both arms around the shaggy neck. Hans snubbed the rope around the tree, and Buck and Thornton were jerked under the water. Strangling, suffocating, sometimes one uppermost and sometimes the other, dragging over the jagged bottom, smashing against rocks and snags, they veered in to the bank. Thornton came to, belly downward and being violently propelled back and forth across a drift log by Hans and Pete. His first glance was for Buck, over whose limp and apparently lifeless body Nig was setting up a howl, while


reverence I didn’t deserve, calling me by a title I left in the ash with my grandparents’ bodies. She had plucked my nightmare into reality. My heart pounded in a familiar song: run, run, run. I was watching Niphran burn on a lake. The kitmer pacing around me, waiting. My knees buckling beneath the weight of the crowd of shadows on shore. “He is using me to lure you to the Alcalah,” I said. “You have to run.” Efra stared at me. “The Nizahl Heir knows you are a Jasadi?” And then, with blistering accusation, “And you agreed to help the silver serpent lure us to our deaths?” “Will someone grab her? We need to move!” cried a bowman on the opposite side. Efra’s disgust filled me with shame, and shame was an old friend. My heart slowed. The Meridian Pass vibrated. New shouts alerted the Urabi. Some lifted their bows; others, their hands. Rotating through the finite supply of magic at their disposal. Like a black cloud rolling over the horizon, hundreds of Nizahl soldiers marched onto the Meridian Pass. An object with three sharp spearheads landed next to my foot. The rope on the other end tightened, dragging the three-headed hook to the edge of the cliff and catching. My lips parted. Arin had not led us into a vulnerable position by choosing the Meridian Pass. This was a calculated trap. A moving piece on his game board. He knew an attack at the Meridian Pass would be impossible for an enemy to resist. “They’re climbing!” We had seconds before they were upon us. These Jasadis would be slaughtered. They had committed crimes against other Jasadis, yes, but they were not for Nizahl to punish. My magic brimmed against my cuffs, eager to assist. Clouds of dust still swirled around the canyon, granting me the perfect cover. I raised my hands, twisting them in the air as one might squeeze a wet rag. My magic pulled taut. Waiting for my command. “It’s a trap!” I shouted. I shot a desperate glance at Efra. “They will kill you!” Knowing Arin intended to capture these Jasadis did not mitigate my horror at seeing it before my eyes. The first soldier’s head appeared over the cliff. The Urabi were out of time. I couldn’t watch a Jasadi die again. I hadn’t felt responsible for Adel, but the Urabi were here for me. Because of me. You said our lands. Our villages. Not “the Jasadis’.” I threw my arms open. A high-pitched whine reverberated in my ears. Magic poured from me in waves, each stronger than the last. The ground beneath us quaked. Dust exploded as rocks cascaded down the shaking slope. Through the haze, I spotted Efra. Shock had frozen him in place, and the Urabi yanking at his arm seemed unable to dislodge him. The ground shifted. With a roar of detritus and dust, each side of the Meridian Pass moved apart. I touched my cuffs. They singed my fingers. My magic… it was splitting the canyon wider. When I glanced back,


ready to regard as a sister for the rest of their lives is now demoted to being a near stranger, and they’re both supposed to act like it isn’t a loss. “I’m fine. I called to see how Emily was. She didn’t seem— Well, honestly, Jeanne, she seemed awful on Friday. I’m worried, but I can’t call her myself, and I’m not sure that I even want to. I’m not even sure it’s my business how she’s doing.” Jeanne sighs, and through the line he hears the flick of her lighter. “She’s better than she was last week. She really got her heart trampled on by that fellow.” “I’d ask if there was anything I could do, but I think we both know the answer to that is just to keep away.” “I’m so sorry, Andy.” After hanging up, Andy looks up and sees Nick leaning against his own desk, his eyebrows raised. “I had to know how she was doing,” Andy protests. “I can’t pretend I don’t care.” “You don’t have to explain to me,” Nick says, holding his hands up. “I called yesterday while you were in a meeting and made Jeanne put her on the line. Is that okay?” “You don’t have to stop being friends with her just because . . .” “Just because she broke your heart?” “Well, yes.” The fact is that Nick and Emily were friends. Andy had liked it so much—he liked the idea that they all fit together. Usually bringing a date to meet his friends felt like brokering peace at a NATO summit, but if NATO were made up entirely of twelve-year-olds at their first mixer. It wasn’t at all like that with Nick and Emily. “Just so you know,” Nick says, “if I’m ever in your place, I expect you to hold a grudge for the rest of your life. Give them the evil eye when you pass on the street. Spit after you say their name.” Any man who breaks Nick’s heart will be lucky if all Andy does is give them the evil eye and hold a grudge, but he doesn’t say so. * * * At eight thirty in the morning the newsroom is always like a coiled spring, still lacking the movement and energy of later in the day, but with plenty of latent force if you know where to look. Most reporters, except those on the night desk or manning the wires, don’t wander into work until ten or eleven, but Andy gets in before nine in order to match the schedules of marketing and circulation, then usually stays until the paper goes to print—about nine at night. It’s a long day, but he’s never minded because it beats the hell out of his empty apartment. Now, though, Nick is mirroring his schedule. “It’s not like I can go back to sleep after you crash around the kitchen,” Nick grumbles, which is a lie, because Nick wakes up first every day and starts a pot of coffee. “So I might as well go in.” Whenever Andy


backup. Victor often finds himself getting in trouble when he least expects it.” Vic groaned. “That’s not—” “How is the cut on your hand, Victor? Healing nicely, I should think.” It was. Scabbed over and itchy, but better. He didn’t think it would even leave a scar. “Fine,” Vic said. “But we’re going to move quick. We don’t want to be caught by the Old Ones.” “They’re huge,” Rambo said as Hap joined them. “Bigger than you. I bet they would squash you flat.” “N-no,” Hap said. “I w-would not like that. If they t-try, I will n-not be nice.” “Come on,” Vic said. “We’ll be quick. What are the rules?” “Stick together!” Rambo exclaimed. “Run if we have to,” Nurse Ratched said. “No dallying!” “No drilling.” “And above all else, be brave!” Hap cocked his head as he narrowed his eyes, but he did not speak. The moment they crested the hill that overlooked the Scrap Yards, Vic knew something was wrong. Be it morning, noon, or dusk, the Old Ones were always moving. Not now; birds perched on one of the cranes seemingly without a care. The silence was oppressive in ways Vic had never felt before: thick, as if the very air had grown heavier, making it harder to breathe. Part of him—a loud, insistent part—demanded he turn around and forget the Scrap Yards altogether. Go home. Don’t look back. Rambo said, “I don’t like this.” Nurse Ratched beeped once, twice. “There is something here. Something I have never felt before. It is … bright.” “Bright?” Vic asked, looking off farther into the yards. “What do you mean?” “Power,” she said. “It feels like power.” “The Old Ones?” “No. Something else. Hold, please. Scanning. Scanning. Scanning.” The light above her screen flashed on as she began to scan the area around them. “What is she d-doing?” Hap asked as he squinted at her. Vic shrugged. “Looking. It’s how we found you. Maybe there’s someone like you that we missed. Another android. A machine. It happens, sometimes. Usually we can’t fix them.” He glanced at Nurse Ratched. “What is it?” She finished scanning, and the light went out. Her screen remained blank. “There is something here.” “Where?” She pulled up the grid of the Scrap Yards on her screen. One of the squares blinked. 3B. Where they’d found Hap. Vic frowned. “Maybe we missed something.” “It is possible,” Nurse Ratched said slowly. “Hap’s power signature could have blocked out what is there now, or it could have activated after we left.” “But?” “But,” she said. “I do not think that is it. This is bigger. Or there is more than one. I cannot separate them if that is the case. They are too far away.” The warning in his head grew louder, telling him to turn around and leave this place. Tell him, it whispered. Tell Dad. Tell Dad that something is here and let him take care of it. But the warning was drowned out by something far more dangerous: curiosity. It tugged at Vic. He wanted to see


supreme; but her material has become rebellious in her hands, and the technical hero has been eclipsed by the real one.... Godfrey Cass, with his life-long secret, is by right the hero of Silas Marner." -Henry James, Atlantic Monthly, 1866 George Eliot's concentration on the moral side of human nature is the chief source of her peculiar glory, the kernel of her precious unique contribution to our literature. Her imagination is not a distorting glass like Dickens', vitalizing her figures by accentuating their personal idiosyncrasies, nor is it, like Charlotte Bronte's, a painted window suffusing them with the color of her own live temperament; it is an X-ray, bringing them to life by the clearness with which she penetrates to the secret mainspring of their actions. -David Cecil, Victorian Novelists, 1935 (George Eliot) was more aware than her immediate predecessors of the complexity of characters and her creations cannot be labelled good or bad, nor accorded the wholesale approval or disapproval of the reader as readily as can many Victorian heroes or heroines. -Joan Bennett, George Eliot: Her Mind and Art, 1948 George Eliot can make the apparently simple mind as interesting as the sophisticated and more inventively creative mind of the artist. Nothing in the human imagination was alien to her imagination. -Barbara Hardy, Particularities: Readings in George Eliot, 1982 ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: ON THE SETTING Nothing can be more profound than this picture of the manner in which all human beings are influenced by their environment... on laying down the book we do not dwell upon Silas Marner or Godfrey Cass or Dolly Winthrop, or any particular character, but are forced to embrace them all with all their restricted country life. Nothing short of Raveloe satisfies the memory. -Unsigned review in Westminster Review, 1861 We feel that there must be a silent guest in the chimney-corner of the 'Rainbow,' so thoroughly at home with the natives as to put no stress upon their behaviour, and yet one who has travelled out of sight of the village spire, and known the thoughts and feelings which are stirring in the great world outside. -Leslie Stephen, Cornhill magazine, 1881 ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: ON THE REALISM We seem to be looking at... any of those domestic or rustic paintings of the Dutch school, where every leaf in the elm trees or the limes is painted, every gnarl of the bark inscribed, every rut followed with fidelity. We follow the people out of the hedgerows and the lanes into the kitchen. We see the endless meals, the eternal cup of tea; and the dog rests his head on our boot or flies barking to the yard, while young children toddle in and out of the drama at the least convenient moments. -V. S. Pritchett, The Living Novel, 1947 ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: ON GEORGE ELIOT'S ESSENTIAL QUALITIES Another striking thing (about George Eliot's writing) is the sense of gravity attached to an evil intention or to a failure of resolution, which because of the interdependence of mankind spreads its fatal repercussions in every direction; and another,


(adj, v) sickly, vacillating; backlash; (v) bound, cringe, flinch, unwholesome, unhealthy, impure, (v) weak, accessible. quail. indecent, sordid, warped, tainted, insanity: (adj, n) craziness, transfiguration: (n) metamorphosis, decadent, deadly, unsavory. 188 The Scarlet Letter horrible ugliness of this exposure of a sick and guilty heart to the very eye that would gloat over it! Woman, woman, thou art accountable for this!--I cannot forgive thee!"% "Thou shalt forgive me!" cried Hester, flinging herself on the fallen leaves beside him. "Let God punish! Thou shalt forgive!" With sudden and desperate tenderness she threw her arms around him, and pressed his head against her bosom, little caring though his cheek rested on the scarlet letter. He would have released himself, but strove in vain to do so. Hester would not set him free, lest he should look her sternly in the face. All the world had frowned on her--for seven long years had it frowned upon this lonely woman--and still she bore it all, nor ever once turned away her firm, sad eyes. Heaven, likewise, had frowned upon her, and she had not died. But the frown of this pale, weak, sinful, and sorrow-stricken man was what Hester could not bear, and live! "Wilt thou yet forgive me?" she repeated, over and over again. "Wilt thou not frown? Wilt thou forgive?" "I do forgive you, Hester," replied the minister at length, with a deep utterance, out of an abyss of sadness, but no anger. "I freely forgive you now. May God forgive us both. We are not, Hester, the worst sinners in the world. There is one worse than even the polluted priest! That old man's revenge has been blacker than my sin. He has violated, in cold blood, the sanctity of a human heart. Thou and I, Hester, never did so!" "Never, never!" whispered she. "What we did had a consecration of its own. We felt it so! We said so to each other. Hast thou forgotten it?" "Hush, Hester!" said Arthur Dimmesdale, rising from the ground. "No; I have not forgotten!" They sat down again, side by side, and hand clasped in hand, on the mossy trunk of the fallen tree. Life had never brought them a gloomier hour; it was the point whither their pathway had so long been tending, and darkening ever, as it stole along--and yet it unclosed a charm that made them linger upon it, and Thesaurus abyss: (n) gorge, ravine, chasm, gulf, change of color, eclipse. austerely, harshly, rigidly, grimly, deep, purgatory, depth, hell, gap, flinging: (n) casting, cast. rigorously, stringently, seriously, Gehenna, pit. ANTONYMS: (n) gloat: (v) brag, crow, vaunt, cock the relentlessly, solemnly. ANTONYMS: junction, juncture. eye, bluster, revel, triumph, (adv) leniently, lightheartedly, kindly, consecration: (adj, n) dedication; (n) congratulate, boast; (n) gloating, glee. warmly, cheerfully. blessing, devotion, celebration, ANTONYM: (v) fail. unclosed: (v) ajar, unstopped; (adj) ordination, sanctification, linger: (v) loiter, delay, dally, hover, sincere, public, plain, obvious, frank, canonization, loyalty, translation; stay, hesitate, hang around, exposed, evident, artless, apparent. (adj) enshrinement, glorification. procrastinate, dawdle, tarry, saunter. violated: (adj) profaned, seduced, ANTONYM: (n) violation. ANTONYMS:


long ago. By the light of the low-burning fires, they shared tales of their deeds, raising their cups to those who had ascended to Halgalant. Hunger was the unwelcome guest. Where food had once been rich, now there was only simple fare, even for the king and his guard. ‘You all fought like the Saint himself today,’ Einlek said, when they had scraped every plate. ‘None more than Góthur Wyrmkiller, whose harpoon felled the beast.’ For the first time, the guests raised their voices in a cheer. Góthur was pounded on the back. ‘In the past, our people longed for a glorious death in battle,’ Einlek called. ‘Now we can only hope to die well for the Saint, and for our best patron, the Knight of Courage, who smiles on us tonight. This may seem a small victory in a rumption, but remember what we did today. We slew a wyrm.’ The cheers rose. Wulf smiled at Thrit, who hitched up a weak one in return. ‘I might replace this throne with that foul creature’s head,’ Einlek said, to raucous laughter. ‘Though he’d kill me for saying it, I think my uncle would agree that a wyvern is a finer trophy than a whale.’ ‘Finer,’ someone agreed, ‘but not finer than Fýredel!’ Cups banged on the tables. ‘Aye, his head would make a dread throne.’ Einlek lifted his own cup. ‘We will drink from that horned skull before I sit upon it. I will carve my uncle’s name into his bones.’ The din that ensued would have raised the roof, had there been much of a roof left. ‘Now,’ he declared, ‘a song, to exalt those who dine in Halgalant this night.’ More cheers. Wulf slipped his last scrap of gristly meat to the hound under the table, scratching between its ears. When he looked up, Einlek beckoned him with a raised eyebrow. He sat alone on that cold skull. As always, his mother was absent. Ólrun Hraustr had fought in the war, but had since become a recluse, tortured by a belief that she was made of ice. ‘I hear you killed many,’ Einlek said, when Wulf was close. ‘I would keep you at my side, but I have another task for you – one that must be yours alone, Wulf. I must send you away again.’ ‘I’m starting to think you don’t like me, sire.’ ‘Unfortunately for you, I only send people I like into danger. Those are the people I usually trust.’ He flexed his fingers on his battle axe, which leaned against the throne. ‘Have you ever ranged on the Northern Plain?’ ‘No.’ ‘We have an outpost there, in the Oxhorns. It serves as a waystop for those going east, a safe place to trade with friendly Hüran, and a last defence against those who would encroach into our territory. The Yscals gave us two springalds to defend it,’ Einlek said. ‘Among those who hold this outpost – Járthfall – are many strong warriors. We need every fighter back in our cities.’ ‘You want me to get them.’


the picnic." Anne flew up like a rocket. "Oh, Marilla, isn't it too late?" "No, it's only two o'clock. They won't be more than well gathered yet and it'll be an hour before they have tea. Wash your face and comb your hair and put on your gingham. I'll fill a basket for you. There's plenty of stuff baked in the house. And I'll get Jerry to hitch up the sorrel and drive you down to the picnic ground." "Oh, Marilla," exclaimed Anne, flying to the washstand. "Five minutes ago I was so miserable I was wishing I'd never been born and now I wouldn't change places with an angel!" That night a thoroughly happy, completely tired-out Anne returned to Green Gables in a state of beatification impossible to describe. "Oh, Marilla, I've had a perfectly scrumptious time. Scrumptious is a new word I learned today. I heard Mary Alice Bell use it. Isn't it very expressive? Everything was lovely. We had a splendid tea and then Mr. Harmon Andrews took us all for a row on the Lake of Shining Waters-six of us at a time. And Jane Andrews nearly fell overboard. She was leaning out to pick water lilies and if Mr. Andrews hadn't caught her by her sash just in the nick of time she'd fallen in and prob'ly been drowned. I wish it had been me. It would have been such a romantic experience to have been nearly drowned. It would be such a thrilling tale to tell. And we had the ice cream. Words fail me to describe that ice cream. Marilla, I assure you it was sublime." That evening Marilla told the whole story to Matthew over her stocking basket. "I'm willing to own up that I made a mistake," she concluded candidly, "but I've learned a lesson. I have to laugh when I think of Anne's `confession,' although I suppose I shouldn't for it really was a falsehood. But it doesn't seem as bad as the other would have been, somehow, and anyhow I'm responsible for it. That child is hard to understand in some respects. But I believe she'll turn out all right yet. And there's one thing certain, no house will ever be dull that she's in." 15. A Tempest in the School Teapot "What a splendid day!" said Anne, drawing a long breath. "Isn't it good just to be alive on a day like this? I pity the people who aren't born yet for missing it. They may have good days, of course, but they can never have this one. And it's splendider still to have such a lovely way to go to school by, isn't it?" "It's a lot nicer than going round by the road; that is so dusty and hot," said Diana practically, peeping into her dinner basket and mentally calculating if the three juicy, toothsome, raspberry tarts reposing there were divided among ten girls how many bites each girl would have. The little girls of Avonlea school always pooled their lunches, and to eat three raspberry tarts all


It was a baleful thing, that smile, and yet it did hold warmth. ‘What makes you think I would have you, Lady Sabran?’ Her name was a dark thrum in his throat. ‘How do you know I don’t already have a consort in my own kingdom?’ ‘Because I saw how you looked at me in the throne room.’ (He had not said no.) ‘And how often.’ King Bardholt offered no reply. Sabran stood tall before him, for she was not her mother. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you are a man familiar with having what you want. This time, you need not seize it with blood and force. I offer it all to you. Be my consort.’ ‘Your religion began with a love story. Am I the heathen in this tale, or the great slayer?’ Sabran only held his gaze. She imagined herself as a hook in water, still enough to lure a circling fish. ‘I have heard the Berethnet queens bear only one child. Always, as far back as the songs go,’ he finally said. ‘I will need an heir for Hróth, to consolidate the House of Hraustr.’ ‘You have a sister. And she has a son,’ Sabran said. ‘With Virtudom behind you, your new house will be unassailable.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I know you will need to convince the snowseers to embrace the Saint. I know the Six Virtues are yet strange to you – but your realm is weeping, Battlebold. So is mine. Marry me, so all wounds may be knit.’ It was some time before he moved, reaching for her waist. Her heart beat thick and heavy as he slid her small blade from its sheath. He could stab her where she stood, and Inys would be his to conquer. ‘I will consult the snowseers,’ he said. ‘If we choose your way, I will swear it with your blade, in my blood.’ He walked back to the castle with her knife. As Sabran watched him disappear, she knew she had already won. **** On the first day of midsummer, the Issýn, highest of the snowseers of Hróth, emerged from her cave to share a vision. She had dreamed of a chainmail that covered the world, and a sword of polished silver, passed from a long-dead Inysh knight to the new King of Hróth. In the new capital of Eldyng, King Bardholt declared that Hróth, like Cleolind of Lasia, would abandon the ancient ways and follow the everlasting light of Ascalun, the True Sword. In Inys, Sabran Berethnet received a letter, smeared with the blood of a king, saying only one word: yes. In the weeks after they announced their betrothal, Heryon Vattenvarg made an announcement of his own, declaring loyalty to the King of Hróth, who named him Steward of Mentendon. Heryon converted. So did his subjects. Within a year, the King of Hróth wed the Princess of Inys, and across the realms pledged to the Saint, there was revelry and song. Inys, Hróth, Yscalin and Mentendon – the unbreakable Chainmail of Virtudom. Queen Marian yielded the


he did. “I will not be trapped again,” I whispered. A path to the finish appeared before me. A way to end this, one way or the other. I stuffed the torn sleeve in my mouth and grasped the hilt of the dagger. One breath. Two. I yanked the dagger from my arm, my muffled shriek reverberating in my ribs. My hand convulsed. Oh, it hurt, it hurt. Through blurry eyes, I watched the dagger tumble to the ground. “You can climb down and end this whenever you want,” Arin said. I spat the sleeve from my mouth. Fury cleared the haze of agony from my mind. He was so assured, so confident he would win. Why wouldn’t he be? Shedding Jasadi blood was his birthright. For once, spite motivated me faster than fear. I peeled myself from the tree trunk. With my uninjured arm, I pushed myself away from the branch’s root. I scooted back—to the edge of the branch, directly above the riverbank. One stiff wind, and I would tumble over the side and splatter my insides on the stones below. “What are you doing?” Astonishment underscored his harsh tone. He slid to the bottom of the tree and took a step toward me. “Stop!” I shouted. “One more step and I’ll push myself off. You may think my magic might heal a few stab wounds, but can it knit together a broken body?” In a blink, his expression went calm and steady. I wanted to slap it off. Did he discard his frustration like a stray eyelash or merely push it down? “You have lost a great volume of blood. I expect you have minutes until you faint. I will not be fast enough to catch you,” he said. “Good.” He took a step forward. Did he think I was making empty threats? I sealed my free hand around the branch and dropped to the side. I went airborne. The branch crackled ominously, bending under the weight of my body. The veins in my hand bulged with the strain of holding on. I dangled from the branch and felt the inexplicable urge to cackle. If this was how magic-madness felt, I understood why Rovial had wanted to burn the world down. Arin had darted closer, but not close enough. If he took another step and I let go, I would hit the rocks before he reached me. A fuzziness had already begun to encroach on the margins of my sight. His manner remained unmoved. He proceeded as though we were sitting down to share a pleasant meal together. “What do you want?” What I meant to say was “Your severed head rotating on a spit.” What came out was significantly worse. “Freedom. Real freedom.” The branch whined. I slid farther down, tightening my sweat-slickened fingers at the last minute. “I offered you freedom, and you ran away.” I scoffed. The beat of my heart slowed, becoming as heavy as the rest of me. “I have no need for your empty promises, Commander. Throw your clouds to the sky. I


exercised herself in elegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her taste, and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The windows of this room were particularly pleasant; they descended to the floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was led between groves of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distant landscape, where the Garonne wandered. The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when the day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river. Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of their dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls adjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirely French. The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened upon the grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by a rustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for the cottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except one apartment that opened to a balcony, and which was generally used for a breakfast-room. In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful improvements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had remembered from his boyish days, that he had in some instances sacrificed taste to sentiment. There were two old larches that shaded the building, and interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had sometimes declared that he believed he should have been weak enough to have wept at their fall. In addition to these larches he planted a little grove of beech, pine, and mountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank of the river, rose a plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit, in the coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these were mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade of a plane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St. Aubert loved to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and children, watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of its light fading from the distant landscape, till the shadows of twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St. Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence of those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting right diffused a serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing.


Sansa wanted Joffrey desperately, but she did not think she had the courage to do as the queen was asking. "But he never . . . I don't . . . Your Grace, I wouldn't know what to say . . ." The queen patted her hand. "We will tell you what to write, child. The important thing is that you urge Lady Catelyn and your brother to keep the king's peace." "It will go hard for them if they don't," said Grand Maester Pycelle. "By the love you bear them, you must urge them to walk the path of wisdom." "Your lady mother will no doubt fear for you dreadfully," the queen said. "You must tell her that you are well and in our care, that we are treating you gently and seeing to your every want. Bid them to come to King's Landing and pledge their fealty to Joffrey when he takes his throne. If they do that . . . why, then we shall know that there is no taint in your blood, and when you come into the flower of your womanhood, you shall wed the king in the Great Sept of Baelor, before the eyes of gods and men." . . . wed the king . . . The words made her breath come faster, yet still Sansa hesitated. "Perhaps . . . if I might see my father, talk to him about . . ." "Treason?" Lord Varys hinted. "You disappoint me, Sansa," the queen said, with eyes gone hard as stones. "We've told you of your father's crimes. If you are truly as loyal as you say, why should you want to see him?" "I . . . I only meant Sansa felt her eyes grow wet. "He's not . . . please, he hasn't been . . . hurt, or . . . or . . . ,:Lord Eddard has not been harmed," the queen said. But . . . what's to become of him?" "That is a matter for the king to decide," Grand Maester Pycelle announced ponderously. The king! Sansa blinked back her tears. Joffrey was the king now, she thought. Her gallant prince would never hurt her father, no matter what he might have done. If she went to him and pleaded for mercy, she was certain he'd listen. He had to listen, he loved her, even the queen said so. Joff would need to punish Father, the lords would expect it, but perhaps he could send him back to Winterfell, or exile him to one of the Free Cities across the narrow sea. It would only have to be for a few years. By then she and Joffrey would be married. Once she was queen, she could persuade Joff to bring Father back and grant him a pardon. A GAME OF THRONES 485 Only ... if Mother or Robb did anything treasonous, called the banners or refused to swear fealty or anything, it would all go wrong. Her Joffrey was good and kind, she knew it in her heart, but


ideological reasons. That which she chooses to reveal is the life of her imagination, as it sought to mold and interpret her environment. That which she silences or deletes, similarly, is all that her readership would draw upon to delimit or pigeonhole her life as a synecdoche of “the race problem,” an exceptional part standing for the debased whole. Hurston’s achievement in Dust Tracks is twofold. First, she gives us a writer’s life, rather than an account, as she says, of “the Negro problem.” So many events in this text are figured in terms of Hurston’s growing awareness and mastery of books and language, language and linguistic rituals as spoken and written both by masters of the Western tradition and by ordinary members of the black community. These two “speech communities,” as it were, are Hurston’s great sources of inspiration not only in her novels but also in her autobiography. The representation of her sources of language seems to be her principal concern, as she constantly shifts back and forth between her “literate” narrator’s voice and a highly idiomatic black voice found in wonderful passages of free indirect discourse. Hurston moves in and out of these distinct voices effortlessly, seamlessly, just as she does in Their Eyes to chart Janie’s coming to consciousness. It is this usage of a divided voice, a double voice unreconciled, that strikes me as her great achievement, a verbal analogue of her double experiences as a woman in a male-dominated world and as a black person in a nonblack world, a woman writer’s revision of W. E. B. Du Bois’s metaphor of “double-consciousness” for the hyphenated African-American. Her language, variegated by the twin voices that intertwine throughout the text, retains the power to unsettle. There is something about poverty that smells like death. Dead dreams dropping off the heart like leaves in a dry season and rotting around the feet; impulses smothered too long in the fetid air of underground caves. The soul lives in a sickly air. People can be slave-ships in shoes. Elsewhere she analyzes black “idioms” used by a culture “raised on simile and invective. They know how to call names,’ she concludes, then lists some, such as ‘gator-mouthed, box- ankled, puzzle-gutted, shovel-footed: “Eyes looking like skint- ginny nuts, and mouth looking like a dishpan full of broke-up crockery!” Immediately following the passage about her mother’s death, she writes: The Master-Maker in His making had made Old Death. Made him with big, soft feet and square toes. Made him with a face that reflects the face of all things, but neither changes itself, nor is mirrored anywhere. Made the body of death out of infinite hunger. Made a weapon of his hand to satisfy his needs. This was the morning of the day of the beginning of things. Language, in these passages, is not merely “adornment,” as Hurston described a key black linguistic practice; rather, manner and meaning are perfectly in tune: she says the thing in the most meaningful manner. Nor is she being “cute,” or pandering to a condescending white readership. She


it was the following Sunday when I saw the gentleman again, or whether there was any greater lapse of time before he reappeared, I cannot recall. I don't profess to be clear about dates. But there he was, in church, and he walked home with us afterwards. He came in, too, to look at a famous geranium we had, in the parlour-window. It did not appear to me that he took much notice of it, but before he went he asked my mother to give him a bit of the blossom. She begged him to choose it for himself, but he refused to do that - I could not understand why - so she plucked it for him, and gave it into his hand. He said he would never, never part with it any more; and I thought he must be quite a fool not to know that it would fall to pieces in a day or two. Peggotty began to be less with us, of an evening, than she had always been. My mother deferred to her very much - more than usual, it occurred to me - and we were all three excellent friends; still we were different from what we used to be, and were not so comfortable among ourselves. Sometimes I fancied that Peggotty perhaps objected to my mother's wearing all the pretty dresses she had in her drawers, or to her going so often to visit at that neighbour's; but I couldn't, to my satisfaction, make out how it was. Gradually, I became used to seeing the gentleman with the black whiskers. I liked him no better than at first, and had the same uneasy jealousy of him; but if I had any reason for it beyond a child's instinctive dislike, and a general idea that Peggotty and I could make much of my mother without any help, it certainly was not THE reason that I might have found if I had been older. No such thing came into my mind, or near it. I could observe, in little pieces, as it were; but as to making a net of a number of these pieces, and catching anybody in it, that was, as yet, beyond me. One autumn morning I was with my mother in the front garden, when Mr. Murdstone - I knew him by that name now - came by, on horseback. He reined up his horse to salute my mother, and said he was going to Lowestoft to see some friends who were there with a yacht, and merrily proposed to take me on the saddle before him if I would like the ride. The air was so clear and pleasant, and the horse seemed to like the idea of the ride so much himself, as he stood snorting and pawing at the garden-gate, that I had a great desire to go. So I was sent upstairs to Peggotty to be made spruce; and in the meantime Mr. Murdstone dismounted, and, with his horse's bridle drawn over his arm, walked slowly up and down


sailing huts and then not want them to call off their weddings. I have never once done that.” “Okay, smarty-pants.” She laughed. “I’m teasing. But, for real, I’m so super sorry. I would have bet anything that this would have gone a different way.” She paused. “I always thought you two would end up together.” “Right? Right?” I obviously thought we were going to end up together too. I really, truly believed that history would fix itself. I made a mistake, but this time I’d owned up to it. This time I’d made amends. And this time, he was supposed to forgive me, and we would ride off into the sunset. I was riding off into the sunset, all right. Down the highway. In my Prius. Alone. “Babe, how can I help?” “Well, for starters, you can have wine waiting for me when I get home.” I never asked Daphne to have drinks waiting for me. It felt like a slippery slope. But this was DEFCON 1. “Wine? Or tequila?” “Anything with alcohol will do.” I paused. “Does this warrant Mary Stuart driving an hour?” “I think so. I will call her. Okay. Well, I’m actually pulling into Huff’s, but I will see you soon.” “Ah, pulling into Huff’s. Yes. What real, eternal love is supposed to look like. Remind me tonight to tell you about how my mother is having a conniption over our outfits for the rehearsal dinner.” “Lanier, we haven’t even set a date.” “Exactly.” “Wait! Wait!” I yelled into the phone before she hung up. My stupid brother could wait. “Did Steven find a house?” “Yes!” she exclaimed. “It’s literally a block away. He made an offer so cross all your fingers and toes.” “That is the best news!” I said. We hung up and I mused that that was going to be awfully cozy. Daphne, Huff, and Steven all on the same block. The things we do for love. Still, I was happy for her. I was happy for Huff. I was happy for Henry. But I had to admit that there was a small part of me that ached for the happy ending I had almost gotten, not once but twice this year. Maybe that wasn’t in the cards for me. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe I would find someone else or no one at all. I parked my car on the street and unlocked the bookstore, the happy little bell tinkling as I entered. I took a deep breath, smelling those millions and millions of fresh pages. I wanted my own romance. I wanted my happy ending. But maybe for now, for today, being surrounded by love stories was enough. Daphne FULL HOUSE TODAY IS A BIG DAY. Henry is in the back seat singing along to Raffi as we drive the ninety minutes to Huff’s house. Henry and Huff have been getting to know each other better these past couple of weeks. Steven has been a huge team player in facilitating this, too, going on “dude dates” with Henry and Huff. Not


to see who was passing on the narrow pavement below. It was quite spotless in its cleanliness. The old-fashioned brass knocker on the low arched door, ornamented with carved garlands of fruit and flowers, twinkled like a star; the two stone steps descending to the door were as white as if they had been covered with fair linen; and all the angles and corners, and carvings and mouldings, and quaint little panes of glass, and quainter little windows, though as old as the hills, were as pure as any snow that ever fell upon the hills. When the pony-chaise stopped at the door, and my eyes were intent upon the house, I saw a cadaverous face appear at a small window on the ground floor (in a little round tower that formed one side of the house), and quickly disappear. The low arched door then opened, and the face came out. It was quite as cadaverous as it had looked in the window, though in the grain of it there was that tinge of red which is sometimes to be observed in the skins of red-haired people. It belonged to a red-haired person - a youth of fifteen, as I take it now, but looking much older - whose hair was cropped as close as the closest stubble; who had hardly any eyebrows, and no eyelashes, and eyes of a red-brown, so unsheltered and unshaded, that I remember wondering how he went to sleep. He was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in decent black, with a white wisp of a neckcloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had a long, lank, skeleton hand, which particularly attracted my attention, as he stood at the pony's head, rubbing his chin with it, and looking up at us in the chaise. 'Is Mr. Wickfield at home, Uriah Heep?' said my aunt. 'Mr. Wickfield's at home, ma'am,' said Uriah Heep, 'if you'll please to walk in there' - pointing with his long hand to the room he meant. We got out; and leaving him to hold the pony, went into a long low parlour looking towards the street, from the window of which I caught a glimpse, as I went in, of Uriah Heep breathing into the pony's nostrils, and immediately covering them with his hand, as if he were putting some spell upon him. Opposite to the tall old chimney-piece were two portraits: one of a gentleman with grey hair (though not by any means an old man) and black eyebrows, who was looking over some papers tied together with red tape; the other, of a lady, with a very placid and sweet expression of face, who was looking at me. I believe I was turning about in search of Uriah's picture, when, a door at the farther end of the room opening, a gentleman entered, at sight of whom I turned to the first-mentioned portrait again, to make quite sure that it had not come out of its frame. But it was stationary; and as the gentleman advanced into the light, I saw that he


up with a sheet, on the bed after I had got up. They were all so frightened and nervous that I directed them to go to the dining room and each have a glass of wine. The door flew open for an instant and closed again. The maids shrieked, and then went in a body to the dining room, and I laid what flowers I had on my dear mother's breast. When they were there I remembered what Dr. Van Helsing had told me, but I didn't like to remove them, and besides, I would have some of the servants to sit up with me now. I was surprised that the maids did not come back. I called them, but got no answer, so I went to the dining room to look for them. My heart sank when I saw what had happened. They all four lay helpless on the floor, breathing heavily. The decanter of sherry was on the table half full, but there was a queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious, and examined the decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the sideboard, I found that the bottle which Mother's doctor uses for her-- oh! did use--was empty. What am I to do? What am I to do? I am back in the room with Mother. I cannot leave her, and I am alone, save for the sleeping servants, whom some one has drugged. Alone with the dead! I dare not go out, for I can hear the low howl of the wolf through the broken window. The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from the window, and the lights burn blue and dim. What am I to do? God shield me from harm this night! I shall hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find it when they come to lay me out. My dear mother gone! It is time that I go too. Goodbye, dear Arthur, if I should not survive this night. God keep you, dear, and God help me! CHAPTER 12 DR. SEWARD'S DIARY 18 September.--I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived early. Keeping my cab at the gate, I went up the avenue alone. I knocked gently and rang as quietly as possible, for I feared to disturb Lucy or her mother, and hoped to only bring a servant to the door. After a while, finding no response, I knocked and rang again, still no answer. I cursed the laziness of the servants that they should lie abed at such an hour, for it was now ten o'clock, and so rang and knocked again, but more impatiently, but still without response. Hitherto I had blamed only the servants, but now a terrible fear began to assail me. Was this desolation but another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing tight round us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I had come, too late? I know that minutes, even seconds of delay, might mean hours of danger to Lucy, if she


and destroyed every ship with advanced quantum disruptor capability. Then they decimated the Liquilids’ colonies back to the stone age.” “That’s a tad harsh,” Aubrey said. “So is using nanites to keep captive human crew members in suspended animation until they’re ready to feed on them,” General Resnick said. “Which they did with the crew of USS Lincoln until they were no longer edible. Then they just left them in agony.” “Oh God …” Aubrey said, her face going pale. “Something happened that screwed up the timeline,” he said. “The Grand Consortium noticed it two months from now—three months in Captain Pristy’s timeline. By then, the Liquilids were destroying Earth colonies and our allies. The Consortium traced it back to this star system and Adams, Wrath, and Portent blundering into the Liquilids’ trap.” “Blundering?” Captain Church went rigid in his seat, clearly taking exception to Resnick’s words. “Escaping that alternate universe was imperative.” Resnick waved away his remarks. “And once this mission is complete, Captain, you can explain to me how the hell you ended up there in the first place.” “We have no idea—” Doogan began. “When we’re done,” Resnick repeated, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Right now, our job is to keep the Liquilids from getting the navigational data they need to find humanity and Earth. No matter what.” Pristy felt fear creep up her spine, and the hair on the back of her neck rose. She said, “What are you saying? Are you going to abandon them?” “We can’t jump,” Captain Church said, shaking his head, “Tenet one: Time technology stays top secret. Since Adams’ personnel have seen Portent and her crew, we have to stay. If we escape while the other ships are stuck here because their quantum drives don’t work, they’ll wonder why. Searching for the answers could lead them to a truth we’re not ready to divulge at this point.” “Abandon ship?” Doogan suggested. “Use ChronoLinks to get back to the ringularity and let Portent get destroyed?” “Negative,” General Resnick said. “Any scenario we’ve run where Portent is destroyed leads to disaster.” “You said you can’t let the Liquilids get any navigational data,” Pristy said. “What does that mean? Does that mean Adams escapes?” Resnick hesitated, which was enough for Pristy to know the answer. She came to her feet, fury rising inside her. “You told me we were going to save USS Adams.” “No, I didn’t,” Resnick said. “We have friends on that ship,” Derrota protested. “You can’t ask us to let them die.” “I have five hundred friends who are dead because of the Liquilids!” Resnick snapped. “More by now, and billions in the next two months if the Liquilids get the navigational data from Adams.” Aubrey raised a hand, as tentative as a third grader in class, and asked, “Can’t we just help them jump out of here?” “No. The same technology that allows the Liquilids to mess with quantum space enables them to track wormholes. They’ll follow.” “So everyone on Adams dies,” Pristy said bitterly. “And if they don’t, billions of others die.”


slight cough, "if this is Southend, there's something very odd about it ..." "You mean the way the sea stays steady and the buildings keep washing up and down?" said Ford. "Yes I thought that was odd too. In fact," he continued as with a huge bang Southend split itself into six equal segments which danced and span giddily round each other in lewd and licentious formation, "there is something altogether very strange going on." Wild yowling noises of pipes and strings seared through the wind, hot doughnuts popped out of the road for ten pence each, horrid fish stormed out of the sky and Arthur and Ford decided to make a run for it. They plunged through heavy walls of sound, mountains of archaic thought, valleys of mood music, bad shoe sessions and footling bats and suddenly heard a girl's voice. It sounded quite a sensible voice, but it just said, "Two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against and falling," and that was all. Ford skidded down a beam of light and span round trying to find a source for the voice but could see nothing he could seriously believe in. "What was that voice?" shouted Arthur. "I don't know," yelled Ford, "I don't know. It sounded like a measurement of probability." "Probability? What do you mean?" "Probability. You know, like two to one, three to one, five to four against. It said two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against. That's pretty improbable you know." A million-gallon vat of custard upended itself over them without warning. "But what does it mean?" cried Arthur. "What, the custard?" "No, the measurement of probability!" "I don't know. I don't know at all. I think we're on some kind of spaceship." "I can only assume," said Arthur, "that this is not the first- class compartment." Bulges appeared in the fabric of space-time. Great ugly bulges. "Haaaauuurrgghhh ..." said Arthur as he felt his body softening and bending in unusual directions. "Southend seems to be melting away ... the stars are swirling ... a dustbowl ... my legs are drifting off into the sunset ... my left arm's come off too." A frightening thought struck him: "Hell," he said, "how am I going to operate my digital watch now?" He wound his eyes desperately around in Ford's direction. "Ford," he said, "you're turning into a penguin. Stop it." Again came the voice. "Two to the power of seventy-five thousand to one against and falling." Ford waddled around his pond in a furious circle. "Hey, who are you," he quacked. "Where are you? What's going on and is there any way of stopping it?" "Please relax," said the voice pleasantly, like a stewardess in an airliner with only one wing and two engines one of which is on fire, "you are perfectly safe." "But that's not the point!" raged Ford. "The point is that I am now a perfectly save penguin, and my colleague here is rapidly running out of limbs!" "It's alright, I've got them back now," said


machine, Vic said, “You knew. Even then. You knew there was something different about him.” “I didn’t know what it was, but yes, Victor. He wasn’t like the others.” A single doe appeared from behind a tree. It watched them, ears twitching, before bounding off into the woods. “Are you going to do the same for him as you’ve done for me?” Vic hesitated. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out his deepest fear. “What if it doesn’t work? What if he’s a HARP again? What if he doesn’t remember us?” What if he doesn’t remember me? “There is a risk to all things,” Dad said. “Memory, Victor. There is power to memory. It’s tied to the head and— Hello! My designation is General Intelligence Oper—” He grimaced, rubbing his chest. “It’s tied to the head and heart but in the end, if there is a war between the two, the heart usually wins out, even to its own detriment.” In the distance, the whale sat among the trees. Not yet feeling like home, but one day. On a warm spring morning, a human began to make a heart for a machine. He took his time, wanting to get it right. He had to. It was the only option. He used the parts from the machine’s former heart and hoped it would be enough. As the last of the snows melted away, the wood started to take shape, first the bottom tip, and then up the sides. Carving, shaving, slivers in his thumb, his pinkie. He was lost to it, days going by in the blink of an eye. A man possessed. Dad was Dad. Dad was Gio. The differences were starting to become less noticeable. Hap would be the same, Vic told himself. It might take time, but he would be the same. A tear plinked on the wood. He wiped it away and continued on. He finished on the afternoon of the third week since he had begun. He showed the heart to Nurse Ratched. To Rambo. To his father, on a day when he did not remember being exactly that. “It is lovely,” Gio said. “You did well. Who is it for?” “Our friend,” Vic said. “I like friends,” Gio said. “I have made several. You and Nurse Ratched and Rambo.” “I know,” Victor whispered. Gio blinked, and Dad said, “Victor? Forgive me. I must have gotten lost again. What do you have there? Is that the heart? Oh, dear boy. It is wonderful! I knew you could do it. Just look at it!” It was enough. Hap lay where they’d placed him, under a sheet on a table in the Terrible Dogfish. Rambo pulled the sheet down as Nurse Ratched extended her tentacles, ready for whatever Vic asked of her. Dad stood on the other side of Hap, peering down at the ruins of his chest. “All will be well,” he said. “My son has—Hello! My designation is—” Music began to play from Nurse Ratched’s speakers. Horns. The snare. The tss tss tss of a top hat.


ideas that belong to home, and the gentle current of every-day affairs. And yet, as he felt the necessity of responding to her look of inquiry, the smile disappeared. "I ought not to rejoice that you have come, Phoebe," said he. "We meet at a strange moment!" "What has happened!" she exclaimed. "Why is the house so deserted? Where are Hepzibah and Clifford?" "Gone! I cannot imagine where they are!" answered Holgrave. "We are alone in the house!" "Hepzibah and Clifford gone?" cried Phoebe. "It is not possible! And why have you brought me into this room, instead of the parlor? Ah, something terrible has happened! I must run and see!" "No, no, Phoebe!" said Holgrave holding her back. "It is as I have told you. They are gone, and I know not whither. A terrible event has, indeed happened, but not to them, nor, as I undoubtingly believe, through any agency of theirs. If I read your character rightly, Phoebe," he continued, fixing his eyes on hers with stern anxiety, intermixed with tenderness, "gentle as you are, and seeming to have your sphere among common things, you yet possess remarkable strength. You have wonderful poise, and a faculty which, when tested, will prove itself capable of dealing with matters that fall far out of the ordinary rule." "Oh, no, I am very weak!" replied Phoebe, trembling. "But tell me what has happened!" "You are strong!" persisted Holgrave. "You must be both strong and wise; for I am all astray, and need your counsel. It may be you can suggest the one right thing to do!" "Tell me!--tell me!" said Phoebe, all in a tremble. "It oppresses, --it terrifies me,--this mystery! Anything else I can bear!" The artist hesitated. Notwithstanding what he had just said, and most sincerely, in regard to the self-balancing power with which Phoebe impressed him, it still seemed almost wicked to bring the awful secret of yesterday to her knowledge. It was like dragging a hideous shape of death into the cleanly and cheerful space before a household fire, where it would present all the uglier aspect, amid the decorousness of everything about it. Yet it could not be concealed from her; she must needs know it. "Phoebe," said he, "do you remember this?" He put into her hand a daguerreotype; the same that he had shown her at their first interview in the garden, and which so strikingly brought out the hard and relentless traits of the original. "What has this to do with Hepzibah and Clifford?" asked Phoebe, with impatient surprise that Holgrave should so trifle with her at such a moment." It is Judge Pyncheon! You have shown it to me before!" "But here is the same face, taken within this half-hour" said the artist, presenting her with another miniature. "I had just finished it when I heard you at the door." "This is death!" shuddered Phoebe, turning very pale. "Judge Pyncheon dead!" "Such as there represented," said Holgrave, "he sits in the next room. The Judge is dead, and Clifford and Hepzibah have vanished!


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

and Aslaug had brought an almond cake called a hvitkag, while Finn had a loaf of the dark Ljoslander bread, baked in the hot earth, as well as some salted chocolates. Mord looked around the cottage. “Krystjan’s fixed the place up since I last saw it. Calling it a shack would have been generous, then.” He paused before the forest mirror, gazing open-mouthed into the swaying greenery. “This looks like the forest I used to play in as a boy, just outside Loabær. Look! There is the willow with the face in the trunk.” “Where are the tea things, Wendell?” Aslaug asked. “I’ve brought a bottle of red, too, in case anyone cares for something stronger.” “I’ll start with the books,” Finn said. And that was that; suddenly the place was as noisy and bustling as a train station. Finn went back to the main house to fetch spare luggage, returning with Krystjan and several wooden crates. Wendell and I had accumulated a variety of things over the course of our stay, from Aud’s gifts to the faerie cloak, which prompted a great deal of curiosity and discussion. Wendell floated about the room, chatting with this person and that, giving off the impression of contributing while doing no actual work at all. The whole time, I worried that Aslaug or Mord would burst into tears of gratitude or offer some extravagant thank-you gift, and tried to come up with a strategy for how I might respond. Fortunately, they did no such thing, only cheerfully stormed around with the others, folding and packing and calling out questions to me and to Wendell. Eventually I began to worry if perhaps I should be the one making some grand gesture of thanks. They had all saved me, after all, as surely as Wendell and I had saved little Ari. “What’s with you?” Lilja hissed at me as we manoeuvred the enchanted mirror into a crate stuffed with wool. “Didn’t Wendell heal you?” “No, I—” I paused. Had Wendell healed me? I felt perfectly myself, apart from the chill. “It’s not that. I can’t think what I should say.” “Why must you say anything?” “Well—” I hadn’t been expecting this. “Because you rescued me. All of you, but especially Finn and Aslaug—” “What?” Aslaug had come up behind me without my realizing. “Did you call me?” “Emily feels bad because she wishes to thank us, but doesn’t know how,” Lilja said, and I went red and began to sputter, to hear it all spelled out so bluntly. “Oh! Don’t be silly,” Aslaug said simply, and gave me a hug. “We are as good as family now.” Then she went back to bustling about as if nothing had changed. As if it was nothing, what she’d said. Lilja smiled and squeezed my arm. “Some cake?” I nodded dumbly. Lilja pushed me into a chair and passed me a plate of cake, and I ate it. It was very good. The bottle of wine was polished off by Mord, who had spent most of the evening quietly beaming


as if he were blind, he picked at the shape of the individual letters, not blinking. "Denham's. Spelled : D-E.N " They toil not, neither do they . . . A fierce whisper of hot sand through empty sieve. "Denham's does it!" Consider the lilies, the lilies, the lilies... "Denham's dental detergent." "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" It was a plea, a cry so terrible that Montag found himself on his feet, the shocked inhabitants of the loud car staring, moving back from this man with the insane, gorged face, the gibbering, dry mouth, the flapping book in his fist. The people who had been sitting a moment before, tapping their feet to the rhythm of Denham's Dentifrice, Denham's Dandy Dental Detergent, Denham's Dentifrice Dentifrice Dentifrice, one two, one two three, one two, one two three. The people whose mouths had been faintly twitching the words Dentifrice Dentifrice Dentifrice. The train radio vomited upon Montag, in retaliation, a great ton-load of music made of tin, copper, silver, chromium, and brass. The people wcre pounded into submission; they did not run, there was no place to run; the great air-train fell down its shaft in the earth. "Lilies of the field." "Denham's." "Lilies, I said!" The people stared. "Call the guard." "The man's off--" "Knoll View!" The train hissed to its stop. "Knoll View!" A cry. "Denham's." A whisper. Montag's mouth barely moved. "Lilies..." The train door whistled open. Montag stood. The door gasped, started shut. Only then .did he leap past the other passengers, screaming in his mind, plunge through the slicing door only in time. He ran on the white tiles up through the tunnels, ignoring the escalators, because he wanted to feel his feet-move, arms swing, lungs clench, unclench, feel his throat go raw with air. A voice drifted after him, "Denham's Denham's Denham's," the train hissed like a snake. The train vanished in its hole. "Who is it?" "Montag out here." "What do you want?" "Let me in." "I haven't done anything l" "I'm alone, dammit ! " "You swear it?" "I swear!" The front door opened slowly. Faber peered out, looking very old in the light and very fragile and very much afraid. The old man looked as if he had not been out of the house in years. He and the white plaster walls inside were much the same. There was white in the flesh of his mouth and his cheeks and his hair was white and his eyes had faded, with white in the vague blueness there. Then his eyes touched on the book under Montag's arm and he did not look so old any more and not quite as fragile. Slowly his fear went. "I'm sorry. One has to be careful." He looked at the book under Montag's arm and could not stop. "So it's true." Montag stepped inside. The door shut. "Sit down." Faber backed up, as if he feared the book might vanish if he took his eyes from it. Behind him, the door to a bedroom stood open, and in that


that Zaphod hadn't the faintest idea why he was there at all. "You know I don't like the look of that planet at all," said Trillian shivering. "Ah, take no notice," said Zaphod, "with half the wealth of the former Galactic Empire stored on it somewhere it can afford to look frumpy." Bullshit, thought Ford. Even supposing this was the home of some ancient civilization now gone to dust, even supposing a number of exceedingly unlikely things, there was no way that vast treasures of wealth were going to be stored there in any form that would still have meaning now. He shrugged. "I think it's just a dead planet," he said. "The suspense is killing me," said Arthur testily. Stress and nervous tension are now serious social problems in all parts of the Galaxy, and it is in order that this situation should not in any way be exacerbated that the following facts will now be revealed in advance. The planet in question is in fact the legendary Magrathea. The deadly missile attack shortly to be launched by an ancient automatic defence system will result merely in the breakage of three coffee cups and a micecage, the bruising of somebody's upper arm, and the untimely creation and sudden demise of a bowl of petunias and an innocent sperm whale. In order that some sense of mystery should still be preserved, no revelation will yet be made concerning whose upper arm sustained the bruise. This fact may safely be made the subject of suspense since it is of no significance whatsoever. ================================================================= Chapter 17 After a fairly shaky start to the day, Arthur's mind was beginning to reassemble itself from the shellshocked fragments the previous day had left him with. He had found a Nutri-Matic machine which had provided him with a plastic cup filled with a liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. The way it functioned was very interesting. When the Drink button was pressed it made an instant but highly detailed examination of the subject's taste buds, a spectroscopic analysis of the subject's metabolism and then sent tiny experimental signals down the neural pathways to the taste centres of the subject's brain to see what was likely to go down well. However, no one knew quite why it did this because it invariably delivered a cupful of liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. The Nutri-Matic was designed and manufactured by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation whose complaints department now covers all the major land masses of the first three planets in the Sirius Tau Star system. Arthur drank the liquid and found it reviving. He glanced up at the screens again and watched a few more hundred miles of barren greyness slide past. It suddenly occurred to him to ask a question which had been bothering him. "Is it safe?" he said. "Magrathea's been dead for five million years," said Zaphod, "of course it's safe. Even the ghosts will have settled down and raised families by now." At which point a strange and


For context,” Katharine goes on, “the highest score ever achieved through our matrix is 4.88.” Um. No one’s ever gotten a five? What the hell kind of competition doesn’t allow a perfect score? I slide a glance at Celine and find her just as outraged as I am, which is unnerving, to say the least. We really shouldn’t agree on anything, ever. “But first—only those of you whose applications are unique and compelling enough will make it into the BEP at all. We’ll begin with a twenty-person cohort.” Twenty people? There’s at least ten times that in this room. The general hum of excitement turns into a low buzz of apprehension, of competition, as everyone eyes their neighbors. For some reason, I find myself eyeing Celine. Not that we’re in competition for this. It’s just habit. She glares back. “What are you looking at?” “Not my competition,” I say, “that’s for sure.” Her mouth forms a perfect little O. “Bradley! Have you finally accepted that I’m fundamentally superior to you in every way? Bravo. I knew this day would come.” “Oh, Celine,” I say, flashing the sweetest smile in my arsenal. “Some might say it’s cruel to let you live in this fantasy world you’ve created. But if it keeps you from sinking into the depths of despair, I’ll let you dream.” She scowls. I bet she’d scowl even harder if I got into her precious BEP and won the whole thing (surely someone gets to win? I would definitely win.), but that would be beyond petty and probably a waste of time. I’m not trying to take over the world like Celine. I do want to work in law—I’d get to help people, and I’d be good at it, and I wouldn’t completely die of boredom—but I don’t sit around daydreaming about elite employers. I don’t daydream about the future at all. (Unless you count the one where I’m a bestselling sci-fi author, but obviously that’s not going to happen because I can’t even finish a bloody short story, so—) “…fifty percent of the cohort,” Katharine is saying, and I blink back to the room around me in time to see her latest slide. My jaw drops. On average, around 50 percent of the cohort—Breakspeare Explorers, she calls them—usually quit or are thrown out before finishing the program? What the hell does she have people doing out there, ice bathing and making blood sacrifices to the gods? It’s just two expeditions. I mean, scrubbing about in the dirt and wilderness isn’t my idea of fun—when I was sixteen, the football team camped in Bavaria for a tournament and I spent the whole trip peeing in bushes so I wouldn’t have to use a public bathroom—but even I could complete two expeditions if I had the right motivation. Then again, I’m kind of a badass. I could do anything with the right motivation. “But those who succeed will attend the Explorers’ Ball to receive their coveted Explorer Awards and mingle with our sponsors, who’ll be searching for students to offer internships. Oh,”


our seclusion?-- I was this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for tidings of us." "Jane!"--repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and displeasure.-- "That is easy--but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I suppose." "How do you like Mrs. Elton?" said Emma in a whisper. "Not at all." "You are ungrateful." "Ungrateful!--What do you mean?" Then changing from a frown to a smile--"No, do not tell me--I do not want to know what you mean.-- Where is my father?--When are we to begin dancing?" Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction.--Emma heard the sad truth with fortitude. "And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?" said Mr. Weston. "She will think Frank ought to ask her." Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and boasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most perfect approbation of--and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting him to dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to help to persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.-- Mr. Weston and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed. Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was almost enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified; for though she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change. Mr. Weston might be his son's superior.-- In spite of this little rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the respectable length of the set as it was forming, and to feel that she had so many hours of unusual festivity before her.-- She was more disturbed by Mr. Knightley's not dancing than by any thing else.--There he was, among the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,--not classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who were pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers were made up,--so young as he looked!-- He could not have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had placed himself. His tall, firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every body's eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was not one among the whole row of young men who could be compared with him.--He moved a few steps nearer, and those few steps were enough to prove in


he says. “It’s weird talking aloud with someone who’s whispering on the other line.” I smile. From the office, I hear Penny ask, “Where’s Maddie?” “Okay, dinner Saturday night at your place. Sounds good.” “Great. I’ll text you the address. See you tomorrow, Maddie.” “Bye, Ben.” He laughs, probably because I’m still whispering, before hanging up. * * * As soon as I’m out of the office doors, I pull my phone out. Farringdon during rush hour is not a street you want to walk across with downcast eyes, but these are desperate times. I won’t have a signal once I’m on the underground. Google: How to prepare for a first date My top four first-date tips—article written by Lisa Fiener I have been on so many first dates, I’ve lost count. My head jerks back at this. So if you’ve found this article, you’re in safe hands. Follow my top tips to ensure success on your first date. I scroll down to see if Lisa Fiener has embedded any links to articles she’s written about second dates. She has not. Nerves: if this is your first date in a long time or even just a first date with someone you really like, you’re probably working up a sweat just thinking about it. Kick those nerves to the curb by keeping yourself preoccupied in the run up to D-day. How about fitting in an intense workout at the gym or even book in some time for a spray tan to give you that extra boost of confidence? Distract yourself to avoid overthinking; my distraction of choice is a prebooked massage so I’m relaxed and soothed right before my big date. These pre-date rituals are somewhat non-applicable. I don’t have a gym membership or need a tan … They also sound expensive. Is this why men are expected to pay for dates? We’ve spent all our money just getting ready … Location: this is pretty obvious, but you want to pick somewhere familiar and public just to give you that secure footing. You know how much the food will cost, in case chivalry is dead, you know the dress code and the ambience of the place. And, for extra measure, make sure you tell at least one friend or family member who you’re meeting, where you’re going and what time you expect to return—you know, just in case! “Watch it!” A man and his briefcase push into me and give me a dirty look (the man, not the briefcase) before walking on. My fault for stopping in a stream of pedestrian traffic, but in my defense—if anyone cared to ask—I’d just discovered that Ben could be a potential serial killer and I his next victim. I move aside and stand in the entranceway of a closed bank. Google: Is a first date at his house normal? Nicole91: So I met this guy at a coffee shop and we really hit it off. After we exchanged numbers he sends me a text asking if I’d like to have dinner with him at his place.


gave a short laugh, shook hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, "You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He was a fine man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and I was proud to be his friend." "Thank you, sir," And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly. "What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next question, sharply put. "Only trying to be neighborly, sir." And Jo to how her visit came about. "You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?" "Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said Jo eagerly. "Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?" "Doing nicely, sir." And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were. "Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea bell, we have it early on the boy's account. Come down and go on being neighborly." "If you'd like to have me, sir." "Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't." And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. "What would Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home. "Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable grandfather. "I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance. "That's evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman." And having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo. The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh. "She's right, the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if


giddy. The snowy ride through that wild country; the conversation with the faerie woman—in and of itself a greater triumph than most dryadologists could hope for in their entire career. The things I had learned in a single night would give me material for a year’s worth of papers. I downed the wine and sank back into my chair, my mind already dancing through the additions I would make in my encyclopaedia. He sat with me, chattering away about our triumphant return to Cambridge and ICODEF, and myriad other things, and not expecting anything substantial in reply, which is one of my favourite qualities about him. It sounds odd to admit that I find the company of such a boisterous person restful, but perhaps it is always restful to be around someone who does not expect anything from you beyond what is in your nature. After a while, though, I felt an unexpected guilt. “You don’t have to stay with me,” I said. “You can go down to the tavern and regale the villagers with the tale of our success.” “Why would I do that? I prefer your company, Em.” He said it as if it were obvious. I snorted again, assuming he was teasing me. “Over the company of a tavern filled with a rapt and grateful audience? I’m sure you do.” “Over anyone else’s company.” Again, he said it with some amusement, as if wondering what I was doing speculating about something so evident. “You are drunk,” I said. “Shall I prove it to you?” “No, you shan’t,” I said, alarmed, but he was already sweeping to the floor, bending his knee and taking my hand between his. “What in God’s name are you doing?” I said between my teeth. “And why are you doing it now?” “Shall I make an appointment?” he said, then laughed. “Yes, I believe you would like that. Well, name the time when it would be convenient for you to receive a declaration of love.” “Oh, get up,” I said, furious now. “What sort of jest is this, Wendell?” “You don’t believe me?” He smiled, all mischief, a look I’d seen from other Folk, enough to know not to trust him one inch. “Ask for my true name, and I’ll give it to you.” “Why on earth would you do that?” I demanded, yanking my hand back. “Oh, Em,” he said forlornly. “You are the cleverest dolt I have ever met.” I stared at him, my heart thundering. Of course, I am not a dolt in any sense; I had supposed he felt something for me and had only hoped he would keep it to himself. Forever. Not that a part of me didn’t wish for the opposite. But that was when I assumed his feelings in that respect were equivalent to what he felt for any of the nameless women who passed in and out of his bed. And why would I lower myself to that, when he and I already had something that was vastly more valuable? But he was offering me his


It is a more daunting thought than she expected. For the first time since she was on her own in life, she feels incredibly ill-prepared. I don’t know how to be a parent. But she and Ethan will figure it out together. She can already imagine the look on his face when she tells him. It’s what he’s wanted for so long. He’ll be consumed by it. They’ll be parents. A family. Chapter 48 Jonah glances up from his desk when Ethan walks into their cubicle, but doesn’t offer a greeting. Ethan expected some awkward stares when he returned to work. After all, his wife had an affair with a billionaire app founder, whom Ethan shot dead in their home, and it made international news. But his coworkers hardly look or speak to him at all, if they can avoid it. It is way worse than when news went around the department about him and Rachel. He doubts things will ever be the same. Even with Jonah, who’s already re-engrossed in his computer screen. Seeing the bags beneath his partner’s eyes, Ethan feels guilty he didn’t get to work earlier, though it’s just after seven. In the three weeks he’d been put on administrative leave, Jonah had been handling both of their caseloads. “What’s this?” Ethan points to the case file sitting atop his laptop after draping his coat over the back of his chair. Jonah lifts his coffee mug toward his mouth. “McKinnon assigned you to an assault case that happened overnight.” “Another one?” While getting the occasional assault case on top of their homicide caseload had become routine in the last couple of years, getting one every day was not. “I guess Christmas came early.” Jonah shrugs, not bothering to look in Ethan’s direction. Ethan reaches for the folder containing the new assault case. “Hey, Marks.” Ethan turns to the sound of his sergeant’s voice. “We just got another assault, a stabbing in the Fremont area, along Aurora.” McKinnon strides into their cubicle with a folder in his outstretched hand, matching the one on Ethan’s desk. “Sorry, I had to assign it to you. Adams and Stevenson worked a new homicide all night, and Richards and Suarez just got called to a double shooting.” “That’s all right.” Ethan takes the folder from McKinnon’s hand. “Thanks.” McKinnon pauses before returning to his office. “How are you doing?” “I’m good. Thanks, Sarge.” “Glad to hear it.” McKinnon turns from the cubicle. His sergeant, at least, is more understanding than most. Ethan opens the case file that had been waiting on his desk that morning first. A photo of a woman with a black eye and a laceration on her left temple is clipped to the first page of the report. Her long, wavy blonde hair reminds him of Chelsea Carr’s. While Chelsea’s manner of death remains undetermined by the medical examiner, Jonah had at least been able to give her parents some peace of mind in knowing Carr confessed to Sloane that he killed their daughter. His confession alone to Sloane, however,


a foul scheme that was making women into wraiths and using them to murder other-born—he thought he was the victim? “Am I supposed to be ‘them’ in this scenario?” Io snapped. Adrenaline pumped through her chest; in a burst of courage, Io lifted her eyes to his. “I am a cutter. I’m paying an extra danger fee to live in my building. My private investigator license was rejected, twice, on the basis of threatening abilities. You have a job other-born can only dream of, you’re drinking coffee with the future Mayor, and you’re dressed in a suit the price of my rent. It’s bad for all of us but this”—Io gestured at the porcelain cups, the well-dressed guests, the sweet-smelling patio—“is a layer of protection few other-born can claim. Take that into consideration the next time you demand the instant forgiveness of someone you assaulted in a dark alley.” In the silence that followed, Io could count her heartbeats. Time her breaths. A bug was buzzing somewhere close, and automobiles whizzed down Hanover Street. Aris had averted his gaze sometime mid-tantrum, but Io refused to look away. His shame was a tonic to her frayed nerves; she sopped it up like starved desert earth. “That,” said Saint-Yves, breaking the silence. “That right there. That’s the perspective we need.” “Told you,” Thais declared proudly. “We need to address class issues if the Initiative is to be a success,” Saint-Yves continued in the focused, pragmatic tone of a businessman. “And Thais was right: you’re just the person to do it. A cutter from the Silts, a private investigator with a keen social mind.” “You could show them the necessity of reestablishing a policing body, the transparency and justice of a task force of other-born,” Thais said, with a raised eyebrow. “And,” Saint-Yves added, giving Thais one of his spectacular teeth-out smiles, “we’d be happy to have you as our maid of honor. It’s a good thing we’re showing them true assimilation firsthand when we get married this fall.” Marie giggled. “I can’t wait to be planning that.” Io’s mouth was half-open, eyes flying between the five of them. They were smiling, laid-back, and warmly expectant. As if it was completely normal to apologize for assaulting her, lecture her about equality, offer her a job, and plan a wedding—all in the span of two minutes. And they were so casual about it, as though they couldn’t imagine Io refusing. As though she was already one of them. She squirmed in her seat, an acute sense of discomfort. It was the warped form of this conversation; she felt like she was being evaluated in some way. Like they had taken her very justified anger and twisted it to their advantage, to something they could use in their campaign. It was the familiarity of their beliefs: social equality, progress, morality. How many times had Io heard Thais orating about these very same ideals? It had seemed noble then, but now it just sounded naive. At the first sign of trouble, she heard Edei’s voice in her head.


waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent. She heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels. She was not frightened, because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room. He slipped under the door as she watched him. "How queer and quiet it is," she said. "It sounds as if there were no one in the bungalow but me and the snake." Almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on the veranda. They were men's footsteps, and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices. No one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed to open doors and look into rooms. "What desolation!" she heard one voice say. "That pretty, pretty woman! I suppose the child, too. I heard there was a child, though no one ever saw her." Mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes later. She looked an ugly, cross little thing and was frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected. The first man who came in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father. He looked tired and troubled, but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back. "Barney!" he cried out. "There is a child here! A child alone! In a place like this! Mercy on us, who is she!" "I am Mary Lennox," the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly. She thought the man was very rude to call her father's bungalow "A place like this!" "I fell asleep when everyone had the cholera and I have only just wakened up. Why does nobody come?" "It is the child no one ever saw!" exclaimed the man, turning to his companions. "She has actually been forgotten!" "Why was I forgotten?" Mary said, stamping her foot. "Why does nobody come?" The young man whose name was Barney lookedat her very sadly. Mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away. "Poor little kid!" he said. "There is nobody left to come." It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a Missie Sahib. That was why the place was so quiet. It was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake. CHAPTER II MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY Mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very pretty, but as she knew very little


in the right place. The tomb you seek is in another location entirely!" Teabing felt panicked. What is he saying! "Why do you want the Grail?" Langdon demanded. "To destroy it? Before the End of Days?" 243 Rmy called to the monk. "Silas, take the keystone from Mr. Langdon." As the monk advanced, Langdon stepped back, raising the keystone high, looking fully prepared to hurl it at the floor. "I would rather break it," Langdon said, "than see it in the wrong hands." Teabing now felt a wave of horror. He could see his life's work evaporating before his eyes. All his dreams about to be shattered. "Robert, no!" Teabing exclaimed. "Don't! That's the Grail you're holding! Rmy would never shoot me. We've known each other for ten-" Rmy aimed at the ceiling and fired the Medusa. The blast was enormous for such a small weapon, the gunshot echoing like thunder inside the stone chamber. Everyone froze. "I am not playing games," Rmy said. "The next one is in his back. Hand the keystone to Silas." Langdon reluctantly held out the cryptex. Silas stepped forward and took it, his red eyes gleaming with the self-satisfaction of vengeance. Slipping the keystone in the pocket of his robe, Silas backed off, still holding Langdon and Sophie at gunpoint. Teabing felt Rmy's arm clamp hard around his neck as the servant began backing out of the building, dragging Teabing with him, the gun still pressed in his back. "Let him go," Langdon demanded. "We're taking Mr. Teabing for a drive," Rmy said, still backing up. "If you call the police, he will die. If you do anything to interfere, he will die. Is that clear?" "Take me," Langdon demanded, his voice cracking with emotion. "Let Leigh go." Rmy laughed. "I don't think so. He and I have such a nice history. Besides, he still might prove useful." Silas was backing up now, keeping Langdon and Sophie at gunpoint as Rmy pulled Leigh toward the exit, his crutches dragging behind him. Sophie's voice was unwavering. "Who are you working for?" The question brought a smirk to the departing Rmy's face. "You would be surprised, Mademoiselle Neveu." 244 CHAPTER 87 The fireplace in Chteau Villette's drawing room was cold, but Collet paced before it nonetheless as he read the faxes from Interpol. Not at all what he expected. Andr Vernet, according to official records, was a model citizen. No police record- not even a parking ticket. Educated at prep school and the Sorbonne, he had a cum laude degree in international finance. Interpol said Vernet's name appeared in the newspapers from time to time, but always in a positive light. Apparently the man had helped design the security parameters that kept the Depository Bank of Zurich a leader in the ultramodern world of electronic security. Vernet's credit card records showed a penchant for art books, expensive wine, and classical CD's-mostly Brahms-which he apparently enjoyed on an exceptionally high-end stereo system he had purchased several years ago. Zero, Collet sighed. The only red flag tonight from Interpol had