torture to extract confessions, the use of hostages, and the deportation of whole populations--not only became common again, but were tolerated and even defended by people who considered themselves enlightened and progressive. It was only after a decade of national wars, civil wars, revolutions, and counter-revolutions in all parts of the world that Ingsoc and its rivals emerged as fully worked-out political theories. But they had been foreshadowed by the various systems, generally called totalitarian, which had appeared earlier in the century, and the main outlines of the world which would emerge from the prevailing chaos had long been obvious. What kind of people would control this world had been equally obvious. The new aristocracy was made up for the most part of bureaucrats, scientists, technicians, trade-union organizers, publicity experts, sociologists, teachers, journalists, and professional politicians. These people, whose origins lay in the salaried middle class and the upper grades of the working class, had been shaped and brought together by the barren world of monopoly industry and centralized government. As compared with their opposite numbers in past ages, they were less avaricious, less tempted by luxury, hungrier for pure power, and, above all, more conscious of what they were doing and more intent on crushing opposition. This last difference was cardinal. By comparison with that existing today, all the tyrannies of the past were half-hearted and inefficient. The ruling groups were always infected to some extent by liberal ideas, and were content to leave loose ends everywhere, to regard only the overt act and to be uninterested in what their subjects were thinking. Even the Catholic Church of the Middle Ages was tolerant by modern standards. Part of the reason for this was that in the past no government had the power to keep its citizens under constant surveillance. The invention of print, however, made it easier to manipulate public opinion, and the film and the radio carried the process further. With the development of television, and the technical advance which made it possible to receive and transmit simultaneously on the same instrument, private life came to an end. Every citizen, or at least every citizen important enough to be worth watching, could be kept for twenty-four hours a day under the eyes of the police and in the sound of official propaganda, with all other channels of communication closed. The possibility of enforcing not only complete obedience to the will of the State, but complete uniformity of opinion on all subjects, now existed for the first time. After the revolutionary period of the fifties and sixties, society regrouped itself, as always, into High, Middle, and Low. But the new High group, unlike all its forerunners, did not act upon instinct but knew what was needed to safeguard its position. It had long been realized that the only secure basis for oligarchy is collectivism. Wealth and privilege are most easily defended when they are possessed jointly. The so-called 'abolition of private property' which took place in the middle years of the century meant, in effect, the concentration of property in far


“Immediate love, like fire that consumes. Peter never had a chance. One day he was the husband, the next he was gone, just out of her life. He was angry. Little bit crazy, maybe. He tried to kill Tonfamecasca.” “How?” “He hired a gunman. It was a good attempt. Tonfamecasca was wounded. He had to take more T7, before he was ready.” “I know that story.” “Sure, you do. Everyone does. But it’s the context that matters. Tonfamecasca grew again. Peter began to think he could force his rival out of humanity that way, by killing him over and over until he was so big he could not survive, or at least, could not function in human society.” “Yeah, a lot of people think that. They don’t factor in how much harder it gets each time.” “Ordinary people always underestimate the complexity of revolutions. Revolutionaries, too, of course, but they learn the hard way. And Peter did, too. He tried again.” “He missed.” “Oh, no, he was very much on target. A long gun, this time. He fired from half a mile. Maybe more. The first shot missed, but the second was perfect. A golden shot, like the hand of God.” “Didn’t think God had much to say to a socialist.” “God has been a socialist since 1848 when Karl Marx explained things to him. Ever since.” “Did not know that story.” “But Lillian had seen what was happening. It was impossible for her. God is also a romantic. She stepped into the path of the bullet. Perhaps she leaped up to embrace Stefan, perhaps she pulled him down with her ordinary human strength! And he, so used to responding to her commands, bent his head. Surely he would not have done so if he had known what was to come. The bullet…struck her. The impact was terrible, the power of the gun, the shot intended for the Titan king. She lost an arm, just torn away at the shoulder, like that. Blood and horror. Peter saw it, through the gunsight, saw her face. He went a little bit mad at what he’d done. He could have taken another shot, but he did not. He fled, his mind burning with remorse and self-hate, so he did not see the next part.” “She didn’t die.” “No! Exactly. Tonfamecasca saved her life, of course. Lillian became a Titan because of what Peter had done. She was forever beyond him now. He fled into the night. Fled and disappeared so that even Tonfamecasca could not find him to finish him off. The rage of the Titan king was endless and deep, but even the lightning cannot strike what is not there.” “And what happened to Lillian? He got tired of her? She got to know him better?” “She married an Argentinian rancher, an old man who just wanted someone to talk to, and did not care for the idea of immortality. He was content that she make love to his gauchos and dance in the moonlight, so long as he was not alone. An amicable


lips slightly parted, re- laxed as he breathes deeply. I want to kiss him, to push my tongue between his lips, run my fingers over his soft yet prickly stubble. I really have to fight the urge not to touch him, not to disturb him. Hmm . . . I could just tease his earlobe with my teeth and suck. My subconscious glares up at me over her half-moon spec- tacles, distracted from volume two of the Complete Works of Charles Dickens, and mentally chastises me. Leave the poor man alone, Ana. I am back to work on Monday. We have today to reacclimatize, then we’re back into our routine. It will be odd not seeing Christian for a whole day after spending almost every minute together for the last three weeks. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. One would think that spending so much time together would be suffocating, but that’s just not the case. I’ve loved each and every minute, even our fighting. Every minute . . . except the news of the fire at Grey House. My blood chills. Who could want to harm Christian? My mind gnaws at this mystery again. Someone in his business? An ex? A disgruntled employee? I have no idea, and Christian remains tight-lipped about it all, drip feeding me the min- imum information he can get away with in a bid to protect me. I sigh. My shining white-and-dark knight always trying to protect me. How am I going to make him open up more? He stirs and I still, not wanting to wake him, but it has the opposite effect. Damn! Two bright eyes gaze at me. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” I try my reassuring smile. He stretches, rubs his face, and then grins at me. “Jet lag?” he asks. “Is that what this is? I can’t sleep.” 93/551 “I have the universal panacea right here, just for you, baby.” He grins like a schoolboy, making me roll my eyes and giggle at the same time. And just like that my dark thoughts are swept aside and my teeth find his earlobe. Christian and I cruise north on the I-5 toward the 520 bridge in the Audi R8. We are going to have lunch at his parents’, a welcome-home Sunday lunch. All the family will be there, plus Kate and Ethan. It will be strange to be in so much com- pany when we’ve been on our own all this time. I haven’t had an opportunity to talk to Christian most of the morning. He was holed up in his study while I un- packed. He said I didn’t have to, that Mrs. Jones would do it. But that’s something else I need to get used to—having domestic help. I run my fingers absentmindedly over the leather upholstery of the door to distract my wandering thoughts. I feel out of sorts. Is it the jet lag? The arson? “Would you let me drive this?” I ask, surprised that I say the words out loud. “Of course,” Christian


in, gripped him by the arm. He smelled of sugar and oil, pomade and cologne. His skin was polished and creamy. He looked like an egg. “Business is never slow,” she said. Great confidence: that’s what she would always project. * * * Arriving at Park Lane was quite something. The house was like a hotel, Mrs. Bone thought, wiping a line of sweat from her brow. Doors opening and closing, parcels and goods coming in and out. A place this big needed feeding, laundering, delivering, restocking. Waste of money. Of course Danny had an army of servants. Typical of his extravagant tastes. Mrs. Bone tugged her ugly hat down over her ears. I’m a poor, humble creature, she told herself sternly. I’m as low as can be. I’m a rat; I’m a worm. She reached out and jabbed the tradesmen’s bell. Heard it ring, shrilly, somewhere in the depths of the house. She looked up. White walls, fancy pillars, windows the size of buses. So big it could squash you. “I’ll tear you limb from limb,” she told the house, under her breath. She corrected herself. She hadn’t made any decisions about investing in this job yet. She was here to check the lay of the land—that was all. It wasn’t the first time she’d visited. Back then the house was only half-built. She’d seen the dust cloud all the way across the park, heard the clang and clatter of construction as she approached through the trees. The scaffolding was immense: a monstrous, sprawling mass of beams and joists and planks and cranes. There must have been fifty men employed on the site. Carts lined up around the street. White tarpaulin flapping in the breeze, a tall ship with a hundred sails. It frightened her, somewhere far, far down in her gut. It made her feel nastily tiny. She’d seen Danny stretched out on a picnic blanket, watching the men at work. Tweed jacket, white boater tied with a yellow ribbon—immaculate silk, that. His butler had crossed the grass with a silver platter, a jug of lemonade, ice bobbing on the surface. She’d balled her fists. “Danny,” she’d called, voice hoarse. He’d aged. Of course he had: it had been a decade since they’d seen each other. But she still recognized that quick, lethal turn of the head. That was an O’Flynn, through and through. If anyone could spot it, she could. Wealth hadn’t made him soft, not at all. She’d wanted to scare him. At first she reckoned she’d managed it. She noted the click in his jaw. But then his mouth revealed a Cheshire Cat grin. She remembered that, too. He loved it: the thrill of winning, of beating her, of having something over on her. It was everything, the stuff of life. He was pleased to see her. “Hullo, Sister Scarecrow,” he said, same as always. Mrs. Bone had loved her brother. He was five years older than she was. He took her gambling when she was still a girl—only fourteen, fifteen. Dogs, fights, sometimes the races. She


poster. All that night, all the next day, his hands smell of chlorine. (Was I satisfied with my story that morning? I told myself that despite the missing pieces, I ought to be. Perhaps the dull nausea I felt had something to do with last night’s dining hall lo mein. In any case: I was able to get out of bed. I was able to start my day.) 16 Before class, Britt asked if she could interview me later. I told her I’d talk, but that mine shouldn’t be the first interview she played on the podcast. “It might seem sloppy,” I said, “using your teacher as your first source.” I said it partly out of an instinct to disavow responsibility. If the podcast somehow got out into the world, I didn’t want it to look like I was steering the ship. I wasn’t someone who’d decided that despite being utterly peripheral to this story twenty-three years ago, I was the one to tell it now. (Everyone shut up and listen to me, a girl who wasn’t even friends with those people!) I warned Britt that I didn’t have a lot to say, that all I could do was describe Thalia as a person. And that I might not even be free that night; I was trying to meet up with a friend from Boston. But by class break, I hadn’t heard from Yahav. I texted him—because if I didn’t, I’d wait around like an idiot. Sthg came up for tonight, but lemme know if you have time in next few days! I don’t need you to care about Yahav. It would be odd if you did. But he’s part of the story, and he was a big part of my mental state those two weeks. Lest I sound clueless and desperate: This was someone I’d been seeing for two years, someone who would, when things were working, text me just to say good morning. When we got together he, too, was separated and starting the divorce process. We were already friends—both teaching at UCLA, both enjoying rapid-fire conversation and politics and tapas bars. I don’t believe in soul mates, and that’s made life easier; we were simply good together. I’d met him at a potluck thrown by a psychology professor friend, in a house full of spider plants—a remarkably unsexy party if only because the place smelled of cat litter. Yahav had piled his plate with so much food that I found myself scoping his physique to see if he was all muscle or just an ectomorph. The answer turned out to be both, I confirmed two years later when we finally slept together, when I ran my hand down his ribs and his long, ropy quadriceps. But in the moment, I apologized for staring at his plate, the mountains of orzo and chicken and veggie lasagna. I said, “You have literally everything, so tell me what ends up being best.” He took the request seriously, and kept reporting back throughout the night, advising that the brownies on the far end


to go and fetch the gold. Everything was being done thoroughly and properly- though far too slowly for the children! They had hoped that the men would have been caught and taken to prison- and that the police would bring back the whole of the gold at once! They were all very tired that night and didn't make any fuss at all when their aunt said that they must go to bed early. They undressed and then the boys went to eat their supper in the girls' bedroom. Tim was there, ready to lick up any fallen crumbs. "Well, I must say we've had a wonderful adventure," said Julian, sleepily. "In a way I'm sorry it's ended -though at times I didn't enjoy it very much- especially when you and I, George, were prisoners in that dungeon. That was awful." George was looking very happy as she nibbled her gingerbread biscuits. She grinned at Julian. "And to think I hated the idea of you all coming here to stay!" she said. "I was going to be such a beast to you! I was going to make you wish you were all home again! And now the only thing that makes me sad is the idea of you going away- which you will do, of course, when the holidays end. And then, after having three friends with me, enjoying adventures like this, I'll be all on my own again. I've never been lonely before- but I know I shall be now." "No, you won't," said Anne, suddenly. "You can do something that will stop you being lonely ever again." "What?" said George in surprise. "You can ask to go to the same boarding-school as I go to," said Anne. "It's such a lovely one- and we are allowed to keep our pets, so Tim could come too!" "Gracious! Could he really?" said George, her eyes shining. "Well, I'll go then. I always said I wouldn't-but I will because I see now how much better and happier it is to be with others than all by myself. And if I can have Tim, well that's simply wonderful!" "You'd better go back to your own bedroom now, boys," said Aunt Fanny, appearing at the doorway. "Look at Dick, almost dropping with sleep! Well, you should all have pleasant dreams tonight, for you've had an adventure to be proud of. George- is that Tim under your bed?" "Well, yes it is, Mother," said George, pretending to be surprised. "Dear me! Tim, what are you doing here?" Tim crawled out and went over to George's mother. He lay flat on his tummy and looked up at her most appealingly out of his soft brown eyes. "Do you want to sleep in the girls' room tonight?" said George's mother, with a laugh. "All right-just for once!" "Mother!" yelled George, overjoyed. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! How did you guess that I just didn't want to be parted from Tim tonight? Oh, Mother! Tim, you can sleep on the rug over there." Four happy children snuggled down


in front of Ralph, looking up brightly and vertically. As he received the reassurance of something purposeful being done he began to look satisfied, and his only clean digit, a pink thumb, slid into his mouth. Piggy leaned down to him. "What's yer name?" "Johnny." Piggy muttered the name to himself and then shouted it to Ralph, who was not interested because he was still blowing. His face was dark with the violent pleasure of making this stupendous noise, and his heart was making the stretched shirt shake. The shouting in the forest was nearer. Signs of life were visible now on the beach. The sand, trembling beneath the heat haze, concealed many figures in its miles of length; boys were making their way toward the platform through the hot, dumb sand. Three small children, no older than Johnny, appeared from startlingly close at hand, where they had been gorging fruit in the forest. A dark little boy, not much younger than Piggy, parted a tangle of undergrowth, walked on to the platform, and smiled cheerfully at everybody. More and more of them came. Taking their cue from the innocent Johnny, they sat down on the fallen palm trunks and waited. Ralph continued to blow short, penetrating blasts. Piggy moved among the crowd, asking names and frowning to remember them. The children gave him the same simple obedience that they had given to the men with megaphones. Some were naked and carrying their clothes; others half-naked, or more or less dressed, in school uniforms, grey, blue, fawn, jacketed, or jerseyed. There were badges, mottoes even, stripes of color in stockings and pullovers. Their heads clustered above the trunks in the green shade; heads brown, fair, black, chestnut, sandy, mouse-colored; heads muttering, whispering, heads full of eyes that watched Ralph and speculated. Something was being done. The children who came along the beach, singly or in twos, leapt into visibility when they crossed the line from heat haze to nearer sand. Here, the eye was first attracted to a black, bat-like creature that danced on the sand, and only later perceived the body above it. The bat was the child's shadow, shrunk by the vertical sun to a patch between the hurrying feet. Even while he blew, Ralph noticed the last pair of bodies that reached the platform above a fluttering patch of black. The two boys, bullet-headed and with hair like tow, flung themselves down and lay grinning and panting at Ralph like dogs. They were twins, and the eye was shocked and incredulous at such cheery duplication. They breathed together, they grinned together, they were chunky and vital. They raised wet lips at Ralph, for they seemed provided with not quite enough skin, so that their profiles were blurred and their mouths pulled open. Piggy bent his flashing glasses to them and could be heard between the blasts, repeating their names. "Sam, Eric, Sam, Eric." Then he got muddled; the twins shook their heads and pointed at each other and the crowd laughed. At last Ralph ceased to blow and sat


can. I’ll pay twice your price.” “It’s not about the money.” Io stepped away from the dark stain on the wood, away from her chaotic thoughts. “I work with scorned lovers and worried parents. I don’t solve murders.” Bianca pulled her hair back from her Ersa-kissed cheeks. “These women are using threads to kill, and you’re the only private eye in Alante who can see the Quilt. So, yeah, I think you’re exactly the right person for the job. I can kill her. Kill the next one. But something tells me these women will keep coming.” Io glanced back at the door. She had a decision to make: refuse and take her chances with the mob queen’s wrath, or accept and risk her damn life hunting down ghosts. “I work alone.” She probably sounded pathetic, but she didn’t care. Her mind was full of panic, her body quivering with adrenaline. The thought of Edei—distracting her, confusing her, reminding her—while she chased murderous wraiths across Alante was too much to handle. She had kept their lives separate for three years, and she intended to continue. If she had to do this, she’d do it alone. “Not anymore,” Bianca answered, her voice full of steel. “You do this with Edei, or you find yourself another city to work in.” A threat: how all partnerships started in the Silts. Io’s fingers were itching to grab a thread and slice Bianca’s surety right off her face. If she let Bianca walk over her now, the mob queen wouldn’t hesitate to do it again in the future. Io knew what mob kings and queens used cutters for. “I’ll do this for you,” she told Bianca, “and this alone. None of your henchmen will come knocking on my door at dawn ever again.” On her left, Io thought she glimpsed Edei’s shoulders tense. This is just another job, she told herself. She’d get it done, stay in Bianca’s good graces, then go back to her normal life of adulterers and gamblers. The mob queen of the Silts smiled a little, almost as if this haggling pleased her. “Deal. Ey, Edei?” He gave a nod. “She kept saying they. They told me, they said.” Bianca propped her head against the desk and spoke the question on everyone’s minds. “Who the hell is they?” CHAPTER V HALF A LIE A MOURNFUL VOICE crooned about dreams and heartbreaks as Ava combed through Io’s hair. Jetta Jamil, Ava’s favorite songstress, was about to release a new album, and Ava had managed to score one of the first rare vinyls before it was even out. Io knew better than to ask how—her sister had a sketchy side even Io didn’t fully know. Ava had been waiting by the door when Io returned around midday, after visiting Isidora Magnussen. Ava had opened her mouth, but Io silenced her with a palm. “Let me wash first,” she had said. Io’s dark curls fell almost to her waist, which meant combing through them was a singular torture. When she had come out of the shower, Ava


soil minutely. In the soft mud on the bank of a tiny rivulet he found footprints such as he alone in all the jungle had ever made, but much larger than his. His heart beat fast. Could it be that he was trailing a MAN--one of his own race? There were two sets of imprints pointing in opposite directions. So his quarry had already passed on his return along the trail. As he examined the newer spoor a tiny particle of earth toppled from the outer edge of one of the footprints to the bottom of its shallow depression--ah, the trail was very fresh, his prey must have but scarcely passed. Tarzan swung himself to the trees once more, and with swift noiselessness sped along high above the trail. He had covered barely a mile when he came upon the black warrior standing in a little open space. In his hand was his slender bow to which he had fitted one of his death dealing arrows. Opposite him across the little clearing stood Horta, the boar, with lowered head and foam flecked tucks, ready to charge. Chapter 9 49 Tarzan looked with wonder upon the strange creature beneath him--so like him in form and yet so different in face and color. His books had portrayed the NEGRO, but how different had been the dull, dead print to this sleek thing of ebony, pulsing with life. As the man stood there with taut drawn bow Tarzan recognized him not so much the NEGRO as the ARCHER of his picture book-- A stands for Archer How wonderful! Tarzan almost betrayed his presence in the deep excitement of his discovery. But things were commencing to happen below him. The sinewy black arm had drawn the shaft far back; Horta, the boar, was charging, and then the black released the little poisoned arrow, and Tarzan saw it fly with the quickness of thought and lodge in the bristling neck of the boar. Scarcely had the shaft left his bow ere Kulonga had fitted another to it, but Horta, the boar, was upon him so quickly that he had no time to discharge it. With a bound the black leaped entirely over the rushing beast and turning with incredible swiftness planted a second arrow in Horta's back. Then Kulonga sprang into a near-by tree. Horta wheeled to charge his enemy once more; a dozen steps he took, then he staggered and fell upon his side. For a moment his muscles stiffened and relaxed convulsively, then he lay still. Kulonga came down from his tree. With a knife that hung at his side he cut several large pieces from the boar's body, and in the center of the trail he built a fire, cooking and eating as much as he wanted. The rest he left where it had fallen. Tarzan was an interested spectator. His desire to kill burned fiercely in his wild breast, but his desire to learn was even greater. He would follow this savage creature for a while and know from whence he came. He


be sensible to put things in safekeeping before the ball. Clever girls. Getting a nice head start on the job. Eminently sensible. She caught William’s eye as she scuttled past. He didn’t just look gray—he looked as if he’d had the blood entirely drained out of him. He was more handsome when he was unhappy. It was almost interesting. She held his gaze for half a second and raised her eyes, just a fraction, to jolt him, to say, What’s got your goat? He merely frowned, lost in thought. A bell tinkled in the distance. All eyes went to the bell board, an intake of breath. They were picturing Madam, no doubt. Wispy, wreathed in black muslin, cooking up orders. Shepherd looked quite white in the face. Lovely, thought Mrs. Bone. She wanted everyone nice and rattled. She ignored her own nerves as they scampered all over her skin. * * * Sunday afternoon arrived. The Park Lane servants went off duty, meeting their sisters and cousins and gentlemen callers, and the women gathered to go over the plan together for the final time. They squeezed into a six-seater pleasure boat, two giant wheels crashing through the water, the Janes pumping hard on the pedals. Mrs. King sat in the front seat, studying the horizon. Alice had pulled her hat low over her eyes, and Hephzibah had brought a colossal parasol that threatened to decapitate someone. It made Winnie feel unusually bad-tempered. Her fatigue and nervous energy were catching up with her. She’d been meeting foreign agents all morning on Mrs. Bone’s behalf, and her mind was spinning with Danckerts and Cuyps and Sèvres china and Joshua Reynolds. “I want the biggest sales lined up first,” Mrs. King had told her. “We can’t be managing fifty auctions. I need to know who’s going to put cash down quickly, first night we’re on the market.” And so Winnie had sat in the parlor at Tilney Street, discussing prices, guarded by Mrs. Bone’s grim-faced cousins. She wore a veil during negotiations, and sat on one side of a screen painted with voluptuous nudes. She had to scramble, writing up all her notes, making sure she hadn’t made any errors. By the time they went out to the park to meet the others, she was feeling entirely flustered. “Sleep,” she said now, clearing her throat for attention. “Sleep is the important thing. You’ll want to be razor-sharp tomorrow.” She leaned forward, prodded Hephzibah. “You especially.” Hephzibah swung her parasol in Winnie’s direction. “I won’t sleep a wink,” she said. “It’s far too hot.” She pointed at Winnie. “You’re the one who needs her beauty sleep.” I won’t rise to that, Winnie thought. “Remember, Hephzibah, you’ve got to roll in to the ball early, to keep an eye on the arrivals and get Miss de Vries moving.” “Shall I be given supper?” Winnie sighed. “If you make enough of a fuss, I suppose. Introduce her to Mrs. Bone’s men, make sure Miss de Vries thinks they’re Buckingham Palace policemen, and then get to work upstairs.” Hephzibah


be in his twenties, holding a big black camera with its lens extended, and in the ensuing quiet, I could hear the shutter click repeatedly. “Come on, man,” Noah said. “Not now.” “You cut off your hair, right?” the man said. “Did you shave your head? When did you do that?” Noah was walking so quickly that I’d fallen a foot or two behind him. He’d removed the keys from his shorts pocket, and there was a beep just before he climbed in the driver’s side door of the Lexus and started the engine. As I entered the passenger side, the paparazzo said to me, “Hey, what’s your name? Are you and Noah dating? How long have you known Noah?” Noah’s jaw was clenched as he reversed out of the parking space and drove toward the exit. I glanced back toward the paparazzo, and Noah said in a low voice, “Don’t look at him.” He’d turned onto the road when, still in a tight voice, he said, “You’d think those guys would lay off with everything happening now.” I said nothing, and when he turned his head toward me, we made eye contact for the first time in several minutes. “Are you okay?” he asked. We both were quiet as we passed a high school that was low and palm-tree-bedecked like a high school in a movie, and finally I said, “Are you afraid he’ll sell a picture of you holding my hand?” I could hear that my voice was weird, too, though not how Noah’s was—mine was sharp and distant. There was a warmly teasing way we’d gotten in the habit of speaking to each other, and this was its opposite. “I hope he doesn’t for your sake,” Noah said. “Oh, really? For my sake?” Noah looked over again as he said, “Are you accusing me of something? Because that’s what it sounds like.” “If I were a hot twenty-five-year-old actress, would you have dropped my hand like that?” He squinted. “Are you serious? Did you want the guy to take our picture?” “There was something very—” I paused. “Instinctive. About how you pulled away from me.” “I thought you’d hate it. Yes, you. Not me. You. Because you’re a private person and I know you’ve walked red carpets a few times, but I don’t think you’re used to being ambushed in normal life like I am.” In front of us, the ocean appeared again, turquoise beneath a cornflower sky, and the beauty of the view was an unpleasant contrast to the disagreeable energy inside the car. At least sixty seconds had passed when, taking pains to keep my tone matter-of-fact rather than resentful, I said, “There’s nothing you promised me. I’m complicit in how undefined whatever we’re doing is. I admit that. And I believe you genuinely like me, or at least you genuinely like me enough to be your secret pandemic hookup. But I don’t think I have a low enough opinion of myself to be your secret pandemic hookup.” “Wow,” he said. “I don’t even know where to


a real short bastard and then you got dosed and figured you’d live the frat house movie? Anyone ever explain the concept of age-appropriate relationships to you?” “I’m exactly the age I look, Mr. Sounder,” Richard says, still looking out at the water. “Kinda big-boned, then.” He turns around and looks at me with sharp, cool eyes. “You do that a lot when you talk to people, don’t you? You make obvious jokes. I guess it makes everyone think you’re stupid or crude, but you’re neither.” “Fine, you caught me. Congratulations.” “And now you want me to think I’m smart for noticing.” I look at the other two. They’re not talking. They’re not even saying anything with their faces. Just watching. I look back at Richard and pay attention the way I should have when I came in. Writing bump on his finger. You only get that if you make notes with a pen, and these days you only do that if you want to engage theta rhythm and parietal lobe activity to remember more, understand faster and you’re prepared to do the work. Richard cares about study. “That isn’t something you worry about. You know you’re smart, but you want to be smarter. What were you doing at Roddy Tebbit’s apartment?” “I wanted him to tell me how he lives. He’s—he was—not average. Not normal for a Titan. An outlier. Hes and Miles came with me because I was nervous. Because I’m ordinary. I don’t know how to make sense of it.” “Yeah, you’re just an everyday kid. Nothing weird about it.” “Touché.” I have never heard anyone say “touché” and not sound like a jackass before. He looks away again. There’s a little cluster of diving birds plucking fish from the still water about twenty metres out. “Leukaemia,” Richard says at last. “Some kind of rare variant, got everywhere in me. I used to be able to name it, but it turns out that doesn’t impress anyone. Not even me. I wasn’t doing well.” “They gave you T7.” “Deep radiation first. All the way in.” I think about that a while. I figure they all but killed him. They injected him with a high beta emission preparation. Without the T7 he’d have died in a few days. With it…internal burns, risk of septic shock, pruritus and vomiting. Organ failure, supported externally. Artificial breathing system. Pain on another order. And then recovery. Bone marrow transplants stimulated by the drug, cultured clone cells from all his organs, even the skin. Nerves waking up. He must have been half mad by the end, even if they put him in a coma for the worst part. “Did you choose all that? Or was it chosen for you?” “They tell me I’m Richard Wells.” I look at him and I can almost see it, somewhere in the shape of the head, the set of the eyes. “Wells like Tessa Wells-Khayam; Khayam like Sonny Khayam. Whose father was Jacob Khayam and whose mother is Jeanine Tonfamecasca.” Jeanine being Stefan’s kid sister. Titan genealogy is half census


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

head, sending sprays of her warm breath into the night air, tapping her foot upon the glassy road. It was the last tram; the lank brown horses knew it and shook their bells to the clear night in admonition. The conductor talked with the driver, both nodding often in the green light of the lamp. They stood on the steps of the tram, he on the upper, she on the lower. She came up to his step many times between their phrases and went down again and once or twice remained beside him forgetting to go down and then went down. Let be! Let be! Ten years from that wisdom of children to his folly. If he sent her the verses? They would be read out at breakfast amid the tapping of egg-shells. Folly indeed! Her brothers would laugh and try to wrest the page from each other with their strong hard fingers. The suave priest, her uncle, seated in his arm-chair, would hold the page at arm's length, read it smiling and approve of the literary form. No, no; that was folly. Even if he sent her the verses she would not show them to others. No, no; she could not. He began to feel that he had wronged her. A sense of her innocence moved him almost to pity her, an innocence he had never understood till he had come to the knowledge of it through sin, an innocence which she too had not understood while she was innocent or before the strange humiliation of her nature had first come upon her. Then first her soul had begun to live as his soul had when he had first sinned, and a tender compassion filled his heart as he remembered her frail pallor and her eyes, humbled and saddened by the dark shame of womanhood. While his soul had passed from ecstasy to languor where had she been? Might it be, in the mysterious ways of spiritual life, that her soul at those same moments had been conscious of his homage? It might be. A glow of desire kindled again his soul and fired and fulfilled all his body. Conscious of his desire she was waking from odorous sleep, the temptress of his villanelle. Her eyes, dark and with a look of languor, were opening to his eyes. Her nakedness yielded to him, radiant, warm, odorous and lavish-limbed, enfolded him like a shining cloud, enfolded him like water with a liquid life; and like a cloud of vapour or like waters circumfluent in space the liquid letters of speech, symbols of the element of mystery, flowed forth over his brain. Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more of enchanted days. Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze And you have had your will of him. Are you not weary of ardent ways? Above the flame the smoke of praise Goes up from ocean rim to rim. Tell no more of enchanted days. Our broken cries and mournful lays Rise in one eucharistic hymn.


He was unfit for attending to such matters then, but he bade me speak to his lawyer, and at length permitted me to go. His lawyer had been Earnshaw's also. I called at the vil- lage, and asked him to accompany me. He shook his head, and advised that Heathcliff should be let alone, affirming, if the truth were known, Hareton would be found little else than a beggar. "His father died in debt," he said; "the whole prop- erty is mortgaged, and the sole chance for the natural heir is to allow him an opportunity of creating some interest in the creditor's heart, that he may be inclined to deal leniently towards him." When I reached the Heights, I explained that I had come to see everything carried on decently; and Joseph, who appeared in sufficient distress, expressed satisfac- tion at my presence. Mr. Heathcliff said he did not per- ceive that I was wanted; but I might stay and order the arrangements for the funeral, if I chose. "Correctly," he remarked, "that fool's body should be buried at the cross-roads, without ceremony of any kind. I happened to leave him ten minutes yesterday afternoon, and in that interval he fastened the two doors of the house against me, and he has spent the night in drinking himself to death deliberately! We broke in this morning, for we heard him snorting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle; flaying and scalp- ing would not have wakened him. I sent for Kenneth, and he came, but not till the beast had changed into carrion. He was both dead and cold and stark; and so you'll allow it was useless making more stir about him." The old servant confirmed this statement, but mut- tered,--- "I'd rayther he'd goan hisseln for t' doctor! I sud ha' taen tent o' t' maister better nor him; and he warn't deead when I left, naught o' t' soart!" I insisted on the funeral being respectable. Mr. Heathcliff said I might have my own way there too; only, he desired me to remember that the money for the whole affair came out of his pocket. He maintained a hard, careless deportment, indicative of neither joy nor sorrow; if anything, it expressed a flinty gratifica- tion at a piece of difficult work successfully executed. I observed once, indeed, something like exultation in his aspect; it was just when the people were bearing the coffin from the house. He had the hypocrisy to rep- resent a mourner; and previous to following with Hare- ton, he lifted the unfortunate child on to the table, and muttered, with peculiar gusto, "Now, my bonny lad, you are mine! And we'll see if one tree won't grow as crooked as another, with the same wind to twist it!" The unsuspecting thing was pleased at this speech. He played with Heathcliff's whiskers, and stroked his cheek; but I divined its meaning, and observed tartly, "That boy must go back with me to Thrushcross Grange, sir. There is nothing in the world


welfare, and his recklessness of whatever the ages had established in man's behalf; in his faith, and in his infidelity. in what he had, and in what he lacked,--the artist might fitly enough stand forth as the representative of many compeers in his native land. His career it would be difficult to prefigure. There appeared to be qualities in Holgrave, such as, in a country where everything is free to the hand that can grasp it, could hardly fail to put some of the world's prizes within his reach. But these matters are delightfully uncertain. At almost every step in life, we meet with young men of just about Holgrave's age, for whom we anticipate wonderful things, but of whom, even after much and careful inquiry, we never happen to hear another word. The effervescence of youth and passion, and the fresh gloss of the intellect and imagination, endow them with a false brilliancy, which makes fools of themselves and other people. Like certain chintzes, calicoes, and ginghams, they show finely in their first newness, but cannot stand the sun and rain, and assume a very sober aspect after washing-day. But our business is with Holgrave as we find him on this particular afternoon, and in the arbor of the Pyncheon garden. In that point of view, it was a pleasant sight to behold this young man, with so much faith in himself, and so fair an appearance of admirable powers,--so little harmed, too, by the many tests that had tried his metal,--it was pleasant to see him in his kindly intercourse with Phoebe. Her thought had scarcely done him justice when it pronounced him cold; or, if so, he had grown warmer now. Without such purpose on her part, and unconsciously on his, she made the House of the Seven Gables like a home to him, and the garden a familiar precinct. With the insight on which he prided himself, he fancied that he could look through Phoebe, and all around her, and could read her off like a page of a child's story-book. But these transparent natures are often deceptive in their depth; those pebbles at the bottom of the fountain are farther from us than we think. Thus the artist, whatever he might judge of Phoebe's capacity, was beguiled, by some silent charm of hers, to talk freely of what he dreamed of doing in the world. He poured himself out as to another self. Very possibly, he forgot Phoebe while he talked to her, and was moved only by the inevitable tendency of thought, when rendered sympathetic by enthusiasm and emotion, to flow into the first safe reservoir which it finds. But, had you peeped at them through the chinks of the garden-fence, the young man's earnestness and heightened color might have led you to suppose that he was making love to the young girl! At length, something was said by Holgrave that made it apposite for Phoebe to inquire what had first brought him acquainted with her cousin Hepzibah, and why he now chose to lodge in


you will be shown a heap of paper and you will look for this page of the Times among it. The odds are enormously against your finding it. There are ten shillings over in case of emergencies. Let me have a report by wire at Baker Street before evening. And now, Watson, it only remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the cabman, No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond Street picture galleries and fill in the time until we are due at the hotel." Chapter 5 Three Broken Threads Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters. He would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the crudest ideas, from our leaving the gallery until we found our- selves at the Northumberland Hotel. "Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you," said the clerk. "He asked me to show you up at once when you came." "Have you any objection to my looking at your register?" said Holmes. "Not in the least." The book showed that two names had been added after that of Baskerville. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of New- castle; the other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton. "Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know," said Holmes to the porter. "A lawyer, is he not, gray- headed, and walks with a limp?" "No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active gentleman, not older than yourself." "Surely you are mistaken about his trade?" "No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very well known to us." "Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the name. Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend one finds another." "She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of Gloucester. She always comes to us when she is in town." "Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have established a most important fact by these questions, Wat- son," he continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. "We know now that the people who are so interested in our friend have not settled down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious that he should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive fact." "What does it suggest?" "It suggests -- halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the matter?" As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was he that he was hardly articulate, and when


Dunsink time. He offered to send me through the post a work of fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock, entitled THE GIRL WITH THE THREE PAIRS OF STAYS. MRS BELLINGHAM: (IN CAP AND SEAL CONEY MANTLE, WRAPPED UP TO THE NOSE, STEPS OUT OF HER BROUGHAM AND SCANS THROUGH TORTOISESHELL QUIZZING- GLASSES WHICH SHE TAKES FROM INSIDE HER HUGE OPOSSUM MUFF) Also to me. Yes, I believe it is the same objectionable person. Because he closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold snap of February ninetythree when even the grid of the wastepipe and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen. Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the heights, as he said, in my honour. I had it examined by a botanical expert and elicited the information that it was ablossom of the homegrown potato plant purloined from a forcingcase of the model farm. MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Shame on him! (A CROWD OF SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS SURGES FORWARD) THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (SCREAMING) Stop thief! Hurrah there, Bluebeard! Three cheers for Ikey Mo! SECOND WATCH: (PRODUCES HANDCUFFS) Here are the darbies. MRS BELLINGHAM: He addressed me in several handwritings with fulsome compliments as a Venus in furs and alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman Palmer while in the same breath he expressed himself as envious of his earflaps and fleecy sheepskins and of his fortunate proximity to my person, when standing behind my chair wearing my livery and the armorial bearings of the Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable, a buck's head couped or. He lauded almost extravagantly my nether extremities, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up to the limit, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he said, he could conjure up. He urged me (stating that he felt it his mission in life to urge me) to defile the marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity. THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (IN AMAZON COSTUME, HARD HAT, JACKBOOTS COCKSPURRED, VERMILION WAISTCOAT, FAWN MUSKETEER GAUNTLETS WITH BRAIDED DRUMS, LONG TRAIN HELD UP AND HUNTING CROP WITH WHICH SHE STRIKES HER WELT CONSTANTLY) Also me. Because he saw me on the polo ground of the Phoenix park at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland. My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob CENTAUR. This plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris boulevards, insulting to any lady. I have it still. It represents a partially nude senorita, frail and lovely (his wife, as he solemnly assured me, taken by him from nature), practising illicit intercourse with a muscular torero, evidently a blackguard. He urged me to do likewise, to misbehave, to sin with officers of the garrison. He implored me to soil his letter in an unspeakable manner, to chastise him as he richly deserves, to bestride


but now it was dark outside and it took a moment for her to get her bearings. She’d defied her father and was now on her own. Alone. This was the first time she’d been away from home since she’d attended summer camp as an eleven-year-old, and a similar wave of homesickness spread through her. That no one had her back, and no one really cared what happened to her. But she had a job and a place to lay her head at night. It was time to grow up. Maybe her absence would place her on new footing with her father, one where he respected her choices and saw her as an adult. Same with Nathaniel. It had to. It was nine thirty, according to the clock on Bunny’s dresser. Marion turned on the light and put on a fresh dress, brushed her hair so it was presentable, and checked her reflection in the mirror. She looked older, somehow, and rather wan, like she’d been hiding in a closet for a couple of months. Some food in her stomach would help that, as would seeing Bunny. At Radio City, Bunny flew out of the stage door and gave Marion a hug. She smelled of expensive perfume and her hair fell down her back in long waves after being held up in a tight bun the entire day. Her silk dress showed off her figure and practically glowed in the lamplight. “Wow,” said Marion. “You look amazing.” She rued the dowdiness of her own choice, a teal-green cotton day dress with a pleated skirt and a bow at the neck. She looked like she was going to a church social. “I can’t wait for you to meet Dale. He’s a sweetheart.” In her dazed state, Marion had completely forgotten that this wasn’t just the two of them grabbing a bite after the show. She was about to tell Bunny that she simply wasn’t up to a big night out and retreat to the safety of their room when a handsome man came up behind Bunny and grabbed her around the waist. “There’s my rabbit.” He whirled her around and kissed her. After, Bunny threw her head back and laughed. “You big bear.” She pulled out of his embrace and gestured to Marion. “Marion, meet Dale Janson. Dale, this is Marion, a fellow dancer and my new roommate.” “Pleased to meet you,” said Marion, wilting a little under his intense gaze. Dale had blond hair, blue eyes, and a deep voice like an actor’s. Together, he and Bunny made a smashing couple. “And this is my buddy Peter Griggs.” A tall, rather ungainly man with curly hair turned around from where he had been staring up at one of the skyscrapers that rose into the night sky above Radio City. Marion had assumed he was one of the audience members from the show waiting for autographs outside the stage door, or a tourist. As they shook hands, she realized that this was to be a double date. Both men were dressed formally, in


The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held the lamp towards it. "See," said he. "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire to-night." She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed with fierce merriment "He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. "How can he see the guiding wands to-night? We planted them to- gether, he and I, to mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have plucked them out to-day. Then indeed you would have had him at your mercy!" It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom he had loved. But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered his nerves, and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to travel together round the world before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate. And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative, in which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they had found a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the horror of this woman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband's track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped


run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say `Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any


for the second time in days, tears ran down my cheeks as Hannah walked over and hugged me at the dining room table. I covered my face as she sneaked a picture of me. You could hear the news alert spreading outside. Within minutes, people cheered on the sidewalks below and drivers honked, again and again. An overwhelming sense of relief filled the sunny apartment. “We have to go celebrate. Tell Dennis we’re going down to the National Mall,” she declared. I called him. “No, no, no, no,” Dennis said. “Sir, there could be dangerous people who show up and want to ruin the party.” “Dennis, we’re doing it,” I told him, “whether you come with us or not.” On the ride over a few hours later, Hannah was reading me news and Twitter posts. Data suggested that Biden wouldn’t have won if not for moderate Republican defectors. One poll showed 8 percent of people who voted for Trump in 2016 had flipped sides, voting for Biden in 2020. Easily the margin of victory. “You all persuaded them!” Hannah exclaimed. It was impossible to prove, but that had been my hope and the hope of many others who’d done the same. We wanted to give GOP voters a rationale to switch sides. And they did. In key swing states in 2020, the defectors were apparently enough—just barely enough—to tip the balance. “Thank you, @MilesTaylorUSA for keeping the porch light on for us during these dark times,” Hannah quoted. “We came home safely, and now it’s up to the American people to continue Her fight for a fair Democracy.” “I don’t think I can do more,” I told her. We arrived at the Lincoln Memorial just as the sun sank. Dennis tailed at a distance. Hannah and I walked around to the back of the memorial and sat on a marble ledge with our legs dangling off the side. The cloudless horizon just above the Potomac River was orange sorbet fading into plum. We went to the other side and read the enormous inscriptions etched into opposite walls of the Memorial’s interior. In between, Lincoln sat stoically. On one side, the Gettysburg Address is carved into stone. On the other, the former president’s second inaugural address, which reads famously, “With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in to bind up the nation’s wounds…” Jubilant revelers strolled alongside the reflecting pool. We sat and watched them from the memorial steps. The last warm strokes of autumn were mirrored by the water, lighting Hannah’s face and hair like a cigar. We smiled at each other, and she laid her head on my shoulder. A happy nervousness ran through me, which I hadn’t felt in years. “The nightmare is over,” she sighed wistfully, harking back to Nixon’s departure. She was wrong, unfortunately. For the next seventy-four days it got worse. “The last line of defense…” The momentary hope of the post-election period


alighted, and in a moment the blood began dropping from his mouth upon the straw. But he soon controlled himself, calmly drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his bleeding lips. She too had sprung up, but she sank down again. "Now, punish me!" she said, turning up her eyes to him with the hopeless defiance of the sparrow's gaze before its captor twists its neck. "Whip me, crush me; you need not mind those people under the rick! I shall not cry out. Once victim, always victim--that's the law!" "O no, no, Tess," he said blandly. "I can make full allowance for this. Yet you most unjustly forget one thing, that I would have married you if you had not put it out of my power to do so. Did I not ask you flatly to be my wife--hey? Answer me." "You did." "And you cannot be. But remember one thing!" His voice hardened as his temper got the better of him with the recollection of his sincerity in asking her and her present ingratitude, and he stepped across to her side and held her by the shoulders, so that she shook under his grasp. "Remember, my lady, I was your master once! I will be your master again. If you are any man's wife you are mine!" The threshers now began to stir below. "So much for our quarrel," he said, letting her go. "Now I shall leave you, and shall come again for your answer during the afternoon. You don't know me yet! But I know you." She had not spoken again, remaining as if stunned. D'Urberville retreated over the sheaves, and descended the ladder, while the workers below rose and stretched their arms, and shook down the beer they had drunk. Then the threshing-machine started afresh; and amid the renewed rustle of the straw Tess resumed her position by the buzzing drum as one in a dream, untying sheaf after sheaf in endless succession. XLVIII In the afternoon the farmer made it known that the rick was to be finished that night, since there was a moon by which they could see to work, and the man with the engine was engaged for another farm on the morrow. Hence the twanging and humming and rustling proceeded with even less intermission than usual. It was not till "nammet"-time, about three o-clock, that Tess raised her eyes and gave a momentary glance round. She felt but little surprise at seeing that Alec d'Urberville had come back, and was standing under the hedge by the gate. He had seen her lift her eyes, and waved his hand urbanely to her, while he blew her a kiss. It meant that their quarrel was over. Tess looked down again, and carefully abstained from gazing in that direction. Thus the afternoon dragged on. The wheat-rick shrank lower, and the straw-rick grew higher, and the corn-sacks were carted away. At six o'clock the wheat-rick was about shoulder-high from the ground. But the unthreshed sheaves remaining untouched seemed countless still, notwithstanding the enormous numbers that


“Really?” “I will of course pray about the counselor. What is her name?” “Angelina.” “Is she Black?” I nod and this seems to mollify her instantly. “That is good.” “Ghanaian too. I think she’s even Christian,” I add. I obviously have no idea if she is the latter, but Mum looks pleased. “Maybe she can mentor you for your future career,” she says. “Mum, I work in publishing.” “And so? Can you not keep your options open? Publishing doesn’t make you a lot of money, does it? How much does Kristine make?” “Mennim.” Mum raises her eyebrows and a wide smile breaks out across her face. We continue to converse in Twi and she corrects me where I go wrong until I can repeat it correctly. “Try and find out Kristine’s salary.” “That will be difficult.” “I bet Angelina makes more.” “Maybe.” “Maame,” she says after a while. “Yes, Ma.” “Seriously, when do you think you will marry?” I smile and look her in the eyes. “Not any time soon.” * * * When I get back to the flat, I pour myself a glass of water and sit in the kitchen, drinking it slowly. Upstairs, I untie my hair, brush my teeth and shower, standing with my head low under a cascade of hot water. When out and dressed, I sit on the floor facing the window. I stare out to the sky with my back leaning against my bed and my legs crossed. “Hi, Dad.” I wait to see if the sky changes at all and when it doesn’t, I continue. “It’s me, Maddie. I’m not one hundred percent sure how heaven works, whether you can see me or if it’s possible to tune out everyone else who’s talking to heaven right now just to hear me, but it’s worth a shot. I thought I would start doing this, if you don’t mind. We didn’t talk much when you were here; I always thought you didn’t care, but maybe you thought I was the one who didn’t care. Regardless, maybe we could get to know each other a bit better; start from the beginning almost.” I clear my throat. “I’m twenty-five now, twenty-six in four months. I know your memory was slipping at the end so you couldn’t remember those kinds of things, but you’re healthy again now, that’s how heaven works, right? When Mum and I went to see you at the funeral home, your feet were no longer swollen. Can you walk on your own now, Dad? Can you run? You must feel so free. You can stretch your fingers and run laps in the clouds. “I haven’t heard you have a proper conversation in years and I know it’s because your brain wouldn’t let you. You must be talking people’s ears off now. I wish I’d recorded your voice…” I would get a tissue but I don’t want to move, so I use the back of my hand to pat my face dry. “Maybe it’s not even a physical thing up there and it’s just your weightless


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

idea?” Jess asks, skeptical. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, but both she and my film agent think it could be great exposure. And since I have literally nothing else going on, I was ‘strongly encouraged to consider it.’ She also reminded me that the whole reason I did the DNADuo in the first place was for research and I should go into it with that mindset.” She briefly looks up. “And, you know, the whole possible soulmate thing…” “Yeah, yeah, sure,” I say, watching her absorb the list and work to keep her shit together. “So, what do you think? I put some real thought into it.” “That much is clear.” Her gaze snags. “Vampire? You expect them to cast a vampire?” “Hot Brit tripped on that one, too. How they do it isn’t my problem, is it?” Her eyebrow points skyward and she looks over the top of my phone at me. “Dom?” “Gotta respect the genre.” She reads some more, smothering her smile with a hand. “Twenty percent or more need to have gone to therapy, thirty percent are required to have a female friend they have never had sex with? Fizzy, you’re such a troll.” She shrieks briefly: “No poets.” “This might be the greatest idea I’ve ever had. Unfortunately, it’s never going to happen.” She tilts her head side to side, a maybe, maybe not gesture. “What do you do if he agrees to your terms?” I wave this off. “I won’t get my hopes up. And even if he did, I’d really have to wrangle my shit into order and bring my A game.” That truth sinks in. I hadn’t actually imagined a situation where Hot Brit would agree to these preposterous terms. There’s been safety in my outlandish demands; literally any other woman on planet Earth would make this show easier than what I’ve just requested. To think, even briefly, that I might end up doing this makes my stomach clench. I’d have to be funny, and engaging, and—shit—convincingly fake being open to love. “There’s absolutely no way he wants me bad enough to say yes to all of this.” “I’d tend to agree with you.” Jess hands me back my phone, nodding to the screen where a text has landed from my new contact labeled British McHotpants. “Except I think he just did.” nine CONNOR The next time Felicity Chen walks into my office, she shows up ready to play. Instead of ripped jeans and boots, she’s wearing a black tailored suit and an expression that leaves no doubt she’s planning to oversee everything from this point forward. She politely passes on Brenna’s offer of coffee and crosses the room to where I’m standing in front of my desk to greet her. “Felicity, it’s good to see you.” She gives me a handshake alongside her wide smile. Amazingly, she makes the ballbuster aesthetic look like a good time. “Call me Fizzy. No one calls me Felicity, except the guy at the DMV.” I laugh. “Fizzy it is.” Instead of sitting at a


the second, going down, the stone wall on the left terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At this point the lower steps widen: so that a person turning that angle of the wall, is necessarily unseen by any others on the stairs who chance to be above him, if only a step. The countryman looked hastily round, when he reached this point; and as there seemed no better place of concealment, and, the tide being out, there was plenty of room, he slipped aside, with his back to the pilaster, and there waited: pretty certain that they would come no lower, and that even if he could not hear what was said, he could follow them again, with safety. So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the spy to penetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he had been led to expect, that he more than once gave the matter up for lost, and persuaded himself, either that they had stopped far above, or had resorted to some entirely different spot to hold their mysterious conversation. He was on the point of emerging from his hiding-place, and regaining the road above, when he heard the sound of footsteps, and directly afterwards of voices almost close at his ear. He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely breathing, listened attentively. 'This is far enough,' said a voice, which was evidently that of the gentleman. 'I will not suffer the young lady to go any farther. Many people would have distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but you see I am willing to humour you.' 'To humour me!' cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed. 'You're considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it's no matter.' 'Why, for what,' said the gentleman in a kinder tone, 'for what purpose can you have brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me speak to you, above there, where it is light, and there is something stirring, instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal hole?' 'I told you before,' replied Nancy, 'that I was afraid to speak to you there. I don't know why it is,' said the girl, shuddering, 'but I have such a fear and dread upon me to-night that I can hardly stand.' 'A fear of what?' asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her. 'I scarcely know of what,' replied the girl. 'I wish I did. Horrible thoughts of death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that has made me burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was reading a book to-night, to wile the time away, and the same things came into the print.' 'Imagination,' said the gentleman, soothing her. 'No imagination,' replied the girl in a hoarse voice. 'I'll swear I saw "coffin" written in every page of the book in large black letters,--aye, and they carried one close to me, in the streets


weeks ago, she would have sold her soul for a chance to get back on a plane to New York and meet with a potential investor. Her trust fund would establish the new firm, but they would quickly need clout. They would need someone to come on board and send a signal to other investors that Natalie and Claudia were not only a safe play, but a shiny new endeavor. But leaving only six days after the wedding? Of course, she wouldn’t be leaving for good. Just long enough to meet with William Banes Savage. Could she sneak out of St. Helena for a couple of days without the masses taking note? Would it hurt their chances of appearing legitimate if she left on a solo trip less than a week after tying the knot? How would August feel about it? Natalie swallowed hard and kept walking toward her destination—the Vos wine cave. It’s not like they were going on a honeymoon or anything, right? Business was business. Eventually, she’d be leaving permanently and August was well aware of that. This was what they’d both signed up for. Temporary. She took a hasty turn into the production facility, smiling at the employees who glanced over. After they got over the surprise of seeing her there, they nodded back, returning to their tasks. Harvest had taken place toward the end of the summer, followed by the pressing of the grapes. Now, firmly into fall, they were in the fermentation phase, which was a very careful science that could take months. Row after row of barrels were racked on their sides, employees carefully stirring the natural yeast to keep it from settling at the bottom of the wooden vessels, giving the wine oxygen, cultivating the flavor. Natalie journeyed past them to the rear of the facility, opened the metal door, and started the long trek down four flights of stone stairs. When she reached the bottom, the scent of wet mushrooms tickled her nose and the sight of thousands of aging wine bottles greeted her, along with even more barrels. Tables were arranged throughout the cave for guests who toured the winery and wanted to explore the grounds beyond getting tipsy at the welcome center. Did Zelnick Cellar have a wine cave? She needed to ask August about that. A lot of wineries in Napa had one, though they ranged in size. Maybe he could bring her on a tour of his underground cellar. Not that she wanted to be alone in the dark with him, it was purely out of professional curiosity, since she was now, technically, an employee of his vineyard— Her heart jumped into her throat when she heard voices approaching from deep in the cave. Corinne and . . . was that Julian? “It’s an imaging service that takes high-resolution aerial photographs of the vineyard,” Julian explained briskly. “That way, we can see which vines are overstressed, understressed. It can teach us a lot about why the taste is inconsistent and how to irrigate—” “I don’t even want to ask


good, but it next occurred to my recollection THE coracle—as I had ample reason to know before I that a taut hawser, suddenly cut, is a thing as dangerous as a was done with her—was a very safe boat for a person of my kicking horse. Ten to one, if I were so foolhardy as to cut the height and weight, both buoyant and clever in a sea- way; but HISPANIOLA from her anchor, I and the coracle would be she was the most cross-grained, lop-sided craft to manage. knocked clean out of the water. Do as you pleased, she always made more leeway than any- This brought me to a full stop, and if fortune had not thing else, and turning round and round was the manoeuvre again particularly favoured me, I should have had to abandon she was best at. Even Ben Gunn himself has admitted that my design. But the light airs which had begun blowing from she was “queer to handle till you knew her way.” the south-east and south had hauled round after nightfall Certainly I did not know her way. She turned in every into the south-west. Just while I was meditating, a puff came, direction but the one I was bound to go; the most part of the caught the HISPANIOLA, and forced her up into the cur- rent; and to my great joy, I felt the hawser slacken in my Contents time we were broadside on, and I am very sure I never should have made the ship at all but for the tide. By good fortune, grasp, and the hand by which I held it dip for a second under paddle as I pleased, the tide was still sweeping me down; and water. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 186 187 With that I made my mind up, took out my gully, opened ver at the end of every verse, and seemingly no end to it at all it with my teeth, and cut one strand after another, till the but the patience of the singer. I had heard it on the voyage vessel swung only by two. Then I lay quiet, waiting to sever more than once and remembered these words: these last when the strain should be once more lightened by a breath of wind. “But one man of her crew alive, All this time I had heard the sound of loud voices from What put to sea with seventy-five.” the cabin, but to say truth, my mind had been so entirely taken up with other thoughts that I had scarcely given ear. And I thought it was a ditty rather too dolefully appro- Now, however, when I had nothing else to do, I began to pay priate for a company that had met such cruel losses in the more heed. morning. But, indeed, from what I saw, all these buccaneers One I recognized for the coxswain’s, Israel Hands, that were as callous as the sea they sailed on. had been Flint’s gunner in former days. The other was, of At last


knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning: 'I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung.' As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative (supposing it to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination or no. CHAPTER III RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual's prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him. Let it not be supposed by the enemies of 'the system,' that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so for from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented,


her story, Ned heard the door open behind him. He glanced back and saw Vayon Poole enter with Sansa. They stood quietly at the back of the hall as Arya spoke. When she got to the part where she threw Joffrey's sword into the middle of the Trident, Renly Baratheon began to laugh. The king bristled. "Ser Barristan, escort my brother from the hall before he chokes." Lord Renly stifled his laughter. "My brother is too kind. I can find the door myself." He bowed to Joffrey. "Perchance later you'll tell me how a nine-year-old girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm you with a broom handle and throw your sword in the river." As the door swung shut behind him, Ned heard him say, "Lion's Tooth," and guffaw once more. Prince Joffrey was pale as he began his very different version of events. When his son was done talking, the king rose heavily from his seat, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here. "What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? He says one thing, she says another." "They were not the only ones present," Ned said. "Sansa, come A GAME OF THRONES 139 here." Ned had heard her version of the story the night Arya had vanished. He knew the truth. "Tell us what happened." His eldest daughter stepped forward hesitantly. She was dressed in blue velvets trimmed with white, a silver chain around her neck. Her thick auburn hair had been brushed until it shone. She blinked at her sister, then at the young prince. "I don't know," she said tearfully, looking as though she wanted to bolt. "I don't remember. Everything happened so fast, I didn't see . . ." "You rotten!" Arya shrieked. She flew at her sister like an arrow, knocking Sansa down to the ground, pummeling her. "Liar, liar, liar, liar." "Arya, stop it!" Ned shouted. Jory pulled her off her sister, kicking. Sansa was pale and shaking as Ned lifted her back to her feet. "Are you hurt?" he asked, but she was staring at Arya, and she did not seem to hear. "The girl is as wild as that filthy animal of hers," Cersei Lannister said. "Robert, I want her punished." "Seven hells," Robert swore. "Cersei, look at her. She's a child. What would you have me do, whip her through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It's over. No lasting harm was done." The queen was furious. "Joff will carry those scars for the rest of his life." Robert Baratheon looked at his eldest son. "So he will. Perhaps they will teach him a lesson. Ned, see that your daughter is disciplined. I will do the same with my son." "Gladly, Your Grace," Ned said with vast relief. Robert started to walk away, but the queen was not done. "And what of the direwolf?" she called after him. "What of the beast that savaged your son?" The king stopped, turned back, frowned. "I'd forgotten about the damned wolf." Ned could


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

a slight sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?" "They're dead," said Harry shortly. He didn't feel much like going into the matter with this boy. "Oh, sorry," said the other, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?" "They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean." "I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?" But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down from the footstool. "Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the drawling boy. Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts). "What's up?" said Hagrid. "Nothing," Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, "Hagrid, what's Quidditch?" "Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know -- not knowin' about Quidditch!" "Don't make me feel worse," said Harry. He told Hagrid about the pate boy in Madam Malkin's. " -- and he said people from Muggle families shouldn't even be allowed in." "Yer not from a Muggle family. If he'd known who yeh were -- he's grown up knowin' yer name if his parents are wizardin' folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what does he know about it, some o' the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in 'em in a long line o' Muggles -- look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!" "So what is Quidditch?" "It's our sport. Wizard sport. It's like -- like soccer in the Muggle world -- everyone follows Quidditch -- played up in the air on broomsticks and there's four balls -- sorta hard ter explain the rules." "And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?" "School houses. There's four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o' duffers, but -- " "I bet I'm in Hufflepuff" said Harry gloomily. "Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," said Hagrid darkly. "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one." "Vol -- , sorry -- You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?" "Years an' years ago," said Hagrid. They bought Harry's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, who never


business to touch. His voice and laugh, which perpetually re-echoed through the Custom- House, had nothing of the tremulous quaver and cackle of an old man's utterance; they came strutting out of his lungs, like the crow of a cock, or the blast of a clarion. Looking at him merely as an animal--and there was very little else to look at--he was a most satisfactory object, from the thorough healthfulness and wholesomeness of his system, and his capacity, at that extreme age, to enjoy all, or nearly all, the delights which he had ever aimed at or conceived of. The careless security of his life in the Custom-House, on a regular income, and with but slight and infrequent apprehensions of removal, had no doubt contributed to make time pass lightly over him. The original and more potent causes, however, lay in the rare perfection of his animal nature, the moderate proportion of intellect, and the very trifling admixture of moral and spiritual ingredients; these latter qualities, indeed, being in barely enough measure to keep the old gentleman from walking on all-fours. He possessed no power of thought no depth of feeling, no troublesome sensibilities: nothing, in short, but a few commonplace instincts, which, aided by the cheerful temper which grew inevitably out of his physical well-being, did duty very respectably, and to general acceptance, in lieu of a heart. He had been the husband of three wives, all long since dead; the father of twenty children, most of whom, at every age of childhood or maturity, had likewise returned to dust. Here, one would suppose, might have been sorrow enough to imbue the sunniest disposition through and through with a sable tinge. Not so with our old Inspector One brief sigh sufficed to carry off the entire burden of these dismal reminiscences. The next moment he was as ready for sport as any unbreeched infant: far readier than the Collector's junior clerk, who at nineteen years was much the elder and graver man of the two. I used to watch and study this patriarchal personage with, I think, livelier curiosity than any other form of humanity there presented to my notice. He was, in truth, a rare phenomenon; so perfect, in one point of view; so shallow, so Thesaurus admixture: (n) mixture, composite, tinge, steep, dye, fill, impregnate, sable: (adj) black, dark, dusky, sombre, alloy, addition, fusion, additive, pervade, instill, inoculate. murky, mournful; (n) ebony, fur, mixing, amalgam, mix, commixture, quaver: (n, v) quiver, quake, shake, blackness, marten, pitch black. melange. shudder, shiver, tremble; (n) tremor, strutting: (n) boasting, stiffening, cackle: (n, v) giggle, snicker, chatter; eighth note; (v) warble, flutter, bracing; (adj) boastful. (v) gaggle, crow, chortle; (adj) prattle, flicker. wholesomeness: (n) salubrity, prate; (n) laugh, yack, laughter. respectably: (adv) creditably, decently, nutritiveness, uprightness, goodness, graver: (v) style, denominate, entitle, honorably, properly, appropriately, hygiene, modesty, nutritiousness, fashion; (n) engraver, graving tool. admirably, commendably, quality, respectability, healthfulness: (n) salubrity, decorously, fitly, justly, becomingly. salubriousness, morality. salubriousness, health. ANTONYMS: (adv) indecently, ANTONYMS: (n) unwholesomeness, imbue: (v) infuse, saturate, permeate, disreputably, dishonorably. impurity. 20


all. “And then, just when I thought the plaster of paris was dry—” “It turns out nobody’s paid rent on that gallery on Tenth Street for months—” “She said she was doing a series of landscapes, but there I am, naked as a baby—” “Were you at Ed Wortman’s party—he’s the poet with all the screaming, you know—because I’m sure I recognize you from somewhere, darling—” Andy pours himself another glass of wine, and when the bottle is empty, he gets the corkscrew and opens another. Not wanting to return to the living room just yet, he lights the candles and turns out the flickering overhead light. The timer dings, so he pulls the lasagna—which weighs about as much as a small child—out of the oven, then puts together a plate for Mrs. Martelli. He’s about to take it down to her when he realizes that Nick is standing in the doorway. “I’m going to bring this downstairs,” Andy says when Nick makes no move to step aside. “I’ll be right back.” “I can do that.” Andy shakes his head. “Go have fun.” Nick frowns. “All right.” “Do you think she’d want one of those pastries?” Andy takes the box from the refrigerator. “You bought cannoli?” Andy is close to mortification at how far he went overboard. “Yeah, I remembered you getting one that time we went past that Italian bakery on East Eleventh Street.” “Thank you.” Nick isn’t frowning anymore, but he looks dazed. Probably too much wine on top of the head injury. Andy ought to have put his foot down and stopped Nick from cooking. Nick finally moves out of the way, but Andy feels his eyes on him as he leaves the apartment. * * * Andy’s awkwardness is worn away fifty percent by red wine and mozzarella cheese and fifty percent by the brute force with which Linda drags him into the conversation. And once he calms down a bit, he notices that Charlie isn’t only flirting with Nick, but with Linda, too. And possibly with Andy as well, but he can’t quite process that, so he doesn’t. Nick only has three chairs, so they eat in the living room, Sylvia in the seldomly used armchair, Charlie and Linda cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, and Nick and Andy on the sofa. At some point Nick stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, his fingers so close to the nape of Andy’s neck that he can almost feel them, so close that Andy has a hard time thinking about anything else. When Nick gets up to bring the dishes to the sink, he claps Andy on the shoulder and, Jesus Christ, Andy needs to get a grip. He tries to focus his attention on Sylvia, who reminds him of Emily in that she’s both sharp and beautiful. “Emily would have had fun tonight,” he says when Nick comes back. Nick gives him an odd look, half sympathy, half something else. “You miss her.” “Yeah.” Of course he misses her. He was


into the widespread bog. From the end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot upon firm land again. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers, Toronto," was printed on the leather inside. "It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry's missing boot." "Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight." "Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight. We know at least that he came so far in safety." But more than that we were never destined to know, though there was much which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we at last reached firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly for them. But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes. If the earth told a true story, then Stapleton never reached that island of refuge towards which he struggled through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel- hearted man is forever buried. Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hid his savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been confined. A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the debris. "A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired


Aunt Fanny. "Did somebody kick you, Anne? Well, really, this kicking under the table has got to stop. Poor Anne will be covered with bruises. What did the sea throw up, dear?" "It threw up the most enormous waves," said Anne, looking defiantly at the others. She knew they had thought she was going to say that the sea had thrown up the wreck- but they were wrong! They had kicked her for nothing! "Sorry for kicking you, Anne," said Julian. "My foot sort of slipped." "So did mine," said Dick. "Yes, Aunt Fanny, it was a magnificent sight on the island. The waves raced up that little inlet, and we had to take our boat almost up to the top of the low cliff there." "I wasn't really afraid of the storm," said Anne. "In fact, I wasn't really as afraid of it as Ti ..." Everyone knew perfectly well that Anne was going to mention Timothy, and they all interrupted her at once, speaking very loudly. Julian managed to get a kick in again. "Oooh!" said Anne. "The rabbits were so tame," said Julian, loudly. "We watched the cormorants," said Dick, and George joined in too, talking at the same time. "The jackdaws made such a noise, they said 'Chack, chack, chack,' all the time." "Well, really, you sound like jackdaws yourselves, talking all at once like this!" said Aunt Fanny, with a laugh. "Now, have you all finished? Very well, then, go and wash your sticky hands- yes, George, I know they're sticky, because I made that gingerbread, and you've had three slices! Then you had better go and play quietly in the other room, because it's raining, and you can't go out. But don't disturb your father, George. He's very busy." The children went to wash. "Idiot!" said Julian to Anne. "Nearly gave us away twice!" "I didn't mean what you thought I meant the first time!" began Anne indignantly. George interrupted her. "I'd rather you gave the secret of the wreck away than my secret about Tim," she said. "I do think you've got a careless tongue." "Yes, I have," said Anne, sorrowfully. "I think I'd better not talk at meal-times any more. I love Tim so much I just can't seem to help wanting to talk about him." They all went to play in the other room. Julian turned a table upside down with a crash. "We'll play at wrecks," he said. "This is the wreck. Now we're going to explore it." The door flew open and an angry, frowning face looked in. It was George's father! "What was that noise?" he said. "George! Did you overturn that table?" "I did," said Julian. "I'm sorry, sir. I quite forgot you were working." "Any more noise like that and I shall keep you all in bed tomorrow!" said his Uncle Quentin. "Georgina, keep your cousins quiet." The door shut and Uncle Quentin went out. The children looked at one another. "Your father's awfully fierce, isn't he?" said Julian. "I'm sorry I made that row. I didn't think."


do to make this better, Natalie?” Her chin snapped up. “Besides light yourself on fire?” “Preferably.” “I don’t know, August.” She sighed. “Tell me how you feel right now.” He ventured a cautious step toward the bed. “That seems like a good start.” “Mad.” For a second, he thought she might leave it at that, but she threw up a hand and let it drop. “A little empty.” A hoarse sound left him. And it occurred to him that storming away was definitely easier. This was the hard part. Hearing what he’d done wrong and how he’d hurt her. Was that what made a marriage last? Doing the hard shit? “Why empty?” “Because I was . . .” She glanced down at the messy sheets. “I let myself trust you and you didn’t trust me back. You made me drop my armor and then, I don’t know, it’s like I’m being punished for it.” Her words dug into him like slivers of glass. Christ, that was worse than he’d imagined. What would he have learned by now if he’d just spoken to her like this after all of their arguments? He’d be wiser than Doctor Strange. “God, I’m sorry.” “I know.” She laughed without humor. “That’s the thing. I know you’re sorry. I know that so many of your choices aren’t made to hurt me, even though they do.” So . . . many of his choices? What else was he doing to hurt her? He racked his memory bank and came up with nothing. “Natalie, what am I . . .” Out of nowhere, an idea lit up the nether regions of his brain. “I can read you the rest of my wedding vows. Will that make you feel better?” Was that reluctant interest he sensed? “There was more?” “Yup. Don’t move.” On a mission now, he jogged through the house, which sent Menace into near hysterics, and barged through the half-open door of his bedroom. Where did he put them? Where? Bedside table. August snatched up the yellow, lined piece of paper and ran back out of the room, skidding to a halt a few seconds later at the foot of Natalie’s bed. He cleared his throat dramatically, but she wasn’t ready to smile yet. Fair enough. He’d be lucky if she simply lost that hollow look in her eyes by the time he finished reading. Don’t ever hurt her feelings again, you son of a bitch. “You can call me no matter where you are and I’ll come. That’s where I left off, right?” She nodded. Good. He loved knowing she remembered exactly what he’d said at the altar. “Okay. Natalie Vos, I vow to hug you when you’re sad. Encourage you when you’re down. And take the blame for a fight if it means we don’t go to bed angry.” “No way.” She snorted. “It doesn’t say that.” He flipped the paper around and held it out, so she could see he was reciting the vows verbatim. “Read it and weep, princess.” She glanced at the page, then